Every variety of story was told, and, in the exaltation of the hour, the men sang rapturously.  Some of the speakers moved the doctor with terrible pathos. (I, who chronicle these things, have heard tales which come to me in wild dreams, and make me tremble with pity and terror.) There was no showing off, and even those who used the stereotyped phrase, “When I was in the world,” did it with a simple modesty which our learned friend found charming.  Apparently not one of those poor fellows felt a single prompting of conceit, and if their very innermost feeling had been translated it would come out like this:  “Brothers, through mercy we’ve all slipped away from an ugly fate; we’re on safe ground; let’s hang together and help each other nearer to God, lest we should get adrift and make shipwreck.”

Lewis was particularly pleased with their kindly mode of talking about backsliders.

“Come, old lads,” said one fair-haired Scandinavian, “let’s all say a word for poor old Joe Banks.  He’s a backslider just now, through that dreadful drink.  Let’s all pray as he may see his sin against his Saviour, and come right back to Him.  He’s too good to lose, and we won’t let go on him.”

Then the excitement gathered, and the meeting really developed into what might be fairly termed a Service of Praise.  The men almost roared their choruses, then they prayed passionately, then they sang again, and the rush of harmless excitement went on hour by hour, until the strongest enthusiasts had to obey the signal given by the darkness.

On deck there were merry partings, and the Newfoundland puppy business was resumed with exceeding vigour.  Tom Lennard was exalting his popularity, and he knew the history of the father, the mother, the wife, the children (down to the last baby), of every man with whom he talked.  The wind was still, the moon made silver of the air; the fleet hung like painted ships on painted ocean,—­and the men delayed their partings like affectionate brothers whom broad seas must soon divide.  The distant adoration paid to the ladies would have amused some indifferent shoregoers.  You know the story of the miners who filled a Scotch emigrant’s hand with gold dust and “nuts” on condition that he let his wife look out from the waggon?  I can believe the tale.  Great fourteen-stone men lifted their extraordinary hats and trembled like children when our good ladies talked to them; the sweetness of the educated voice, the quiet naturalness of the thorough lady, are all understood by those seadogs in a way which it does one good to remember.  The fellows are gentlemen; that is about the fact.  Their struggles after inward purity are reflected in their outward manners, and to see one of them help a lady to a seat on deck is to learn something new about fine breeding.  Marion Dearsley was watched with a reverence which, never became sheepish, and Ferrier at last said to himself, “One might do anything with these men!  The noblest raw material in the world.”