tened to rend the
roof when hymns were sung.

Fiddler Joss, being impressively introduced by one of the gentlemen in
the pulpit, began without preface to read rapidly from the fifth chapter
of Romans, a task he accomplished with the assistance of a pair of
double eyeglasses. He formally appropriated no text, and it would be
difficult to furnish any connected account of his sermon. Evidently
accustomed to address open-air audiences, he spoke at the topmost pitch
of a powerful voice. Without desire to misapply rules of criticism, and
in furtherance of an honest intention to describe impressions in as
simple a form as may be, it must be added that the sermon was as far
above the heads of a mission-chapel congregation as was the pitch of the
preacher's voice. Its key-note was struck by an anecdote which Joss
introduced at the outset of his discourse. There was, he said, a
clergyman walking down Cheapside one day, when he heard a man calling
out, "Buy a pie." The clergyman looked at the man, and recognised in him
a member of his church.

"What, John," he said, "is this what you do in the weekdays?"

"Yes," said the man, "I earn an honest living by selling pies."

"Poor fellow," said the parson, "how I pity you."

"Bother your pity; buy a pie," retorted the man.

That, according to Fiddler Joss, is the way in which constituted
authorities in church and chapel matters deal with the poor man in
London and elsewhere. Mr. Methodist would not speak to Mr. Baptist, Mr.
Wesleyan would have nothing to do with Mr. Congregationalist, Mr. High
Church scoffed at Mr. Low Church, Mr. Low Church did not care what
became of any of the rest, and among them all the poor man was utterly
neglected.

"How we pity you," these people said to the poor man.

"Bother your pity," the poor man answered; "buy a pie."

Beyond this central argument, affirmation, or illustration, Fiddler Joss
did not get far in the course of the thirty-five minutes during which he
addressed the congregation. At this period he suddenly stopped, and
asked for the sympathy of his friends, explaining that he was subject to
attacks of sickness, one of the legacies of the days of sin, when he was
"five years drunk and never sober." After a pause he recommenced, and
continued for some five minutes longer, when he abruptly wound up,
apparently having got through only one half of his discourse.

It is only fair to regard the sermon as an incomplete one, and to
believe th