Returning by the road to the crest of the Plain, and proceeding west, a road to the left leads up the hill to Fort Putnam. The old fort, long neglected, and subject to the assaults of wintry blasts and beating storms, rises high above the Plain, and there, in grim majesty, it patiently awaits the silent march of disintegration and general decay. Approached in the mellow light of an evening sunset, when a single pencil of rays lingers and illuminates the crests of the mountains in the east, and a few scattered clouds, tinged with scarlet, gold and silver tints, fading and blending in perfect harmony with the deep blue of the firmament, indicate the close of the day; a single drum breaks upon the solemn stillness around, and directly after, a full chorus of music from the Band on the Plain below, proclaims the arrival of the hour for evening parade. Immediately echo takes up the strain, and repeats them in tones softer and sweeter, and fainter, until mountain, river and plain, all resound with notes of exquisite melody. Then the pulse quickens even in those habitually insensible to the beautiful spectacle here unfolded, and the visitor seems to breathe a new existence in an ideal world, until the reverberations of the evening gun announce the passage of another day, and the nearer approach of that period when the mighty Angel shall proclaim that "time was, but time shall be no more." Were the same scene to be presented daily from this spot for all time, it would never cease to be a delight to make a pilgrimage to the glorious old Fort, while the vivid memories of its former patriot occupants, and their labors are treasured up and remembered. But a constant change is going on, and the same object presents itself to the eye in many different aspects. The beautiful river, from small beginnings, flowing down shelving rocks and flowering banks, is swollen in mighty grandeur until it bursts asunder the mountain barriers, and sweeps along, bearing on its broad bosom the wealth of two hemispheres, to lose itself in the limitless ocean, and become a part of the eternity of waters. The never-ceasing progress of the seasons, beginning with the first born bud of Spring, and so proceeding through each varying phase, to the period when the snow-capped mountains and the ice-bound river are ready to expose anew their surfaces to the reviving and gladdening warmth of showery April. The very rising and setting of the sun; the clear, blue sky, speckled with snowy fleece; the hurry and rush of the mountain storm through the gorge, unite to keep up an ever-changing panorama of all that is lovely and grand in nature.