Hand and personal labour of every kind in Scotland, as everywhere else, has in recent years been largely superseded by machinery, and no one can have failed to notice that even the office of “lettergae,” or precentor, is a rapidly decaying institution in our midst.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:—

Having reached the fourth line he read—

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—

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—

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:—

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!”

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!”