I can imagine how such a place would set a nervous person mad. Not, that it is not beautiful also, in a certain sense, but, the gibing, the mocking, the absurd prevails; and one is almost shocked, even when in most sober mood. The mental distress, possible in such a place, seemed all concentrated in the face of a lone young bicyclist, with bicycle by his side, who eagerly questioned us as to the way to Manitou. He had lost his way amid these gruesome wonders, and although it was ludicrous to see his distress, one could not but sympathize with his misery, while lost in this wild, so full of monsters. I may here quote what Victor Hugo, in his "Alps and Pyrenees," says of sandstone. It would seem as if he was actually describing some of the fantastic forms which we saw in the Garden of the Gods. "Sandstone," he says, "is the most interesting of stones. There is no appearance which it does not take, no caprice which it does not have, no dream which it does not realize. It has every shape; it makes every grimace. It seems to be animated by a multiple soul. Forgive me the expression with regard to such a thing. "In the great drama of the landscape, sandstone plays a fantastic part. Sometimes it is grand and severe, sometimes buffoon-like; it bends like a wrestler, it rolls itself up like a clown; it may be a sponge, a pudding, a tent, a cottage, the stump of a tree; it has faces that laugh, eyes that look, jaws that seem to bite and munch the ferns; it seizes the brambles like a giant's fist suddenly issuing from the earth. Antiquity, which loved perfect allegories, ought to have made the statue of Proteus of sandstone.