Presently came the man, followed at a respectful distance by a crowd of his mates, who drew to the capstan on the quarterdeck, and waited for what was to follow. The fiddler and vocalist was a stumpy seaman, with black whiskers, a hooked nose, and keen black eyes, dressed in loose canvas breaches, well smeared with tar, and a canvas shirt, with a belt about his middle, in which was a sheath-knife. He hailed from Southampton, but had gone so many voyages in every species of ships--Danish, French, Spanish, American--that he might fairly claim to belong to the whole world. He scraped with his left foot, and stood bashfully awaiting orders, his glittering eyes travelling over the group of gentlemen and ladies. “You’re wanted to sing a song, Daniels,” said Captain Steel. “Ay, ay, sir. What might it be?” “Something wild and plaintive,” suggested Mrs. Ashton. “Give us a song about a sweetheart,” said Mr. Holland. This was English to the sailor; so, after a few moments’ reflection, he screwed his fiddle into his neck, scraped a few bars, and then sang. He did his best, and murmurs from time to time about the capstan illustrated enthusiastic appreciation in one portion of his audience at least. Those on the poop were more quiet, impressed by the peculiar wildness of the song, and the rough, uncouth melody of the tune. The song was about a woman whose husband was a sailor. The sailor went away to sea, and did not come home, and she thought he had deserted her; so she put on man’s clothes, shipped on board a vessel as a “hand,” and went in search of him. One night she is on the forecastle, on the look-out. The watch are asleep; there’s not a breath of air: When, looking over the starboard side, She sees a face as pale As snow upon a mountain top, Or moonlight on a sail. The figure attached to the face rises, waist high, out of the water, and extends his hands. “O God!” she screams, “is this my love? Can this my Joey be?” And then she casts her eyes above And jumps into the sea. And sure enough the phantom _was_ Joey, who had not deserted her, as she had cruelly thought, but had been drowned in the very spot where the vessel she was on board of was becalmed. The song wound up with an injunction to all wives or sweethearts of sailors never to think that their Joes have played them false because they do not return to their homes. The passengers thanked the man for his song, and Mrs. Ashton wanted another; but Captain Steel, holding that enough condescension had been exhibited, bade the singer go to the steward and get a “tot of grog.” Much criticism followed; but all, with the exception of Mr. St. Aubyn, owned themselves impressed by the rough simplicity and tragical theme of the forecastle ballad.