And now we turn our faces toward the outer world. We turn our backs upon the weird shadows, the damps and chills, the hanging forests of stalactite creeping down slowly and surely, their brethren of the stalagmite persuasion as slowly and surely creeping up; promising a meeting which we cannot stay to witness. Leave behind us all the grandeurs of the cavern, both brilliant and gloomy. Leave them in their dungeon, to their “ways that are dark,” and turn toward the gladsome sunshine. To the world of light and life and beauty. Never before did the day burst upon me with such splendor. Emerging suddenly from our six hours of constant groping among the shadows of old night, and of wrestling with the powers of darkness, into the golden glory of a Southern day; the brightness exaggerated by the contrast, almost blinded us--and I realized, as never before, how blind we are to the beauty and grandeur of this old world of ours. Accustomed to appropriate it as a matter of course, we fail to appreciate our priceless heritage. This warm-hearted mother earth which not only nurtures us, but bears upon and within her bosom the countless millions of extinct forms, which have been used as stepping-stones along the route through all the ages leading up to us--and of all the innumerable multitude, both living and dead, she crowns us King. Let us justify her preference by opening the records that she holds for our inspection, and reading the story of life. The road may be rough, and the way may be long, but we shall reap if we faint not. We cannot fail of our reward, but shall gather of the treasures of knowledge, which science is ever ready to bestow upon her devotees. Let her lead us down into the catacombs of the buried nations that have preceded us; interpret for us the hand-writing upon the tomb stones, and show us the fossil foot-prints of the Great Creator. She will teach us nothing but God’s truth. Under her guidance we shall find “tongues in trees, sermons in stones, books in the running brooks, and good in everything.” Under her interpretation the “mountains and the hills shall break forth before us into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.” Let us now return from a contemplation of the inner treasures of earth to the struggle for existence upon its surface. On the morning of November 24th, 1863, we were again in front of Lookout mountain. I wonder if you are as tired of it as I was. We crossed Lookout creek upon a rude bridge composed of two logs laid across and floored with fence rails, the water of the rapid mountain stream boiling under the logs and gurgling among the rails--and ran our line by the right flank up the mountain side.