After half a dozen hymns had been sung, Mr. Notext began his sermon—by courtesy so-called. He first spoke of the number of persons he had converted at home and abroad. For he had been “abroad,” as he took care to let his audience know. He had been the guest and the favored companion of the Duchess of Skippington, of the Earl of Whitefriars, of Lord This and Lady That, and the Countess of Thingumy. In Scotland and in Ireland immense crowds followed him and “got religion.” He converted three thousand people in a single town in Ireland. Since the meeting on the previous day, many children, and many adults as well, had visited him at his lodgings. Some who came to the tent “to make fun” went away full of religion. He would now let a dear little friend of his tell his own story in his own way.
A red-haired youngster, about thirteen, was introduced to the audience as the nephew of a prominent and well-known official in a neighboring town. (It was afterwards stated, by the way, that the official in question had not a nephew in the world. No doubt the youngster imposed on Mr. Notext.) If ever there were a thoroughly “bad boy,” this youngster was one, or—as may be very possible—his face belied him atrociously. Mr. Notext placed his arm dramatically—affectionately, rather—around the young rogue’s neck, and led him to the front of the platform. The boy looked at the audience with a leer, half-impudent, half-jocular, and then gave his experiences glibly in a very harsh treble:
“When first I heard that Rev. Mr. Notext was going to get up a revival, I joked about it with other boys, and said he couldn’t convert me; and the night of the first meeting I said to the other boys—who were bad boys, too—for us to go along and make fun. And so we did. And I came to laugh at Mr. Notext and to make fun. And somehow—I don’t know how it was—I got religion, and I was converted; and now I am very happy, and I love Mr. Notext, and I am going with him to Smithersville when he gets through here. And I am very happy since I was converted and became a good boy.” (Sensation among the audience, and music by the choir in response to Mr. Notext’s call.)
Another juvenile convert was brought forward. He repeated substantially the same story as his predecessor, though more diffidently. (More music by the choir.)
Mr. Notext now told the affecting story of “little Jimmy.” Little Jimmy was a native of Hindostan. He lived in some town ending in an. There was in that town a missionary school. Jimmy’s master was a very bad man—cruel, tyrannical. He forbade Jimmy to go to the mission-school. But Jimmy went, nevertheless, whenever he could. The master was a true believer in the national religion of Hindostan. He believed that Jimmy would go to perdition if he left his ancestral faith to embrace the national religion—or rather the governmental religion—of Great Britain. Jimmy would return from his visits to the mission-school in a very happy mood, singing as he went:
“Yes, I love Jesus,
Yes, I love Jesus,
I know, I know I do,” etc.
Mr. Notext gave an operatic rendering of the scene of Jimmy going home singing the above words. One day the master heard Jimmy, and was roused to a state of fury. He forbade the boy to sing the song. But Jimmy would sing it (Mr. Notext did not say whether Jimmy sang the hymn in English or Hindostanee). Then the brutal master took an enormous cowhide—or the Hindostanee punitive equivalent thereto—and belabored poor Jimmy. But Jimmy continued to sing, though the tears rolled down his cheeks from pain. And the master flogged; and Jimmy sang. And still the master flogged and flogged. And still Jimmy sang and sang and sang. It was like the famous fight in Arkansas, wherein the combatants “fit and fit and fit.” But there must be an end of everything—even of an Arkansas fight. The struggle lasted for hours. Exhausted nature finally gave way, and poor little Jimmy died under the lash, singing with his last breath:
“Yes, I love Jesus,