dancing round it, and were almost inclined to worship me." The hardships of missionary work in Africa, in a climate which so often undermines the constitution of the white man, makes one's work in a country like New Zealand seem scarcely worth talking about. Uganda itself, with its high tableland may prove to be an exception; the approach to it through a long belt of poisonous lowland is the difficulty; this may be met in future years by a railway; it is infested with lions, especially dangerous at night, so that it was necessary to entrench themselves in a zariba of thorns, and keep fires going. "On one occasion," said the Bishop, "we had an adventure which, I admit, you may find it hard to believe. A big fire had been lit, guarding the entrance to the zariba, with a native boy in charge,—the boy fell asleep; the fire sunk down; a lion stole in, disturbing the boy, who shrieked loudly, whereat the lion, shoving his head into an iron pot full of mealie porridge prepared for breakfast and unable to extricate it, promptly bolted. Such was the boy's story. In the morning it was verified; the pot was found some distance from the camp, upset, as if the lion had tried its contents and found them too hot for his liking."
I was at Eton in June, and preached in the College Chapel, spending a few days there in my old haunts. At Windsor Castle, having tea with the Dean and Mrs. Davidson, I met the author of John Inglesant, Shorthouse. His book, I believe, took him fifteen years to write; it is certainly a masterpiece, as a history-romance, full of romantic adventure, in one of the most critical times of our National and Church history; in its ultimate knowledge of Italian life during the same period; its treatment of theological
