Not too soon came the steep and perilous descent into the abysmal depths of the mountain fastness.  It is a shame that pilgrims who come up thither do not time their steps so as to reach this Ultima Thule of old times and ways at sunset.  Then the magnificence of the spectacle culminates.  That new world below there is illuminated with the soft tints of Eden.  What unutterable fullness of beauty pervades all.  The forests—­those moss-like fields are forests, and mighty ones, too—­are all aflame with the burnished gold of sunset, brightening the gold of autumn; for gold twice refined, as it were, gilds the splendid landscape.  Only think of that picture, shining through the mellow haze of Indian Summer, and flashing with the lambent glimmer of a myriad glassy leaves.  You can not see them moving, yet they twinkle incessantly, and the warm air trembles about them while you hang bewildered from a toppling parapet, four thousand feet above them; birds swing under you in mid-air, streams leap from the sharp cliff, and reel in that sickening way through the air that your brain whirls after them.  One is tired, anyhow, by the time he has reached this far, and a night camp in the cool rim of this world-to-come is just the panacea for any sort of weariness.

Take my advice:  Sleep on it, and drop down on the wings of the morning, while the sun is filling up this marvelous ravine with such lights and shadows as are felt, yet scarcely understood.  Refreshed, amazed, bewildered, go down into that solemn place, and see if you are not more saint-like than you dared to think yourself.  When the times are out of joint, as they frequently are, come up here, forget men and things; don’t imagine we are as bad as we seem, for it is quite certain we might be a great deal worse if we tried.  While you bemoan our earthliness, you may not be the one saint among us.  Coming down with the evening, I was scarcely at the gates of the inner valley when night was on me.  Of this gate, it is formed of a ponderous monument on the right, called Cathedral Rock, and on the left is the one bald spot in the Sierras, the great El Capitan.  The arch over this primeval threshold is the astral dome of heaven, and the gates stand ever open.  There is no toll taken in any mansion of my Father’s House, and this is one of them.  Passing to the door of my host, I lifted the latch noiselessly.  Before me dawned fresh experiences.  At my back Night gathered deeper than ever, and all around I seemed to read the rubric of Life’s new lesson.

We are a comfort to ourselves—­six of us, all told.  Summer invites our little company into a breezy hotel, over in the shadow across the valley.  Winter suggests a log cabin, an expansive fireplace, plenty of hickory, and as much sunshine as finds its way into our secluded hermitage.  So we are done up compactly, in between thick walls, our hard finish being in the shape of mud cakes in the chinks of the logs, and a very hard finish it is; but we take wondrous comfort withal.