- end_line
- 6153
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:15.152Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 6119
- text
- tumult is so great that the voice of the placid old missionary, who now
rises, is almost inaudible. Some degree of silence is at length
obtained through the exertions of half-a-dozen strapping fellows, in
white shirts and no pantaloons. Running in among the settees, they are
at great pains to inculcate the impropriety of making a noise by
creating a most unnecessary racket themselves. This part of the service
was quite comical.
There is a most interesting Sabbath School connected with the church;
and the scholars, a vivacious, mischievous set, were in one part of the
gallery. I was amused by a party in a corner. The teacher sat at one
end of the bench, with a meek little fellow by his side. When the
others were disorderly, this young martyr received a rap; intended,
probably, as a sample of what the rest might expect, if they didn’t
amend.
Standing in the body of the church, and leaning against a pillar, was
an old man, in appearance very different from others of his countrymen.
He wore nothing but a coarse, scant mantle of faded tappa; and from his
staring, bewildered manner, I set him down as an aged bumpkin from the
interior, unaccustomed to the strange sights and sounds of the
metropolis. This old worthy was sharply reprimanded for standing up,
and thus intercepting the view of those behind; but not comprehending
exactly what was said to him, one of the white-liveried gentry made no
ceremony of grasping him by the shoulders, and fairly crushing him down
into a seat.
During all this, the old missionary in the pulpit—as well as his
associates beneath, never ventured to interfere—leaving everything to
native management. With South Sea islanders, assembled in any numbers,
there is no other way of getting along.
- title
- Chunk 3