The only "road" in all Labrador is the broad path at Hebron traversed
by the only wheeled vehicle in the country, a queer little wagon drawn
by dogs, and used to fetch water for the house. But great service to
succeeding generations of missionaries has been rendered by those who
have employed some of their leisure in making pleasant paths leading
to points of view or places of interest. For such a remote settlement,
Hopedale is rich in well-made walks, though they are by no means so
extensive as the winding paths in the fir woods behind Nain, the
oldest station. And as I can bear witness, the present generation of
missionaries have at each station fairly done their duty in adding to
the roads along which their successors in the service shall take their
social strolls or their lonely prayerful walks in communion with the
best of friends.
What an illustration of the spiritual service in such a land! The
pioneer finds all in the roughest phase of nature. With infinite
trouble and pains he prepares the way of the Lord, making the rough
places plain; here he takes away the rocks and stones which bar the
way, there he builds up, so making His paths straight. And where the
good-work has been begun, other missionaries follow on the same lines;
and so by grace it shall go forward, until the glory of the Lord shall
be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.
One of the Hopedale paths leads "to the heathen," and what more
interesting spot could we visit than those three mounds, which are all
that remain of the former winter dwellings of the original heathen
population. One by one, and sometimes several at once, when the Spirit
of the Lord was powerfully bringing home to their hearts the Gospel
preached by the early missionaries, the inmates of these abodes moved
from their pagan surroundings and began to make themselves Christian
homes around the mission-houses.
On our way to the long uninhabited ruins of this older group of
abodes, we will pass through the Christian village, which has thus
sprung up at Hopedale as at all the other stations. It consists of
irregular groups of little log houses, planted with little attempt at
symmetry. Their Eskimo owners have no idea of a street. Perhaps some
day the conception may occur to them as they read in their Bibles of
"the street which was called straight." Nor do they need any words in
their language for "rent," "rates," or, "taxes." Here in the south and
at the station most influenced by civilization, the majority of the
little houses are built of logs and even roofed with wood. Some are
covered with turf. The dwellings of our people in the north are much
more primitive. Each house has its low porch, a very necessary
addition in this land of "winter's frost and snowing."
Between the houses and in their porches lie many dogs. One of these
wolf-like creatures follows us over the rocks to the burial-ground,
and then runs off to fish on his own account. The dogs scour the shore
for miles in search of food, for, with the exception of those
belonging to our stores, they mostly have to forage for themselves.
They like seal and reindeer meat, but there are times when they can
get neither flesh nor fish. Then they turn vegetarians, spring over
the fences of the mission gardens and help themselves.
We enter the irregular enclosure, where lie the bodies of many, who
have fallen asleep during the hundred years that Hopedale has stood.
Here are some Eskimo graves with little headstones, bearing brief
inscriptions, but more mounds without identification. In one corner
lies a group of graves of touching interest--the missionaries and
their children--who have taken sepulchre possession here.
Thence our way lies along the shore. What is that noise? It is a whale
blowing in the smooth water. Look, yonder rises the column of spray,
and now a great fin appears for a moment over the surface. Wait
awhile, and the monster will blow again. Yes, there he is, spouting
and diving; on the whole, we can hear more than we can see of him.
Over rock and moss, variegated with lovely little flowers, we reach
the path which skirts the old heathen sites. Little more than the
outline of the former turf houses is visible. The turf roof has fallen
in, or been carried away, but the low mounds which formed the walls
remain, as also the roofless curving porch, which in each opened out
to the sea. More than one hundred persons of both sexes and all ages
are said to have inhabited these three houses, and their heathen life
here, with its cruelties, sorceries, and other unhallowed phases, can
better be imagined than described. It must have been a great advance
for them in every respect when they moved to the mission-station,
established nearly half a mile away, and began to learn the faith and
hope which have given it its name. In those days there must have been
a good many such heathen villages along this coast with a nomad
population far more numerous than now.
Thence we easily ascend the ship hill, over rock and moss, and
occasional patches of snow. The view is really grand, though bleak and
bare. Hundreds of rocky islands lie between us and the seaward
horizon, while to north and south one can scarcely distinguish them
from the bold headlands which stretch out into the ocean. Northward,
the white sails of from thirty to forty fishing schooners are gleaming
white in the sun. Hundreds of these craft pass up the coast from
Newfoundland every summer, and the spiritual interests of their crews
are faithfully sought at Hopedale. Sometimes the Sunday afternoon
English service is attended by more than two hundred such visitors. As
we descend the hill and return to the station past the well-kept
gardens, we make our first acquaintance with mosquitoes, but they do
not trouble us much to-day.