what I experienced. I had never felt any where so like talking to God in humble submission at his feet as there. Suddenly I came in sight of three men, very unlovely-looking travelers, ap a few yards apart along the trail, and each had a rifle or double-barreled gun upon his shoulder. Between the second and third man was a packanimal, with a small camp equipage and two extra guns. No shovels-no picks, I noticed; who could they be? Immediately all the warnings I had heard unheeded in the morning rushed upon my mind. Two or three had told me the story of the robbery of Wells, Fargo & Co.'s Express on that mountain; how that six men, with masks, rose upon the express messengers and passengers-five men in all—and pointing their double-barreled guns directly upon each demanded the treasures in their charge, and succeeded in robbing the Company of twenty-five thousand dollars, and left the messengers and travelers tied to trees and gagged. "Well, did n't they get away?" I asked. were nearly up, and so I kept my seat. After reaching the top, some five miles traveling, the trail takes along the ridge or backbone for two or three miles in a sinuous up-and-down process. This riding along the backbone is the grand fea-proaching me not fifty yards distant. They were ture of sublimity in mountain traveling. Nothing can surpass it for comfort, ease, safety, and general effect of sublimity and beauty. I speak of the physical. Along rivers and coasts among mountains you find peaks, and bluffs, and gorges that excel in solitary effect any thing you will ordinarily see on the ridge of a mountain, but it is such a scramble up and such a tumble down, and the hight or point so narrow that you can scarcely taste the luxury of the scenes. But the ridge of the mountain, like this, and especially like the Salmon ridge, a part of this general range, once attained enables you to feed on grandeur by the hour. Awful canons pitch down first on one hand and then on the other. Different ridges unite, and divide, and sink, and mount, and straggle into huge heaps and lines in various directions. The trail is far from being level or even, yet is tolerable, often striking on a piny flat, where the gorges are hid and the surrounding peaks are only seen, and look modest and beautiful in their white caps of snow, then suddenly turns on the verge of an awful canon which reveals the monster sides of the mountain, then up some craggy hump and anon clinging to its sliding sides; now doubling a projecting point and hanging for a few yards on the very verge of a frightful abyss; then takes along commanding points the sentinel towers of the mountainfrom which the canon depths-the indescribable depths, and lengths, and breadths, and hights of mountain grandeur are open before you. How capable of power-so capable that you feel almost a terror shaking your bones-how masterly the repose-so masterly that it is almost a rapture of beauty-how full of feeling—yes, I will say it, what a great, all-feeling thing the mountain appears! Will it shake, will it bellow, will it strike out its foot and walk over the valleys? What living repose! How easily it could do any thing it wished to! I sink into nothing and feel awe-struck before the all-encompassing, infinite Jehovah, whose presence penetrates with life these wilds of solitude and grandeur. "The strength of the hills is his," and "his righteousness is like the great mountains," full of defense and unfailing springs of love. For an hour I had been pursuing my lonely and thoughtful way, not wondering that Jesus went up into a mountain to pray, but wondering I had not. Were mountains as elevating in other lands? They had been an object of terror to me in my city life in quite a different sense from "Yes. One man seeing what they were about coolly backed himself up to a tree while some of the robbers were standing guard and some engaged in tying the others, and when they had tied four, being in a hurry and seeing this man stand as if tied and a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth, they thought all was right and hasted away with their treasure." "Well, then, as soon as the robbers were out of sight they were unfastened, armed themselves, and pursued them to an advantage, and captured them and recovered the treasure?" "No, not then; but they were so soon on the track that most of them were finally taken, the money recovered, and the thieves sent to stateprison." "Very well. They won't trouble me. I'll ride on alone, though I would like company. I will not wait a day for it." Yet now as I looked upon these men this bugaboo story made me wish I had waited for company. How rapidly these things went through my mind it is hard to tell; and the story, in spite of my determination to believe there was not a robber out of jail in the country, still had its influence over my mind. I remember now that when a boy, a few ghost stories told of an evening made me afraid to go out in the dark. I could almost see a ghost with a light burning in my bed-chamber. So on this mountain the story of robbers made me see robbers in these persons. But I'll tell them who I am, and certainly they will know a Methodist preacher has no money. And I confess I was glad just then I had none. What increased my suspicion was the fact that the foremost man-a tall, bony man, with uncombed locks and eyes deep set-stopped short the moment he saw me, and spoke a word or two in a low tone to the man next in the rear. This had the effect to fix that man's attention on me. He was diminutive in size, yellow complexion like a Spaniard or mulatto, with a mouth like an alligator. It struck me as the most enormous mouth I had ever seen on a human being. I was undoubtedly a little incapable of a very rational judgment; but if he had been a little differently circumstanced, less long black hair, in different company, without an old hat and clothes, and in the mountains of Borneo, I should have felicitated myself on the sight of an orang-outangsimia satyrus. His long arms and shoulders pointing forward, and huge mouth-well, I was sure he could break my bones with his teeth, and would like to do it; then he had such a villainous eye that I expected to see him point the Mississippi rifle, which he carried on his shoulder, directly at my heart and call a halt. I must meet and pass them. It was scarcely a half minute ere I was up to the first, and I bowed very low with a cheerful, "How are you, my friend?" that made him raise his brows in a fresh, sullen stare. Then I bowed to the second one, whose stony eyes hardly seemed to see me in their terrible dead blackness; urging my mule stealthily I turned with a gentle word to see if the man had cocked his double-barrel gun, saying, "A delightful day, sir, to cross the mountain." I was now up with the last man, a large, fat negro, and I, being in the humor of it, bowed low to him. He pulled off his hat, stuck it under his arm only as a colored man can, and bowed and gave me a grand smile, showing a complete row of ivory, "Yes, sah; thank you, sah," and bowed on full as much as I did the only good-mannered chap among them. This more than restored my equanimity, and I awoke to a laughable perception of the ludicrousness of my fears. The men had been out on an unsuccessful hunt and took Sambo along to keep the camp, which he had done without much fatigue, while they had unsuccessfully ranged the mountains and were finally returning hungry and fatigued to French Gulch. It was now past noon, and I was scarcely started down the mountain. I expected to have been over before noon, but I had yet four miles to go to get down, and I wished to go some twenty miles after passing the mountain. I became well aware that I had been riding quite too leisurely along. I must hasten; so I start up my mule. She takes her little mincing trot as usual. I insist she shall mend her pace. She seems quite indifferent, but I get determined and urge her on with whip and spur. She almost I lifted my stopped and leered at me very cross. hand to strike her again, when she broke into a free trot for a few rods, then quick as a flash she gave a jump one side, whirled round, jumped high and forward, striking on stiff legs, threw her head down and her heels up, whirled the other way, and went bounding and pounding the earth with stiff legs, and then would set to whirling, throwing down her head, and kicking, and then would bound along again, throwing herself back-like when she struck. I was turned this way and that, my neck snapped, my hat fell off, my head was jarred, the skin torn from my knuckles by being brought in contact with the horn of the saddle in my efforts to rein her, and I was nearly blinded and stunned by the violent concussion. One only determination to cling to the saddle while consciousness remained in me. A little respite came. I hoped the passion was over, when she started in a swift run. I did not care for that, only my hat was behind; so I fixed myself in the saddle, dropping the reins and seizing the horn with both hands, and pressing my knees firmly against the side. She ran about seventy-five yards and then stopped suddenly, throwing her fore-feet out and stooping almost flat to the ground. I did seem as if I must let go or break in two, but just did remain together. Now she snorted again. The light of a dim flame seemed to come from her nostrils. She bounded, whirled, kicked, reared, and jumped forward, and backward, and sidewise, but finally came up to a quiet stand. She seemed immensely surprised and chagrined that I did not fall off, and dropped her head a little lower than before. She was covered with foam and sweat, and panted with fatigue. I rode back after my hat, got down and readjusted my saddle, mounted and rode on. But it was a long while before I recovered from the jolting. Jenny from that hour was as harmless as a kitten. That night I put up in Trinity River Valley, as it is called, and preached to some fifteen in the bar-room. Some four seemed quite reluctant to put by their card-playing, and I waited a little while for them; but having taken a vote and all agreeing that I should preach, I proceeded with the services, when they seemed to stick a pin down, as we say, stacked the cards, and gave attention. After sermon they resumed the play for a short time, when one of them turned to me and began to propose infidel objections to Christianity, which I answered as well as I could, and the conversation became general and quite earnest till a late hour. The next day I rode on over Scott Mountain to brother W's, and the day following I reached Yreka in time for my quarterly meeting. RECOLLECTIONS OF BISHOP GEORGE. face toward the road awaited my arrival. When BY REV. G. BAKER. MONG the fathers and pioneers of Methodism, occupies a distinguished place. I first saw him at the session of the Genesee conference in Sauquoit, Oneida county, New York, in 1821 or 1822. I was then young in religion, and young in years. He was the first Methodist Bishop I had ever seen. I saw him only in the pulpit, but so deep was the impression made on my youthful mind, that not only the text but much of the sermon has remained unobliterated to the present mo ment. I had arrived opposite him and had made my bow, he introduced the following colloquy: "Is your name Baker?” "Well, come here and I will tell you." When I had crossed the road he took me by the hand and continued, "My name is George." "Bishop George?" "Yes; they call me Bishop. I stopped at brother B's in the village, and I told him I would preach for you once to-day if you asked me to." I replied, "The people expect two sermons, and they will be much disappointed, and, I fear, dissatisfied, if I should attempt to preach while you are present." "The state of my health," said he, “will not allow of my preaching more than once." Then for the first time my mind awoke to the fact that I might be obliged to preach before the Bishop. I was tempted for a moment to wish he had staid in Canada. Of the morning service I need not speak. In the afternoon the Bishop preached in the Presbyterian church from Matt. vi, 9, 10: "Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come." The house was crowded to overflowing. The best talent of the village was there. And the sermon was long spoken of as an admirable example of true apostolical preaching. As I mingled with the crowd in returning from the church I heard one gentleman say to another, "Well, well, he is a whale among small fish." I next saw him in the summer of 1824 in the village of Ogdensburg, St. Lawrence county, on his return from the newly-organized Canada con- | ference. I was then traveling St. Lawrence circuit, which embraced five townships bordering the St. Lawrence river, and extending from Ogdensburg to Massena. I had not been long on the circuit when, returning on Saturday from a tour down the river to the neighborhood of Ogdensburg, where, according to my plan, I was to spend the Sabbath, I was told that Bishop George was in the village. Delighted with the prospect of seeing the Bishop and enjoying the benefit of his ministry through the day, I started early on Sunday morning to walk to the village. As I neared the suburbs I saw a man of venerable appearance approaching me on the opposite side of the street. He was of medium size-rather short than tall, with a frame well spread and slightly inclined to corpulency. His features were prominent but regular. His eyes, which, if I remember right, were of a dark blue, and expressive of severe and anxious thought, were set deep in their sockets and protected by spectacles. His complexion was sallow but not dark. His whole appearance was that of a man in whom intelligence and practical energy were combined. And his physical frame, originally intended for strength and endurance, had evi-fillment of the apostolic injunction-"pray withdently encountered much of the wear and tear of an active and itinerant life. At the time of which I speak he wore a plain single-breasted coat, a long vest, extending down to the hips, short breeches with knee-buckles, and stockings so tightly fitted as to display to the greatest advantage the symmetry and strength of the limbs which they inclosed. On his feet he wore shoes, secured by buckles of ample dimensions, and on his head a white hat, whose broad brim afforded equal protection in sunshine and storm. While I was surveying the venerable stranger and wondering if this might not be the Bishop, he paused and with his hands locked behind him and his I now enjoyed the happiness of the Bishop's society for several succeeding days. Most of the time we spent at brother Arnold's, one mile east of the village. These few days I reckon among not only the most pleasant, but the most profitable also, of my life. The Bishop was eminently a man of prayer. He came nearer a perfect ful out ceasing"-than any other man I ever knew. So I thought then, and I think so still. We spent much of the time in reading. After reading an hour or two, and a little conversation, the Bishop would say, "Let us walk." He would lead the way into a beautiful grove not far distant, where some time would be spent in prayer. This was repeated several times a day. With mind's eye I can see that venerable servant of God now, as I saw him then, upon his knees, his head uncovered, his long, gray locks floating in the breeze, while he partly supported himself by leaning against a sapling. my In those days few of our preachers, especially in that frontier region, enjoyed the luxury of a carriage; not even the clumsy one-horse wagon, such as were then in use. On horseback was then almost the only mode of travel. On Thursday morning, having procured a carriage, such as it was, the Bishop and myself started for a camp meeting, to be held in the vicinity of Potsdam. At this meeting the Bishop's presence and labors were salutary in a high degree. Memory has recorded several incidents of a highly-interesting character, which, if they fell within the plan of this sketch, I should delight here to place on record. There is one, however, in which the Bishop was an actor, and which at the time was clothed with an overpowering interest to my own mind and heart, which I can not deny myself the pleasure of relating. The Bishop's sermon on Sunday was delivered with a power and unction unusual even for him. The arrows of conviction flew in every direction and fastened "in the hearts of the King's enemies." Every eye was riveted on the preacher, while the cries of the awakened could not be distinguished from the shouts of the people. The meeting was to close on Monday morning. As usual in those days the whole night, the last of the meeting, was spent in prayer and other labors for the salvation of souls. It was the Bishop's custom to spend much time in the prayer meetings, particularly those held in the altar before the preachers' stand. In these meetings he would spend hours on his knees quietly instructing and fervently praying for mourners. A little after midnight, as I rose from prayer, I saw the Bishop standing a few feet from me, with his hands behind him, calmly, surveying the scene before him. About the same time I heard in another part of the circle shouts of victory bursting from the lips of a lad apparently about fourteen years old, who had been awakened by the Bishop's sermon and had just now been converted. Simultaneous with the cry of victory the young convert sprang to his feet, and seeing the Bishop some ten or twelve feet from him, began to cry, "My father! my father!" and in an instant he had his arms around the venerable form of the Bishop. He seemed not to run, nor walk, nor fly; but he went. Neither the seats nor the kneeling multitude which crowded the altar seemed to impose any barrier to his progress. The boy still continued to cry, "My father! my father!" while the Bishop, placing both his hands on the boy's head and the tears streaming down his cheeks, responded, "Praise Jesus! praise Jesus!" No incident of real life, which it has been my lot to witness thus far in my pilgrimage, will bear a comparison with the incident I have described, or, rather, attempted to describe, for true moral sublimity. Many attendant circumstances combined to increase the impressiveness of the scene. The midnight hour; the starry heavens; the low moaning of the wind among the branches of the forest-trees; the dim burning of the lights; the subdued and mellow notes of a hundred weary voices as they blended before the mercy-seat; the sighs of penitence mingling with the pleadings of prayer; the tears of pity and occasionally the shouts of victory-all contributed to invest the incident of the Bishop and the boy with a degree of moral grandeur surpassing any thing I have ever seen or expect to see on this side of heaven. LITERARY WOMEN OF AMERICA. SOM EDITORIAL. GRACE GREENWOOD. NOME time ago we conceived the design of introducing to our readers the "Literary Women of America." It was well received, but has been interrupted by causes not necessary for us now to explain. This month we add another to the list-a face not over beautiful, somewhat masculine, yet expressive of a high order of intellect, a good degree of determination, and sound, practical sense. "Grace Greenwood," we scarcely need say, is a nom de plume; yet it is one of those instances in the history of literature where the real name is almost sunk and lost in the assumed. Sara J. Clarke was of New England parentage, but born in a rural town in central New York. At an early age she was taken to Rochester, where she enjoyed good literary advantages, and developed early and rare literary talents. She says of herself: "Here it was that I spent my few schooldays and received my trifle of book knowledge. It was here that woman's life first opened upon me, not as a romance, not as a fairy dream, not as a golden heritage of beauty and of pleasure, but as a sphere of labor, and care, and suffering; an existence of many efforts and few successes, of eager and great aspirations and slow and partial realizations." The traveler going west from Pittsburg, on the great railroad route, will scarcely fail to notice and remember the village of New Brighton, through which he passes. It is on the Beaver river, and not far from the western line of Pennsylvania. To this place Miss Clarke removed with her parents at the age of nineteen. "Here," says Mr. Griswold, "in 1844, she wrote the first of those sprightly and brilliant letters under the signature of 'Grace Greenwood,' by which she was introduced to the literary world. They were addressed to General Morris and Mr. Willis, then editors of the New Mirror, and being published in that miscellany the question of their authorship was discussed in the journals and in literary circles; they were attributed in turn to the most piquant and elegant of our known writers, and curiosity was in no degree lessened by intimations that they were by some Diana of the west, who, like the ancient goddess, inspired the men who saw her with madness, and in her chosen groves and by her streams used the whip and rein with the boldness and grace of a Mercury. Such secrets were not easily kept, and while the fair magazinist was visiting the Atlantic cities, in 1846, the vail was thrown aside and she became known by her proper name." In her "Woman's Record" Mrs. Hale gives a highly-appreciative sketch of Mrs. Lippincott, from which we excerpt the estimate of her literary and intellectual character, and the description of her person. Mrs. Hale says: "The characteristics of her prose are freshness, vigor, and earnestness of thought, combined with exquisite humor and sprightliness; and although she is distinguished by great freedom and fearlessness of expression, she never transcends the bounds of strict feminine delicacy. A slight vein of playful satire is discernible here and there, which adds to the piquancy of her style, but which, like the heat lightning of a summer night, flashes and coruscates, while it does not blast. As an instance of this, in speaking of men's appreciation of elevated womanhood, she says: "I know that the sentiment of men, even great men, often is, from a perfect woman, “good Lord, deliver us"-and he generally hears their prayer. Speak to them of feminine natures ex put at you, as they understand it, the poet's idea of lovable womanhood— In 1849 the first series of her "Greenwood Leaves" was issued in book form. Two years later it was followed by the second series. She also published a volume of poems and two juvenile works-"My Pets" and "Recollections of my Childhood." All these works met with good success, and each contributed to the literary rep-alted by genius, or great goodness, and they will utation of its author. But her "Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe," published in 1853, made a decided sensation in the literary world, and had a large sale. They were at the time fully represented in this journal by copious extracts as well as by a literary notice. About this time she was married to Mr. L. K. Lippincott, of Philadelphia, and with her husband commenced a juvenile monthly, known every-where as "The Little Pilgrim." We do not know that it will add any thing to the estimate our readers will place upon "Grace Greenwood" to say that she sometimes lectures as well as writes. The mention of the fact, however, will at least give us the opportunity to introduce a description of her person from one of our exchanges, given in connection with a notice of her lecture: "Grace Greenwood is a lady not far from forty years of age, but with that freshness of complexion and elasticity of form, which only the health flowing from her well-known ardor for horseback and other outdoor exercises can insure to an American woman. Tall, graceful, with full and strongly-marked face-the darkest of side-curls, eyebrows, and lashes-an expressive mouth and intellectual forehead-no lady could more safely dare the trying inspection of a lecturer's audience. She wore a black silk dress and plain lace collar that well became her form and features and the taste required in her position. In a voice that filled easily the large church, but which was marked by a slight lisp, and not devoid of monotony, she abruptly commenced her lecture, and spoke rapidly for over an hour." "A creature not too bright, nor good, Which, probably, is also a New Zealander's high- "In person she is neither large nor small. Her hight is a little above the middle size. Her form combines delicacy with agility and vigor. Her mien, and carriage, voice, gesture, and action, all manifest, by the most perfect correspondence of a natural language, her rich variety of intellectual powers and moral sentiments; the physical answering to the mental, in all that susceptible nobility of temperament which endows genius with its 'innate experiences' and universality of life. Her head is of the finest order, and larger than the Grecian model, whose beauty it rivals in symmetrical development. The forehead is high, broad, and classic. Her brows are delicately penciled. Her complexion is a light olive, or distinct brunette, and as changeable as the play of fancy and the hues of emotion. Her eyes are deep, full orbs of living light; their expression is not thoughtfulness, but its free revealings-not feeling, but its outgushings. Just as her poetry is never penned till perfectly matured, so her thoughts and feelings leap, and play, and flow in the flashing light, free from all sign of mental elaboration." Intellectually and in its juster sense Mrs. Lippincott may be called "strong-minded." We are not aware, however, that her views of woman's mission ever led her to figure in conventions, or |