Early in the forenoon of Sunday, the 14th of September, General Burnside, leading the Union army, ascended a high hill, a few miles west of Frederick, and looked down upon one of the loveliest valleys in the world. At his feet was the village of Middletown; beyond it, in the bottom of the valley, the Catoctin Creek winds through ever verdant meadows, past old mansions, surrounded with well-filled barns. North and south, far as the eye can reach, are wheat and clover fields, and acres of corn putting on its russet hues. Beyond the creek, the road winds along the mountain side, past the little hamlet called Bolivar. There are ledges, loose stones, groves of oak, and thickets of mountain shrubs. There is a house on the summit,--once a tavern, where the teamsters and stagemen of former days watered their tired horses, and drank their ale, and ate a lunch. It is old and dilapidated now. But standing there and looking east, it seems as if a strong armed man might cast a stone upon Middletown, hundreds of feet below. Twelve miles away to the east are the spires of Frederick, gleaming in the sun. Westward from this mountain gate we many behold at our feet Boonsboro' and Keedysville, and the crooked Antietam; and still farther westward, the Potomac, making its great northern sweep to Williamsport. In the northwest, twelve miles distant, is Hagerstown, at the head of the Cumberland valley. Longstreet is there on this Sunday morning, sending his cavalry up to the Pennsylvania lines, gathering cattle, horses, and pigs. General D. H. Hill beholds the Union army spread out upon the plains before him, reaching all the way to Frederick city,--dark-blue masses moving towards him along the road, through the fields, with banners waving, their bright arms reflecting the morning sunshine. He is confident that he can hold the place,--so narrow,--the mountain sides so steep, and one Southerner equal to five Yankees. He hates the men of the north. He is a native of South Carolina, and was educated by the government at West Point. He was teacher of the North Carolina Military School. Before the war, he did what he could to stir up the people of the South to rebel. He told them that the South won nearly all the battles of the Revolution, but that the Northern historians had given the credit to the North, which was a "Yankee trick." He published an Algebra in 1857, which Stonewall Jackson pronounced superior to all others, in which his inveterate hatred appears. His problems are expressive of hatred and contempt. "A Yankee," he states, "mixes a certain number of wooden nutmegs, which cost him one fourth of a cent apiece, with real nutmegs worth four cents apiece, and sells the whole assortment for $44, and gains $3.75 by the fraud. How many wooden nutmegs are there?"