June 9.—Yesterday my friend, Mrs. Brewer, invited me to accompany her on a visit to Lookout Mountain. There was quite a large party, and a very delighful one. It was given in honor of General McCown, who was of the number. We stopped at a very pretty house on the summit, and had an addition to our party of two very pretty girls—the Misses Cox— who are the nymphs and reign sole queens of this enchanting spot. One of them I thought perfectly beautiful. The day was cool and pleasant, and the scenery even more beautiful than when I was last there; the foliage was in its maturity, and the wind, sighing through the trees, filled me with a pleasurable sadness which I can never describe.
“Those are the haunts of meditation; these
The scenes where ancient bards the inspiring breath
Ecstatic felt, and, from this world retired,
Conversed with angels and immortal forms,
On gracious errand bent; to save the fall
Of virtue struggling on the brink of vice;
In waking whispers, and repeated dreams,
To hint pure thought, and warn the favored soul
For future trials fated to prepare.”
As we looked down at the plain beneath, I asked one of the gentlemen if he thought a cannon-ball fired from there could reach us. He said no; he did not think it possible. After partaking of a very fine lunch, we started to pay a visit to Rock City, some two miles distant from the Point of Rocks; but found it was too late, as it would be impossible to descend the mountain after dark. I was disappointed, as I had heard much of this natural curiosity. I have been told it has trees, castles, and mountains of solid rock, cut by Nature’s masonry.
We stopped a few hours at a very large house, built for a hotel, but then empty. It is owned by Mrs. Colonel Whitesides, who was of the party. We procured some very delicious water from a spring on the brow of the mountain, which abounds in
“Story-telling glens, and founts, and brooks.”
