I know of one lady who, for weeks afterwards, would wake up almost every
night, and feel herself falling into the fathomless gorge.

Yet the next day the lawyer went with me down to the river, and to this day
declares it was the "most memorable trip of his life;" while the timid
lady, to my own knowledge, has made over five trips to the Canyon.

Those of less susceptible nerves cannot conceive the effect the first sight
of the Canyon produces upon such supersensitive natures as these to which I
have referred. I have seen strong men fall upon their knees. I have seen
women, driven up to the rim unexpectedly, lean away from the Canyon, the
whole countenance an index of the terror felt within, gasp for breath, and
though almost paralyzed by their dread of the indescribable abyss, refuse
either to close their eyes or turn them away from it. Some few remain away
for a day or two until their nerves become more steady. Yet I have never
known one of these susceptible observers, these keenly sensitive natures
that, on due consideration, has not been thankful for the experience, and
in every case has either returned to fully enjoy the Canyon, or has longed
to do so.

But, you ask, what is the Canyon for? The answer is simple, and reveals a
very humble task as the main work of this vast and gorgeously-colored
abyss. It merely acts as the home of a great river, that for hundreds of
miles does not serve a single useful purpose to man.

Yet purely material uses are of the lowest kind. The Grand Canyon has a far
higher mission than that I have spoken of, and others that are suggested in
various chapters of this book. The Grand Canyon is God's greatest gift of
His material handiwork in visible form on our earth. It is an expression of