We had sung in the native language, and were now singing in English, “There is a happy land, far, far away,” when in came a man crazed with the drink, all painted up, with only a blanket on, waving a scalping-knife in his hand and shouting at the top of his voice, “I’ll fix the white man! I don’t care for the white man!” He jumped on a bed behind where Cushan, my assistant, and I were just in the act of kneeling down to prayer. Cushan, the interpreter, prayed, and I prayed, for the first time publicly in the Indian language, for God to have mercy upon the poor people, and especially upon the poor man who had the knife and was so angry. I had not prayed very long before he stepped down as stealthily and quietly as possible and walked out of the house. After the service was over Cushan said to me, “Mr. Crosby, that man very angry. You not know Indian. He want to kill us. All the time when I pray I shut my eyes when I pray, but this time I shut one eye and open the other. I watch and pray.” The episode was over, and the missionary smiled at the native shrewdness of his helper. Poor Cushan himself had been a slave to the drink. In his early years, when a servant of the Company, he had acquired a taste for it, but becoming a Christian, he gave up the habit. There were those, though, who knew his old weakness, and were not pleased at the change in him. Some time after the incident above narrated, one night in Nanaimo, passing by a log cabin, he was entrapped. Two white men who knew him--shall I call them men? demons in human form--invited the poor fellow in, locked the door, and tried in every way to persuade him to drink. Failing this, one held him and the other poured into him the accursed stuff. Then, alas! poor fellow, the old desire was awakened, and he drank. It took him a long time to get over this. But by the grace of God he did finally overcome the enemy, and lived a good Christian life. MURDER AND REPRISALS. Oh, the horrors of the drink traffic! How many awful tragedies may be laid at its door! The whole village of Nanaimo was aroused and terrified one morning when a canoe came round the point with the bodies of two dead chiefs who had been murdered about thirty miles to the north. Old Chief Quee-es-ton and a number of his party, who had been hunting on the island, were visited by some white men in a sloop laden with grog. Fired by the influence of what he had drunk, the chief demanded more. A quarrel ensued, and the white men shot the chiefs dead, put up their sails and sailed away, and were never heard of after. The bodies of these poor victims were brought home to their people, which set the whole tribe in an uproar, and they swore vengeance on those who had murdered their friends, or any other white men.