LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. 45 



high mountains, range beyond range, cul- 

 minating in the Cumberland Mountains in 

 one direction, and the Great Smokies in 

 another. And as we look at the fair picture 

 we think of what was done here, — of his- 

 toric persons and historic deeds. At the 

 foot of the cliffs on which we stand is White 

 House plateau, the battlefield of Lookout 

 Mountain. Chattanooga itself is spread 

 out before us, with Orchard Knob, Cameron 

 Hill, and the national cemetery. Yonder 

 stretches the long line of Missionary Ridge, 

 and farther south, recognizable by at least 

 one of the government towers, is the battle- 

 field of Chickamauga. Here, if anywhere, we 

 may see j)laces that war has made sacred. 



The feeling of all this is better enjoyed 

 after one has grown oblivious to the things 

 which at first do so much to cheapen the 

 mountain, — the hotels, the photographers' 

 shanties, the placards, the hurrying tourists, 

 and the general air of a place given over to 

 showmen. Much of this seeming desecra- 

 tion is unavoidable, perhaps ; at all events, 

 it is the part of wisdom to overlook it, as, 

 fortunately, by the time of my third visit I 

 was pretty well able to do. If that proves 



