THE HOME OF GLOOSCAP. 65 



It was an index finger pointing towards the 

 falls, whose solemn music made sky and moun- 

 tain vibrate in perpetual unison. 



The northern curve of the rock basin's wall 

 was broken by a narrow, perpendicular rift reach- 

 ing from the sky down to within sixty or eighty 

 feet of the surface of the pool. This was the 

 door through which Indian Brook had, since the 

 time of glaciers, sprung from the bosom of the 

 mountain, and by which it was now pouring its 

 compressed mass, with a single motion, into the 

 dark depths of the basin. Looking through 

 the rift, I could discern only a few yards of flat 

 water racing towards its fall, and black walls of 

 rock scowling upon the mad stream which swept 

 past them. These walls rose to meet the spruce 

 forest ; the forest sloped far upwards to meet the 

 pale blue sky, and the slender points of the high- 

 est trees were now faintly touched by the morn- 

 ing sun. There was no trace of man in this soli- 

 tude, yet it was eloquent with beauty and power. 

 What the high altar is to the dimly lighted ca- 

 thedral, this hollow in the heart of the Cape 

 Breton hills is to the wilderness which surrounds 

 it. The altar is the focus for every eye, every 

 moving lip, every prayerful heart. This vale 

 of falling waters is the focus of the beautiful 

 lines of the mountains, down which sunlight 

 and shadows steal in turn, along which brooks 



