We have come to the last year of our labours in Calabar. The school, which had been taught for eight months by young Mr. Edgerley, again devolved on me, when he returned to Duke Town to conduct the printing, in room of his deceased father. An incident of that department of our duty may be mentioned to exemplify the impartiality with which it was conducted. The King's youngest son, Ekpenyong, was a careless little fellow, averse to the school, and full of excuses for avoiding it. One day he was later than ordinary, and his excuses, though various and ingenious, all proved to be false. His guardian attendant, Ekpriwong, a steady, good boy, it was ascertained, had been endeavouring for an hour to get him along, with continual resistance or evasion from his little master. The one was punished, therefore, and the other rewarded; and when the King heard thereof, he sent me back a message to say that he was very much obliged to me.

The following case painfully exhibits the degree in which even King Eyo's mind was under the dread of the old superstition. Yet why should we wonder at it, when, so late as two centuries ago, in this Christian and enlightened land of Britain, the belief in witches, and dealings with the devil, was almost universal, and intellectual and religious giants, like Richard Baxter, were strongly convinced of the truth of such things?

A head woman, in charge of a farm, committed a serious fault, and lost her master's favour, and the farm too.