Elsewhere I have been so severe a critic on the lay issues of missionary work that the least I can do, in the attempt not to be one-sided, is to pay a tribute of reverence to those who labour in what they regard as a sacred purpose. An example of their self-sacrifice is Archdeacon Macintyre. When with him he was in anything but robust health. Really, he should go to Europe to recuperate. The doctor urged that course, but Mr Macintyre was trying his utmost to avoid peremptory invaliding orders. A few days earlier he had got up from a sharp and trying attack of malarial fever, and was about to take a trip down the Niger, to be followed by a week on an Elder-Dempster liner at anchor off the mouth of the river, in the hope that the double change would patch him up for the remainder of his term. Twice he has had the dangerous blackwater fever. Disagree as one may from the outlay and the result of missionary efforts in West Africa, one must admire and honour the spirit shown by the noble men and women who give health and life for the cause, sacrificing these precious possessions in silent and obscure countries as freely as a soldier dies in a blaze of glory and renown. I had several talks with Mr Macintyre, who, of course, had been made aware of my views on the subject of his work. We discussed it unreservedly. I said the position seemed to me that he was wearing himself out to small attainment, when there were so many heathens of our own colour, so much pain, poverty and misery in the great cities of Britain. Why, I asked, could not he and others look there instead of perceptibly putting themselves into the grave in malarious West Africa? Mr Macintyre, whose age is probably about the thirties, replied that there were plenty of regenerating agencies in England if properly systemised and organised. He had been a curate, he related, in a poor district, and the various religious and philanthropic bodies tumbled over each other there in discharging their several tasks. There were more than enough persons to do all that was called for in England. There was no opportunity to break new ground. In West Africa, however, a man could feel he had fresh, untouched, unspoilt material to work upon and consequently facilities for tangible achievement; a man could be sure of doing something. To do this something you see splendid fellows, of whom J. L. Macintyre is a type, sacrificing strong frames to a wasting condition, enfeebled and weak. He is paying still higher, for I gather that he has the happiness of a wife and a home in England. He is here on what he looks upon as his duty. I repeat, splendid. But, with much admiration and personal esteem, I remain unconvinced.