A friend of mine who took a lively interest in my Western trip wrote
me that he wished he could have been present with his kodak when we
first looked upon the Grand Canon. Did he think he could have got a
picture of our souls? His camera would have shown him only our
silent, motionless forms as we stood transfixed by that first view
of the stupendous spectacle. Words do not come readily to one's
lips, or gestures to one's body, in the presence of such a scene.
One of my companions said that the first thing that came into her
mind was the old text, "Be still, and know that I am God." To be
still on such an occasion is the easiest thing in the world, and to
feel the surge of solemn and reverential emotions is equally easy;
is, indeed, almost inevitable. The immensity of the scene, its
tranquillity, its order, its strange, new beauty, and the monumental
character of its many forms--all these tend to beget in the beholder
an attitude of silent wonder and solemn admiration. I wished at the
moment that we might have been alone with the glorious
spectacle,--that we had hit upon an hour when the public had gone to
dinner. The smoking and joking tourists sauntering along in apparent
indifference, or sitting with their backs to the great geologic
drama, annoyed me. I pity the person who can gaze upon the spectacle
unmoved. Some are actually terrified by it. I was told of a strong
man, an eminent lawyer from a Western city, who literally fell to
the earth at the first view, and could not again be induced to look
upon it. I saw a woman prone upon the ground near the brink at Hopi
Point, weeping silently and long; but from what she afterward told
me I know it was not from terror or sorrow, but from the
overpowering gladness of the ineffable beauty and harmony of the
scene. It moved her like the grandest music. Her inebriate soul
could find relief only in tears.