The ardent, poetic temperament has a conditional foretaste of what it is to escape the flesh envelope and assume spiritual alertness. But it is not always thus that this gorgeous land presents itself. It has moods of tremendous energy, and to make returning mildness more alluring, as the cunning master of music intersperses rude chords in his glorious melody, it veils the comely perfection of its face in a storm of frowns, but only such as triumphant beauty can assume betimes. Then the alpine cliffs are garmented with mist, while the Hyder Ali of Cloud Land poises on the declivities, concentrated with black wrath, before rushing down in fragmentary battalions upon the plains below. But there is no ravage. The little hut of the inhabitant remains unscathed, still emitting from its rough chimney a curling smoke, and the lordly mansion, perched on some aspiring peak, stands steadfast, while the fairy maiden shrined there playfully dabbles her white fingers in the foam of the upper deep. From the dark canopy of the great giant of the Smoky range leaps the live lightning, and a thunder roll bellows or crackles or mutters in a myriad strange defiles, but we know that behind this lowering front, hinting of God’s smile behind the tempest, our winsome Lady of the Sky is laughing still, with the spring in her brilliant eyes, and the wild flowers, smitten by sunshine in her golden hair. Anon, as the seasons are made mutable, another phase is disclosed. The air grows cold as if in the clutch of some Siberian intruder, and feathery flakes pour down their “snow storm of stars,” and the mighty monsters of the mountain world yield placidly to their chill, pallid cerements, but we feel that this is one of our enchanter’s displays of infinite variety, and that our spirits are held in thrall for another transformation. And what a valiant exaltation the chill breath of the ozone-ladened breeze fixes in our blood, and what roses in our cheeks! How we dominate with resistless stride the pedestrian paths, or how we credit the fable of the Centaur, when, in the fervor of environment, we partake of the joy and very existence of the nimble steed we have bestrode adventurously! In other climes and with other surroundings we have felt languor, or dullness, or restive incapacity, but here, with the potent inspiration of the panorama and the atmosphere, our whole being bounds with daring briskness and mastering activity. In the overwhelming sense of powerful forces put in play, we do not ask if life be worth living, but thank God that we are alive and filled with the alchemy of Sky Land. When these agencies react and demand the unbent bow, we lounge, it may be on the porches of the grand hotel, with eyes restful upon Pisgah and the enormous petrifaction of the rat that never budges from its lair. Perchance, with appetite made robust and undeniable, we attack the toothsome repast provided, but ever and anon we glance through the big windows