The condition of the natives in this vicinity is very sad. Their ignorance and pride coupled make it almost impossible to do anything for them. The rough roads over the rocks and mountains make it a dangerous undertaking for them to attend church in the evenings. Several of us started for a meeting among them on a recent Saturday afternoon, with rubbers, umbrellas and waterproofs, prepared for mud and rain. We crossed a rickety old wooden bridge that had been nearly washed away by the floods, and commenced to climb the mountain side by a road that was nearly as steep as a steeple and which wended around to nearly every point of the compass, ever going up, over ruts and rocks, roots and trunks of trees, now jumping across a ravine, and next climbing a fence. At last among the thickets and brush there were some signs of life, and we came to an opening among the trees where we saw a miserable-looking old shanty. The first thought was, can it be possible that human beings live in a shed like this? We drew near and saw two women sitting with their knees up to the open fire on the hearth. They looked much surprised to see us. We told them that we were going to hold a meeting at a house a little farther on; will they go? No, they don't care to go, expectorating the tobacco juice from their mouths into the fire at the same time. We replied, "You would better go; it may be you will never have a chance to hear an Englishman again;" to which we got a reply, "Hear a w-h-a-a-t?" Whether they knew what an Englishman was, or not, or even if they ever heard there was such a country as England I cannot say; but I understand there are thousands of these people who know nothing of the outside world, and many who were never five miles away from their own door-step in their life. With a patch of ground for corn, another for tobacco, with wood for the fire, they are as contented as the President; alas, too contented!