Emerging from the remains of Fort Clinton, the path, traversing the margin of the cliff, passes the ruins of a battery, and descends, at a narrow gorge between huge rocks, to a flight of wooden steps. These terminate at the bottom upon a grassy terrace a few feet wide, over which hangs a shelving cliff covered with shrubbery. This is called Kosciuszko's Garden, from the circumstance of its having been a favorite resort of that officer while stationed there as engineer for a time during the Revolution. In the center of the terrace is a marble basin, from the bottom of which bubbles up a tiny fountain of pure water. It is said that the remains of a fountain constructed by Kosciuszko was discovered in 1802, when it was removed, and the marble bowl which now receives the jet was placed there.
It is a beautiful and romantic spot, shaded by a weeping willow and other trees, and having seats provided for those who wish to linger. Upon a smooth spot, high upon the rocks and half overgrown with moss, are slight indications of written characters. Tradition says it is the remains of the name of Kosciuszko, inscribed by his own hand; but I doubt the report, for he possessed too much common sense to be guilty of such folly as the mutilated benches around the fountain exhibit; his name was already upon the tablet of Polish history, and his then present deeds were marking it deep upon that of our war for independence.
The sun had gone down behind the hills when I ascended from the garden to the plain. The cadets were performing their evening parade, and, as the last rays left Bear Hill and the Sugar Loaf, the evening gun and the tattoo summoned them to quarters. During the twilight hour, I strolled down the road along the river bank, half a mile beyond the barracks, to Mr. Kingsley's Classical School, situated upon a commanding eminence above the road leading to Buttermilk Falls. Near his residence was a strong redoubt, called Fort Arnold, one of the outposts of West Point in the Revolution. I was informed that the remains are well preserved; but it was too dark to distinguish an artificial mound from a natural hillock, and I hastened back to my lodgings.
Unwilling to wait until the late hour of eight for breakfast the next morning, I arose at dawn, and before sunrise I stood among the ruins of Fort Putnam, on the pinnacle of Mount Independence, nearly five hundred feet above the river.
I had waked
From a long sleep of many changing dreams,