On two or three occasions I have even begun the record.

Once I gave it up because the writing of it depressed me beyond bearing, once because I was suddenly called away upon a journey, and the third time because a Kaffir boy found my manuscript convenient for lighting the kitchen fire.
But now that I am at leisure here in England, I will make a fourth attempt.

If I succeed, the story may serve to interest some one in after years when I am dead and gone; before that I should not wish it to be published.

It is a wild tale enough, and suggests some curious reflections.
I am the son of a missionary.

My father was originally curate in charge of a small parish in Oxfordshire.