spread over the west--while in the east, the sky faded to a chalky whiteness, low thunders muttered in the mountains, and faint shudders crept through the leaves; a line of fire curled up over the cloud, and in an instant, so vivid and swift were the electric bursts, the air seemed sheeted in flames. In a long residence on both lake and sea shore I remember no transition so startling, as this from a loveliness which was beatific to a tempest which was appalling. But the storm was as brief as its coming had been sudden, and, as the sun shone out over the dripping foliage, each leaf and blade reflected bright colors through its prismatic drops, the distant trees gleaming like sea spray in the light. As we looked through purple vapors, floating from the purple heights of shadowy mountains, the window seemed mirroring the sensuous splendors of an Italian landscape. In descending to the valley, we took a winding road which led farther up toward the heart of the range. Here were gorges opening up through the mountains, which baffle all description, and before which Art must despair. Such grouping! such luxury! so blended and irradiated with gossamer mists, it seemed easy to fancy, that in their depths lay hidden the happy fields of Pan. It is in these mists which harmonize contrasts, in these tremulous motions which conceal angles and abruptness, that nature defies art; the subtlest art may suggest, but cannot reproduce them. As we stopped, for a moment, at the foot of the mountain, and looked up through the fragrant air to the sunset sky, and forward into the valley, mantling with slumbrous shade, our young friend from Europe exclaimed, 'I have seen to-day, what I had never expected to see in America,--mountains as picturesque as those of Wales, and a sky mellow and brilliant as that of Italy.' For me, I could not help but feel that in American scenery lies the hope of American artists, and that the artist to whom Rome is denied, may receive even fuller inspiration from the sea and skies and heights of his native land! This was in 1859. There was then no token or presage of that other July day, when, under the very shadow of these mountains, an army thrilled with heroic impulse; when men, whose whole lives had been ignoble, redeemed them by the most sublime daring; and those whose lives held every promise yielded them with the most patriotic devotion; and through long sultry hours, men cheerfully endured the tortures of thirst, of wounds, and of lonely death agonies, sustained by a prescience of victory. Thus was the scene, which nature had made enchanting, rendered historic and immortal. A. J. S. ARE YOU FOR THE COUNTRY? Then draw and strike In nature's right, And Freedom's might, To break the night Of Slavery's blight, And make our country free! Strike home the blow, And bravely show The traitor foe His blood shall flow Beneath the glow Of _Freedom's_ victory.