ful Tennessee River, which washes the base of the mountain, and then turns away in an opposite direction. Far up the stream we saw a steamer Knoxville bound, where, as we learn, Burnside conquered the so-called invincible corps of Longstreet.

To our right lay the valley, beautiful with vegetation, and decked with fine farms and plantations, while the smoke rising in blue, wreathy clouds marked the devastating path of an army. Turning back from the rock, we soon came to the rebel breastworks, where had formerly been a couple of Parrott guns, whose keenly whistling shells, as they flew down into the valley, had made me often prove myself to be what Jack Downing calls Amos Kendall, 'a masterhand at dodging.' I used frequently to watch the shells, thrown from Chattanooga, burst on the crest of the mountain, and several marks on these breastworks told the fearful accuracy of our aim. Here, too, on the top of a large tree, was built a platform, where stood the signal officer as he waved his news. Often have I gazed on the large red flag, as it sent some rebel dispatch, and often have I sighed to think that I could not read the dispatch, so tauntingly, as it were, held up before our eyes. I recollect, one night, however, that as I watched the signal-light on the mountain, a shell from Chattanooga burst just beyond him, and a perceptible flutter made me think that he had experienced a hairbreadth 'scape.'

Leaving the breastworks behind, we passed through the camp of the Eighth Kentucky Infantry, which had the honor of hoisting its flag on Lookout, the first that waved to tell that we possessed the mountain. Near by is a fine summer residence, built in Southern style. It had been a commissary establishment, and we found a quantity of rebel meal and flour and hard bread. We purchased a sack of meal, and got a 'hard tack' to taste. Some of the soldiers whom we met told us that our commissary department was issuing

rebel hard tack, of which we had just captured large quantities, and they invariably assured us that they liked the rebel bread better than ours, which we could only account for by the (supposed) fact that our Government is now issuing the same hard bread that starved Scott's army out of Mexico, while that of the rebels, at best, cannot be over three years of age.

About half a mile further on we came to Summerville, where, as the name indicates, the wealthy were wont, in other days, to while away the summer months. The houses are all indicative of the use they were put to, being light frame buildings, surrounded with the extensive porches or galleries that so invariably adorn a Southern home. In most of these houses, now tenantless, we found many pieces of elegant furniture; and in one, a nice sofa seemed very inviting to one who had in the army deemed himself happy to seat himself on a cracker-box or a leathern valise. We explored a large hotel, and found in an up-stairs room two neat, marble-topped billiard-tables. But alas! the balls had rolled their last carom there, and the cues had vanished, while the ruthless hands of the soldiery had carried away the cushions and the great green cloth that had been the field of many a wellfought battle. There were four families residing in the village, all minus their male members, however, as far as I could discover, save some few children not yet old enough to abandon the favorite occupation of making 'mud-pies.'

Leaving Summerville to our rear, we soon came to the point where we commence the descent of the mountain, which, however, is very gradual. We followed the road mainly, several times, however, making cut-offs by climbing over ledges of rocks, and down through fissures and over places impossible to ascend, but most easy of descent. Sometimes the road runs along little shelves just wide enough for a wagon to pass, where a high wall on one hand rises hundreds of feet above, while a precipice

on the other descends hundreds of feet to the water's edge. But at last, after six weary miles, we reached the camp again, where, tired and hungry, I sat down to rest, and when old Tom' called me to supper, there was very soon a perceptible reduction in the bulk of corn bread, commissary ham, and army coffee. On the whole, I was much pleased with the trip, and I consider that the beauty of the scene from the crest amply repays the exertion necessary to

reach it. My pen can hardly do the subject justice, and, in a military point of view, the mountain is of such importance, and, as I think, impregnability, that its abandonment by the rebels clearly indicates the feebleness of their hopes. Long may the proud starry banner wave on its crest, and may the hand of rebellion never again use it for a stronghold against the armies of the United States of America !

In ancient times, the sombre forests and scantily cultivated valleys of Germany were the dwelling-places of those dwarfish people called gnomes. During the golden age when men were frank and loyal, these playful and harmless elves loved to frequent the cottages of the simple inhabitants of these neigh borhoods; but now it is said that they make their appearance but seldom during daylight, carefully shunning the presence of man, from whose cruelty and ingratitude they have but too frequently and too acutely suffered. Less timid, the graceful Naiads or Ondines, who dwell beneath the pellucid waters of the Wildsee or the Mummelsee, show themselves frequently to mortals. Many a youth wandering on the banks of those lakes has observed with curious and admiring eyes the sportive and voluptuous dances of these charming fées of the water, as, during a long summer's night, the moon gleaming on the tranquil bosom of the inland sea, their lithe and graceful figures form the most exquisite groups, as ever and anon they balance themselves in perfect cadence to the sound of some rustic pipe which accompanies the murmur of a neighboring

brook, or the roar of some distant cataract.

But all the Ondines do not remain forever in the lakes. There are those who, clothed like mortals, and staff in hand, enter the dwellings of men, and recount to the family sitting around the fire many wonderful stories, describing in vivid language the beauties of their coral grottos and palaces of crystal. It may happen occasionally, indeed, that some woodsman, after having received the visit of an Ondine, has become suddenly rich, while his neighbors account for this unlooked-for prosperity by the supposition that the Nymph, despite the commands of the old King of the Waters, has left with her host some priceless pearl or precious coral as a souvenir. During these visits, it has been frequently remarked as curious, that even in the midst of a most animated conversation, the Ondines never fail to hear their signal of recall, given by the King himself. Hastily quitting their mortal acquaintance, they return to the lake, where, in company with their fair sisters, they plunge into the limpid wave, and sinking to the bottom, reënter their magic homes, whose emer

ald walls glitter amid bowers of lotus, and the most exquisite and varied plants and flowers unknown to earth. There, in palaces gleaming like the rainbow, or in grottos formed of shells, these Naiads receive the visits of the Nymphs of the rivers and springs; and here, on his throne of sapphire, sits the old man with white beard and azure eyes who governs these sprites of the lakes. It is he who recalls his sportive subjects from their midnight revels. As the

first beam of day appears in the east, the old man, crowned with reeds, rises to the surface of the water, and elevating his hand, gives the well-known signal. The Ondines have a law that should one of them be induced by her love for a human being to remain on earth, she by them is vowed to death; if, on the contrary, she persuade her lover to follow her, he is then drawn under the stream to the bottom of the lake, where he is condemned by the old man either to remain a subject in his watery kingdom, or to return to earth. There have been those who, after having lived many years with the fairies, for some fault have later been sent to their own homes. Such have paid with a broken heart the penalty for past happiness.

In the days of which we are speaking there lived in the valley of the Mourg an old shepherd, with his daughter Eda and his adopted son Arno. This latter had been found in infancy in a neighboring chapel, at the foot of a statue of the Virgin. The good shepherd took the poor babe home for the love of God, and his wife having just lost her firstborn infant, the little Arno seemed providentially sent to replace the departed angel. In three years these good people were blessed with a daughter, whose birth, however, cost the mother her life. The children grew up together, and it was difficult to say which the father loved most. Ignorant of the name either of his country or his parents, the young Arno placed all his affections on his adopted father, while

to Eda he showed the attachment of the fondest brother; therefore about the time when she was sixteen, and Arno three years older, all the village looked forward to a wedding between the young people, than whom a handsomer couple could not be seen. Arno was manly and noble-looking, with dark hair and an eye full of melancholy passion; tall, athletic, and muscular, though lithe and agile in figure; his step was the firmest on the mountain and in the tangled forest, and the lightest in the village dance. Eda was round and plump and rosy, with dimpled cheeks, pearly teeth, and a wealth of sunny brown hair; and, better than all, she had the kindest heart and sweetest temper in the world. It was so pretty to see her, in her peasant's boddice and short petticoat, moving about the cottage, baking the cakes or preparing the frugal supper for her beloved father and adopted brother. She put so natural a grace into even the commonest things, that even the women and old men thought Arno most fortunate in his domestic prospects, and as for the younger men, they would gladly have stepped into his shoes if they could.

One evening Eda met Arno coming home, and running to meet him, cried: 'O Arno! to-morrow is our dear father's fête. Have you been to the Wildsee lake to get him the wild bird's eggs which you know he likes so much?'

'My sweet Eda,' replied the youth, 'forgive me this once. I forgot, for I was in chase of something more substantial for supper,' and he showed slung across his shoulder a very fine fawn which he had killed.

'Poor little thing!' said the young girl, 'how pretty he is! But, Arno, we must have the eggs. What is to be done?'

'Well, wilful child,' said he, the sun is yet high above the horizon, and the lake is but two leagues off. I will go, and, Eda, wear these flowers in thy auburn tresses.'

Eda took the wild flowers with a

smile and a blush, for when did Arno ever forget to bring her either flowers or fruit, or a curious shell, or something pretty?—and as she kissed her hand to him, as, after having nimbly scaled the neighboring cliff, he turned to make her a farewell sign, the young girl's heart swelled with pride and happiness. She stood watching the rapidly retreating figure of him she thought would so shortly be her husband, and, 'Holy Virgin!' she mentally ejaculated, 'pardon me, for I fear I love him too well, dear heart. How happy I am too happy!' and she commenced singing, but it was a melancholy strain she chose, and when she ceased, she sighed. Meanwhile our hero bounded over every obstacle with the elastic step of early manhood. He too sang a song of the chase, and thought at first of Eda. 'She is a dear, loving child,' he mused, and will make a good wife. She is growing prettier, too, every day; indeed, I never saw any other girl half so pretty. It is true I can imagine a woman more, oh! far more beautiful, but then I feel sure no living creature can come up to one's ideal. Oh! I would I were a painter; then would I show the world what beauty is' and then he plunged into a delicious day-dream, and imperceptibly slackened his pace and sauntered gently on, so that when he reached the Wildsee, the sun had long sunk below the horizon, and the moon having risen, the lake lay at his feet bathed in a flood of silver light.

Arno was a born poet, though he had never made a rhyme; therefore, as Shakspeare, Byron, Tasso, or Tennyson would have done in his place, he forgot all about the eggs, and, spell-bound by the fairy-like enchantment of the scene, sat down on a projecting rock which commanded a full view of the lake. Arno had been seated there but a few moments when he heard at some short distance the silvery chords of a harp. They appeared to proceed from a wooded promontory near by. His curiosity excited, the youth rose, and with

the greatest caution endeavored to penetrate the brushwood in the direction from which these sweet sounds proceeded. Judge, then, his surprise on perceiving seated at the foot of a rock a lady of the most marvellous beauty. With one of her hands she held a golden harp, through the chords of which she ever and anon drew her taper fingers, while the other arm, white and pure as alabaster, was passed around the neck of a white fawn.

An indescribable fascination took possession of the young man, nor could he withdraw his gaze from the beauteous apparition. He felt, too, that he was irresistibly drawn into the presence of the Nymph. At his approach she commenced singing. Her voice completed the charm. Scarce knowing what he did, Arno fell on his knees, listening breathlessly to these supernatural accents. Suddenly a hand, soft and humid, was laid tenderly on his brow. Lifting his eyes, poor Arno beheld the Syren on her knees beside him. Twining her arms around him, she murmured softly:

'I love thee, dearer, far dearer than human heart can love. Alas! how long has the desire for one glance of thine eyes, one word from thy lips, consumed me!'

Arno listened timidly at first, scarcely able to believe he was not a victim to some happy delusion, and fearing to awake from too delicious a dream; but at length, growing more daring, he returned her caresses, and could never be satisfied with gazing on her beauty. Soon after midnight, however, the lovers tore themselves apart, but not without a thousand vows and protestations to meet again each evening at the same hour and in the same spot.

Arno did not reach his home till long after the family were gone to rest, and, as may be imagined, he passed a sleepless night. On leaving his chamber, he met pretty Eda, who, chiding him for a sluggard, asked for the eggs. Blushing at the falsehood he was about to utter, the young man replied: 'That the lord of

to be taken.' And on Eda's exclamation of dismay, he told her ungraciously, 'to be quiet, and not worry him about it.'

The poor child's eyes filled with tears, and she went about her household duties silently and sadly. Arno left the moment after the morning meal. He feared to be questioned, and besides his soul was in such a tumult he longed for solitude. All day he saw before him in fancy the beautiful maiden with her long golden hair sweeping the ground, her violet eyes filled with the languor of love, and for the first time he thought poor Eda vulgar and coarse. 'She is only a peasant's daughter,' he said to himself; but this must be a princess, or perhaps the Nymph of the lake. Ah! no,' he hastily added, fearing to lose his new found happiness, 'this cannot be.'

For many evenings Arno met his beloved on the borders of the Wildsee, returning home after each meeting more in love than ever, for every moment disclosed to him some new charm in her he adored. In their last interview the Nymph informed her lover that she was called 'Rose of the lake;' she also told him that she could not again meet him for three days, and added that she must entreat him, as a favor, never to speak of or call her by her name. Thus say ing, she bade him tenderly farewell, and disappeared rapidly through the trees.

The three days passed, and many more, yet the lovely apparition returned not. A prey to despair, the unhappy young man wandered weeping by the borders of the lake. He now scarcely ever entered the paternal home, where an old man sat silent and sorrowful, and the cheek of a blooming young girl waxed paler and paler each day.

One morning Arno, having thrown himself on the grass near the spot where he was accustomed to meet his

A piercing shriek was the only reply to these words. A supernatural laugh of derision seemed to arise from the lake, whose waters were agitated violently; the nymph plunged in, and where she disappeared was seen a lily all wet with blood.

It was then that Arno.remembered his promise never to call his adored one by her name. He knew now that he had caused her death, and that fearful shriek had been her last. Mad with grief, he fled away-away-nor ever was heard of more.

The good hermit was the bearer of sad tidings to the village that night. For days and days did the old man and the young maiden expect the prod igal's return; but at the end of a year the father died, bowed down by age and care. Unwilling to leave his Eda unprotected, he had besought her to choose a husband from among her many suitors.

'Father,' said the poor girl, 'I loved Arno so dearly that it was idolatry. GoD, therefore, has taken him from me. I can now never love mortal again. No, I feel that I must be affianced to HIM who alone is worthy to be the husband of the widow, for such in heart I am. Father, to-morrow I shall be no longer Eda, but Sister Ursula of the Redemption.'