There is yet another sect, or what is called a sect—­no doubt improperly—­that of the Whistlers.  Duncan Cameron, so clear in favour of the Mormons, was no less loud in condemnation of the Whistlers.  Yet I do not know; I still fancy there is some connection, perhaps fortuitous, probably disavowed.  Here at least are some doings in the house of an Israelite clergyman (or prophet) in the island of Anaa, of which I am equally sure that Duncan would disclaim and the Whistlers hail them for an imitation of their own.  My informant, a Tahitian and a Catholic, occupied one part of the house; the prophet and his family lived in the other.  Night after night the Mormons, in the one end, held their evening sacrifice of song; night after night, in the other, the wife of the Tahitian lay awake and listened to their singing with amazement.  At length she could contain herself no longer, woke her husband, and asked him what he heard.  ‘I hear several persons singing hymns,’ said he.  ‘Yes,’ she returned, ’but listen again!  Do you not hear something supernatural?’ His attention thus directed, he was aware of a strange buzzing voice—­and yet he declared it was beautiful—­which justly accompanied the singers.  The next day he made inquiries.  ‘It is a spirit,’ said the prophet, with entire simplicity, ’which has lately made a practice of joining us at family worship.’  It did not appear the thing was visible, and like other spirits raised nearer home in these degenerate days, it was rudely ignorant, at first could only buzz, and had only learned of late to bear a part correctly in the music.

The performances of the Whistlers are more business-like.  Their meetings are held publicly with open doors, all being ’cordially invited to attend.’  The faithful sit about the room—­according to one informant, singing hymns; according to another, now singing and now whistling; the leader, the wizard—­let me rather say, the medium—­sits in the midst, enveloped in a sheet and silent; and presently, from just above his head, or sometimes from the midst of the roof, an aerial whistling proceeds, appalling to the inexperienced.  This, it appears, is the language of the dead; its purport is taken down progressively by one of the experts, writing, I was told, ‘as fast as a telegraph operator’; and the communications are at last made public.  They are of the baldest triviality; a schooner is, perhaps, announced, some idle gossip reported of a neighbour, or if the spirit shall have been called to consultation on a case of sickness, a remedy may be suggested.  One of these, immersion in scalding water, not long ago proved fatal to the patient.  The whole business is very dreary, very silly, and very European; it has none of the picturesque qualities of similar conjurations in New Zealand; it seems to possess no kernel of possible sense, like some that I shall describe among the Gilbert islanders.  Yet I was told that many hardy, intelligent natives were inveterate Whistlers.  ‘Like Mahinui?’ I asked, willing to have a standard; and I was told ‘Yes.’  Why should I wonder?  Men more enlightened than my convict-catechist sit down at home to follies equally sterile and dull.