lve in number; one
enters the pulpit, the others take seats on either side of him, facing
the audience, and at a dignified remove. The conductor of the service
now rises, makes an address in Esquimaux a minute and a half long, then
gives out a hymn,--the hymns numbered in German, as numbers, to any
extent, are wanting to the Esquimaux language. All the congregation join
in a solid old German tune, keeping good time, and making, on the whole,
better congregational music than I ever heard elsewhere,--unless a
Baptist conventicle in London, Bloomsbury Chapel, furnish the exception.
After this another, then another; at length, when half a dozen or more
have been sung, missionaries and congregation rise, the latter stand in
mute and motionless respect, the missionaries file out with dignity at
their door; and when the last has disappeared, the others begin quietly
to disperse.

This form of worship is practised at the hour named above on each
weekday, and the natives attend with noticeable promptitude. There are
no prayers, and the preliminary address in this case was exceptional.

_Sunday, July 31._--I had inquired at what hour the worship would begin
this day, and, with some hesitancy, had been answered, "At half past
nine." But the Colonel also had asked, and his interlocutor, after
consulting a card, said, "At ten o'clock." At ten we went ashore.
Finding the chapel-door still locked, I seated myself on a rock in front
of the mission-house, to wait. The sun was warm (the first warm day for
a month); the mosquitoes swarmed in myriads; I sat there long, wearily
beating them off. Faces peeped out at me from the windows, then
withdrew. Presently Bradford joined me, and began also to fight
mosquitoes. More faces at the windows; but when I looked towards them,
thinking to discover some token of hospitable invitation, they quickly
disappeared. After half an hour, the master of the supply-ship came up,
and entered into conversation; in a minute one of the brethren appeared
at the door, and invited him to enter, but without noticing Bradford and
myself. I took my skiff and rowed to the schooner. Fifteen minutes later
the chapel-bell rang.

I confess to some spleen that day against the missionaries. When I
expressed it, Captain French, the pilot, an old, prudent, pious man,
"broke out."

"Them are traders," said he. "I don't call 'em missionaries; I call 'em
traders. They live in luxury; the natives work for 'em, and get for pa