Julia was sure he could not be so wicked—she had herself observed the bundle, and that it was very nicely sewed.
Mrs. Sackville hoped and believed that there was no harm done to the poor woman's property; and the concern of the party for their protegée, gradually gave place to their admiration of the beauties of their ride, and the animated expectation of seeing the Falls.
Edward declared that his ears already began to tingle,—and after they passed Chippewa, Julia resolutely shut her eyes, for fear of having the first impression weakened by the imperfect glimpses that could be caught of the cataract from the road.
We hope our young readers do not think us so presumptuous as to attempt to give them a description of the Falls of Niagara; one of the sublimest spectacles with which this fair earth is embellished. Neither can we attempt to define the emotions of our travellers. We find in Edward's and Julia's journals, noted with an accuracy and taste that does them great credit, all the constituent parts of this great whole—a poet or a painter might perhaps weave them into a beautiful picture.
The vehement dashing of the rapids—the sublime falls—the various hues of the mass of waters—the snowy whiteness, and the deep bright green—the billowy spray that veils in deep obscurity the depths below—the verdant island that interposes between the two falls, half veiled in a misty mantle, and placed there, it would seem, that the eye and the spirit may repose on it—the little island on the brink of the American fall, that looks amidst the commotion of the waters like the sylvan vessel of a woodland nymph gaily sailing onward; or as if the wish of the Persian girl were realized, and the ‘little isle had wings;’—a thing of life and motion that the spirit of the waters had inspired.
The profound caverns with their overarching rocks—the quiet habitations along the margin of the river—peaceful amid all the uproar, as if the voice of the Creator had been heard, saying “It is I, be not afraid.”—The green hill, with its graceful projections, that skirts and overlooks Table-rock—the deep and bright verdure of the foliage—every spear of grass that penetrates the crevices of the rocks, gemmed by the humid atmosphere, and sparkling in the sun-beams—the rainbow that rests on the mighty torrent—a symbol of the smile of God upon his wondrous work.
“What is it, mother?” asked Edward, as he stood with his friends on Table-rock, where they had remained gazing on the magnificent scene for fifteen minutes without uttering a syllable, “what is it, mother, that makes us all so silent?”
“It is the spirit of God moving on the face of the waters—it is this new revelation to our senses of his power and majesty which ushers us, as it were, into his visible presence, and exalts our affections above language.
“What, my dear children, should we be, without the religious sentiment that is to us as a second sight, by which we see in all this beauty the hand of the Creator; by which we are permitted to join in this hymn of nature; by which, I may say, we are permitted to enter into the joy of our Lord? Without it we should be like those sheep, who are at this moment grazing on the verge of this sublime precipice, alike unconscious of all these wonders, and of their divine Original. This religious sentiment is in truth, Edward, that promethean fire that kindles nature with a living spirit, infuses life and expression into inert matter, and invests the mortal with immortality.” Mrs. Sackville's eye was upraised, and her countenance illumined with a glow of devotion that harmonized with the scene. “It is, my dear children,” she continued, “this religious sentiment, enlightened and directed by reason, that allies you to external nature, that should govern your affections, direct your pursuits, exalt and purify your pleasures, and make you feel, by its celestial influence, that the kingdom is within you; but,” she added smiling, after a momentary pause, “this temple does not need a preacher.”