canons glimpses are to be had of the granite or 

 porphyry which underlies the sandstone — the very 

 corner-stone of the hills. It is as though onei had 

 come upon the most ancient papyrus of the world 

 or unearthed the first Babylonian inscription. 



It seems incredible the stream should have sawed 

 its way through so many feet of rock and pro- 

 duced the canon. Day and night it eats its way 

 inward, like a saw cutting to the heart of a forest 

 tree. But see what the rain will do — so gentle a 

 thing as the falling rain. Together they have hewn 

 the cliffs, which are like vast rock tombs with 

 their Egyptian massiveness. A filmy cloud floats 

 down the gorge, trailing along the edge of the 

 precipices, an intangible and shadowy form, spirit- 

 like and ethereal, receiving the rays of the setting 

 sun and becoming golden and then rose-colored, 

 and dissolving away at last into the invisible. This 

 fugitive, shadowy thing, this bit of mist, is the 

 mountain sculptor. 



The rocks were the prototype of the temple, as 

 was the forest of the Gothic cathedral, the date- 

 palm of the Byzantine dome. But there worships 

 here only the canon-wren. He is the high priest 

 who lifts up his voice in these rock temples — a 

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