Joe electrifies the company and surprises the reader.

“Suppose we have another song,” said Sergeant Goodtale.

“And spoase we has some moore o’ that there stuff,” answered Joe.

“Aye,” said Harry, “we will too. I’ll spend my shilling like a man.”

Saying which he rang the bell and ordered a glass for himself and one for Joe.

“Now, then,” said the latter, “I can’t sing, but I’ll gie thee summut as I larned.”

“Hooray!” said Harry, “summut as he larned!”

“Bravo!” said the Boardman, “summut as he larned?”

“Here’s at un,” said Joe.

And then with a mighty provincialism he repeated without a break:—

DR. BRIMSTONE’S SERMON,
as put into verse by gaffer ditcher.

I bin to Church, I ha’, my boy,
And now conwarted be;
The last time I wur ever there
War eighteen farty-three!

And ’ow I knows it is as this,
I didn’t goo to pray,
Nor ’ear the Word, but went becorse
It wur my weddin day!

Zounds! wot a blessed sarmon twur
I ’eeard the Sabbath morn;
’Ow I a woful sinner wur
Or ever I wur born.

You sees them wilful igorant pigs
In mud a wollorin;
Well, like them pigs, but ten times wus,
We wollers in our sin.

We’re coated o’er wi’ sinful mud,—
A dreadful sight we be;
And yet we doant despise ourselves—
For why?—We doant zee!

I thinks I had yer there, my boy,
For all your sniggerin’ jeers;
Thee’re in t’ mud, I tell ’ee, lad,
Rightoover ’ed an’ ears.

Zounds! what a orful thing it be
That love should blind us so!
Why, them there bloomin rosy cheeks
Be ony masks o’ woe!

The reddest on ’em thee could kiss
Aint ’ardly wuth the pains;
At best it’s but the husk o’ bliss,
It’s nuther wuts nor banes.

There aint a pleasure you can name,
From coourtin down to skittles,
But wot there’s mischief in the same,
Like pisen in your wittles.

The Reverend Brimstone says, “Beloved,
Be allays meek an umble;
A saint should never ax for moor,
An never larn to grumble.”

We ain’t to tork o’ polleticks
An’ things as don’t consarn us,
And wot we wornts to know o’ lor
The madgistret will larn us.

We ain’t to drink wi’ Methodists,
No, not a friendly soop;
We ain’t to tork o’ genteel folks
Onless to praise un oop.

We ain’t to ’ear a blessed word
Agin our betters said;
We’re got to lay the butter thick
Becorse they’re sich ’igh bred!

We got to say “Ha! look at he!
A gemman tooth and nail!”
You morn’t say, “What a harse he’d be
If he’d a got a tail!”

For why? becorse these monied gents
Ha’ got sich birth an’ breedin’;
An’ down we got to ’old our ’eads,
Like cattle, when they’re feedin’.

The parson put it kindly like—
He sed, says he, as ’ow
We’re bean’t so good as them there grubs
We turns up wi’ the plow.

There’s nowt more wretcheder an we,
Or worthier an the rich,
I praises ’em for bein’ born,
An’ ’eaven for makin’ sich.

So wile we be, I daily stares
That earthquakes doan’t fall,
An’ swaller up this unconwinced
Owdashus earthly ball!

An’ wen I thinks of all our sins—
Lay down, says I, my boys,
We’re fittin’ only for manoor,
So don’t let’s make a noise.

Let’s spred us out upon the ground
An’ make the turmuts grow,
It’s all we’re good for in this world
O’ wickedness an’ woe!

And yet we’re ’llow’d to brethe the air
The same as gents from town;
And ’llow’d to black their ’appy boots,
And rub their ’orses down!

To think o’ blessins sich as these,
Is like ongrateful lust;
It stuffs us oop wi’ worldly pride,
As if our ’arts would bust!

But no, we’re ’umble got to be,
Though privileged so ’igh:
Why doan’t we feed on grass or grains,
Or leastways ’umbly die!

We got to keep our wicked tongue
From disrespeckful speakin’,
We han’t a got to eat too much,
Nor yet goo pleasure seekin’.

Nor kitch a rabbit or a aire,
Nor call the Bobby names,
Nor stand about, but goo to church,
And play no idle games:

To love paroshial orficers,
The squire, and all that’s his,
And never goo wi’ idle chaps
As wants their wages riz.

So now conwarted I ha’ bin
From igorance and wice;
It’s only ’appiness that’s sin,
And norty things that’s nice!

Whereas I called them upstart gents
The wust o’ low bred snobs,
Wi’ contrite ’art I hollers out
“My heye, wot bloomin’ nobs!”

I sees the error o’ my ways,
So, lads, this warnin’ take,
The Poor Man’s path, the parson says,
Winds round the Burnin’ Lake.

They’ve changed it since the days o’ yore,
Them Gospel preachers, drat un;
They used to preach it to the poor,
An’ now they preach it at un.

Every one was amazed at the astonishing memory of this country lad: and the applause that greeted the reciter might well be calculated to awaken his latent vanity. It was like being called before the curtain after the first act by a young actor on his first appearance. And I believe every one understood the meaning of the verses, which seemed to imply that the hungry prodigal, famishing for food, was fed with husks instead of grain. Contentment with wretchedness is not good preaching, and this was one lesson of Dr. Brimstone’s sermon. As soon as Harry could make himself heard amidst the general hubbub, which usually follows a great performance, he said:—

“Now, look here, lads, it’s all very well to be converted with such preaching as that; but it’s my belie it’s more calculated to make hypocrites than Christians.”

“Hear! hear!” said Lazyman. “That is right.” Anything but conversion for Lazyman.

“Now,” continued Harry, “I’ve heard that kind of preaching a hundred times: it’s a regular old-fashioned country sermon; and, as for the poor being so near hell, I put it in these four lines.”

“Hear, hear!” cried the company; “order!”

And they prepared themselves for what was to come with as great eagerness as, I venture to say, would always be shown to catch the text, if it came at the end, instead of the beginning, of a sermon.

“Shut up,” says Lazyman; “let’s ’ear this ’ere. I knows it’s summut good by the look an him.”

“Don’t make a row,” retorts the Boardman; “who can hear anything while you keeps on like that?”

And there they stood, actually suspending the operation of smoking as they waited the summing up of this remarkably orthodox “preaching of the word.” The sergeant only was a spectator of the scene, and much amused did he seem at the faces that prepared for a grin or a sneer as the forthcoming utterance should demand. Then said Harry solemnly and dramatically:—

“In Want full many a vice is born,
And Virtue in a Dinner;
A well-spread board makes many a Saint,
And Hunger many a sinner.”

From the explosion which followed this antidote to Mr. Brimstone’s sermon, I should judge that the more part of the company believed that Poverty was almost as ample a virtue as Charity itself. They shook their heads in token of assent; they thumped the table in recognition of the soundness of the teaching; and several uttered an exclamation not to be committed to paper, as an earnest of their admiration for the ability of Mr. Highlow, who, instead of being a private soldier, ought, in their judgment, to be Lord Mayor of London. After this recital every one said he thought Mr. Highlow might oblige them.

“Well, I’m no singer,” said Harry.

“Try, Harry!” exclaimed Lazyman: he was a rare one to advise other people to try.

“Trying to sing when you can’t,” answered Harry, “I should think is a rum sort of business; but I’ll tell you what I’ll do if you like. When I was down at Hearne Bay I heard an old fisherman tell a story which—”

“That’s it!” thumped out Joe, “a story. I likes a good story, specially if there be a goast in it.”

“I don’t know what there is in it,” said Harry, “I’ll leave you to make that out; but I tell you what I did when I heard it, I made a ballad of it, and so if you like I’ll try and recollect it.”

“Bravo!” they said, and Harry gave them the following

SONG OF THE WAVES.

Far away on the pebbly beach
That echoes the sound of the surge;
As if they were gifted with speech,
The breakers will sing you a dirge.

The fishermen list to it oft,
And love the sweet charm of its spell,
For sometimes it wispers so soft,
It seems but the voice of the shell.

It tells of a beautiful child
That used to come down there and play,
And shout to the surges so wild
That burst on the brink of the bay.

She was but a child of the poor,
Whose father had perished at sea;
’Twas strange, that sweet psalm of the shore,
Whatever the story might be!

Yes, strange, but so true in its tone
That no one could listen and doubt;
The heart must be calm and alone
To search its deep mystery out.

She came with a smaller than she
That toddled along at her side;
Now ran to and fled from the sea,
Now paddled its feet in the tide.

Afar o’er the waters so wild,
Grazed Effie with wondering eye;
What mystery grew on the child
In all that bright circle of sky?

Her father—how sweet was the thought!
Was linked with this childish delight;
’Twas strange what a vision it brought—
As though he still lingered in sight.

Was it Heaven so near, so remote,
Across the blue line of the wave?
’Twas thither he sailed in his boat,
’Twas there he went down in his grave!

So the days and the hours flew along,
Like swallows that skim o’er the flood;
Like the sound of a beautiful song,
That echoes and dies in the wood!

One day as they strayed on the strand,
And played with the shingle and shell,
A boat that just touched on the land
Was playfully rocked by the swell.

O childhood, what joy in a ride!
What eagerness beams in their eyes!
What bliss as they climb o’er the side
And shout as they tumble and rise!

O sea, with thy pitiful dirge,
Thou need’st to be mournful and moan!
The wrath of thy terrible surge
Omnipotence curbs it alone!

The boat bore away from the shore,
The laughter of childhood so glad!
And the breakers bring back ever more
The dirge with its echo so sad!

A widow sits mute on the beach,
And ever the tides as they flow,
As if they were gifted with speech,
Repeat the sad tale of her woe!

“That’s werry good,” said the Boardman. “I’m afraid them there children was washed away—it’s a terrible dangerous coast that ere Ern Bay. I’ve ’eeard my father speak on it.”

“Them there werses is rippin’!” said Joe.

“Stunnin’!” exclaimed Bob.

And so they all agreed that it was a pretty song and “well put together.”

“Capital,” said the sergeant, “I never heard anything better, and as for Mr. Wurzel, a man with his memory ought to do something better than feed pigs.”

“Ay, aye,” said the company to a man.

“Why don’t you follow my example?” said Harry; “it’s the finest life in the world for a young fellow.”

“Well,” said the sergeant, “that all depends; its very good for some, for others not so good—although there are very few who are not pleased when they once join, especially in such a regiment as ours!”

“And would you mind telling me, sir,” asked Outofwork, “what sort of chaps it don’t suit?”

“Well, you see, chaps that have been brought up in the country and tied to their mothers’ apron strings all their life: they have such soft hearts, they are almost sure to cry—and a crying soldier is a poor affair. I wouldn’t enlist a chap of that sort, no, not if he gave me ten pounds. Now, for instance, if Mr. Wurzel was to ask my advice about being a soldier I should say ‘don’t!’”

“Why not, sir?” asked Joe; “how’s that there, then? D’ye think I be afeard?”

“I should say, go home first, my boy, and ask your mother!”

“I be d---d if I be sich a molly-coddle as that, nuther; and I’ll prove un, Mr. Sergeant; gie me thic bright shillin’ and I be your man.”

“No,” said the sergeant, “think it over, and come to me in a month’s time, if your mother will let you. I don’t want men that will let their masters buy them off the next day.”

“No; an lookee here, Maister Sergeant; I bean’t to be bought off like thic, nuther. If I goes, I goes for good an’ all.”

“Well, then,” said the sergeant, shaking him by the hand, and pressing into it the bright shilling, “if you insist on joining, you shall not say I prevented you: my business is not to prevent men from entering Her Majesty’s service.”

Then the ribbons were brought out, and Joe asked if the young woman might sew them on as she had done Harry’s; and when she came in, Joe looked at her, and tried to put on a military bearing, in imitation of his great prototype; and actually went so far as to address her as “My dear,” for which liberty he almost expected a slap in the face. But Lucy only smiled graciously, and said: “Bravo, Mr. Wurzel! Bravo, sir; I’ve seen many a man inlisted, and sewed the Queen’s colours on for him, but never for a smarter or a finer fellow, there!” and she skipped from the room.

“Well done!” said several voices. And the sergeant said:

“What do you think of that, Mr. Wurzel? I’ll back she’s never said that to a soldier before.”

Joe turned his hat about and drew the ribbons through his fingers, as pleased as a child with a new toy, and as proud as if he had helped to win a great battle.

Here I awoke.