Volume 5 — A TRIP TO THE YOSEMITE.

BY MISS FRANCES E. WILLARD, President of W. C. T. U.

The famous San Joaquin Valley is as large as the State of Ohio. It opens into the Sacramento Valley, and the two are about six hundred miles long. A plow could go the length of both and never touch a stone. In the San Joaquin they have a ranche where the gang plow starts in the morning, goes on a straight line all day, turns back and plows its twin furrow the next, having thus retraversed the length of one California farm.

It was through seven hours by rail of this valley that we went, in a southeasterly direction, from San Francisco to Madera, where two coaches were waiting to carry us over the one hundred miles in a northeasterly direction that still separated us from the wonderland ruled by “El Capitan.” There were twenty-three of us, and “none smoked or chewed, or drank or swore,” as I was credibly informed by our “El Capitan,” the Rev. Dr. Briggs. By the way, if Chautauqua wants a first class attraction let this name go on the list. We traveled rapidly. I counted thirty different horses on our coach in one day. We killed rattlesnakes, that is, the Dr. did, marching squarely forward and whacking them unmercifully with his stout cane, while we women, securely perched on our high seats in the coach, really enjoyed the sight. We saw horse-shoes enough for wholesale good luck, scattered along the road. We believe, and always shall, that we perceived a bear track, and wondered if it was made by famous “Club Foot Joe”—whose annals are they not in all the Tourist’s Chronicles? We told stories all strictly true. There was no Baron Münchausen amongst us, though had prosaic Easterners been within earshot of our driver they might perhaps have promulgated a different declaration. We did not fear robbers, for “a count” developed the fact that in our coach—chiefly inhabited by ministers, their wives, and sundry visiting philanthropists—gold watches were the only “plunder,” and these were all inscribed “Presented by” to that degree that no well regulated “road agent” would have wished such a “free advertisement” of his base conduct, as these trophies must have furnished. We sang old songs of the fireside and sanctuary, talked of the Chautauquas east and west, “marked” our favorite trees in “the ample forest of Bishop timber” (to be revealed after next General Conference), and regulated the affairs of the nation generally. We fitted ourselves out with a “local government” administered on the everlasting principles of justice and equality, i. e., we counted the women in, not out. I copy our rules from the log book of the expedition:

1. Unquestioned submission to constituted authority.

2. Silence when entering the valley.

3. Wives, be obedient to your husbands.—The Chaplain.

4. Wives, don’t you do it.—The Chaplain’s wife.

5. Whenever a dispute arises, the vote of every woman shall count two.—A widower.

6. Eat dinner often.—Little Walter Bland.

7. No one shall be required to speak grammatically on this trip.—F. E. W.

All of which were unanimously adopted except the one about “counting two,” which evoked a loud dissent.

The first day we rode seventy-two miles, stopping at Clark’s hospitable caravansary, and kindly permitting sweet sleep to knit up the raveled sleeve of care. Decoration Day (May 30th) came next, and with patriotic intent we had made out a program, intending to “celebrate” in the chapel built for Dr. Vincent when he conducted a miniature “Chautauqua Assembly” in the Yosemite a few years since. But when, after a mountain ride of half a day, surrounded by inclined planes of evergreens, each of which would have been a world’s wonder, at the East, with superb curves in the road evermore opening fresh vistas of illimitable height, verdure and beauty, we rounded

INSPIRATION POINT,

“there was no more spirit in us.” Nay, rather the spirit of beauty and divinity so possessed us that “plans” and “programs” sunk into oblivion. Word-pauperism oppresses one upon this height as nothing else on earth. There is in Europe a single revelation of art which has power to silence the chatter even of fashion’s devotees, and that is Raphael’s Sistine Madonna. I have been in its seraphic presence for hours at a time, but never heard a vocal comment. The foamiest natures are not silenced by Niagara, by Mt. Blanc, by the Jungfrau’s awful purity, or the terrors of Vesuvius for their flippant tones have smitten me in all these sacred places. But from the little child in our midst—a bright faced boy of four—to the rough, kind hearted driver, not one word was spoken by our party as

THE HEAVENLY VISION

framed in fleecy, flying clouds, greeted our thoughtful eyes and spoke of God to our hushed souls. Except beside the dying bed of my beloved I have never felt the veil so thin between me and the world ineffable—supernal. What was it like? Let no pen less lofty than that of Milton, less atune with nature’s purest mood than that of Wordsworth, hope to “express unblamed” the awful and ethereal beauty of what we saw. “Earth with her thousand voices praises God,” sang the great heart of Coleridge, from the vale of Chamouni, but here, the divine chorus includes both earth and heaven, for El Capitan rears his head into the sky, Sentinel, Cathedral Rocks and sky-climbing clouds rest while the symphony of eighteen waterfalls rounds out the diapason.

These tuneful words of Thompson’s “Seasons” express the milder mood of nature, but who can fitly tell of the condensed impressions about God made by a valley only six miles long, one mile wide, and half a mile high, wherein every form of solemn, majestic and pastoral beauty are combined. A holy awe rested upon us, and tears were in all eyes. At last the sacred silence was broken by a rich voice, beloved by me for many a year, as Mrs. Dr. Bentley lead the “Gloria in Excelsis,” in which the jubilant soprano harmonized with the melodious bass of humanity’s united utterance of praise. “O come, let us worship and bow down, let us kneel before the Lord, our Maker,” these inspired words leaped to our lips, and we found that beyond all poets was the fitness of dear old words, our mothers taught us from the book of God, in this supreme moment of our experience. “The Lord is in his holy temple, let all the earth keep silence before Him,” “What is man that Thou art mindful of him,” “Stand in awe and sin not:” these were the first words that came to us, and I believe we shall be better men and women always for that vision of eternity from which the curtain of mystery was for a moment drawn aside. We learned afterward that as our coaches rolled on into the valley a third rounded “Inspiration Point,” and Judge ⸺ of Sydney, Ohio, a dear old gentleman, rose to his feet, clasped his hands as if in prayer, and exclaimed “Mercy! mercy! Have I lived seventy-six years that I might see this glory! God made it all!” and he lifted up his voice and wept. Such a scene as that is once for a life time.

We saw the valley from an hundred points of view afterward, we waved our good-bye to it a week later from this very point, but the first remains the unmatched view—its like will never greet our eyes again—not in this world.

As we sped onward into the valley one of us said: “I never felt before such pity for the blind.”