My First Summer in the Sierra

It seems strange that visitors to Yosemite should be so little influenced by its novel grandeur, as if their eyes were bandaged and their ears stopped. Most of those I saw yesterday were looking down as if wholly unconscious of anything going on about them, while the sublime rocks were trembling with the tones of the mighty chanting congregation of waters gathering music that might draw angels out of heaven. Yet respectable-looking, even wise-looking people were fixing bits of worms on bent pieces of wire to catch trout. Sport they called it. Should church-goers try to pass the time fishing in baptismal fonts while dull sermons were being preached, the so-called sport might not be so bad; but to play it in the Yosemite temple, seeking pleasure in the pain of fishes struggling for their lives, while God himself is preaching his sublimest water and stone sermons.

I find this passage to be very poetic and conscientious at the same time. Muir is referring to Yosemite as a holy temple with baptismal fonts in it. He is outraged by tourists putting worm pieces on a bent wire to fish. He finds it sacrilegious to find pleasure in the pain of the fishes struggling to breathe and even more to call it a sport. He thinks that the whole Yosemite is a temple where God preaches his sublimest water and stone sermon. The sound of the water hitting against the rocks is like God's voice preaching. Muir resents the tourist because he fells that even though they are there, they don't have the capacity to appreciate the holiness and splendor of Yosemite with the respect that he does.