As at the Yellowstone Canyon, so here every step brings a new view of the canyon. It is not the same from any two points of observation. Of its mere immensity one can form no adequate idea. The opposite side looks hardly a mile off, but it is thirteen miles, in fact. All of Pike’s Peak might be tumbled into it and hardly make a dam to hold the waters back. In the drowsiness of the afternoon’s sun I thought one of the mountains that stand in the bottom of the canyon looked like a huge pulpit. I thought I saw terrace rise above terrace, up the slopes, and fifty miles up and down the river. I thought how all the nations of the earth might be gathered there and seated, and how an archangel might speak to them and be heard by all. Not only terraces, but temples, pagodas, castles, battleships, everything that one has ever seen that is great or grand seems to be reproduced in this canyon, in such varied ways has the water chiseled itself upon the rocks. Every conceivable form of things, every imaginable color, has been worked out in this great gorge. The sun goes down upon it, throwing the shadows of ragged peaks across yawning chasms, multiplying the awfulness of things seen. The full sun can not light the depths of it. In the darkness of the night one walks on the rim of this canyon as on the shores of some unexplored world, a world still in the process of creation. Day after day, little parties of sightseers go down into the canyon, down Bright Angel trail, on the backs of donkeys. It is thirteen miles by the trail and then the river is still far below them, so far that they can hardly hear the noise it makes between its rocky banks. Many had said that when one has seen the Grand Canyon he has forgotten all about the Canyon of the Yellowstone. But I did not find it so. Nothing can ever make me forget the Canyon of the Yellowstone. The two canyons are so different and so distinct that comparisons are not possible, but contrasts are. In the Grand Canyon the colors are heavier; in the Yellowstone Canyon the colors have the brightness of the butterfly. The one is compact, the other immense. The one is definite, conceivable and comprehensible; the other indefinite, inconceivable and incomprehensible. The one produces the sensations of nearness and dearness; the other of aloofness and vagueness. The one is like a beautiful woman arrayed in many colors; the other like an angel clothed in austerity.