d 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."

"Perhaps not," said Mr. Sackville; "but the language of nature sometimes
needs an interpreter to such young observers as Ned and Julia."

"That it does, papa," exclaimed Edward, whose exalted feeling was
gradually subsiding to its natural level; "and there are people, too,
older than Julia and I, that I think need an interpreter. That
Yorkshireman, for instance, who lives in the stone house just at the
turn of the road as we came down from Forsyth's, said to me, 'Well,
young master, this is a mighty fine sight to come and see, but you would
be sick enough of it if you lived here. It seems, when I am lying on my
bed at night, like an everlasting thunder-storm, such a roaring from the
Falls and dropping from the trees: and in winter my poor beasts are
covered with icicles. I wish some of the quality that cry the place up,
and come half the world over to see it, would change births with my
wife and me,' and so he went on railing till I ran away from him to
overtake you."

"Poor fellow!" said Mr. Sackville; "the sentiment, 'Il n'y a rien de
beau que l'utile,'[3] is quite excusable in a laborer. I think, Ned, I
feel more disposed to pity than to blame your Yorkshireman."

[3] There is nothing but the useful which is beautiful.

"Well, papa, what do you think of that party of city shop-keepers who
dined at the inn with us to-day? I hear