A CURATE IN KAFFIRLAND.

SOME three or four years ago, an English curate chose, with a new wife and an old tent, to seek his fortune in the colony of Much rummaging in blue books had satisfied him that there was good and successful work to be done, and he resolved to do it. In a clerical point of view, life at did not present itself attractively; but he was practically acquainted with the operations of agriculture, and if he should fail in converting the natives, he hoped to succeed in tilling the soil. He knew he could bring a mind of no ordinary power to bear upon his mission, and his brave wife was ready to share his hardships and cheer him by her loving words, under the coming trials of his peculiar ministry.

We awaited, with much anxiety, some tidings of our friend. But posts miscarried, letters never came, and till a few days ago, we could only wonder why he did not write.

At last, one letter, more fortunate than its predecessors, has actually reached us. The colony seems to have been a failure, and our dear emigrant friend, finding his occupation gone, means to return to this country. His letter vividly describes the difficulties with which a missionary settler has to contend, in the new and barbarous regions where civilization is seeking to extend its sway; we think, therefore, its perusal may interest our readers, and awaken their sympathy for those who, in a religious spirit, exile themselves from their native land. So we lay some extracts before them, assured that our correspondent will not be angry with us for the liberty we thus take with his communication.

"I am the licensed curate of A, a town in which there is not a single soul. There were a few people here when I arrived, but they have all gone; so

that you will not be surprised that I have no salary. The bishop had not the means to continue me a stipend. For this and other reasons, I have determined to return home. I am waiting to dispose of a crop of arrow-root, by means of which I hope to get back a portion of the money which I have spent.

Of

66 If you knew in what discomfort we have been living! sometimes without even bread to eat, and that for months. Though I date from a town, I am really living in the wilderness. There is one house about a mile off, but I seldom see any body but Kaffirs. these, I have one living with me, for I cannot afford more; I have had many more, previously, while I had the means of feeding them; but those days are past. My money has been invested, but I can get no return for it. Once indeed, I had the means of making a good livelihood, when my salary ceased, by selling the milk of my cows. This however, was prevented, by one of my Kaffirs killing so many of them, that I was forced to abandon the project.

"These people, you will perceive, are not very pleasant to have dealings with. My cattle were chiefly poisoned, and it seems to have been only a miracle which once preserved us from it. After I sent this Kaffir away, he killed my cattle, and it is suspected, other people also did so; people connected with the chief, whose cattle he also poisoned before he came to

me.

"Barbarous as the people are, I have been surprised to find that they have institutions, and a language indicating a previous state of comparative civilization. Their religion also is singular, and appears to be a remnant of transmigration. I believe that they are generally regarded as having no religion; but this is not true, since they are in the constant habit of offering sacrifices to their ancestors' spirits.

"The climate of this country is, generally speaking, very fine. My wife and children have enjoyed very

good health, considering the indifferent food we have had to live on. However, it would be ungrateful to complain, seeing that we have had great and unexpected blessings for which to be grateful. I should think us abundantly rewarded for all we have endured, if it produced nothing beyond the spirit of contentment and resignation to God's holy will, which we have been taught to feel. We are now accustomed to leave all consequences to Providence, when duty is done.

"I have not said anything about my ministry here. It has ceased now for some time, since so many people have left. The congregation before that was very good, considering the population. I am not now speaking of A-; my congregation having been in the neighbourhood. It would interest you if I were to say more, and partly amuse you; seeing that a journey through the wilderness is not like one down Cheapside on a Sunday, where you will scarcely meet a boa constrictor in the path as you return from Church, nor be obliged to wade knee deep through a bog. But my paper is full, and besides, à furious wind has blown some of the thatch off my house (built by myself) and this does not make writing by lamplight very practicable.

"If you cannot make out my writing, you must imagine my circumstances; no chair to sit on, no desk, scarcely a table, bad pens, worse ink, mosquitos biting, and a multitude of croaking and chirping things outside, making noise enough to drive every idea out of one's head. In a short time the hideous howl of the hyæna will probably vary the concert, and I half fancy that I can distinguish the cry of a pack of wild dogs coming across the country; a sound which, I can

night, is very far from being pleasant in a dark

HOW PREJUDICE WAS CURED.

A SEQUEL TO THE BLACK POLYANTHUS.

WE turned again and walked towards the entrance of the shrubbery, and it was not till Miss Palmer said, "You have never taken any part against me, Miss West, you have never looked unkindly at me," that I became aware how completely she had known the nature of our feelings towards her; it also flashed into my mind, what a strange thing it was that my own should so entirely have changed towards her, without any particular cause, and I hung my head, and could not make any answer. I now thought her innocent; but I did not know how to tell her that hitherto I had thought as badly of her as any of my companions.

While I hesitated, the schoolroom maid came up, and told Miss Palmer that Madame would take her out for a drive. She had complained of headache; and Madame, always considerate, thought the air would relieve it.

Nannette had been unwell during the last two days, and had been excused from the school-room; as Miss Palmer and I hastened towards the house we saw Massey carrying her down stairs well wrapped up, and I was surprised to see how ill she appeared.

"Poor lamb," said Massey when I spoke to my little schoolfellow, and she peevishly turned away her face, " don't take any notice of her, Miss West, it only teases her."

The little girl was carefully placed in the pony carriage and Madame and Miss Palmer presently appeared. I thought Madame seemed depressed; and Massey, as she looked after them when they drove away observed, that she was sure her mistress thought the child very unwell, though she would not allow that there was much the matter.

Why does she not send then for Dr. G.?" I enquired. "He is sent for, Miss," said Massey "but he cannot come till this evening."

The drive was not a long one; and when Nannette was lifted out of the carriage and carried up stairs again, she was so much worse that Madame did not leave her all the evening, and after the physician's visit, significant looks passed between the teachers which made us all feel extremely grave, for we perceived that the poor child was seriously unwell.

Madame did not come down the next morning, but sent a

message to us, expressive of her hope that we would go on with our studies precisely as usual, and be very quiet in the house. We all tried to do our best, but not very successfully. Miss Palmer had a headache, and the teachers were scarcely equal to their duties, for both had been up nearly all night. Nannette had been attacked with croup, and for some hours had been in great danger.

After dinner it was a half holiday, and as it rained we were sitting drearily in the school-room, working and reading, when Massey came in and said that a gentleman had called to see Miss Palmer.

Madame was in the drawing room talking to Dr. G., the two teachers were asleep on the dining room sofas. "There is no place but the school-room for him to be shown into," said Miss L'Estrange, "we can go into our own rooms."

"No ma'am," said Massey, addressing Miss L'Estrange as our head and leader, "the dear child has just dropped asleep, and Madame has given orders that no one is to come up stairs."

"Then show the gentleman in," said Miss L'Estrange, "and we must stay."

Accordingly he was shown in, and we rose for the moment and then returned to our occupations, endeavouring to abstract our attention from him that Miss Palmer might talk to him more at her ease.

He was exactly what Massey had said—a roughish spoken gentleman in a light great coat, stout, hearty, and farmer like; he walked into the room, and after giving his niece two or three kisses which resounded through the room, he exclaimed, "Well Hester, how are you child? what, pale? I never saw you pale before."

"I've got a bad headache, uncle."

"Bad headache," he repeated as he walked up the room with her, "what business have girls like you with headaches? I say, young ladies, what business have girls like Hester with headaches ?"

We looked up and smiled; some of us said we hoped it would shortly be better; and he walked up cheerfully to our table, laid his whip upon it and sat down.

"Well, Hessie, I'm glad to see that you can hold yourself more upright now," he observed, and he looked at her with evident satisfaction, and then turned to us, and presently a broad smile came over his frank features, and rubbing his hands upon his knees he exclaimed, "Well now this is what I call a pretty sight; I'm glad my Hester's here; I knew she would be happy; such a number of young ladies, how pretty it is to see them! amusing themselves so sociably, and looking so good humoured."

He continued to look at us with that kind of admiring satis