HUMOUR OF SCOTCH PRECENTORS
Hand and personal labour of every kind in Scotland, as everywhere else,
has in recent years been largely superseded by machinery, and no one can
have failed to notice that even the office of “lettergae,” or precentor,
is a rapidly decaying institution in our midst. How rapid the progress of
the decay is will be recognised from a consideration of the fact that,
within the memory of many persons still alive, “reading the line” was the
general custom in congregational praise. Then there was no such thing as
an organ, or “kist o’ whustles,” in any Presbyterian kirk in the land,
and choirs were the exception. In the North hymns were not mentioned,
except with scorn and shaking of the head, and repeating tunes were
regarded as a frivolity demanding extermination. By and by the repeating
tune was tolerated, hymns were introduced here and there, choirs became
the fashion; and thus far the precentor was a _sine qua non_. Ultimately
the kirk doors were opened to the introduction of the organ, and
precentors became known as “choirmasters” and “conductors of psalmody.”
Now the “whustles” are heard bumming in kirks, _bond_ and _free_.
“Whustle kirks” will very soon be the rule rather than the exception,
and the precentor will, in the course of a few years, have become an
almost unknown quantity. Some of us who have already cut our wisdom teeth
may live to see him a totally defunct species. And yet, if we do, we
will not behold the spectacle without acute twinges of regret, for many
pleasing memories of the pleasantest period of our lives cluster around
the familiar form of the village-kirk precentor as he appeared in the
desk with clean-shaven chin, black “stock,” stiffly-starched, high-rimmed
linen collar, and ample shirt-front as white as the drifted snaw; and by
the mildest effort of the imagination we can even now hear the familiar
snap of his snuff-box lid, see him prime the one nostril, then the other,
and hear the equally familiar dirl of the “pitchfork” on the book-board,
and the reading of the line on the key-note of “Balermo,” or “Devizes,”
“Coleshill,” “St. Asaphs,” or the “wild warbling measures of ‘Dundee.’”
Of course it is just as the study of music progresses in Scotland, and
the taste for the highly-refining art becomes general, that organs
increase and precentors decay. It is to the olden times, however, when he
who had a “fairish gude lug” and a thoroughly sound pair of lungs was,
irrespective of musical education, elected to “fill the desk,” that the
humours of precenting almost exclusively belong. And, truly, of that time
many a sufficiently funny and ludicrous story may be told.
The late and lamented David Kennedy, the eminent Scottish vocalist, began
his career, as most people are aware, as a precentor in his native city
of Perth, where his father before him held a similar office for many
years in one of the larger Presbyterian kirks. Of the time of the elder
Kennedy’s precentorship, “Dauvit” remembered a well-known old character
in Perth, an inveterate snuffer, who sang with all his might, and was in
the habit of stopping short in the middle of a verse, blowing his nose
in his red pocket-napkin, and, having carefully marked the place, would
recommence where he left off, oblivious to the fact that the precentor
and the rest of the congregation were two lines in advance of him. That
man’s singing resembled the dancing of a Perthshire ploughman I have
heard of. This latter individual, who hobbled on the floor like a “hen
on a het girdle,” and never modulated the action of his limbs to fast or
slow music, said he “maybe wasna a very elegant dancer, but he was awfu’
constant.”
Mr. Kennedy, also, when introducing one of his songs, used to tell a good
story of the times when the minister did not choose his Psalms as at
present, but the precentor simply went through the Psalm book, taking so
many verses each time. The singer’s father and some others, when lads,
managed to take advantage of this custom to play a good practical joke on
an old precentor. Gaining access to the vestry on the Saturday night they
took his Psalm-book and, turning to the part which was to be used on the
morrow, neatly pasted in the first page of the well-known ballad “Chevy
Chase,” the type in which the two books were printed being nearly similar.
On the day following, the precentor, as was the general custom in those
days, read each line before singing it, and so managed to get to the end
of the third line without noticing anything out of place:—
“God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all;
A woeful hunting once there did”—
Having reached the fourth line he read—
“In Chevy Chase befall.”
Muttering, “Hoots! I maun be turning blind,” he adjusted his spectacles,
and held the book close to his nose. Finding the exact words there, he
gazed round him for a second as if he had doubts of his own sanity, and
said, “Weel, freends, I am clean bambaized. I’ve sung the Psalms o’
Dauvit for thretty year, but never saw ‘Chevy Chase’ mentioned in them
before.”
The feeling against repeating tunes approached to something like horror
in certain parts of the country, even in the second and third decades
of the present century, and I have heard my father tell how, when he
was a young man, he accompanied a friend to the kirk in Logiealmond.
The friend’s father was an elder in the kirk in question, and he, the
young man, was to occupy the precentor’s desk for the day. In the course
of the service he introduced a repeating tune, and the scene in the
kirkyard at the “skailin’ o’ the kirk” made the occasion memorable. The
young man’s father had hurried out immediately after the benediction was
pronounced, and placing himself at the cheek of the kirk door, as soon as
the budding precentor appeared he seized him by the neck, threw him to
the ground, and, belabouring him with hands and feet, he exclaimed—“You
abominable scoundrel! if you dare again to profane the word of God in my
hearing, I’ll slay you with my own hands in the presence of the whole
congregation!”
A precentor of age and experience was once as effectively corrected for
the same practice. Thinking to steal a march on the minister, whose mind
on the subject was well known, he started a repeating tune one day. As
soon as his drift was evident the minister’s hand was over the pulpit and
his fingers among the “lettergae’s” hair, and, “Stop, Dauvit! stop!” he
shouted, “when the Lord repeats we’ll repeat; but no till then.”
Of course, then, even as now, repeating tunes had to be chosen with
neat discrimination, as much of our sacred verse does not yield itself
gracefully to such treatment. Repeats generally occur in the last line
of a stanza, and the praise of a congregation has not infrequently been
rendered ludicrous from the want of good taste and common-sense in the
selection of tunes suited to the words, as well as to the sentiment of
a psalm or hymn. To the well-known Hundredth Psalm a repeating tune has
sometimes been applied, which, from a peculiarity in its arrangement,
has rendered the line—“And for His sheep He doth us take”—thus, “And for
His _sheep he’d_—And for His _sheep he’d_—And for His _sheep he’d_—oth
us take.” From the same indiscretion multitudes of people have been
made to exclaim—“Oh! send down _Sal_—Oh! send down _Sal_—Oh! send
down sal—va—tion to us,” and solicit the privilege to “_Bow—wow—wow_
before the throne.” But surely the most ludicrous example of the kind
ever produced was when the female voices in a choir had to repeat by
themselves—“Oh! for a _man_—Oh! for a _man_—Oh! for a man—sion in the
skies.”
Occasions have also been made memorable by precentors from ignorance or
accident launching into a tune in a different measure from the psalm. In
this way a “lettergae” in a rural parish in the North, far from perfect
in his profession, astonished the congregation one Sabbath many years
ago. In the psalm which was intimated, the second line to be sung ended
with the word “Jacob,” said psalm being a common metre. The precentor,
who sang “by the lug” and used no tune-book, went off on a peculiar
metre tune, and not discovering the error until he had reached the word
“Jacob,” and then finding he was short of verbal material, he improvised
for the occasion, and sang it “J—a—jay—fal—de—riddle—cob,” and so on, as
necessity demanded, until the verses were finished. On coming out of the
church some of his neighbours approached him and said—
“O’d, yon was a new ane ye ga’e us the day, Geordie.”
“Ay,” replied Geordie; “yon’s ‘Kinnoull Hill,’” and away he went,
avoiding further question as much as he could.
Geordie’s _impromptu_ was not disingenuous by any means, and his
after-fencing was admirable; but he would have shown better discretion
had he, when he discovered the incompatibility of the metres, acted
after the manner of a well-known precentor of the same shire, lately
deceased. This latter functionary was guided also more by the “lug” than
the music-book, and in raising the psalm one day, even although he had
hummed the tune to himself while the minister was reading the verses,
his memory played him false at the critical moment of entering into
action, and off he went on a tune the measure of which did not suit the
psalm. The instant he discovered his error—which was at the end of the
first line—he stopped, looked round the congregation—not a blush—and
in a firm voice said, “I am wrong.” Then he mused for a moment, caught
up the tune he meant to sing, and away he went with it, and, as I have
heard him tell, never sang with better “birr” in all his life. As he left
the church his arm was touched by the factor’s lady, a woman of rare
intelligence and vivacity of manner, who exclaimed, “Now, Joseph, I see
that a well-corrected mistake looks first-rate.” So it does; and is often
the making of a man. This Joseph was acknowledged to be the best “reader
of the line”—that is, of reading each line on the key-note before singing
it—within a radius of twenty miles. He only once “put his foot in it,” so
far as I have heard. It was in connection with the word “snow,” to which
he at first applied the wrong vowel sound, and in attempting to correct
himself made it altogether “Snee-snaw-snow.”
In connection with the practice of reading the line, I have heard
several good stories. One of them is that a young man who looked even
younger than he was, had been granted “a day in the desk” by the regular
precentor of a country congregation. The first psalm given out was the
fifth part of 119th, beginning “Teach me, O Lord, the perfect way;” and
this line he declaimed with quite exceptional and inspiring eloquence.
But on returning to sing it he failed to catch on the tune somehow. He
read the line again; but, no, it would not go. Once more he tackled the
subject by the “heft end,” and exclaimed, “Teach me, O Lord, the perfect
way.” Still being unable to raise the tune, an old farmer in the church
blurted out, “Dod, laddie, I’m thinking He has muckle need;” and rising
to his feet, in response to a nod from the minister, he went off with the
line and the tune both, much to the relief of the unfledged precentor.
The next time that young man essayed to lead the praise in the same
edifice, the service curiously enough opened with the 48th Paraphrase,
the first line of which runs, “Let Christian faith and hope dispel;” and
it was with him even as the words requested, for he disported himself to
the complete satisfaction of all present.
The Rev. Sir Henry Moncrieff, Bart., was for some years minister of
the parish of Blackford, prior to his translation to St. Cuthbert’s in
Edinburgh. During his incumbency at Blackford (about 1774), he had, as
Doctor Rodgers tells, one Sabbath opened divine service by giving out a
portion of the 71st Psalm, at the seventh verse. The conductor of the
psalmody followed the practice then in vogue, and enunciated the opening
line—
“To many I a wonder am.”
Immediately the congregation seemed to be overpowered by an inclination
to indulge in laughter, which, indeed, some were unable to restrain. The
precentor faltered, but proceeded to read the line again. This tended
only to increase the excitement; and while some quickly withdrew from
the church, others concealed their faces under the pews, or buried them
in their handkerchiefs. Sir Henry rose up, and, looking down at the
precentor, called to him, “So you are a wonder, John; turn your wig.” The
oddity of the precentor’s appearance with his wig misplaced, viewed in
connection with his proclamation, had produced the mistimed merriment.
A precentor of humour, when Lord Eglinton’s family were crowded out
of sitting room in the kirk, exclaimed, “Stand back, Jock, and let the
Eglinton family in;” then continued to read—
“Nor stand in sinners’ way.”
Dr. Chalmers attempted to abolish the practice of reading the line, and
used to tell a story of an old woman in his congregation who stoutly
maintained that the change was anti-scriptural. On being asked by the
great preacher what was the scripture of which she regarded the change as
a contravention, the good old dame at once replied by citing the text,
“Line upon line,” which, as she fancied, settled the matter.
It has been a common ambition among musical young men in country places
to have “a day in the desk,” and many sorrowful experiences might be
related in connection therewith—experiences which would go to show that
the late James Smith’s account of “Barebones’ First Day in the Desk”
was not a severely overdrawn picture. Barebones’ account is in “common
metre,” and the crisis of the occasion is thus graphically described:—
“Forth like a martyr then I went,
Quench’d were Hope’s smould’ring embers;
And walk’d into a lofty church,
Well filled with country members.
With fear I saw each icy glance
That like a serpent stings;
Then mounted quickly to the desk,
And seemed to mount on wings.
Then when the psalm was given out,
I raised my fork on high
With energy of fierce despair,
And felt inclined to cry.
Again the line was thunder’d o’er,
Cold drops ran down my face;
A burning throb rush’d through my brain,
For I had lost the place.
I seized the first that came to hand,
And sang with deadly shudder!
‘_Blessed is he that wisely doth_
_The poor man’s case consider._’
With knocking knees I slew _Montrose_,
And then ’mid some surprises,
I called at _York_ and _Manchester_,
Then landed at _Devizes_!
At length _St. Lawrence_ glided by,
’Mid stillness most unpleasant,
When suddenly a voice exclaimed—
‘_Stop! that’ll do at present!_’
I started, ceased, and looking round,
Beheld the congregation
Wild staring, with distended jaws.
In speechless consternation.
First one began to shake his head—
Another—and another;
Then, blinded with despair, I cried,
‘_My mother! Oh, my mother!_’
Down from the desk I swiftly sprang,
And reached the vestry door;
Then rent the sable gown in twain,
And cast it on the floor.”
In a rural village in Perthshire, a number of years ago, a tailor’s
apprentice, who was fain to thrill the congregation with a display of his
vocal powers, failed even more conspicuously than Barebones aforesaid.
This individual was allowed a “day,” only after repeated entreaty, the
habitual occupant of the “letteran” being dubious about the success of
the venture. However, when sanction was at length given, the “Psalms”
were early secured from the minister, and elaborate preparations ensued.
Sabbath came, and on the last toll of the bell our hero emerged from
the Session-house and stepped with jaunty and self-confident air into
the desk in front of the pulpit. He was a sight to behold, and not
soon to forget. Every hair was in its right place, and shone from the
superabundance of scented pomade, and his whole demeanour was that of one
who had come forth to conquer, or to die. While the first psalm was being
read he kept sounding his pitchfork. As the time for rising drew near a
nervous twitching of the mouth and eyes ensued, which was accompanied
by sudden paleness of the features. Promptly as the minister sat down,
however, he banged to his feet, once more struck the pitchfork on the
book-board, once more sounded his _doh_. Then he raised his book—turned
his eyes on the congregation—opened his mouth—and—and—no—not a sound
would come. Perceiving the situation, the precentor, who was in his own
family pew, opportunely threw his voice into the breach, and led off
with the tune which he had previously directed should be sung to the
first psalm. At the same moment his young substitute disappeared below
the desk, and there he remained throughout all the rest of the service,
and until every soul but himself and the beadle had quit the sacred
edifice, the precentor having, as each successive psalm was given out,
stood in his family pew and led the congregation. But, though baffled
for the time being, Willie was not altogether discomfited, and before
many months had passed he appealed for an opportunity to “redeem his
character,” as he put it. The request was by and by conceded, and he
“stack” a second time. Again he essayed to “redeem his character,” and
once more the opportunity was afforded. This time it was to be “now or
never,” and no effort was to be spared to ensure success. He was himself
thoroughly confident, as heretofore, and in marching proudly kirkwards he
came up on the village wiseacre of the time, who was stepping leisurely
in the same direction.
“Well, Mr. C⸺, I am going to redeem my character to-day,” said Willie.
The old man stopped and looked reflectively.
“Ay! are ye gaein’ to be precentin’ the day, Willie?”
“Yes,” replied Willie, proudly.
“Weel, then,” said Mr. C⸺, “I’m gaein’ hame;” and home he went.
He might have gone to church that day, however, for Willie came off with
flying colours and, though he has precented many a year and day since, he
has never had occasion again to “redeem his character.”
But precentors have “stuck” after they have had years of experience, and
I have heard of one in a country kirk who frequently pitched his tunes
too high, and when he failed in his efforts to carry them through, he
would stop and shake his head and exclaim, “It’ll no do, chaps; we’ll
need to try’t a wee thocht laicher.”
Another, after repeated ineffectual attempts to raise the tune on
a certain occasion, turned round, and looking up to the minister,
exclaimed, “Dod, sir, that psalm’ll no sing ava.”
One who was suffering from cold occupied the desk so imperfectly that the
minister whispered to him over the pulpit—
“What’s the matter wi’ ye, John?”
“’Deed, sir,” replied John, “I’m fash’d wi’ an unco kittlin’ i’ the paup
o’ my hass.”
“A kittlin’, do ye ca’t?” exclaimed the minister, loud enough for all the
congregation to hear him. “It soonds to my lug mair like the catterwaw o’
an auld tam-cat.”
And there have been humorous incidents connected with the praise of the
Church for which the precentor could only be held directly responsible.
Thus in the _Statistical Account_ we read that, in the days of Mr.
Cumming, the late Episcopal minister in the parish of Halkirk, in
Caithness-shire, there was no singer of psalms in the church but the
“lettergae” and one Tait, gardener in Braal. This Tait sang so loud, and
with such a large open mouth, that a young fellow of the name of Inverach
was tempted to throw a small round stone into his mouth, whereby his
teeth were broken and his singing stopped at once, and he himself almost
choked. Inverach immediately took to his heels; the service was converted
to laughter; two of Tait’s sons chased and overtook him; and the scene
was closed with a desperate fight.
Precentors, like musical men generally, of course, have not suffered from
an overstock of modesty. Dr. Blair used to tell the following anecdote of
his precentor with a great deal of glee. Happening to preach one day at a
distance, he next day met that official as he was returning home—
“Well,” said the Doctor, “how did matters proceed yesterday at church in
my absence?”
“’Deed,” replied the man of song, “no very weel, I’m dootin’: for I wasna
there, Doctor, ony mair than yoursel’.”
I have heard how the vanity of a choirmaster was effectually crushed. It
was in a certain church in one of our large towns some years ago. The
rev. Doctor had given out a well-known psalm, which he expected would be
sung to the tune of _Martyrdom_. Instead of that it was sung to a new
tune which none of the congregation knew, and the choir had thus the
whole singing to themselves. When they had finished, the Doctor rose,
with an angry look on his face, and remarked, “Since the choir have sung
to their own praise and glory, we shall now sing to the praise and glory
of God.” Forthwith he began the words to the tune of _Martyrdom_, and the
whole of the people joined with great warmth.
The reading of the proclamations, or marriage banns, etc., was long
a duty which in country parish churches generally devolved on the
precentor, and many sufficiently funny blunders was the result. In a
small seaport town in the North, many years ago, when vessels left port,
those of the crew who were members of the visible Church in the midst
thereof were recommended publicly to the prayers of the congregation.
Captain M’Pherson and his lady were prominent members, and the Sabbath
succeeding the captain’s departure on one occasion, the written
intimation which was handed to the precentor read as follows:—“Captain
M’Pherson having gone to sea, his wife desires the prayers of the
congregation in his behalf.” By the simple displacement of the comma
after “sea,” the people were told that “Captain M’Pherson having gone to
see his wife, desires the prayers of the congregation in his behalf.”
Precentors have sometimes received compliments which might be envied by
those occupying higher places. The late Rev. Mr. M’Dougall, of Paisley,
used to tell of having been accosted by a man on leaving some meeting,
with—
“You’re Mr. M’Dougall, I think?”
“Yes, I am. How do you happen to know me?”
“Oh! I’m whiles in your kirk.”
“Do you live in Paisley?”
“No, I live in Gleska’.”
“Then, I suppose you sometimes stay with friends in Paisley?”
“No, I just walk out on the Sundays.”
“That’s a long walk, surely?”
The minister was beginning to feel quite proud of his power of drawing a
congregation, and said—
“Do you stay over the night after going to church?”
“No, I just walk back again.”
“That is a very long walk.”
“Oh, ay, it’s a bit gude walk; but ye see I think a deal o’ your
precentor.”
It was the minister here:—In a rural parish the old preacher felt out of
sorts one Sabbath, and to provide a rest for himself before delivering
the sermon, he gave out a long psalm to be sung, not taking into account
the precentor’s bad cold, which was a chronic complaint. The first four
verses were finished not so badly, but at the fifth Tammas stuck, and no
amount of tuning could get him started again. At last the minister had
to get to his feet, and in no very pleasant mood. Accordingly, leaning
over the pulpit, he addressed the precentor thus:—“Tammas, if ye mak’ sic
a wark about skirlin’ out four verses o’ a psalm noo, hoo do ye expect
ye’re to manage to sing through a’ the ages o’ eternity?”
The story of “The Foxes’ Tails,” so admirably elaborated to the
dimensions of a public “reading” by Dr. Moxey of Edinburgh, I was
accustomed to hear, more than twenty years ago, as having transpired
between a country minister and his precentor, Sandy Johnston; and in
this way. In the course of a twa-handed crack one day, the minister
had ventured on some friendly criticism of Sandy’s singing, whereupon
Sandy retaliated by remarking that he thought the singing would compare
favourably with the preaching any day.
“Don’t let us quarrel, Sandy,” said the minister; “we may each benefit by
the other’s criticism. Now, tell me candidly, what the chief faults of my
preaching are?”
“Ou, I’m no sayin’ I ha’e ony fauts till’t, but just this, that I’ve
noticed ye—weel—that is to say—ye exaggerate a wee.”
“Well, Sandy, if I exaggerate the truth in the pulpit, I am certainly not
aware of it.”
“Ye do’t a’ the same, though,” insisted the precentor.
“Sandy, I respect your opinion,” said the minister, “but I am so
satisfied that I am innocent of the charge you have preferred against me,
that I now call upon you, if ever on any future occasion you shall hear
me exaggerate in the pulpit, you will pull me up there and then, just by
emitting a low, thin whistle.”
Sandy agreed to this arrangement. Several Sabbaths passed, and nothing
out-of-joint was said or heard. The precentor, however, still kept his
“lug on the cock,” and at length his patience was rewarded. Lecturing one
day on that chapter of the Scriptures which describes Samson as catching
three hundred foxes, tying them tail to tail, casting firebrands in their
midst, starting them among the standing corn of the Philistines, and
burning it down.
“My friends,” said he, “you will be wondering in your minds how Samson
could tie so many foxes tail to tail, for the best man in Scotland
couldn’t tie two of our foxes’ tails together. Samson, however, was
the strongest man the world has ever seen, and these Eastern foxes,
travellers tell us, had very long tails—tails, indeed, forty and fifty
feet long. [Precentor emits a low thin whistle.] I should have said,”
continued the preacher, “that—that—is the account given by the earliest
travellers to the East, and that recent investigation had proved its
inaccuracy, and that these foxes’ tails could not have exceeded about
twenty feet in length. [Sandy whistles again.] Twenty feet did I say,”
continues the minister, “yes! but the matter has very recently been
commanding attention in scientific circles, and it is doubted whether
foxes’ tails, in any part of the world, ever at any time, exceeded ten or
twelve feet in——” [Sandy whistles.] At this crisis, the minister strikes
his book with his clenched fist, and leans over the pulpit and exclaims,
“I’ll tell you what it is, Sandy Johnstone, I’ll no tak’ anither inch
aff thae foxes’ tails tho’ ye sit there and whistle till the day o’
joodgment!”
[Illustration: “I tell you what it is, Sandy Johnston, I’ll no tak’
anither inch aff thae foxes’ tails tho’ ye sit there and whistle till the
day o’ joodgement!”—_Page 168._]
Yes! as already stated here, the Scotch precentor is a decaying
institution; yet luckily for his peace of mind there are still a
respectable number in the land who think with the old lady who remarked,
“Organs, nae doot, mak’ unco grand music; but, eh! it’s an awfu’-like way
o’ spendin’ the Sawbath!”