Having taken on board three or four persons, with a quantity of butter, cheese, and other articles for New York, we departed and proceeded down the river. The scenery was still very beautiful. The river wound between tall mountains, which came down to the water’s edge, and seemed sometimes to encircle it, so as to make it appear like a lake. But, as we proceeded, the vast mountains appeared to recede, and open a passage for us. Frequently we passed close to the shore, and I could not but admire the wonderful beauty of the trees that clothed the sides of the mountain. It was autumn, you remember, and the leaves were of many colors; some were yellow, some red, some purple, and some green. There was something sad about all this; for we knew that these bright hues are but the signs of coming death. We knew that this coat of many colors which is thrown over the mountain, making it appear so gay, is but a gaudy mantle that will soon give place to the winter winding-sheet of snow. But still, even though the woods in autumn may be a little melancholy, I do not like them the less for that. As I passed along the mountain slopes, catching glimpses between the trees into the valleys, or far away between the tops of the peaks, seeming to float in a sea of azure, I felt as if I could make the woods my home forever! The next day we passed by a lofty cliff, called West Point, where old Fort Putnam is situated, and where there is now an academy in which young men receive a military education. This was a famous place in the revolutionary war. Here was the scene of Benedict Arnold’s treachery. He was entrusted with the command of this fort by Washington, who had great confidence in him; but Arnold was a bad man, and he secretly agreed to give up the fort to the British, if they would pay him a large sum of money, and give him a command in their army. Major André, a British officer, came up the river from New York, and met Arnold one night to arrange the scheme. On his return, André was taken by some Americans, and brought before Washington. He was tried as a spy, and, being convicted, was sentenced to death, this being according to the usages of war. André was a fine young officer, and Washington wished very much to save his life. But this he could not accomplish consistently with his duty to his country. André was confined at a house in the town of Bedford, next to Salem, and my friend Mat Olmsted recollected perfectly well to have seen him there. He described him as a tall young man, with blue eyes, his hair powdered white, and wearing a red coat. Matthew told me a great many stories about him. He said all the people were very sorry to have him executed. When he passed along between the files of soldiers to the scaffold, there was scarcely an individual who did not weep. Tears even rolled down the rugged cheeks of the soldiers, who had been accustomed to scenes of battle and bloodshed.