A GREENLAND SUNDAY. 



BY CHARLES BLAKE CARPENTER. 



IT WAS a curious but reverently 

 conducted service that we attended 

 at St. James' Church, Sukkertop- 

 pen, on August 12. It was a cold, 

 gray misty morning ; such a one as 

 in the land of Christian civilization 

 would have soothingly induced the 

 indifferent church-goer to remain 

 quietly at home, conscientiously 

 absorbed in the quantity of his 

 Sunday journal. But the Eskimos 

 let this virtue be duly regarded 

 ' are not fair-weather Christians, and 



the congregation was large, in consequence. The ladies have 

 no gowns to ruin, no feathers to uncurl, no frizzes to " come 

 out ; " nor do silk hats or creased trousers concern the gentle- 

 men. In a pouring rain, therefore, with no umbrellas, all 

 maintain a cheerful countenance and a peace of mind not 

 even remotely disturbed by a shadow of ' ' things correct " as 

 to cut or shape and go to church. In singular contrast is 

 this spirit to the immortal utterance of one of New England's 

 daughters who, in a contemplative mood, remarks : " There 

 is a repose in the consciousness of being perfectly well 

 dressed that even religion cannot bestow." The revelation of 

 this truth has yet to dawn upon the Eskimo mind. When it 

 does, together with other truths of a highly enlightened 

 nature, the repose in primitive simplicity on the part of the 



