The journey up the old historic Cariboo road was exciting and romantic. We had several narrow escapes from having our horses go over the bluffs. Had they gone over they must have fallen in some places a thousand feet or more into the rushing waters of the Fraser River below. The road hugged the precipice, and in many places was not wide enough to permit two waggons to pass. The great stage coaches, which used to convey passengers to and fro over the 400 miles into Cariboo, would rush by with break-neck speed, while our little ponies stood aside on rocky ledges to permit them to pass. Here and there we met the large ox teams, of five or six yokes, returning with empty waggons from the interior, their huge flapping canvas covers frightening our little animals until it seemed as if we should not be able to get them by. The first Sunday I preached in the Court House at Lytton to a mixed crowd of white men and Indians. The latter seemed eager to hear the truth, and right gladly did I tell them of Jesus. At Cook’s Ferry, near the outlet of Nicola valley, we found the paymaster of the C.P.R. survey, a kind gentleman and an acquaintance of mine from Victoria, who called out and asked me to take dinner with him. After our horses were attended to, I gladly joined my friend. Passing through the bar-room, where crowds of men sat gambling, with whiskey barrels for their tables, I said, “Gentlemen, as soon as I am through dinner I would like to preach to you.” “All right, parson, we’ll be ready and glad to come,” they replied. Dinner over, I walked out, when the men cleared away their cards and set an empty barrel at one end of the room for a pulpit, where I preached to them. I was greatly blessed in delivering my message, and as soon as I had finished they came forward and left their collection of bills and silver on top of the barrel. “THE GENUINE ARTICLE.” Next morning we rode to what was called Oregon Jack’s, some fourteen miles distant, a wayside inn on the road to Cariboo. We tied our horses to the post outside, and, as we walked in, the man behind his little bar said: “Good morning, Bishop, you’ll take a glass of, brandy, won’t you?” “No, thank you; I don’t take anything stronger than milk or tea,” I replied. “You don’t?” said he, with an oath. “You are the first parson who has come to these regions that didn’t take his bitters.” Ignoring his remarks, which I took for what they were worth, I said to him, “I will have my horses taken in and fed, if you will.” “All right. Take the Bishop’s horses and fix them,” he called out to a little fellow named Jim. Dinner was soon ready, and my Indian and I sat down, one at each end of the little table, and Oregon Jack sat about midway on the side. While we enjoyed the bacon and beans, he kept up a running fire of questions. “By the way, Bishop, I know you. You are the man that set the country on fire down there some time ago.”