Just north of the city the wonderful cantilever bridge, six thousand seven hundred and thirty-eight feet in length and two hundred and twelve feet in height, spans the Hudson. It is the highest bridge in the world built over navigable waters. As we gazed at the marvelous structure a train crossed the long bridge with muffled roar and disappeared in the heavily tree-clad hillsides. Just above the city there is a bend in the river and a fine prospect may be had. The foreground for the most part consists of cultivated fields, and hills well wooded with trees of great variety and graceful outline, growing higher as they recede from it, until they range and rise in grand sublimity in the Catskill mountains. Before and below the point where the bridge spans the river, the dim outlines of vessels melt into hazy indistinctness in the gathering twilight. One of the sights of the city is the circular panoramic view of the Hudson river valley, obtained from the top of College Hill park. The winding automobile roadway on North Clinton street, leading to the summit, is about two hundred feet above the Poughkeepsie bridge. Fancy yourself, if you can, on the summit of this hill, gay with bright colored flowers, fine maples and elms; whose base slopes down to the sparkling Hudson. Beyond you, terrace like, rises hill upon hill, stretching away unbroken for many miles, covered thickly with verdant meadows and oat fields and bounded by long lines of stone fences. The varying shades of the undulations grow gradually dimmer until they mingle with the Catskills on the far horizon. Between the bases of the hills winds the leisurely, majestic current of the river, clothed in those deep sunny hues that seem like some lovely dream in place of a reality. To the southeast the same green hills, with the same deep hues and mysterious veils, lead your enraptured sight to where the distant peaks of the Adirondacks with their hazy indistinctness seem like the far- off shores of another world. Before and below you lies the city with her sea of spires and dark smokestacks and the steamers coming up the river, "filling the air with their dark breath or the mournful sound of their voices."