Sabbath in Puritan New England by Alice Morse Earle (page 3)

shoulders, a-singing in the old New England meeting-house through the long, tedious psalms, which were made longer and more tedious still by the drawling singing and the deacons’ “lining.” Truly that were a pretty sight for our eyes, and for other eyes than ours, without doubt. Staid Puritan youth may have glanced soberly across the old meeting-house at the fair girl as she sung the Song of Solomon, with its ardent wording, without any very deep thought of its symbolic meaning:–

“Let him with kisses of his mouth
be pleased me to kiss,
Because much better than the wine
thy loving-kindness is.
To troops of horse in Pharoahs coach, my love, I thee compare,
Thy neck with chains, with jewels new, thy cheeks full comely are.
Borders of gold with silver studs
for thee make up we will,
Whilst that the king at’s table sits my spikenard yields her smell.

Like as of myrrh a bundle is
my well-belov’d to be,
Through all the night betwixt my breasts his lodging-place shall be;
My love as in Engedis vines
like camphire-bunch to me,
So fair, my love, thou fair thou art thine eyes as doves eyes be.”

Love and music were ever close companions; and the singing-school–that safety-valve of young New England life–had not then been established or even thought of, and I doubt not many a warm and far from Puritanical love-glance was cast from the “doves-eyes” across the “alley” of the old meeting-house at Cicely as she sung.

But Cicely vas not young when she last used the old psalm-book. She may have been stately and prosperous and seated in the dignified “foreseat;” she may have been feeble and infirm in her place in the “Deaf Pue;” and she may have been careworn and sad, tired of fighting against poverty, worn with dread of fierce Indians, weary of the howls of the wolves in the dense forests so near, and home-sick and longing for the yonderland, her “faire Englishe home;” but were she sad or careworn or heartsick, in her treasured psalm-book she found comfort,–comfort in the halting verses as well as in the noble thoughts of the Psalmist. And the glamour of eternal, sweet-voiced youth hangs around the gentle Cicely, through the power of the inscription in the old psalm-book,–

“In youth I praise
And walk thy ways,”–

the romance of the time when Cicely, the Puritan commonwealth, the whole New World was young.

XIII.

Sternhold and Hopkins’ Version of the Psalms.

The metrical translation of the Psalms known as Sternhold and Hopkins’ Version was doubtless used in the public worship of God in many of the early New England settlements, especially those of the Connecticut River Valley, though the old register of the town of Ipswich is the only local record that gives positive proof of its use in the Puritan church. In 1693 an edition of Sternhold and Hopkins was printed in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It was not a day nor a land where a whole edition of such a book would be printed for reference or comparison only; and to thus publish the work of the English psalmists in the very teeth of the popularity of “The Bay Psalm Book” is to me a proof that Sternhold and Hopkins’ Version was employed far more extensively in the colonial churches and homes than we now have records of, and than many of our church historians now fancy. Certainly the familiar English psalm-books must have been brought across the ocean and used temporarily until the newly landed colonists could acquire the version of Ainsworth or of the New England divines.

An everlasting interest attaches to this metrical arrangement of the Psalms, to Americans as well as to Englishmen, because it was the earliest to be adopted in public worship in England. According to Strype, in his Memorial, the singing of psalms was allowed in England as early as 1548, but it was not until 1562 that the versified psalms of Sternhold and Hopkins were appended to the Book of Common Prayer. Sternhold and Hopkins’ Version was also the first to give all the psalms of David in English verse to the English public.

Very little is known of the authors of this version. Sternhold was educated at Oxford; was Groom of the Robes to Henry VIII. and Edward VI., was a “bold and busy Calvinist,” and died in 1549. The little of interest told of John Hopkins is that he was a minister and schoolmaster, and that he assisted the work of Sternhold.

The full reason for Sternhold’s pious work is thus given by an old English author, Wood: “Being a most zealous reformer and a very strict liver he became so scandalyzed at the loose amorous songs used in the court that he forsooth turned into English metre fifty-one of Davids Psalms, and caused musical notes to be set to them, thinking thereby that the courtiers would sing them instead of their sonnets; but they did not, only some few excepted.” The preface printed in the book stated Sternhold’s wish and intention that the verses should be sung by Englishmen, not only in church, but “moreover in private houses for their godly solace and comfort; laying apart all ungodly Songs & Ballads which tend only to the nourishment of vice & corrupting of youth.”

The first edition contained nineteen psalms only, which were all versified by Sternhold. It was published in 1548 or 1549, under this title, “Certayn Psalmes chosen out of the Psalter of Daid and drawen into English Metre by Thomas Sternhold Groom of ye Kynges Maiesties Roobes.” I believe no copy of this edition is now known to exist.

The praise which Sternhold received for his pious rhymes had the same effect upon him as did similar encomiums upon his predecessor, the French psalm-writer Marot,–it encouraged him to write more psalm-verses.

The second edition was printed in 1549, and contained thirty-seven psalms by Sternhold and seven by Hopkins. It bore this title, “Al such Psalmes of David as Thomas Sternehold late grome of his maiesties robes did in his lyfe tyme drawe into English metre.” It was a well-printed book and copies are still preserved in the British Museum and the Public Library of Cambridge, England. This second and enlarged edition was dedicated, in a four-page preface, to King Edward VI., and a pretty story is told of the young king’s interest in the verses. The delicate and gentle boy of twelve heard Sternhold when “singing them to his organ” as Strype says, and wandered in to hear the music and listen to the words. So great was his awakened interest in the sacred songs that Sternhold resolved to write in verse for him still further of the psalms. The dedication reads: “Seeing that your tender and godly zeale dooth more delight in the holye songs of veritie than in any fayncd rymes of vanytie, I am encouraged to travayle further in the said booke of Psalmes.” This young king restored to the English people the free reading of the Bible, which his wicked father, Henry VIII., had forbidden them, and he was of a sincerely religious nature. He also was a music-lover, and encouraged the art as much as his short life and troubled reign permitted.

Hopkins also wrote a preface for his share of the work, in which he spoke with much modesty of himself and much praise of Sternhold. He said his own verses were not “in any parte to bee compared with his [Sternhold’s] most exquisite dooynges.” He thinks, however, that his owne are “fruitfull though they bee not fyne.”

The third edition, in 1556, contained fifty-one psalms; the fourth, in 1560, had sixty-seven psalms; the fifth, in 1561, increased the number to eighty-seven; and in 1562 or 1563 the whole book of psalms appeared. Other authors had some share in this work: Norton, Whyttyngham (a Puritan divine who married Calvin’s sister), Kethe, who wrote the 100th Psalm, “All people that on earth do dwell,” which is still seen in some of our hymn-books. Of all these men, sly old Thomas Fuller truthfully and quaintly said, “They were men whose piety was better than their poetry, and they had drunk more of Jordan than of Helicon.”

For over one hundred years from the first publication there was a steady outpour of editions of these Psalms. Before the year 1600 there were seventy-four editions,–a most astonishing number for the times; and from 1600 to 1700 two hundred and thirty-five editions. In 1868 six hundred and one editions were known, including twenty-one in this nineteenth century and doubtless there were still others uncatalogued and forgotten. Among other editions this version had in the time of Charles II. two in shorthand, one printed by “Thos. Cockerill at the Three Legs and Bible in the Poultry.” Two copies of these editions are in the British Museum. They are tiny little 64mos, of which half a dozen could be laid side by side on the palm of the hand. Sternhold and Hopkins’ Version had also in 1694 the honor of having arranged for it a Concordance.

Upon no production of the religious Muse in the English tongue has greater diversity of criticism been displayed or more extraordinary or varied judgment been rendered than upon Sternhold and Hopkins’ Psalms. A world of testimony could be adduced to fortify any view which one chose to take of them. At the time of their early publication they induced a swarm of stinging lampoons and sneering comments, that often evince most plainly that a difference in religious belief or scorn for an opposing sect brought them forth. The poetry of that and the succeeding century abounds in allusions to them. Phillips wrote:–

“Singing with woful noise
Like a crack’d saints bell jarring in the steeple, Tom Sternhold’s wretched prick-song for the people.”

Another poet, a courtier, wrote:–

“Sternhold and Hopkins had great qualms When they translated David’s psalms.”

But I see no signs of qualmishness; they show to me rather a healthy sturdiness as one of their strongest characteristics.

Pope at a later day wrote:–

“Not but there are who merit other palms Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with psalms. The boys and girls whom charity maintains Implore your help in these pathetic strains. How could devotion touch the country pews Unless the gods bestowed a proper muse.”

Wesley sneered at this version, saying, “When it is seasonable to sing praises to God we do it, not in the scandalous doggrel of Hopkins and Sternhold, but in psalms and hymns which are both sense and poetry, such as would provoke a _critic_ to turn _Christian_ rather than a _Christian_ to turn _critic_.”

The edition of 1562 was printed with the notes of melodies that were then called Church Tunes. They formed the basis of all future collections of psalm-music for over a century. They soon were published in harmony in four parts, “which may be sung to all musical instrumentes set forth for the encrease of vertue and abolyshing of other vayne and tryfling ballads.” In 1592 a very important collection of psalm-tunes was published to use with Sternhold and Hopkins’ words. It is called “The Whole Booke of Psalmes: with their wonted tunes as they are sung in Churches composed into four parts.” This book is noteworthy because in it the tunes are for the first time named after places, as is still the custom. The music contained square or oblong notes and also lozenge-shaped notes. The square note was a “semy-brave,” the lozenge-shaped note was a “prycke” or a “mynymme,” and “when there is a prycke by the square note, that prycke is half as much as the note that goeth before.”

Music at that time was said to be pricked, not printed,–the word being derived from the prick or dot which formed the head of the note. Any song which was printed in various parts was called a prick-song, to distinguish it from one sung extemporaneously or by ear. The word prick-song occurs not only in all the musical books, but in the literature of the time, and in Shakespeare. “Tom Sternhold’s” songs were entitled to be called prick-songs because they had notes of music printed with them. Many of the tunes in this collection were taken from the Genevan Psalter and Luther’s Psalm-Book, or from Marot and Beza’s French Book of Psalms. Hence they were irreverently called “Genevan Jiggs,” and “Beza’s Ballets.”

There is much difference shown in the wording of these various editions of Sternhold and Hopkins’ Psalms. The earlier ones were printed as Sternhold wrote them; but with the Genevan editions began great and astonishing alterations. Warton, who was no lover of Sternhold and Hopkins’ verses, calling them “the disgrace of sacred poetry,” said of these attempted improvements, with vehemence, that “many stanzas already too naked and weak like a plain old Gothic edifice stripped of its signatures of antiquity, have lost that little and almost only strength and support which they derived from ancient phrases.” Other old critics thought that Sternhold, could he return to life, would hardly know his own verses.

This is Sternhold’s rendering of the Psalm in the edition of 1549:–

1. The heavens & the fyrmamente
do wondersly declare
The glory of God omnipotent
his workes and what they are.

2. Ech daye declareth by his course
an other daye to come
And By the night we know lykwise a nightly course to run.

3. There is no laguage tong or speche where theyr sound is not heard,
In al the earth and coastes thereof theyr knowledge is conferd.

4. In them the lord made royally
a settle for the sunne
Where lyke a Gyant joyfully
he myght his iourney runne.

5. And all the skye from ende to ende he compast round about
No man can hyde hym from his heate but he wll fynd hym out

In order to show the liberties taken with the text we can compare with it the Genevan edition printed in 1556. The second verse of that presumptuous rendering reads,–

“The wonderous works of God appears
by every days success
The nyghts which likewise their race runne the selfe same thinges expresse.”

The fourth,–

“In them the lorde made for the sunne a place of great renoune
Who like a bridegrome rady-trimed
doth from his chamber come.”

The expression “rady-trimed,” meaning close-shaven, is often instanced as one of the inelegancies of Sternhold, but he surely ought not to be held responsible for the “improvements” of the Genevan edition published after his death.

The Genevan editors also invented and inserted an extra verse:–

“And as a valiant champion
who for to get a prize
With joye doth hast to take in hande some noble enterprise.”

The fifth verse is thus altered:–

“And al the skye from ende to ende
he compasseth about,
Nothing can hyde it from his heate but he wil finde it out.”

I cannot express the indignation with which I read these belittling and weakening alterations and interpolations; they are so unjust and so degrading to the reputation of Sternhold. It seems worse than forgery–worse than piracy; for instead of stealing from the defenceless dead poet, it foists upon him a spurious and degrading progeny; there is no word to express this tinkering libellous literary crime.

Cromwell had a prime favorite among these psalms; it was the one hundred and ninth and is known as the “cursing psalm.” Here are a few lines from it:–

“As he did cursing love, it shall
betide unto him so,
And as he did not blessing love
it shall be farre him fro,
As he with cursing clad himselfe
so it like water shall
Into his bowels and like oyl
Into his bones befall.
As garments let it be to him
to cover him for aye
And as a girdle wherewith he
may girded be alway.”

Another authority gives the “cursing psalm” as the nineteenth of King James’s version; but there is nothing in “The heavens declare the glory of God,” &c. to justify the nickname of “cursing.”

It is said when the tyrannical ruler Andros visited New Haven and attended church there that (Sternhold and Hopkins’ Version being used) the fearless minister very inhospitably gave out the fifty-second psalm to be sung. The angry governor, who took it as a direct insult, had to listen to the lining and singing of these words, and I have no doubt they were roared out with a lusty will:–

1. Why dost thou tyrant boast thyself thy wicked deeds to praise
Dost thou not know there is a God whose mercies last alwaies?

2. Why doth thy mind yet still deuise such wisked wiles to warp?
Thy tongue untrue, in forging lies is like a razer sharp.

* * * * *

4. Thou dost delight in fraude & guilt in mischief bloude and wrong:
Thy lips have learned the flattering stile O false deceitful tongue.

5. Therefore shall God for eye confounde and pluck thee from thy place.
Thy seed and root from out the grounde and so shall thee deface;

6. The just when they behold thy fall with feare will praise the Lord:
And in reproach of thee withall
cry out with one accord.

When the unhappy King Charles fled from Oxford to a camp of troops he also was insulted by having the same psalm given out in his presence by the boorish chaplain of the troops. After the cruel words were ended the heartsick king rose and asked the soldiers to sing the fifty-sixth psalm. Whenever I read the beautiful and pathetic words, as peculiarly appropriate as if they had been written for that occasion only, I can see it all before me,–the great camp, the angry minister, the wretched but truly royal king; and I can hear the simple and noble song as it pours from the lips of hundreds of rude soldiers:

1. Have mercy Lord on mee I pray
for man would mee devour.
He fighteth with me day by day
and troubleth me each hour.

2. Mine enemies daily enterprise
to swallow mee outright
To fight against me many rise
O thou most high of might

* * * * *

5. What things I either did or spake they wrest them at thier wil:
And all the councel that they take is how to work me il.

6. They all consent themselves to hide close watch for me to lay:
They spie my pathes, and snares have layd to take my life away.

7. Shall they thus scape on mischief set, thou God on them wilt frowne:
For in his wrath he will not let to throw whole kingdomes downe.

It would perhaps be neither just nor conducive to proper judgment to gather only a florilege of noble verses from Sternhold and Hopkins’ Version and point out none of the “weedy-trophies,” the quaint and even uncouth lines which disfigure the work. We must, however, in considering and judging them, remember that many words and even phrases which at present seem rather ludicrous or undignified had, in the sixteenth century, significations which have now become obsolete, and which were then neither vulgar nor unpoetical. I also have been forced to take my selections from a copy of Sternhold and Hopkins printed in 1599, and bound up with a “Breeches Bible;” for I have access to no earlier edition. Sternhold and Hopkins themselves may not be in truth responsible for many of the crudities. Hopkins, in his rendition of the 12th verse of the seventy-fourth Psalm, thus addresses the Deity:–

“Why doost withdraw thy hand abacke
and hide it in thy lappe?
O pluck it out and bee not slacke
to give thy foes a rap.”

“Rap” may have meant a heavier, a mightier blow then than it does now-a-days.

Here is another curious verse from the seventieth psalm,–

“Confounde them that apply
and seeke to make my shame
And at my harme doe laugh & crye So So there goeth the game.”

The sixth verse of the fifty-eighth psalm is rendered thus:–

“O God breake thou thier teeth at once within thier mouthes throughout;
The tuskes that in thier great jawbones like Lions whelpes hang out.”

Another verse reads thus:–

“The earth did quake, the raine pourde down Heard men great claps of thunder
And Mount Sinai shooke in such state As it would cleeve in sunder.”

One verse of the thirty-fifth psalm reads thus:–

“The belly-gods and flattering traine that all good things deride
At me doe grin with greate disdaine and pluck thier mouths aside.
Lord when wilt thou amend this geare why dost thou stay & pause?
O rid my soul, my onely deare,
out of these Lions clawes.”

The word tush occurs frequently and quaintly: “Tush I an sure to fail;” “Tush God forgetteth this.”

“And with a blast doth puff against
such as would him correct
Tush Tush saith he I have no dread.”

Here are some of the curious expressions used:–

“Though gripes of grief and pangs full sore shall lodge with us all night.”

“For why their hearts were nothing lent to Him nor to His trade.”

“Our soul in God hath joy and game.”

“They are so fed that even for fat
thier eyes oft-times out start.”

“They grin they mow they nod thier heads.”

“While they have war within thier hearts.” as butter are thier words.”

“Divide them Lord & from them pul thier devilish double-tongue.”

“My silly soul uptake.”

“And rained down Manna for them to eat a food of mickle-wonder.”

“For joy I have both gaped & breathed.”

But it is useless to multiply these selections, which, viewed individually, are certainly absurd and inelegant. They often indicate, however, the exact thought of the Psalmist, and are as well expressed as the desire to be literal as well as poetic will permit them to be. Sternhold’s verses compare quite favorably, when looked at either as a whole or with regard to individual lines, with those of other poets of his day, for Chaucer was the only great poet who preceded him.

I must acknowledge quite frankly in the face of critics of both this and the past century that I always read Sternhold and Hopkins’ Psalms with a delight, a satisfaction that I can hardly give reasons for. Many of the renderings, though unmelodious and uneven, have a rough vigor and a sweeping swing that is to me wonderfully impressive, far more so than many of the elegant and polished methods of modern versifiers. And they are so thoroughly antique, so devoid of any resemblance to modern poems, that I love them for their penetrating savor of the olden times; and they seem no more to be compared and contrasted with modern verses than should an old castle tower be compared with a fine new city house. We prefer the latter for a habitation, it is infinitely better in every way, but we can admire also the rough grandeur of the old ruin.

XIV.

Other Old Psalm-Books.

There are occasionally found in New England on the shelves of old libraries, in the collections of antiquaries, or in the attics of old farm-houses, hidden in ancient hair-trunks or painted sea-chests or among a pile of dusty books in a barrel,–there are found dingy, mouldy, tattered psalm-books of other versions than the ones which we know were commonly used in the New England churches. Perhaps these books were never employed in public worship in the new land; they may have been brought over by some colonist, in affectionate remembrance of the church of his youth, and sung from only with tender reminiscent longing in his own home. But when groups of settlers who were neighbors and friends in their old homes came to America and formed little segregated communities by themselves, there is no doubt that they sung for a time from the psalm-books that they brought with them.

A rare copy is sometimes seen of Marot and Beza’s French Psalm-book, brought to America doubtless by French Huguenot settlers, and used by them until (and perhaps after) the owners had learned the new tongue. Some of the Huguenots became members of the Puritan churches in America, others were Episcopalians. In Boston the Fancuils, Baudoins, Boutineaus, Sigourneys, and Johannots were all Huguenots, and attended the little brick church built on School Street in 1704, which was afterwards occupied by the Twelfth Congregational Society of Boston, and in 1788 became a Roman Catholic church.

The pocket psalm-book of Gabriel Bernon, the builder of the old French Fort at Oxford, is one of Marot and Beza’s Version, and is still preserved and owned by one of his descendants; other New England families of French lineage cherish as precious relics the French psalm-books of their Huguenot ancestors. There has been in France no such incessant production of new metrical versions of the psalms as in England. From the time of the publication of the first versified psalms in 1540, through nearly three centuries the psalm-book of all French Protestants has been that of Marot and Beza. This French version of the psalms is of special interest to all thoughtful students of the history of Protestantism, because it was the first metrical translation of the psalms ever sung and used by the people; and it was without doubt one of the most powerful influences that assisted in the religious awakening of the Reformation.

Clement Marot was the “Valet of the Bed-chamber to King Francis I.,” and was one of the greatest French poets of his time; in fact, he gave his name to a new school of poetry,–“Marotique.” He had tried his hand at an immense variety of profane verse, he had written ballades, chansons, pastourelles, vers equivoques, eclogues, laments, complaints, epitaphs, chants-royals, blasons, contreblasons, dizains, huitains, envois; he had been, Warton says, “the inventor of the rondeau and the restorer of the madrigal;” and yet, in spite of his well-known ingenuity and versatility, it occasioned much surprise and even amusement when it was known that the gay poet had written psalm-songs and proposed to substitute them for the love-songs of the French court. I doubt if Marot thought very deeply of the religious influence of his new songs, in spite of Mr. Morley’s belief in the versifier’s serious intent. He was doubtless interested and perhaps somewhat infected by “Lutheranisme,” though perhaps he was more of a free-thinker than a Protestant. He himself said of his faith:–

“I am not a Lutherist
Nor Zuinglian and less Anabaptist, I am of God through his son Jesus Christ. I am one who has many works devised
From which none could extract a single line Opposing itself to the law divine.”

And again:–

“Luther did not come down from heaven for me Luther was not nailed to the cross to be My Saviour; for my sins to suffer shame, And I was not baptized in Luther’s name. The name I was baptized in sounds so sweet That at the sound of it, what we entreat The Eternal Father gives.”

In the year 1540, at the instigation of King Francis, Marot presented a manuscript copy of his thirty new psalm-songs to Charles V., king of Spain, receiving therefor two hundred gold doubloons. Francis encouraged him by further gifts, and so praised his work that the author soon published the thirty in a book which he dedicated to the king; and to which he also prefixed a metrical address to the ladies of France, bidding these fair dames to place their

“doigts sur les espinettes
Pour dire sainctes chansonnettes.”

These “sainctes chansonnettes” became at once the rage; courtiers and princes, lords and ladies, ever ready for some new excitement, seized at once upon the novel psalm-songs, and having no special or serious music for them, cheerfully sang the sacred words to the ballad-tunes of the times, and to their gailliards and measures, without apparently any very deep thought of their religious meaning. Disraeli says that each of the royal family and each nobleman chose for his favorite song a psalm expressive of his own feeling or sentiments. The Dauphin, as became a brave huntsman, chose

“Ainsi qu’on vit le cerf bruyre,”

“As the hart panteth after the water-brook,”

and he gayly and noisily sang it when he went to the chase. The Queen chose

“Ne vueilles pas, o sire,
Me reprendre en ton ire.”

“Rebuke me not in thine indignation.”

Antony, king of Navarre, sung

“Revenge moy prens la querelle,”

“Stand up, O Lord! to revenge my quarrel,”

to the air of a dance of Poitou. Diane de Poictiers chose

“Du fond de ma pensee.”

“From the depth of my heart.”

But when from interest in her psalm-song she wished to further read and study the Bible, she was warned from the danger with horror by the Cardinal of Lorraine. This religious awakening and inquiry was of course deprecated and dreaded by the Romish Church; to the Sorbonne all this rage for psalm-singing was alarming enough. What right had the people to sing God’s word, “I will bless the Lord at all times, His praise shall be continually in my mouth”? The new psalm-songs were soon added to the list of “Heretical Books” forbidden by the Church, and Marot fled to Geneva in 1543. He had ere this been under ban of the Church, even under condemnation of death; had been proclaimed a heretic at all the cross-ways throughout the kingdom, and had been imprisoned. But he had been too good a poet and courtier to be lost, and the king had then interested himself and obtained the release of the versatile song writer. The fickle king abandoned for a second time the psalm versifier, who never again returned to France.

The austere and far-seeing Calvin at once adopted Marot’s version of the Psalms, now enlarged to the number of fifty, and added them to the Genevan Confession of Faith,–recommending however that they be sung with the grave and suitable strains written, for them by Guillaume Frane.

The collection was completed with the assistance of Theodore Beza, the great theologian, and the demand for the books was so great that the printers could not supply them quickly enough. Ten thousand copies were sold at once,–a vast number for the times.

But Marot was not happy in Geneva with Calvin and the Calvinists, as we can well understand. Beza, in his “History of the French Reformed Churches” said, “He (Marot) had always been bred up in a very bad school, and could not live in subjection to the reformation of the Gospel, and therefore went and spent the rest of his days in Piedmont, which was then in the possession of the king, where he lived in some security under the favor of the governor.” He lived less than a year, however, dying in 1544.

These psalms of Marot’s passed through a great number and variety of editions. In addition to the Genevan publications, an immense number were printed in England. Nearly all the early editions were elegant books; carefully printed on rich paper, beautifully bound in rich moroccos and leathers, often emblazoned with gold on the covers, and with corners and clasps of precious metals,–they show the wealth and fashion of the owners. When, however, it came to be held an infallible sign of “Lutheranisme” to be a singer of psalms, simpler and cheaper bindings appear; hence the dress of the French Psalm-Book found in New England is often dull enough, but invariably firm and substantial.

These psalms of Marot’s are written in a great variety of song-measures, which seem scarcely as solemn and religious as the more dignified and even metres used by the early English writers. Some are graceful and smooth, however, and are canorous though never sonorous. They are pleasing to read with their quaint old spelling and lettering.

In the old Sigourney psalm-book the nineteenth psalm was thus rendered:–

“Les cieux en chaque lieu
La puissance de Dieu
Racourent aux humains
Ce grand entour espars
Publie en toutes parts
L’ouvrage de ses mains.

“Iour apres iour coulant
Du Saigneur va parlant
Par longue experience.
La nuict suivant la nuict,
Nous presche et nous instruicst
De sa grad sapience”

Another much-employed metre was this, of the hundred and thirty-third psalm:–

“Asais aux bors do ce superbe fleuve Que de Babel les campagnes abreuve,
Nos tristes coeurs ne pensoient qu’ a Sion. Chacun, helas, dans cette affliction
Les yeux en pleurs la morte peinte au visage Pendit sa harpe aux saules du rivage.”

A third and favorite metre was this:–

“Mais sa montagne est un sainct lieu: Qui viendra done au mont de Dieu?
Qui est-ce qui la tiendra place?
Le homine de mains et coeur lave,
En vanite non esleve
Et qui n’a jure en fallace.”

Marot wrote in his preface to the psalms:–

“Thrice happy they who shall behold
And listen in that age of gold
As by the plough the laborer strays And carman ‘mid the public ways
And tradesman in his shop shall swell The voice in psalm and canticle,
Sing to solace toil; again
From woods shall come a sweeter strain, Shepherd and shepherdess shall vie
In many a tender Psalmody,
And the Creator’s name prolong
As rock and stream return their song.”

Though these words seem prophetic, the gay and volatile Marot could never have foreseen what has proved one of the most curious facts in religious history,–that from the airy and unsubstantial seed sown by the French courtier in such a careless, thoughtless manner, would spring the great-spreading and deep-rooted tree of sacred song.

Little volumes of the metrical rendering of the Psalms, known as “Tate and Brady’s Version,” are frequently found in New England. It was the first English collection of psalms containing any smoothly flowing verses. Many of the descendants of the Puritans clung with affection to the more literal renderings of the “New England Psalm-Book,” and thought the new verses were “tasteless, bombastic, and irreverent.” The authors of the new book were certainly not great poets, though Nahum Tate was an English Poet-Laureate. It is said of him that he was so extremely modest that he was never able to make his fortune or to raise himself above necessity. He was not too modest, however, to dare to make a metrical version of the Psalms, to write an improvement of King Lear, and a continuation of Absalom and Achitophel. Brady–equally modest–translated the Aeneid in rivalry of Dryden. “This translation,” says Johnson, “when dragged into the world did not live long enough to cry.”

Such commonplace authors could hardly compose a version that would have a stable foundation or promise of long existence. But few of Tate and Brady’s hymns are now seen in our church-collections of Hymns and Psalms. To them we owe, however, these noble lines, which were written thus:–

“Be thou, O God, exalted High,
And as thy glory fills the Skie
So let it be on Earth displaid
Till thou art here as There obeyed.”

The hymn commencing,–

“My soul for help on God relies,
From him alone my safety flows,”

is also of their composition.

The first edition of these psalms was printed in 1696, and bore this title, “The Book of Psalms, a new version in metre fitted to the tunes used in Churches. By N. Tate and N. Brady.” It was dedicated to King William, and though its use was permitted in English churches, it never supplanted Sternhold and Hopkins’ Version. In New England Tate and Brady’s Psalms became more universally popular,–not, however, without fierce opposing struggles from the older church-members at giving up the venerated “Bay Psalm-Book.”

Another version of Psalms which is occasionally found in New England is known as “Patrick’s Version.” The title is “The Psalms of David in Metre Fitted to the Tunes used in Parish Churches by John Patrick, D.D. Precentor to the Charter House London.” A curious feature of this octavo edition of 1701, which I have, is, “An Explication of Some Words of less Common Use For the Benefit of the Common People.” Here are a few of the “explications:”–

“Celebrate–Make renown’d.
Climes–Countries differing in length of days. Detracting–Lessening one’s credit.
Fluid–Yielding.
Infest–Annoy.
Theam–Matter of Discourse.
Uncessant–Never ceasing.
Stupemlious–Astonishing.”

Baxter said of Patrick, “His holy affection and harmony hath so far reconciled the Nonconformists that diverse of them use his Psalms in their congregation.” I doubt if the version were used in New England Nonconformist congregations. Some of his verses read thus:–

“Lord hear the pray’rs and mournfull cries Of mine afflicted estate,
And with thy Comforts chear my soul, Before it is too late.

“My days consume away like Smoak
Mine anguish is so great,
My bones are not unlike a hearth
Parched & dry with heat.

“Such is my grief I little else
Can do but sigh and groan.
So wasted is my flesh I’m left
Nothing but skin and bone.

“Like th’ Owl and Pelican that dwell In desarts out of sight,
I sadly do bemoan myself,
In solitude delight.

“The wakeful bird that on Housetops
Sits without company
And spends the night in mournful cries Leads such a life as I.

“The Ashes I rowl in when I eat
Are tasted with my bread,
And with my Drink are mixed the tears I plentifully shed.”

A version of the Psalms which seems to have demanded and deserved more attention than it received was written by Cotton Mather. He was doomed to disappointment in seeing his version adopted by the New England churches just as his ambitions and hopes were disappointed in many other ways. This book was published in 1718. It was called “Psalterium Americanum. A Book of Psalms in a translation exactly conformed unto the Original; but all in blank verse. Fitted unto the tunes commonly used in the Church.” By a curious arrangement of brackets and the use of two kinds of print these psalms could be divided into two separate metres and could be sung to tunes of either long or short metre. After each psalm were introduced explanations written in Mather’s characteristic manner,–a manner both scholarly and bombastic. I have read the “Psalterium Americanum” with care, and am impressed with its elegance, finish, and dignity. It is so popular, however, even now-a-days, to jibe at poor Cotton Mather, that his Psalter does not escape the thrusts of laughing critics. Mr. Glass, the English critic, holds up these lines as “one of the rich things:”–

“As the Hart makes a panting cry
For cooling streams of water,
So my soul makes a panting cry
For thee–O Mighty God.”

I have read these lines over and over again, and fail to see anything very ludicrous in them, though they might be slightly altered to advantage. Still they may be very absurd and laughable from an English point of view.

So superior was Cotton Mather’s version to the miserable verses given in “The Bay Psalm-Book” that one wonders it was not eagerly accepted by the New England churches. Doubtless they preferred rhyme–even the atrocious rhyme of “The Bay Psalm Book.” And the fact that the “Psalterium Americanum” contained no musical notes or directions also militated against its use.

Other American clergymen prepared metrical versions of the psalms that were much loved and loudly sung by the respective congregations of the writers. The work of those worthy, painstaking saints we will neither quote nor criticise,–saying only of each reverend versifier, “Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.” Rev. John Barnard, who preached for fifty-four years in Marblehead, published at the age of seventy years a psalm-book for his people. Though it appeared in 1752, a time when “The Bay Psalm Book” was being shoved out of the New England churches, Barnard’s Version of the Psalms was never used outside of Marblehead. Rev. Abijah Davis published another book of psalms in which he copied whole pages from Watts without a word of thanks or of due credit, which was apparently neither Christian, clerical nor manly behavior.

Watts’s monosyllabic Hymns, which were not universally used in America until after the Revolution, are too well known and are still too frequently seen to need more than mention. Within the last century a flood of new books of psalms of varying merit and existence has poured out upon the New England churches, and filled the church libraries and church, pews, the second-hand book shops, the missionary boxes, and the paper-mills.

XV.

The Church Music.

Of all the dismal accompaniments of public worship in the early days of New England, the music was the most hopelessly forlorn,–not alone from the confused versifications of the Psalms which were used, but from the mournful monotony of the few known tunes and the horrible manner in which those tunes were sung. It was not much better in old England. In 1676 Master Mace wrote of the singing in English churches, “‘T is sad to hear what whining, toling, yelling or shreaking there is in our country congregations.”

A few feeble efforts were made in America at the beginning of the eighteenth century to attempt to guide the singing. The edition of 1698 of “The Bay Psalm-Book” had “Some few Directions” regarding the singing added on the last pages of the book, and simple enough they were in matter if not in form. They commence, “_First_, observe how many note-compass the tune is next the place of your first note, and how many notes above and below that so as you may begin the tune of your first note, as the rest may be sung in the compass of your and the peoples voices without Squeaking above or Grumbling below.”

This “Squeaking above and Grumbling below” had become far too frequent in the churches; Judge Sewall writes often with much self-reproach of his failure in “setting the tune,” and also records with pride when he “set the psalm well.” Here is his pathetic record of one of his mistakes: “He spake to me to set the tune. I intended Windsor and fell into High Dutch, and then essaying to set another tune went into a Key much to high. So I pray’d to Mr. White to set it which he did well. Litchfield Tune. The Lord Humble me and Instruct me that I should be the occasion of any interruption in the worship of God.”

The singing at the time must have been bad beyond belief; how much of its atrocity was attributable to the use of “The Bay Psalm-Book,” cannot now be known. The great length of many of the psalms in that book was a fatal barrier to any successful effort to have good singing. Some of them were one hundred and thirty lines long, and occupied, when lined and sung, a full half-hour, during which the patient congregation stood. It is told of Dr. West, who preached in Dartmouth in 1726, that he forgot one Sabbath Day to bring his sermon to meeting. He gave out a psalm, walked a quarter of a mile to his house, got his sermon, and was back in his pulpit long before the psalm was finished. The irregularity of the rhythm in “The Bay Psalm Book” must also have been a serious difficulty to overcome. Here is the rendering given of the 133d Psalm:–

1. How good and sweet to see
i’ts for bretheren to dwell
together in unitee:

2. Its like choice oyle that fell
the head upon
that down did flow
the beard unto
beard of Aron:
The skirts of his garment
that unto them went down:

3. Like Hermons dews descent
Sions mountains upon
for there to bee
the Lords blessing
life aye lasting
commandeth hee.

How this contorted song could have been sung even to the simplest tune by unskilled singers who possessed no guiding notes of music is difficult to comprehend. Small wonder that Judge Sewall was forced to enter in his diary, “In the morning I set York tune and in the second going over, the gallery carried it irresistibly to St. Davids which discouraged me very much.” We can fancy him stamping his foot, beating time, and roaring York at the top of his old lungs, and being overcome by the strong-voiced gallery, and at last sadly succumbing to St. David’s. Again he writes: “I set York tune and the Congregation went out of it into St. Davids in the very 2nd going over. They did the same 3 weeks before. This is the 2nd Sign. It seems to me an intimation for me to resign the Praecentor’s Place to a better Voice. I have through the Divine Long suffering and Favour done it for 24 years and now God in his Providence seems to call me off, my voice being enfeebled.” Still a third time he “set Windsor tune;” they “ran over into Oxford do what I would.” These unseemly “running overs” became so common that ere long each singer “set the tune” at his own will and the loudest-voiced carried the day. A writer of the time, Rev. Thomas Walter, says of this reign of _concordia discors_: “The tunes are now miserably tortured and twisted and quavered, in some Churches, into a horrid Medly of confused and disorderly Voices. Our tunes are left to the Mercy of every unskilful Throat to chop and alter, to twist and change, according to their infinitely divers and no less Odd Humours and Fancies. I have myself paused twice in one note to take breath. No two Men in the Congregation quaver alike or together, it sounds in the Ears of a Good Judge like five hundred different Tunes roared out at the same Time, with perpetual Interfearings with one another.”

Still, confused and poor as was the singing, it was a source of pure and unceasing delight to the Puritan colonists,–one of the rare pleasures they possessed,–a foretaste of heaven;

“for all we know
Of what the blessed do above
Is that they sing and that they love.”

And to even that remnant of music–their few jumbled cacophonous melodies–they clung with a devotion almost phenomenal.

Nor should we underrate the cohesive power that psalm-singing proved in the early communities; it was one of the most potent influences in gathering and holding the colonists together in love. And they reverenced their poor halting tunes in a way quite beyond our modern power of fathoming. Whenever a Puritan, even in road or field, heard at a distance the sound of a psalm-tune, though the sacred words might be quite undistinguishable, he doffed his hat and bowed his head in the true presence of God. We fain must believe, as Arthur Hugh Clough says,–

“There is some great truth, partial, very likely, but needful, Lodged, I am strangely sure, in the tones of an English psalm-tune.”

Judge Sewall often writes with tender and simple pathos of his being moved to tears by the singing,–sometimes by the music, sometimes by the words. “The song of the 5th Revelation was sung. I was ready to burst into tears at the words, _bought with thy blood_.” He also, with a vehemence of language most unusual in him and which showed his deep feeling, wrote that he had an intense passion for music. And yet, the only tunes he or any of his fellow-colonists knew were the simple ones called Oxford, Litchfield, Low Dutch, York, Windsor, Cambridge, St. David’s and Martyrs.

About the year 1714 Rev. John Tufts, of Newbury, who had previously prepared “A very Plain and Easy Introduction to the Art of Singing Psalm-tunes,” issued a collection of tunes in three parts. These thirty-seven tunes, all of which but one were in common metre, were bound often with “The Bay Psalm-Book.” They were reprinted from Playford’s “Book of Psalms” and the notes of the staff were replaced with letters and dots, and the bars marking the measures were omitted. To the Puritans, this great number of new tunes appeared fairly monstrous, and formed the signal for bitter objections and fierce quarrels.

In 1647 a tract had appeared on church-singing which had attracted much attention. It was written by Rev John Cotton to attempt to influence the adoption and universal use of “The Bay Psalm-Book.” This tract thoroughly considered the duty of singing, the matter sung, the singers, and the manner of singing, and, like all the literature of the time, was full of Biblical allusion and quotation. It had been said that “man should sing onely and not the women. Because it is not permitted to a woman to speake in the Church, how then shall they sing? Much lesse is it permitted to them to prophecy in the church and singing of Psalms is a kind of Prophecying.” Cotton fully answered and contradicted these false reasoners, who would have had to face a revolution had they attempted to keep the Puritan women from singing in meeting. The tract abounds in quaint expressions, such as, “they have scoffed at Puritan Ministers as calling the people to sing one of _Hopkins-Jiggs_ and so _hop_ into the pulpit.” Though he wrote this tract to encourage good singing in meeting, his endorsement of “lining the Psalm” gave support to the very element that soon ruined the singing. His reasons, however, were temporarily good, “because many wanted books and skill to read.” At that time, and for a century later, many congregations had but one or two psalm-books, one of which was often bound with the church Bible and from which the deacon lined the psalm.

So villanous had church-singing at last become that the clergymen arose in a body and demanded better performances; while a desperate and disgusted party was also formed which was opposed to all singing. Still another band of old fogies was strong in force who wished to cling to the same way of singing that they were accustomed to; and they gave many objections to the new-fangled idea of singing by note, the chief item on the list being the everlasting objection of all such old fossils, that “the old way was good enough for our fathers,” &c. They also asserted that “_the names of the notes were blasphemous_;” that it was “popish;” that it was a contrivance to get money; that it would bring musical instruments into the churches; and that “no one could learn the tunes any way.” A writer in the “New England Chronicle” wrote in 1723, “Truly I have a great jealousy that if we begin to _sing_ by _rule_, the next thing will be to _pray_ by rule and _preach_ by rule and _then comes popery_.”

It is impossible to overestimate the excitement, the animosity, and the contention which arose in the New England colonies from these discussions over “singing by rule” or “singing by rote.” Many prominent clergymen wrote essays and tracts upon the subject; of these essays “The Reasonableness of Regular Singing,” also a “Joco-serious Dialogue on Singing,” by Reverend Mr. Symmes; “Cases of Conscience,” compiled by several ministers; “The Accomplished Singer,” by Cotton Mather, were the most important. “Singing Lectures” also were given in many parts of New England by various prominent ministers. So high was party feud that a “Pacificatory Letter” was necessary, which was probably written by Cotton Mather, and which soothed the troubled waters. The people who thought the “old way was the best” were entirely satisfied when they were convinced that the oldest way of all was, of course, by note and not by rote.

This naive extract from the records of the First Church of Windsor, Connecticut, will show the way in which the question of “singing by rule” was often settled in the churches, and it also gives a very amusing glimpse of the colonial manner of conducting a meeting:–

“July 2. 1736. At a Society meeting at which Capt. Pelatiah Allyn Moderator. The business of the meeting proceeded in the following manner Viz. the Moderator proposed as to the consideration of the meeting in the 1st Place what should be done respecting that part of publick Woiship called Singing viz. whether in their Publick meetings as on Sabbath day, Lectures &c they would sing the way that Deacon Marshall usually sung in his lifetime commonly called the ‘Old Way’ or whether they would sing the way taught by Mr. Beal commonly called ‘Singing by Rule,’ and when the Society had discoursed the matter the Moderator pioposed to vote for said two ways as followeth viz. that those that were for singing in publick in the way practiced by Deacon Marshall should hold up their hands and be counted, and then that those that were desirous to sing in Mr. Beals way called ‘by Rule’ would after show their minds by the same sign which method was proceeded upon accordingly. But when the vote was passed there being many voters it was difficult to take the exact number of votes in order to determine on which side the major vote was; whereupon the Moderator ordered all the voters to go out of the seats and stand in the alleys and then those that were for Deacon Marshalls way should go into the mens seats and those that were for Mr. Beals way should go into the womens seat and after much objections made against that way, which prevailed not with the Moderator, it was complied with, and then the Moderator desired that those that were of the mind that the way to be practiced for singing for the future on the Sabbath &c should be the way sung by Deacon Marshall as aforesaid would signify the same by holding up their hands and be counted, and then the Moderator and myself went and counted the voters and the Moderator asked me how many there was. I answered 42 and he said there was 63 or 64 and then we both counted again and agreed the number being 43. Then the Moderator was about to count the number of votes for Mr. Beals way of Singing called ‘by Rule’ but it was offered whether it would not be better to order the voters to pass out of the Meeting House door and there be counted who did accordingly and their number was 44 or 45. Then the Moderator proceeded and desired that those who were for singing in Public the way that Mr. Beal taught would draw out of their seats and pass out of the door and be counted. They replied they were ready to show their minds in any proper way where they were if they might be directed thereto but would not go out of the door to do the same and desired that they might be led to a vote where they were and they were ready to show their minds which the Moderator refused to do and thereupon declared that it was voted that Deacon Marshalls way of singing called the ‘Old Way’ should be sung in Publick for the future and ordered me to record the same as the vote of the Said Society which I refused to do under the circumstances thereof and have recorded the facts and proceedings.”

Good old lining, droning Deacon Marshall! though you were dead and gone, you and your years of psalm-singings were not forgotten. You lived, an idealized memory of pure and pious harmony, in the hearts of your old church friends. Warmly did they fight for your “way of singing;” with most undeniable and open partiality, with most dubious ingenuousness and rectitude, did your old neighbor, Captain Pelatiah Allyn, conduct that hot July music-meeting, counting up boldly sixty-three votes in favor of your way, when there were only forty-three voters on your side of the alley, and crowding a final decision in your favor. It is sad to read that when icy winter chilled the blood, warm partisanship of old friends also cooled, and innovative Windsor youth carried the day and the music vote, and your good old way was abandoned for half the Sunday services, to allow the upstart new fashion to take control.

One happy result arose throughout New England from the victory of the ardent advocates of the “singing by rule,”–the establishment of the New England “singing-school,”–that outlet for the pent-up, amusement-lacking lives of young people in colonial times. What that innocent and happy gathering was in the monotonous existence of our ancestors and ancestresses, we of the present pleasure-filled days can hardly comprehend.

Extracts from the records of various colonial churches will show how soon the respective communities yielded to the march of improvement and “seated the taught singers” together, thus forming choirs. In 1762 the church at Rowley, Massachusetts, voted “that those who have learned the art of Singing may have liberty to sit in the front gallery.” In 1780 the same parish “requested Jonathan Chaplin and Lieutenant Spefford to assist the deacons in Raising the tune in the meeting house.” In Sutton, in 1791, the Company of Singers were allowed to sit together, and $13 was voted to pay for “larning to sing by Rule.” The Roxbury “First Church” voted in 1770 “three seats in the back gallery for those inclined to sit together for the purpose of singing” The church in Hanover, in 1742, took a vote to see whether the “church will sing in the new way” and appoint a tuner. In Woodbury, Connecticut, in 1750 the singers “may sitt up Galery all day if they please but to keep to there own seat & not to Infringe on the Women Pues.” In 1763, in the Ipswich First Parish, the singers were allowed to sit “two back on each side of the front alley.” Similar entries may be found in nearly every record of New England churches in the middle or latter part of that century.

The musical battle was not finished, however, when the singing was at last taught by rule, and the singers were allowed to sit together and form a choir. There still existed the odious custom of “lining” or “deaconing” the psalm. To this fashion may be attributed the depraved condition of church-singing of which Walters so forcibly wrote, and while it continued the case seemed hopeless, in spite of singing-schools and singing-teachers. It would be trying to the continued uniformity of pitch of an ordinary church choir, even now-a-days, to have to stop for several seconds between each line to listen to a reading and sometimes to an explanation of the following line.

The Westminster Assembly had suggested in 1664 the alternate reading and singing of each line of the psalm to those churches that were not well supplied with psalm-books. The suggestion had not been adopted without discussion, It was in 1680 much talked over in the church in Plymouth, and was adopted only after getting the opinion of each male church member. When once taken into general use the custom continued everywhere, through carelessness and obstinacy, long after the churches possessed plenty of psalm-books. An early complaint against it was made by Dr. Watts in the preface of his hymns, which were published by Benjamin Franklin in 1741. As Watts’ Psalms and Hymns were not, however, in general use in New England until after the Revolution, this preface with its complaint was for a long time little seen and little heeded.

It is said that the abolition came gradually; that the impetuous and well-trained singers at first cut off the last word only of the deacon’s “lining;” they then encroached a word or two further, and finally sung boldly on without stopping at all to be “deaconed.” This brought down a tempest of indignation from the older church-members, who protested, however, in vain. A vote in the church usually found the singers victorious, and whether the church voted for or against the “lining,” the choir would always by stratagem vanquish the deacon. One old soldier took his revenge, however. Being sung down by the rampant choir, he still showed battle, and rose at the conclusion of the psalm and opened his psalm-book, saying calmly, “_Now_ let the _people of the Lord sing_.”

The Rowley church tried diplomacy in their struggle against “deaconing,” by instituting a gradual abolishing of the custom. In 1785 the choir was allowed “to sing once on the Lord’s Day without reading by the Deacon.” In five years the Rowley singers were wholly victorious, and “lining out” the psalm was entirely discontinued.

In 1770, dissatisfaction at the singing in the church was rife in Wilbraham, and a vote was taken to see whether the town would be willing to have singing four times at each service; and it was voted to “take into consideration the Broken State of this Town with regard to singing on the Sabbath Day.” Special and bitter objection was made against the leader beating time so ostentatiously. A list of singers was made and a singing-master appointed. The deacon was allowed to lead and line and beat time in the forenoon, while the new school was to have control in the afternoon; and “whoever leads the singing shall be at liberty to use the motion of his hand while singing for the space of three months only.” It is needless to state who came off victorious in the end. The deacon left as a parting shot a request to “make Inquiry into the conduct of those who call themselves the Singers in this town.”

In Worcester, in 1779, a resolution adopted at the town meeting was “that the mode of singing in the congregation here be without reading the psalms line by line.” “The Sabbath succeeding the adoption of this resolution, after the hymn had been read by the minister, the aged and venerable Deacon Chamberlain, unwilling to abandon the custom of his fathers and his own honorable prerogative, rose and read the first line according to his usual practice. The singers, previously prepared to carry the desired alteration into effect, proceeded in their singing without pausing at the conclusion of the line. The white-haired officer of the church with the full power of his voice read on through the second line, until the loud notes of the collected body of singers overpowered his attempt to resist the progress of improvement. The deacon, deeply mortified at the triumph of the musical reformation, then seized his hat and retired from the meeting-house in tears.” His conduct was censured by the church, and he was for a time deprived of partaking in the communion, for “absenting himself from the public services of the Sabbath;” but in a few weeks the unhouselled deacon was forgiven, and never attempted to “line” again.

Though the opponents of “lining” were victorious in the larger villages and towns, in smaller parishes, where there were few hymn-books, the lining of the psalms continued for many years. Mr. Hood wrote, in 1846, the astonishing statement that “the habit of lining prevails to this day over three-fourths of the United States.” This I can hardly believe, though I know that at present the practice obtains in out of the way towns with poor and ignorant congregations. The separation of the lines often gives a very strange meaning to the words of a psalm; and one wonders what the Puritan children thought when they heard this lino of contradictions that Hood points out:–

“The Lord will come and He will not,”

and after singing that line through heard the second line,–

“Keep silence, but speak out.”

Many new psalm-books appeared about the time of the Revolutionary War, and many church petitions have been preserved asking permission to use the new and more melodious psalm and hymn books. Books of instruction also abounded,–books in which the notes were not printed on the staff, and books in which there were staffs but no notes, only letters or other characters (these were called “dunce notes”); books, too, in which the notes were printed so thickly that they could scarcely be distinguished one from the other.

“A dotted tribe with ebon heads
That climb the slender fence along, As black as ink, as thick as weeds,
Ye little Africans of song.”

One book–perhaps the worst, since it was the most pretentious–was “The Compleat Melody or Harmony of Sion,” by William Tansur,–“Ingenious Tans’ur Skilled in Musicks Art.” It was a most superficial, pedantic, and bewildering composition. The musical instruction was given in the form of a series of ill-spelled dialogues between a teacher and pupil, interspersed with occasional miserable rhymes. It was ill-expressed at best, and such musical terms as “Rations of Concords,” “Trilloes,” “Trifdiapasons,” “Leaps,” “Binding cadences,” “Disallowances,” “Canons,” “Prime Flower of Florid,” “Consecutions of Perfects,” and “Figurates,” make the book exceedingly difficult of comprehension to the average reader, though possibly not to a student of obsolete musical phraseology.

A side skirmish on the music field was at this time fought between the treble and the tenor parts. Ravenscroft’s Psalms and Walter’s book had given the melody, or plain-song, to the tenor. This had, of course, thrown additional difficulties in the way of good singing; but when once the trebles obtained the leading part, after the customary bitter opposition, the improved singing approved the victory.

Many objections, too, were made to the introduction of “triple-time” tunes. It gave great offence to the older Puritans, who wished to drawl out all the notes of uniform length; and some persons thought that marking and accenting the measure was a step toward the “Scarlet Woman.” The time was called derisively, “a long leg and a short one.”

These old bigots must have been paralyzed at the new style of psalm-singing which was invented and introduced by a Massachusetts tanner and singing-master named Billings, and which was suggested, doubtless, by the English anthems. It spread through the choirs of colonial villages and towns like wild-fire, and was called “fuguing.” Mr. Billings’ “Fuguing Psalm Singer” was published in 1770. It is a dingy, ill-printed book with a comically illustrated frontispiece, long pages of instruction, and this motto:–

“O, praise the Lord with one consent And in this grand design
Let Britain and the Colonies
Unanimously join.”

The succeeding hymn-books, and the patriotic hymns of Billings in post-Revolutionary years have no hint of “Britain” in them. The names “Federal Harmony,” “Columbian Harmony,” “Continental Harmony,” “Columbian Repository,” and “United States Sacred Harmony” show the new nation. Billings also published the “Psalm Singer’s Amusement,” and other singing-books. The shades of Cotton, of Sewall, of Mather must have groaned aloud at the suggestions, instructions, and actions of this unregenerate, daring, and “amusing” leader of church-singing.

It seems astonishing that New England communities in those times of anxious and depressing warfare should have so delightedly seized and adopted this unusual and comparatively joyous style of singing, but perhaps the new spirit of liberty demanded more animated and spirited expression; and Billings’ psalm-tunes were played with drum and fife on the battlefield to inspire the American soldiers. Billings wrote of his fuguing invention, “It has more than twenty times the power of the old slow tunes. Now the solemn bass demands their attention, next the manly tenor, now the lofty counter, now the volatile treble. Now here! Now there! Now here again! Oh ecstatic, push on, ye sons of harmony!” Dr. Mather Byles wrote thus of fuguing:–

“Down starts the Bass with Grave Majestic Air, And up the Treble mounts with shrill Career, With softer Sounds in mild melodious Maze Warbling between, the Tenor gently plays And, if th’ inspiring Altos joins the Force See! like the Lark it Wings its towering Course Thro’ Harmony’s sublimest Sphere it flies And to Angelic Accents seems to rise.”

A more modern poet in affectionate remembrance thus sings the fugue:–

“A fugue let loose cheers up the place, With bass and tenor, alto, air,
The parts strike in with measured grace, And something sweet is everywhere.

“As if some warbling brood should build Of bits of tunes a singing nest;
Each bringing that with which it thrilled And weaving it with all the rest.”

All public worshippers in the meetings one hundred years ago did not, however, regard fuguing as “something sweet everywhere,” nor did they agree with Billings and Byles as to its angelic and ecstatic properties. Some thought it “heartless, tasteless, trivial, and irreverent jargon.” Others thought the tunes were written more for the absurd inflation of the singers than for the glory of God; and many fully sympathized with the man who hung two cats over Billings’s door to indicate his opinion of Billings’s caterwauling. An old inhabitant of Roxbury remembered that when fuguing tunes were introduced into his church “they produced a literally fuguing effect on the older people, who went out of the church as soon as the first verse was sung.” One scandalized and belligerent old clergyman, upon the Sabbath following the introduction of fuguing into his church, preached upon the prophecy of Amos, “The songs of the temple shall be turned into howling,” while another took for his text the sixth verse of the seventeenth chapter of Acts, “Those that have turned the world upside down, are come hither also.” One indignant and disgusted church attendant thus profanely recorded in church his views:–

“Written out of temper on a Pannel in one of the Pues in Salem Church:–

“Could poor King David but for once
To Salem Church repair;
And hear his Psalms thus warbled out, Good Lord, how he would swear

“But could St Paul but just pop in,
From higher scenes abstracted,
And hear his Gospel now explained, By Heavens, he’d run distracted.”

These lines were reprinted in the “American Apollo” in 1792.

The repetition of a word or syllable in fuguing often lead to some ridiculous variations in the meanings of the lines. Thus the words–

“With reverence let the saints appear And bow before the Lord,”

were forced to be sung, “And bow-wow-wow, And bow-ow-ow,” and so on until bass, treble, alto, counter, and tenor had bow-wowed for about twenty seconds; yet I doubt if the simple hearts that sung ever saw the absurdity.

It is impossible while speaking of fuguing to pass over an extraordinary element of the choir called “singing counter.” The counter-tenor parts in European church-music were originally written for boys’ voices. From thence followed the falsetto singing of the part by men; such was also the “counter” of New England. It was my fortune to hear once in a country church an aged deacon “sing counter”. Reverence for the place and song, and respect for the singer alike failed to control the irrepressible start of amazement and smile of amusement with which we greeted the weird and apparently demented shriek which rose high over the voices of the choir, but which did not at all disconcert their accustomed ears. Words, however chosen, would fail in attempting to describe the grotesque and uncanny sound.

It is very evident, when once choirs of singers were established and attempts made for congregations to sing the same tune, and to keep together, and upon the same key, that in some way a decided pitch must be given to them to start upon. To this end pitch-pipes were brought into the singers’ gallery, and the pitch was given sneakingly and shamefacedly to the singers. From these pitch-pipes the steps were gradual, but they led, as the Puritan divines foresaw, to the general introduction of musical instruments into the meetings.

This seemed to be attacking the very foundations of their church; for the Puritans in England had, in 1557, expressly declared “concerning singing of psalms we allow of the people joining with one voice in a plain tune, but not in tossing the psalms from one side to the other with mingling of organs.” The Round-heads had, in 1664, gone through England destroying the noble organs in the churches and cathedrals. They tore the pipes from the organ in Westminster Abbey, shouting, “Hark! how the organs go!” and, “Mark what musick that is, that is lawful for a Puritan to dance,” and they sold the metal for pots of ale. Only four or five organs were left uninjured in all England. ‘Twas not likely, then, that New England Puritans would take kindly to any musical instruments. Cotton Mather declared that there was not a word in the New Testament that authorized the use of such aids to devotion. The ministers preached often and long on the text from the prophecy of Amos, “I will not hear the melody of thy viols;” while, Puritan-fashion, they ignored the other half of the verse, “Take thou away from me the noise of thy songs.” Disparaging comparisons were made with Nebuchadnezzar’s idolatrous concert of cornet, flute, dulcimer, sackbut, and psaltery; and the ministers, from their overwhelming store of Biblical knowledge, hurled text after text at the “fiddle-players.”

Some of the first pitch-pipes were comical little apple-wood instruments that looked like mouse-traps, and great pains was taken to conceal them as they were passed surreptitiously from hand to hand in the choir. I have seen one which was carefully concealed in a box that had a leather binding like a book, and which was ostentatiously labelled in large gilt letters “Holy Bible;” a piece of barefaced and unnecessary deception on the part of some pious New England deacon or chorister.

Little wooden fifes were also used, and then metal tuning-forks. A canny Scotchman, who abhorred the thought of all musical instruments anywhere, managed to have one fling at the pitch-pipe. The pitch had been given but was much too high, and before the first verse was ended the choir had to cease singing. The Scotchman stood up and pointed his long finger to the leader, saying in broad accents of scorn, “Ah, Johnny Smuth, now ye can have a chance to blaw yer braw whustle agaen.” At a similar catastrophe owing to the mistake of the leader in Medford, old General Brooks rose in his pew and roared in an irritated voice of command, “Halt! Take another pitch, Bailey, take another pitch.”

In 1713 there was sent to America an English organ, “a pair of organs” it was called, which had chanced, by being at the manufacturers instead of in a church, to have escaped the general destruction by the Round-heads. It was given by Thomas Brattle to the Brattle Street Church in Boston. The congregation voted to refuse the gift, and it was then sent to King’s Chapel, where it remained unpacked for several months for fear of hostile demonstrations, but was finally set up and used. In 1740 a Bostonian named Bromfield made an organ, and it was placed in a meeting-house and used weekly. In 1794 the church in Newbury obtained an organ, and many unpleasant and disparaging references were made by clergymen of other parishes to “our neighbor’s box of whistles,” “the tooting tub.”

Violoncellos, or bass-viols, as they were universally called, were almost the first musical instruments that were allowed in the New England churches. They were called, without intentional irreverence, “Lord’s fiddles.” Violins were widely opposed, they savored too much of low, tavern dance-music. After much consultation a satisfactory compromise was agreed upon by which violins were allowed in many meetings, if the performers “would play the fiddle wrong end up.” Thus did our sanctimonious grandfathers cajole and persuade themselves that an inverted fiddle was not a fiddle at all, but a small bass-viol. An old lady, eighty years old, wrote thus in the middle of this century, of the church of her youth: “After awhile there was a bass-viol Introduced and brought into meeting and did not suit the Old people; one Old Gentleman got up, took his hat off the peg and marched off. Said they had begun fiddling and there would be dancing soon.” Another church-member, in derisive opposition to a clarinet which had been “voted into the choir,” brought into meeting a fish-horn, which he blew loud and long to the complete rout of the clarinet-player and the singers. When reproved for this astounding behavior he answered stoutly that “if one man could blow a horn in the Lord’s House on the Sabbath day he guessed he could too,” and he had to be bound over to keep the peace before the following Sunday. A venerable and hitherto decorous old deacon of Roxbury not only left the church when the hated bass-viol began its accompanying notes, but he stood for a long time outside the church door stridently “caterwauling” at the top of his lungs. When expostulated with for this unseemly and unchristianlike annoyance he explained that he was “only mocking the banjo.” To such depths of rebellion were stirred the Puritan instincts of these religious souls.

Many a minister said openly that he would like to walk out of his pulpit when the obnoxious and hated flutes, violins, bass-viols, and bassoons were played upon in the singing gallery. One clergyman contemptuously announced “We will now sing and fiddle the forty-fifth Psalm.” Another complained of the indecorous dress of the fiddle-player. This had reference to the almost universal custom, in country churches in the summer time, of the bass-viol player removing his coat and playing “in his shirt sleeves.” Others hated the noisy tuning of the bass-viol while the psalm was being read. Mr. Brown, of Westerly, sadly deplored that “now we have only catgut and resin religion.”

In 1804 the church in Quincy, being “advanced,” granted the singers the sum of twenty-five dollars to buy a bass-viol to use in meeting, and a few other churches followed their lead. From the year 1794 till 1829 the church in Wareham, Massachusetts, was deeply agitated over the question of “Bass-Viol, or No Bass-Viol.” They voted that a bass-viol was “expedient,” then they voted to expel the hated abomination; then was obtained “Leave for the Bass Viol to be brought into ye meeting house to be Played On every other Sabbath & to Play if chosen every Sabbath in the Intermission between meetings & not to Pitch the Tunes on the Sabbaths that it don’t Play” Then, they tried to bribe the choir for fifty dollars not to use the “bars-vile,” but being unsuccessful, many members in open rebellion stayed away from church and were disciplined therefor. Then they voted that the bass-viol could not be used unless Capt. Gibbs were previously notified (so he and his family need not come to hear the hated sounds); but at last, after thirty years, the choir and the “fiddle-player” were triumphant in Wareham as they were in other towns.

We were well into the present century before any cheerful and also simple music was heard in our churches; fuguing was more varied and surprising than cheerful. Of course, it was difficult as well as inappropriate to suggest pleasing tunes for such words as these:–

“Far in the deep where darkness dwells, The land of horror and despair,
Justice hath built a dismal hell,
And laid her stores of vengeance there:

“Eternal plagues and heavy chains,
Tormenting racks and fiery coals, And darts to inflict immortal pains,
Dyed in the blood of damned souls.”

But many of the words of the old hymns were smooth, lively, and encouraging; and the young singers and perhaps the singing-masters craved new and less sober tunes. Old dance tunes were at first adapted; “Sweet Anne Page,” “Babbling Echo,” “Little Pickle” were set to sacred words. The music of “Few Happy Matches” was sung to the hymn “Lo, on a narrow neck of land;” and that of “When I was brisk and young” was disguised with the sacred words of “Let sinners take their course.” The jolly old tune, “Begone dull care,” which began,–

“My wife shall dance, and I will sing, And merrily pass the day.”

was strangely appropriated to the solemn words,–

“If this be death, I soon shall be
From every pain and sorrow free,”

and did not seem ill-fitted either.

“Sacred arrangements,” “spiritual songs,” “sacred airs,” soon followed, and of course demanded singers of capacity and education to sing them. From this was but a step to a paid quartette, and the struggle over this last means of improvement and pleasure in church music is of too recent a date to be more than referred to.

I attended a church service not many years ago in Worcester, where an old clergyman, the venerable “Father” Allen, of Shrewsbury, then too aged and feeble to preach, was seated in the front pew of the church. When a quartette of singers began to render a rather operatic arrangement of a sacred song he rose, erect and stately, to his full gaunt height, turned slowly around and glanced reproachfully over the frivolous, backsliding congregation, wrapped around his spare, lean figure his full cloak of quilted black silk, took his shovel hat and his cane, and stalked indignantly and sadly the whole length of the broad central aisle, out of the church, thus making a last but futile protest against modern innovations in church music. Many, in whom the Puritan instincts and blood are still strong, sympathize internally with him in this feeling; and all novelty-lovers must acknowledge that the sublime simplicity and deep piety in which the old Puritan psalm-tunes abound, has seldom been attained in the modern church-songs. Even persons of neither musical knowledge, taste, nor love, feel the power of such a tune as Old Hundred; and more modern and more difficult melodies, though they charm with their harmony and novelty, can never equal it in impressiveness nor in true religious influence.

XVI.

The Interruptions of the Services.

Though the Puritans were such a decorous, orderly people, their religious meetings were not always quiet and uninterrupted. We know the torment they endured from the “wretched boys,” and they were harassed by other annoying interruptions. For the preservation of peace and order they made characteristic laws, with characteristic punishments. “If any interrupt or oppose a preacher in season of worship, they shall be reproved by the Magistrate, and on repetition, shall pay L5, or stand two hours on a block four feet high, with this inscription in Capitalls, ‘A WANTON GOSPELLER.'” As with other of their severe laws the rigid punishment provoked the crime, for Wanton Gospellers abounded. The Baptists did not hesitate to state their characteristic belief in the Puritan meetings, and the Quakers or “Foxians,” as they were often called, interrupted and plagued them sorely. Judge Sewall wrote, in 1677, “A female quaker, Margaret Brewster, in sermon-time came in, in a canvass frock, her hair dishevelled loose like a Periwig, her face as black as ink, led by two other quakers, and two other quakers followed. It occasioned the greatest and most amazing uproar that I ever saw.” More grievous irruptions still of scantily clad and even naked Quaker women were made into other Puritan meetings; and Quaker men shouted gloomily in through the church windows, “Woe! Woe! Woe to the people!” and, “The Lord will destroy thee!” and they broke glass bottles before the minister’s very face, crying out, “Thus the Lord will break thee in pieces!” and they came into the meeting-house, in spite of the fierce tithingman, and sat down in other people’s seats with their hats on their heads, in ash-covered coats, rocking to and fro and groaning dismally, as if in a mournful obsession. Quaker women managed to obtain admission to the churches, and they jumped up in the quiet Puritan assemblies screaming out, “Parson! thou art an old fool,” and, “Parson! thy sermon is too long,” and, “Parson! sit down! thee has already said more than thee knows how to say well,” and other unpleasant, though perhaps truthful personalities. It is hard to believe that the poor, excited, screaming visionaries of those early days belonged to the same religious sect as do the serene, low-voiced, sweet-faced, and retiring Quakeresses of to-day. And there is no doubt that the astounding and meaningless freaks of these half-crazed fanatics were provoked by the cruel persecutions which they endured from our much loved and revered, but alas, intolerant and far from perfect Puritan Fathers. These poor Quakers were arrested, fined, robbed, stripped naked, imprisoned, laid neck and heels, chained to logs of wood, branded, maimed, whipped, pilloried, caged, set in the stocks, exiled, sold into slavery and hanged by our stern and cruel ancestors. Perhaps some gentle-hearted but timid Puritan souls may have inwardly felt that the Indian wars, and the destructive fires, and the earthquakes, and the dead cattle, blasted wheat, and wormy peas, were not judgments of God for small ministerial pay and periwig-wearing, but punishments for the heartrending woes of the persecuted Quakers.

Others than the poor Quakers spoke out in colonial meetings. In Salem village and in other witch-hunting towns the crafty “victims” of the witches were frequently visited with their mock pains and sham fits in the meeting-houses, and they called out and interrupted the ministers most vexingly. Ann Putnam, the best and boldest actress among those cunning young Puritan witch-accusers, the protagonist of that New England tragedy known as the Salem Witchcraft, shouted out most embarrassingly, “There is a yellow-bird sitting on the minister’s hat, as it hangs on the pin in the pulpit.” Mr. Lawson, the minister, wrote with much simplicity that “these things occurring in the time of public worship did something interrupt me in my first prayer, being so unusual.” But he braced himself up in spite of Ann and the demoniacal yellow-bird, and finished the service. These disorderly interruptions occurred on every Lord’s Day, growing weekly more constant and more universal, and must have been unbearable. Some few disgusted members withdrew from the church, giving as reason that “the distracting and disturbing tumults and noises made by persons under diabolical power and delusions, preventing sometimes our hearing and understanding and profiting of the word preached; we having after many trials and experiences found no redress in this case, accounted ourselves under a necessity to go where we might hear the word in quiet.” These withdrawing church-members were all of families that contained at least one person that had been accused of practising witchcraft. They were thus severely intolerant of the sacrilegious and lawless interruptions of the shy young “victims,” who received in general only sympathy, pity, and even stimulating encouragement from their deluded and excited neighbors.

One very pleasing interruption,–no, I cannot call it by so severe a name,–one very pleasing diversion of the attention of the congregation from the parson was caused by an innocent custom that prevailed in many a country community. Just fancy the flurry on a June Sabbath in Killingly, in 1785, when Joseph Gay, clad in velvet coat, lace-frilled shirt, and white broadcloth knee-breeches, with his fair bride of a few days, gorgeous in a peach-colored silk gown and a bonnet trimmed “with sixteen yards of white ribbon,” rose, in the middle of the sermon, from their front seat in the gallery and stood for several minutes, slowly turning around in order to show from every point of view their bridal finery to the eagerly gazing congregation of friends and neighbors. Such was the really delightful and thoughtful custom, in those fashion-plateless days, among persons of wealth in that and other churches; it was, in fact, part of the wedding celebration. Even in midwinter, in the icy church, the blushing bride would throw aside her broadcloth cape or camblet roquelo and stand up clad in a sprigged India muslin gown with only a thin lace tucker over her neck, warm with pride in her pretty gown, her white bonnet with ostrich feathers and embroidered veil, and in her new husband.

The services in the meeting-house on the Sabbath and on Lecture days were sometimes painfully varied, though scarcely interrupted, by a very distressing and harrowing custom of public abasement and self-abnegation, which prevailed for many years in the nervously religious colonies. It was not an enforced punishment, but a voluntary one. Men and women who had committed crimes or misdemeanors, and who had sincerely repented of their sins, or who were filled with remorse for some violation of conscience, or even with regret for some neglect of religious ethics, rose in the Sabbath meeting before the assembled congregation and confessed their sins, and humbly asked forgiveness of God, and charity from their fellows. At other times they stood with downcast heads while the minister read their confession of guilt and plea for forgiveness. A most graphic account of one of those painful scenes is thus given by Governor Winthrop in his “History of New England:”–

“Captain Underhill being brought by the blessing of God in this church’s censure of excommunication, to remorse for his foul sins, obtained, by means of the elders, and others of the church of Boston, a safe conduct under the hand of the governor and one of the council to repair to the church. He came at the time of the court of assistants, and upon the lecture day, after sermon, the pastor called him forth and declared the occasion, and then gave him leave to speak: and in it was a spectacle winch caused many weeping eyes, though it afforded matter of much rejoicing to behold the power of the Lord Jesus in his ordinances, when they are dispensed in his own way, holding forth the authority of his regal sceptre in the simplicity of the gospel came in his worst clothes (being accustomed to take great pride in his bravery and neatness) without a band, in a foul linen cap pulled close to his eyes; and standing upon a form, he did, with many deep sighs and abundance of tears, lay open his wicked course, his adultery, his hypocrisy, his persecution of God’s people here, and especially his pride (as the root of all which caused God to give him over to his other sinful courses) and contempt of the magistrates…. He spake well save that his blubbering &c interrupted him, and all along he discovered a broken and melting heart and gave good exhortations to take heed of such vanities and beginnings of evil as had occasioned his fall; and in the end he earnestly and humbly besought the church to have compassion of him and to deliver him out of the hands of Satan.”

What a picture! what a story! “Of all tales ’tis the saddest–and more sad because it makes us smile.”

Captain John Underhill was a brave though somewhat bumptious soldier, who had fought under the Prince of Orange in the War of the Netherlands, and had been employed as temporal drill-master in the church-militant in New England. He did good service for the colonists in the war with the Pequot Indians, and indeed wherever there was any fighting to be done. “He thrust about and justled into fame” He also managed to have apparently a very good time in the new land, both in sinning and repenting. When he stood up on the church-seat before the horrified, yet wide-open eyes of pious Boston folk, in his studiously and theatrically disarranged garments, and blubbered out his whining yet vain-glorious repentance, he doubtless acted his part well, for he had twice before been through the same performance, supplementing his second rehearsal by kneeling down before an injured husband in the congregation, and asking earthly forgiveness. I wish I could believe that this final repentance of the resilient captain were sincere–but I cannot. Nor did Boston people believe it either, though that noble and generous-minded man, Winthrop, thought he saw at the time of confession evidences of a truly contrite heart. The Puritans sternly and eagerly cast out the gay captain to the Dutch when he became an Antinomian, and he came to live and fight and gallant in a town on the western end of Long Island, where he perhaps found a church-home with members less severe and less sharp-eyed than those of his Boston place of martyrdom, and a people less inclined to resent and punish his frailties and his ways of amusing himself.

In justice to Underhill (or perhaps to show his double-dealing) I will say that he left behind him a letter to Hanserd Knollys, complaining of the ill-treatment he had received; and in it he gives a very different account of this little affair with the Boston Church from that given us by Governor Winthrop. The offender says nothing about his hypocrisy, his public and self-abasing confession, nor of his sanctimonious blubbering and wishes for death. He explains that his offence was mild and purely mental, that in an infaust moment he glanced (doubtless stared soldier-fashion) at “Mistris Miriam Wildbore” as she sat in her “pue” at meeting. The elders, noting his admiring and amorous glances, thereupon accused him of sin in his heart, and severely asked him why he did not look instead at Mistress Newell or Mistress Upham. He replied very spiritedly and pertinently that these dames were “not desiryable women as to temporal graces,” which was certainly sufficient and proper reason for any man to give, were he Puritan or Cavalier. Then acerb old John Cotton and some other Boston ascetics (perhaps Goodman Newell and Goodman Upham, resenting for their wives the _spretae injuria formae_) at once hunted up some plainly applicable verses from the Bible that clearly proved him guilty of the alleged sin–and summarily excommunicated him. He also wrote that the pious church complained that the attractive, the temporally graced Mistress Wildbore came vainly and over-bravely clad to meeting, with “wanton open-worked gloves slitt at the thumbs and fingers for the purpose of taking snuff,” and he resented this complaint against the fair one, saying no harm could surely come from indulging in the “good creature called tobacco.” He would naturally feel that snuff-taking was a proper and suitable church-custom, since his own conversion,–dubious though it was,–his religious belief had come to him, “the spirit fell home upon his heart” while he was indulging in a quiet smoke.

The story of his offences as told b his contemporaries does not assign to him so innocuous a diversion as staring across the meeting-house, but the account is quite as amusing as his own plaintive and deeply injured version of his arraignment.

Other letters of his have been preserved to us,–letters blustering as was Ancient Pistol, and equally sanctimonious, letters fearfully and phonetically spelt. Here is the opening of a letter written while he was under sentence of excommunication from the Boston Church, and of banishment. It is to Governor Winthrop, his friend and fellow-emigrant:–

“Honnored in the Lord,–

“Your silenc one more admirse me. I Youse chrischan playnnes. I know you love it…. Silene can not reduce the hart of youer lovd brother: I would the rightchous would smite me espechah youerslfe & the honnered Depoti to whom I also dereckt this letter…. I would to God you would tender me soule so as to youse playnnes with me. I wrot to you both but now answer: & here I am dayli abused by malishous tongue. John Baker I here hath wrot to the honnored depoti how as I was drouck & like to be cild & both falc, upon okachon I delt with Wannerton for intrushon & finddmg them resolutli bent to rout all gud a mong us & advanc there superstischous ways & by boystrous words indeferd to fritten men to accomplish his end. & he abusing me to my face, dru upon him with intent to corb his insolent & dastardli sperrite…. Ister daye on Pickeren their Chorch Warden caim up to us with intent to make some of ourse drone as is sospeckted but the Lord sofered him so to misdemen himslfe as he is likli to li by the hielse this too month…. My homble request is that you will be charitable of me…. Let justies and merci be goyned…. You may plese to soggest youer will to this barrer you will find him tracktabel.”

My sense of drollery is always most keenly tickled when I read Underhill’s epistles, with their amazing and highly-varied letter concoctions, and remember that he also–wrote a book. What that seventeenth-century printer and proof-reader endured ere they presented his “edited” volume to the public must have been beyond expression by words. It was a pretty good book though, and in it, like many another man of his ilk, he tendered to his much-injured wife loud and diffuse praise, ending with these sententious words, “Let no man despise advice and counsel of his wife–though she be a woman.”

And yet, upon careful examination we find a method, a system, in Underhill’s orthography, or rather in his cacography. He thinks a final tion should be spelt chon–and why not? “proposichon,” “satisfackchon,” “oblegachon,” “persekuchon,” “dereckchon,” “himelyachon”–thus he spells such words. And his plurals are plain when once you grasp his laws: “poseschouse” and “considderachonse,” “facktse,” and “respecktse.” And his ly is alwajs li, “exacktli,” “thorroli,” “fidelliti,” “charriti,” “falsciti.” And why is not “indiered,” as good as ‘endeared,’ “pregedic,” as ‘prejudice,’ “obstrucktter” as ‘obstructer,’ “pascheges,” and “prouydentt,” and “antyentt,” just as clear as our own way of spelling these words? A “painful” speller you surely were, my gay Don Juan Underbill, as your pedantic “writtingse” all show, and the most dramatic and comic figure among all the early Puritans as well, though you scarcely deserve to be called a Puritan; we might rather say of you, as of Malvolio, “The devil a Puritan that he was, or anything constantly but a time-pleaser … his ground of faith that all who looked on him loved him.”

In keen contrast to this sentimental excitement is the presence of noble Judge Sewall, white-haired and benignant, standing up calmly in Boston meeting, with dignified face and demeanor, but an aching and contrite heart, to ask through the voice of his minister humble forgiveness of God and man for his sad share as a judge in the unjust and awful condemnation and cruel sentencing to death of the poor murdered victims of that terrible delusion the Salem Witchcraft. Years of calm and unshrinking reflection, of pleading and constant communion with God had brought to him an overwhelming sense of his mistaken and over-influenced judgment, and a horror and remorse for the fatal results of his error. Then, like the steadfast and upright old Puritan that he was, he publicly acknowledged his terrible mistake. It is one of the finest instances of true nobility of soul and of absolute self-renunciation that the world affords. And the deep strain, the sharp wrench of the step is made more apparent still by the fact of the disapproval of his fellow-judges of his public confession and recantation. The yearly entries in his diary, simply expressed yet deeply speaking, entries of the prayerful fasts which he spent alone in his chamber when the anniversary of the fatal judgment-day returned, show that no half-vain bigotry, no emotional excitement filled and moved him to the open words of remorse. The lesson of his repentance is farther reaching than he dreamed, when the story of his confession can so move and affect this nineteenth-century generation, and fill more than one soul with a nobler idea of the Puritan nature, and with a higher and fuller conception of the absolute truth of the Puritan Christianity.

Some very prosaic and earthly interruptions to the church services are recorded as being made, and possibly by the church-members themselves. In one church, in 1661, a fine of five shillings was imposed on any one “who shot off a gun or led a horse into the meeting-house.” These seem to me quite as unseemly, irreverent, and disagreeable disturbances as shouting out, Quaker-fashion, “Parson, your sermon is too long;” but possibly the house of God was turned into a stable on week-days, not on the Sabbath.

In many parishes church-attendants were fined who brought their “doggs” into the meeting-house. Dogs swarmed in the colony, for they had been imported from England, “sufficient mastive dogs, hounds and beagles,” and also Irish wolf-hounds; and they caused an interruption in one afternoon service by chasing into the meeting-house one of those pungently offensive, though harmless, animals that abounded even in the earliest colonial days, and whose mephitic odor, in this case, had power to scatter the congregation as effectively as would have a score of armed Indian braves. Officially appointed “Dogg-whippers” and the never idle tithingman expelled the intruding and unwelcome canine attendants from the meeting-house with fierce blows and fiercer yelps. The swarming dogs, though they were trained to hunt the Indians and wolves and tear them in pieces, were much fonder of hunting and tearing the peaceful sheep, and thus became such unmitigated nuisances, out of meeting as well as in, that they had to be muzzled and hobbled, and killed, and land was granted (as in Newbury in 1703) on condition that no dog was ever kept thereon. As late as the year 1820, it was ordered in the town of Brewster that any dog that came into meeting should be killed unless the owner promised to thenceforth keep the intruder out.

Alarms of fire in the neighborhood frequently disturbed the quiet of the early colonial services; for the combustible catted chimneys were a constant source of conflagration, especially on Sundays, when the fireplaces with their roaring fires were left unwatched; and all the men rushed out of the meeting at sound of the alarm to aid in quenching the flames, which could however be ill-fought with the scanty supply of water that could be brought in a few leathern fire-buckets and milk-pails,–though at a very early date as an aid in extinguishing fires each New England family was ordered by law to own a fire-ladder. Occasionally the town’s ladder and poles and hooks and cedar-buckets were kept in the meeting-house, and thus were handy for Sunday fires.

Sometimes armed men, bearing rumors of wars and of hostile attacks, rode clattering up to the church-door, and strode with jingling spurs and rattling swords into the excited assembly with appeal for more soldiers to bear arms, or for more help for those already in the army, and the whole congregation felt it no interruption but a high religious privilege and duty, to which they responded in word and deed. On some happy Sabbaths the armed riders bore good news of great victories, and great was the rejoicing thereat in prayer and praise in the old meeting-house.

But usually through the Sabbath services, though the quiet was not that of our modern carpeted, cushioned, orderly churches, but few interrupting sounds were heard. The cry of a waking infant, the scraping of restless feet on the sanded floor, the lumbering noise of the motions of a cramped farmer as he stood up to lean over the pew-door or gallery-rail, the clatter of an overturned cricket, the twittering of swallows in the rafters, and in the summer-time the bumping and buzzing of an invading bumble-bee as he soared through the air and against the walls, were the only sounds within the meeting-house that broke the monotonous “thirteenthly” and “fourteenthly” of the minister’s sermon.

XVII.

The Observances of the Day.

The so-called “False Blue Laws” of Connecticut, which were foisted upon the public by the Reverend Samuel Peter, have caused much indignation among all thoughtful descendants and all lovers of New England Puritans. Three of his most bitterly resented false laws which refer to the observance of the Sabbath read thus:–

“No one shall travel, cook victuals, make beds, sweep house, cut hair, or shave on the Sabbath Day.

“No woman shall kiss her child on the Sabbath or fasting day.

“No one shall ride on the Sabbath Day, or walk in his garden or elsewhere except reverently to and from meeting.”

Though these laws were worded by Dr. Peters, and though we are disgusted to hear them so often quoted as historical facts, still we must acknowledge that though in detail not correct, they are in spirit true records of the old Puritan laws which were enacted to enforce the strict and decorous observance of the Sabbath, and which were valid not only in Connecticut and Massachusetts, but in other New England States. Even a careless glance at the historical record of any old town or church will give plenty of details to prove this.

Thus in New London we find in the latter part of the seventeenth century a wicked fisherman presented before the Court and fined for catching eels on Sunday; another “fined twenty shillings for sailing a boat on the Lord’s Day;” while in 1670 two lovers, John Lewis and Sarah Chapman, were accused of and tried for “sitting together on the Lord’s Day under an apple tree in Goodman Chapman’s Orchard,”–so harmless and so natural an act. In Plymouth a man was “sharply whipped” for shooting fowl on Sunday; another was fined for carrying a grist of corn home on the Lord’s Day, and the miller who allowed him to take it was also fined. Elizabeth Eddy of the same town was fined, in 1652, “ten shillings for wringing and hanging out clothes.” A Plymouth man, for attending to his tar-pits on the Sabbath, was set in the stocks. James Watt, in 1658, was publicly reproved “for writing a note about common business on the Lord’s Day, _at least in the evening somewhat too soon._” A Plymouth man who drove a yoke of oxen was “presented” before the Court, as was also another offender, who drove some cows a short distance “without need” on the Sabbath.

In Newbury, in 1646, Aquila Chase and his wife were presented and fined for gathering peas from their garden on the Sabbath, but upon investigation the fines were remitted, and the offenders were only admonished. In Wareham, in 1772, William Estes acknowledged himself “Gilty of Racking Hay on the Lord’s Day” and was fined ten shillings; and in 1774 another Wareham citizen, “for a breach of the Sabbath in puling apples,” was fined five shillings. A Dunstable soldier, for “wetting a piece of an old hat to put in his shoe” to protect his foot–for doing this piece of heavy work on the Lord’s Day, was fined, and paid forty shillings.

Captain Kemble of Boston was in 1656 set for two hours in the public stocks for his “lewd and unseemly behavior,” which, consisted in his kissing his wife “publicquely” on the Sabbath Day, upon the doorstep of his house, when he had just returned from a voyage and absence of three years. The lewd offender was a man of wealth and influence, the father of Madam Sarah Knights, the “fearfull female travailler” whose diary of a journey from Boston to New York and return, written in 1704, rivals in quality if not in quantity Judge Sewall’s much-quoted diary. A traveller named Burnaby tells of a similar offence of an English sea-captain who was soundly whipped for kissing his wife on the street of a New England town on Sunday, and of his retaliation in kind, by a clever trick upon his chastisers; but Burnaby’s narrative always seemed to me of dubious credibility.

Abundant proof can be given that the act of the legislature in 1649 was not a dead letter which ordered that “whosoever shall prophane the Lords daye by doeing any seruill worke or such like abusses shall forfeite for euery such default ten shillings or be whipt.”

The Vermont “Blue Book” contained equally sharp “Sunday laws.” Whoever was guilty of any rude, profane, or unlawful conduct on the Lord’s Day, in words or action, by clamorous discourses, shouting, hallooing, screaming, running, riding, dancing, jumping, was to be fined forty shillings and whipped upon the naked back not to exceed ten stripes. The New Haven code of laws, more severe still, ordered that “Profanation of the Lord’s Day shall be punished by fine, imprisonment, or corporeal punishment; and if proudly, and with a high hand against the authority of God–_with death_.”