CHAPTER XXCLOSING LABOURS
Bishop Horden did not spend a very great many months in England. He left again on May 22, 1889, the parting from wife and family being softened by the hope of shortly returning to them. Taking steamer direct for Quebec, he went on from thence to Montreal—‘one of the most beautifully situated cities in the world, containing fine shops, a noble quay, many grand houses, and a large number of very fine churches.’
The following evening he took his place in the train going west, to spend three days and two nights in it. The car was crowded, and each day he—indefatigable man that he was—gave a much appreciated lecture to the occupants packed closely together around him. After passing through hundreds of miles of wilderness he at last landed at Winnipeg, the capital of the West. Two or three hours later he was sitting in the Parliament House, witnessing the conferring of university degrees by the Metropolitan, amongst the students being Miss Holmes, the first lady who had taken a degree in Manitoba. On Sunday therewas an ordination and confirmation, and in the evening Bishop Horden preached in the cathedral, although he was suffering from a severe cold contracted during his long railway journey. The following day he started by rail and steamer for Norway House, which he reached on June 14.
There used to be stirring times at Norway House. Here the great council was held. Here in olden time the Governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who possessed more real power than the most arbitrary of sovereigns, held his court annually, and to it flocked the principal officers of the company. The affairs of the country were discussed, and everything was arranged for another year. During the whole summer the greatest activity prevailed. Boats were continually arriving and departing; now an immense brigade from York Factory, then another from the Saskatchewan or the Mackenzie River district. The dwelling-houses were crowded, and the great stores were constantly receiving or giving out supplies.
But the railway and steamers have changed all this, and among other results have brought about the downfall of Norway House. Goods for the interior are no longer sent to York Factory, and thence by boat to the various stations. They are forwarded to the Saskatchewan by rail and steamer, and thence onward to the interior. Now Norway House supplies only two or three trading posts in its immediate district. Very few officers and few men are required for the business. The stores lie empty, and the great square is almost deserted.
Bishop Horden spent two Sundays here, waiting for the boats to Oxford House, whence he journeyed on to York Factory. Then he set off for Churchill, another journey of two hundred miles.
A peaceful voyage of nine days in a schooner, the first that for twenty years had visited York Factory, brought the bishop to Moose Fort. It was quite dark when he landed, but a great crowd had gathered on the beach to welcome him, chief amongst them his daughter, Mrs. Broughton, and her husband, and their three youngest children, and Archdeacon Vincent, who had been in charge at Bishop’s Court.
‘I was really at home, and felt so overjoyed and so thankful; I was happy, and so seemed all around me. Monday was devoted to the affairs of the mission, and it gratified me to find that things had gone on so well during my absence. I visited all the people in their houses, for they are very dear to me, and found all well.’
But his own house was lonely, and would be lonelier still in the winter, for the Broughtons were to be now stationed at Rupert’s House. He had not been expected to return so soon to Moose; the archdeacon had the work there well in hand, whilst at Albany Mr. and Mrs. Nevitt were fully installed. He himself needed some little quiet and rest. He decided, therefore, to go with his daughter and grandchildren to Rupert’s House for the next months.
The Moose ship, Lady Head, had already arrived. The season was advanced, a parting service was held, and once more the bishop went on board the Mink,and sailed with his dear ones for Rupert’s House. Here he came in contact with Indians from various stations, bringing in furs for barter at the factory. The Rev. E. Richards assisted him in all his ministrations. A cheerful Christmas was followed by quiet work, and then a busy and a happy Eastertide, notwithstanding the ‘snow which lay several feet deep on the ground, biting winds, and the death-like appearance of all Nature.’
The spring was very dreary. There was nothing for the geese to feed upon, and the hunters came home evening after evening having shot nothing. When the Indians from the surrounding districts came in, there was amongst them one very sad and reduced party. Where were the rest? All, to the number of eighteen, had perished from starvation.
As the summer approached, the bishop went northward to East Main River—now a small outpost, but once the most important place in the bay. About one hundred Indians had met together there, and every moment was made the most of, for they seldom saw a clergyman.
The bishop thence went in a boat to Fort George. This is almost the most interesting bit of travel in the country. High and rocky islands, some of them well wooded, others majestically rugged, rise in constant succession.
A week was spent at the Fort, and then, with Mr. Peck as his companion, the bishop pushed on to the dreary storm-beaten land of Great Whale River—a hard and difficult journey along an inhospitableand dangerous coast. Sometimes they met a few Indians on the way, and the desert was made to rejoice with ‘some of the songs of Zion.’
One morning they put ashore among a body of Eskimo, who had their books with them. The bishop heard them all read; for one woman, who could not read as well as the rest, they made the apology that she had but just recently joined them from the north, and could not be expected to do very well yet; but she was getting on, for they taught her every day. The next day, and half of the following, was spent here, then the travellers proceeded, the canoe flying before a threatened storm. Just before midnight they reached the mouth of the river, and two or three hours afterwards the storm broke with terrible violence, lasting without intermission for a couple of days.
‘Three days of intense work (I wish it could have been three weeks), and the schooner was ready for sea; so, leaving Mr. Peck to continue his labours, I took a passage kindly granted me, and bidding farewell to all, I set off on my way south.’
The bishop was much gratified with the progress made by the Eskimo, their earnestness was so evident, their attention so fixed; his heart was lifted in gratitude to God. After another week spent at Fort George, his mission completed, his face was once more turned homewards, and he reached Moose just about ship time. ‘In all this journey God’s hand has been on me for good.’
Soon after the bishop had returned to Moose, Mr.and Mrs. Nevitt went to take charge of Rupert’s House, the Rev. E. Richards and his wife coming to assist the bishop at Moose. Great preparations were made for the Christmas of 1890. The old mission ox brought home several loads of pine and cedar-brush from the woods for the church decorations. On Christmas Eve a high tea was provided at Bishop’s Court for the joyous band of workers, a dish of splendid trout gracing the hospitable board. Christmas morning dawned not too cold for enjoyment, and hearty, cheery services followed throughout the day. A feast had been planned for the school-children. Cakes were made by ‘the Rev. E. Richards and his wife;’ a large heap of biscuits were provided from the bishop’s own store; huge kettles were suspended in the school-yard; tea, sugar, and milk were there in abundance, and one afternoon in the Christmas week the scholars all assembled and enjoyed a substantial meal.
A Christmas-tree followed, which Mr. and Mrs. Richards had decorated with artificial flowers and ornaments, lights and gifts. The children’s parents were there, and the European residents and all stood round the tree, and sang ‘God save the Queen.’
Muncto pinache Kicheake-maskwas,O Pimache; Melche puskilakat,Kitche mihwaletuk KinwaishPimatesit, O Pimache.
Muncto pinache Kicheake-maskwas,O Pimache; Melche puskilakat,Kitche mihwaletuk KinwaishPimatesit, O Pimache.
Muncto pinache Kicheake-maskwas,O Pimache; Melche puskilakat,Kitche mihwaletuk KinwaishPimatesit, O Pimache.
Muncto pinache Kicheake-maskwas,
O Pimache; Melche puskilakat,
Kitche mihwaletuk Kinwaish
Pimatesit, O Pimache.
Other gatherings there were that joyous Christmastide spent by the bishop amongst his own especialflock; and doubtless, as he said, for many days to come the pleasures and wonders of those happy evenings were subjects of comment in every house.
The bishop had brought with him from York Factory a very promising youth, Isaiah Squirrel by name, whom he hoped to train under his own eye for the Christian ministry. He was now at Moose, ‘learning all sorts of things, and showing himself very teachable.’
At the beginning of the year 1891 the bishop announced with thankful joy, ‘I have now ready for the press the Pentateuch, Isaiah, Jeremiah, the Lamentations, Ezekiel, and Daniel; the Psalms and New Testament have been in print some years. The whole Bible will, I trust, form the crown of my missionary life. I take the deepest delight in this translation work, which has always engaged very much of my time and attention.’
May was cold and damp this year; snow and ice abounded, and the ground was still almost bare of pasture. Flocks of snowbirds were about, which were pursued by the boys with bows and arrows, and a few American robins sang among the leafless trees; but the geese, like everything else, failed. Day after day the Indian went forth to his goose-stand in the marsh, arranged his decoys, loaded his guns, and sat and called, hoping that a flight of geese would be enticed by the friendly voice to come and visit his flock of dummies. But no geese came, and the hunter returned each evening disconsolate and supperlessto his tent. When the kettle on the fire is well filled withmechim(food), there is joy in the camp, and the Indian does not heed the weather—storm rain, and snow are to him of no account; but with wife and children hungering around him things are sad indeed; and thus they were in the month of May.
The summer proved a sickly one in all the district. In June the bishop went to Rupert’s House, and whilst working there from morning till night amongst the great body of Indians congregated for the season, the influenza broke out, and he became at once doctor and nurse, until he was himself attacked. He was for some time very unwell, and his voice went. Mr. and Mrs. Nevitt had left to go home by the annual ship, Mr. Nevitt’s health having failed, and Mr. Richards was at Moose, so he could not, and would not, give in, except for a day or two. Happily, he was in the house of his dear daughter Chrissie, where every possible attention was given him. ‘The voice returned, but strength was slow in coming.’ Then his much loved little granddaughter was attacked very severely, and it was a sore trial to have to leave her, still hovering between life and death, when he was obliged to return to Moose. A long time elapsed before he could hear from Rupert’s House. Then at last came a little letter from the child herself to tell of her recovery.
In August, 1891, an event happened which was destined to be of very great importance to the diocese of Moosonee. This was the arrival at Fort Moose ofthe Rev. J. A. Newnham. The bishop had met and conversed with Mr. Newnham on his visit to Montreal in the previous year, and finding how his heart was yearning for the mission cause in Moosonee, he had invited him to join him there.
‘I was charmed,’ wrote Mr. Newnham, ‘with my first acquaintance with Moose. My room in the bishop’s house looks over a small encampment of about forty tents and sixty dogs. Just now is the busy season; the hay is being carried, and the ship unloaded, but quite a congregation gathers every evening at 6·30 for a short service. I attended it my first evening on shore, and was much struck with the hearty responses, and the clear and true singing of our well-known hymn tunes.’
After the service Mr. Newnham was introduced to the Indians, who greeted him with ‘What cheer?’ their form of ‘How do you do?’ As he sat in his study later, he could see them constantly coming to the house. The bishop never locked his door; even in the night it was left unfastened, and anyone might come to him at any hour for assistance or advice.
The bishop spent nearly the whole of this year at Moose, devoting all his leisure to the translation of the Cree Bible. He hoped to have the whole of the Old Testament ready for the press by midsummer 1892. The revision of the New Testament, which had been printed many years before, would occupy him, he said, during the following winter. Again he wrote, ‘and this will be the crowning workof my life, which will give spiritual food to my people for generations after my decease.’ In less than a year after these words were penned, the earnest worker and writer lay in his grave, his work on earth done.
Towards the close of the year 1891, Archdeacon Vincent lost his wife, who had long been in a declining state. He brought her to Moose for burial. On December 20 the bishop preached the funeral sermon from the words, ‘It is well.’ These had been almost her last words before her death. Returning with the archdeacon to Albany, Bishop Horden there spent Christmas and New Year’s Day. It was his last winter trip to Albany. ‘The last,’ he wrote, ‘that I shall in all probability ever undertake. My first winter trip to Albany took place long, long ago, forty years ago this very month! I was then young and active, and thought nothing a hardship; I could sleep in the open, bivouac with the cold bright sky overhead, with the thermometer 40° below zero. I had no back, nor legs, nor shoulders; at least I had them as well as now, and much better; I merely did not know of their existence from any pain or inconvenience they caused me. But forty years make a difference. I know now that I have several members of my body, and these tell me in the most unmistakable manner that there must be no more getting over the rough snow and ice, and that the discomforts of a cold smoky tent must be no longer endured, unless there be absolute necessity. They tell me that, for the future, winter travelling must not be indulged in. Andwe must bow to the inevitable; we cannot be always young; the halting step and the grey head will come, and why should we dread their approach, when we know that “if the earthly house of our tabernacle be dissolved, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens”?
‘I am not, however, writing a sermon. I was about to speak of my last winter journey to Albany. I wished to go there, because there was very little hope of my going next summer. At seven o’clock on the morning of December 21, I was sitting in my sledge, and ten beautiful dogs in excellent condition were being harnessed thereto, each having its own single trace, by which it was attached to the sledge. The archdeacon occupied a second sledge. When all were harnessed, there was a great howling, and jumping, and tugging, for the dogs were anxious to be off, but the sledge was too firmly moored for their united strength until all was ready; then the binding rope was cast off, howling ceased in a moment, each dog hauled with all his might, and we were away at the rate of ten miles an hour. The fine tails of the dogs were curled up over their backs, they were overjoyed to be once more on the road. The great pace was not long kept up, but settled into between five and six miles an hour, and so it continued throughout the day. To the music of our dog-bells we rushed down the river, soon losing sight of Moose, on past Middleborough Island, through Hay Creek, and then over a rough uncomfortable sort of plain at North Bluff, where stands the great beacon erected to attractthe attention of our annual ship, and to tell her that she is nearing the place of her destination.
‘Near the beacon we brought up for awhile, to give the dogs a rest. We had accomplished half of our day’s work, and had come about eighteen miles. We are soon off again; the air is very comfortable, and all our sensations are pleasurable as we run across North Bay, past Jarvis Bluff and Little Piskwamisk on to Piskwamisk, where our first “hotel” is situated—a small circular erection, gradually getting smaller towards the top, where a number of poles meet together; the whole is covered with snow, the doorway is blocked up with snow—as comfortless looking a place as can well be imagined. This is our hotel, and we at once set about making it as habitable as we can. The snow is dug away from the entrance with our snow-shoes, as well as from the sides, that there may be no dripping from its melting as the evening advances. Wood is carried in and a fire lit, and when a good beef-steak has been fried and a strong cup of tea made and partaken of, we almost fall in love with our smoky hotel, and at any rate think it far preferable to the open bivouac in the heaven-covered forest.
‘On the second day the weather was very warm, and much rain fell in the early part, but we continued on our way, having but twenty-five miles to travel, which brought us to our second hotel at Keshepinakok.
‘On the third day we had forty miles of travel. The weather was colder and our dogs trotted on withoutmuch fatigue. About four o’clock in the afternoon we saw the settlement in the distance, and then the dogs, knowing that they were nearly home, put on extra speed, and we were soon in front of the factory. A steep bank had to be ascended, but there was no difficulty, for a number of men and boys ran down and gave their ready help, and I was soon in the middle of a large yard, receiving the warm welcome of all who had congregated there. One day at Albany, and then came Christmas Day, when I preached two sermons, one in English, the other in Indian; afterwards I had the examination of the candidates for confirmation belonging to the two congregations, Indian and English, with whom I was very well pleased; and the examination of the scholars in the school, who quite satisfied me, and I visited all the families in their respective houses. I also gave a feast to the Indians and another to the school children, and inspected some beautiful fox-skins. Quite a number of the silver fox came in during my visit. They are black, but the tips are white. They are too heavy for English wear, but are exported mostly to China. The late King George the Fourth had new coronation robes made for him, which were lined with the choicest parts of the silver fox skins, and for each skin forty guineas were paid; rather expensive robes, I should think.
‘I found time to correct the proofs of two of my Indian books, which are printing in England. The days were well filled up and fled swiftly, and itseemed but a short time before I was compelled to say good-bye to Albany, and on the third day after we once more ran up Moose River, and received the congratulations of all my people, who had lined the banks to see me as I passed.’
The end of February, 1892, came before the ‘packet’ of that year arrived. All hope of its coming had died away, and many who had travelled hundreds of miles to meet it had been forced to travel back again without getting a letter to tell of those far away, or even a paper. ‘Cruel, cruel!’ said the sympathising bishop, and yet he was sometimes inclined to feel grateful for the very absence of news himself. ‘Our outer door is opened,’ he wrote, ‘but twice or three times a year, and then we have a deluge of papers and a great number of letters, and we find the deluge almost as bad as the previous dearth.’
Moose was enjoying a mild winter, and food was plentiful, rabbits never more abundant, of pheasants there was no scarcity, and there was no sickness; the Moose doctor was enjoying quite a sinecure. Far otherwise was it with Rupert’s House. The weather there also had been very mild, but rain had fallen in torrents, and the swamps around were giving forth miasma, which brought disease and death to the little settlement. Influenza and dysentery attacked almost every individual.
When the Rupert’s House dogs brought the budget for the ‘packet,’ the bishop’s share of news was a sad and gloomy one. Mr. Broughton wrote that the Indians were dying out from disease, and his ownlittle daughter had again been attacked with influenza. Saddest tidings of all, four children had been frozen to death, almost close to the station. The father of those children was Weyawastum; he had died, as did also his wife, some years ago. The grandmother and her husband took the children under their care, she being a kind old body, and speaking very good English. They were spending the winter at Pontax Creek, about seven miles distant from the station, coming in occasionally for provisions, which were never denied them. At New Year the husband, named Huskey, came in to spend a few days at the place, and was there attacked by the prevailing disease, so severely as to be unable to return home. His wife and the children remained at Pontax Creek, no one feeling the least anxiety about them. They had a good tent and a sufficiency of provisions, and should those be consumed more would be given them. But one morning, someone walking down the river during a terribly cold spell of weather came upon a child lying dead, and hard frozen, only a mile from the establishment. And still farther on lay another, and yet another, and still another was found in the same condition. The tent was entered, but it was cold and silent, and there lay the dead body of kind old Betsy, the faithful grandmother. All were taken to Rupert’s House, and buried in one grave. It must have been a terribly solemn event in that little settlement—five coffins entering the church in procession, four young lives passing away in such a manner. The full particulars will never be known,but it is supposed that while the grandmother was with the children in the tent she was suddenly taken ill, or being ill had become delirious, and the children being afraid, or wishing to obtain help for the old woman, had set off to get to the settlement, but the cold was too severe for them, and so all had perished.
If the winter at Moose had been late in coming, and mild when it came, it lasted long into the year 1892. On May 6 the bishop wrote:—
‘Day succeeds day, and there is the same cold biting air, the same dark leaden sky and heavy snowflakes, which have lately again and again thrown us back into apparent midwinter. I should be glad to write more cheerfully, but I must write what I see and know, and not give a picture from the imagination; what I write must be truth, and not romance. You can’t conceive how anxiously we are longing for spring; to see our noble river rushing by, carrying on its bosom the laden boat, the beautiful canoe, the majestic vessel. But it is still blocked up, heavily fettered with its icy chains. The surface is still white, and an oppressive silence hangs over it; the fluttering haze has not yet appeared into which the mighty magician of long ago changed himself, appearing yearly in the spring, just before the breaking-up of the river, that he may meet his beautiful sister, the lovely American robin. She has already come, and it was with joy which can be felt, but not described, that I heard her singing her sweet song this morning, as if she would thus hasten the steps of her loiteringbrother, and bring him to cheer both her own heart and the hearts of all others who are anxiously awaiting his arrival. Whilst you enjoy sweet May weather, feel deeply thankful for it, and think of those in this wild lone land who are fighting the great Christian battle as your substitutes; pray for them, that their spirits droop not on account of the hardness of their surroundings, and show your sympathy practically by making greater and yet greater exertions in supporting the missionary cause.
‘Now, looking out of my window, what can I see? Besides the cathedral and adjacent houses, I see the frozen surface of the river, dotted here and there with goose-stands, for this is the time for geese, and each goose-stand should be supplied with one or two smart hunters, whose decoy geese and their perfect imitation of the goose’s call generally succeed in alluring the silly birds to their destruction. But the stands are unoccupied, the decoy geese are lying in heaps, the weather is so unpropitious that no birds are flying. They are delaying their journey to the sea coast, and are feeding in the plains in the interior; and when they come they will make but a short stay, and hurry forward to where they lay their eggs and bring up their families.
‘But something exquisitely beautiful seems to enjoy the dreary waste—flocks of the snow bunting are constantly flitting by, alighting on the garden, the plain, and the dust heaps. When they first came they were white, but now they have begun to assume their summer garb, and clothe themselves in russetbrown. They are not allowed to feed in peace. The fierce hawk hovers about, and occasionally swoops down and makes a capture; big boys and men are out with their guns, small boys are out with their bows and arrows, girls are out with their bird nets—all intent on business, for food is scarce, and those pretty birds are plump and fat, and said to be very good eating. And this is really all I can see from my window, except the dark distant pines, which fill up but do not enliven the landscape.
‘You must not think that because I have such surroundings I am therefore dull and melancholy; such is by no means the case. God has blessed me with a sanguine temperament, and a great capacity for love of work, and this being the case, hope for better days and their speedy appearance causes me to look, in dark days, more to the future than the present; it gives no time for repining, or, as the people here say, thinking long.
‘Well, thank God! I have written the last word of my Cree translation of the Bible. I had hoped to get it done by the time the river broke up, that I might then put my work aside for another winter, and devote myself to the Indians who will be coming in from the far interior; that I might take my long journeys to those distant centres of the mission whence the Indians cannot come; that Cree and Ojibbeway and Eskimo might again hear from my lips of the wondrous love of God in the gift to the world of His well-beloved Son; and my hope has been realised. The last word of the New Testamentwas written many years ago, but all will probably be re-written; all will at any rate be revised, if God permit, next winter, so as to bring it into accord with the Revised Version. It is, I think, a very good translation of the Authorised Version, and I could make but little improvement in it. My first work next winter will be to go through very carefully, with my most valued assistant from Rupert’s House, all I have written this winter. Every word will be examined, and wherever an improvement can be made it will be made; and then the New Testament will come under review, and then I trust one of the principal works of my life will be accomplished, my most cherished hope realised—my people will have the Word of God in a form they can thoroughly understand.’
In June, 1892, the bishop visited Rupert’s House, and, still full of energy and indefatigable in his work, had scarcely returned when he prepared to start off on a much longer trip to Whale River and Fort George.
On the eve of setting off he wrote, alluding to the arrival of a ‘packet’ with letters and papers:
‘Just think of seven months of reviews and missionary publications, as well as other periodicals, coming at one time, and that the busiest time of the year, when every minute must be utilised for work. The consequence is that many papers are never opened at all. It is sometimes a question with me as to whether this is a gain or a loss; it certainly keeps my mind fixed on my work, of which there is alwaysa great deal more to be done than can be well got through. You good people at home cannot at all realise our position; we are in another world, and you have the same difficulty in endeavouring to realise it as you would have in realising the condition of life in the planet Mars.
‘On Saturday last I returned from Rupert’s House, having with me my daughter, Mrs. Broughton, her husband, and family. They will now live at Moose, Mr. Broughton having been appointed to the charge of the whole southern department. At present they are staying with me, but next week they go to the Factory, five minutes’ walk from my house, which will then be vacated by its present occupants, who are returning to Canada. To-morrow I set off for Fort George and Whale River, Mr. Peck’s district. I shall be absent about a month, and trust that in that time I may be able to do much for the Master. We are passing through the hottest summer known here for many years; the heat is sometimes almost unbearable, while the mosquitoes are most venomous and annoying. Our gardens look well so far, and we hope to have good crops by-and-by.’
In August the bishop was back at Moose Fort. ‘I am once more in the old house,’ he writes, ‘home from my long summer journeyings, and I don’t think I shall leave it again this year, but employ myself in my usual educational and translation duties. I first went to Whale River, which receives its name from the large number of porpoises found there: there was formerly a great trade in the oil produced from themas well as in their skins. I started from Moose in the Mink schooner on July 15. We had foul winds, and the cold became severe, and many icebergs were about, which occasionally gave our vessel some heavy blows. Then we passed the Twins, two large islands of equal size, on which grows neither tree nor shrub; then we caught sight of Cape Jones, which divides James’ Bay from Hudson’s Bay, and Bear Island, a large, high rock of most forbidding aspect; and then we ran along Long Island, which has a very bad repute as the centre of the abode of storms, and as we pass it the great tors on the mainland rise one after the other in their majesty of desolation; and there is more ice, and more islands, and an abundance of fog, hiding everything from view. And here, at last, is the south point of the river, and presently we come to anchor, for the wind will not allow us to proceed up to the Hudson’s Bay Company’s establishment; but a canoe is soon alongside, and in that I am taken ashore, and am presently among those who have been eagerly looking for me, and who receive me with a warm welcome. There is much work to do, and I am alone.
‘Our first service on Sunday commences at half-past six in the morning: all the Indians at the place are present, and all seem to enjoy it; some among the congregation I have not seen for years. They had wandered off to Ungava, many hundreds of miles distant, and had long remained there; they now say that they intend to make Whale River their permanent trading post. We take breakfast, and thenfor our Eskimo service. You see before you a goodly number of clean, intelligent-looking people, short and stout; you see that they have books in their hands, and notice that they readily find out the places required; they sing very nicely, having greatly improved since my last visit to them. Thank God for the blessing He has vouchsafed to the missionaries’ labour. And now we attend the English service. One young person is confirmed, and three partake of the Lord’s Supper. After this we have dinner; this finished, it will soon be time for our second Indian service, so let us walk quietly to the house we use as a church. It is already crowded with young and old; all sing the sweet Indian hymns, and use the Church prayers in their Indian dress. I baptize twelve children and perform four marriages. The Indians retire, and soon the interesting Eskimo flock in and take their places; two people are confirmed, and four partake of the sacrament. We are all a little tired now, the more so from the atmosphere being very close in the church; so we go up to the top of the extensive plain on which are pitched the Indian and Eskimo tents, and take a brisk walk among the heather, which gives us an appetite for tea. On the table is tea, preserved milk, sugar, bread, and marrow fat. Our last service is afterwards held; the old familiar English one. We have had a busy day, and yet not quite so busy as it would have been at Churchill, on the western side of the bay, where, in addition to the three languages spoken here, we should have had the Chipwyan. We have a little conversation and thengo to bed, for we must be early astir tomorrow morning.
‘Yes, in the morning there was a great stir: all hands were up at four o’clock, loading the schooner, which had taken everything in by six o’clock, when I held my last service, the last in all probability I shall ever hold at Whale River. I then had breakfast, after which, having said good-bye to and shaken hands with every one—English, half-caste, Indian and Eskimo—I hastened on board. The anchor was at once raised, and we began to descend the river amidst volley after volley of musketry, the Indians wishing to testify their appreciation of what had been attempted for their good.
‘After we had left the river we bent our way southward, and went as fast as the baffling winds would allow us. We had the high rocky coast on our left, on which side lay Long Island; then we passed Bear Island and Cape Jones, and Lucker Creek and Wastekan Island, the highest land between Cape Jones and Fort George, and Governor’s Island, and Horse Island, and others, and so came to the mouth of Fort George River. We were seen at the fort, when instantly the flag was run up. On and on we went until we arrived opposite the landing-place, when the anchor was dropped and a boat took me ashore. I was directly in the midst of old and warm friends, who gave me the heartiest of welcomes.
‘I was eight days at Fort George, and they were all busy ones. I kept school twice a day, devotingthe mornings to the Indian children and the afternoons to those speaking English. I held likewise two services each day, one in each language, and for the few days that some Eskimo were at the place, one for them as well. The principal Eskimo here is called Nero, and he is really a fine fellow, about the size of a big English boy, although I think the English boy would have but little chance with him in a wrestling match. I got him to assist me in one of the services, and what he did he did well.
‘The Indians are all busy haymaking. They go up the river some distance, and there find abundance of grass, and bring it down in boats, spreading it on a large field, where they make it into hay. There are stables for the cattle, but there are no horses. There are four or five houses for the workpeople, and on a large plain are some Indian tents—and the gardens are looking well—the potatoes and turnips look as if good crops would be secured, a matter for congratulation, as this is by no means always the case. Day follows day, and the last arrived, when I gave a treat to all the children.
‘Our farewell service is held, and it is a very solemn one, for every one at Fort George is very dear to me. I wish all and everyone good-bye, for I start early on the morrow; but early as it is, everyone is on the river’s bank to see me as I step into a large canoe, which is to take me seven miles to the Mink, lying in Stromness harbour. Several farewell volleys are fired, and I am speedily out of sightof my hospitable friends and on my way to the old house at Moose.’
To the bishop’s great joy and thankfulness a young missionary, Mr. Walton, arrived by the ship in the autumn of 1892. He was destined for the distant post of Ungava. The bishop was much pleased with him, and, after due examination, ordained him, and sent him on to Fort George to fill meanwhile the place of Mr. Peck, who was by doctor’s advice to take his wife and children to England by the ship homeward bound.
Mr. Peck would, the bishop hoped, return in the following May, to proceed to Ungava with the Rev. W. Walton.
The journey to Ungava is toilsome and very difficult. Mr. Peck had visited the post in 1885, having been driven back three times before he succeeded in crossing the Labrador peninsula, eight hundred miles. He was repaid at length by meeting with many Eskimo anxious for the message of salvation. The thought of the pressing need for a missionary to this far-off spot had ever since lain ‘heavy on the heart of the bishop.’ He said, ‘If we go to the North Pole, we shall be still in the diocese of Moosonee.’ The ice-bound regions visited by Sir John Franklin, Admiral McClintock, Captain Parry, and other Arctic explorers, are nearly all in this diocese.
The bishop worked on, assisted by the Rev. J. A. Newnham, who had returned from a visit to Montreal, bringing with him a wife, who took thedeepest interest in the women and girls, and proved a great addition to the mission party. The native pastor, the Rev. E. Richards, was also staying at Moose at this time, especially to help in the revision of the Bible translations.