the beautiful blue waters of the Tennessee flowing apparently at our feet, but in reality a mile or two distant.  Beyond lay the city of Chattanooga, nestling down in the bend of the river, while away in the distance occasional glimpses of the stream could be had as it wound in and out around the hills and mountains that lined its either side, until the great river looked no larger than a mountain brooklet.  From the highest peak of Lookout Mountain we catch faint streaks of far away Alabama; on the right, North Carolina; to the north, Tennessee; and to the south and east were Georgia and our own dear South Carolina.  From this place many of our soldiers cast the last lingering look at the land they loved so well.  On the plateau of the mountain was a beautiful lake of several acres in extent, surrounded by lovely little villas and summer houses, these all hurriedly deserted by the necessities of war—­the furniture and fixtures left all in place as the owners took their hastened departure.  In one house we visited was left a handsome piano, on which those who could perform gave the soldiers delightful music.

There was a roadway winding around the base of the mountain and gradually up its slopes to the plateau above, where wagons and other vehicles passed to the top.  Most of the soldiers who wished to visit this beautiful and historic place passed up this road way, but there was another route—­just a foot-path—­up its precipitous sides, which had to be climbed hundreds of feet, perpendicularly, by means of ladders fastened to its sides.  After going up one ladder, say fifty or seventy-five feet, we would come to a little offset in the mountain side, just wide enough to get a foot-hold, before taking another ladder.  Some of the boldest climbers took this route to reach the summit, but after climbing the first ladder and looking back towards the gorge below, I concluded it was safer and more pleasant to take the “longer way round.”  It certainly takes a man of stout heart and strong nerves to climb those ladders up to the “lands of the sky.”

The scenery in and around Chattanooga and Lookout Mountain is grand, far beyond pen picturing.  The surroundings had a kind of buoyancy even to the spirits of the badly clad and badly fed soldiers, which caused their stale bread and “cush” to be eaten with a relish.  The mountain homes seemed veritable “castles in the air.”  Looking from the top of Lookout Mountain—­its position, its surroundings, its natural fortresses—­this would have made an old Feudal lord die of envy.  Autumn is now at hand, with its glorious sunsets, its gorgeous coloring of the leaves and bushes away to the right on Missionary Ridge, the magnificent purple draperies along the river sides that rise and fall to our right and left, its blue waters dwindling away until they meet the deeper blue of the sky—­are all beautiful beyond description.  Lovely though this scenery may be in autumn, and its deeper coloring of green in the summer, how dazzled must be the looker on in beholding it in its tender, blushing mantle of spring?