"I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
The burial-ground God's Acre! It is just.
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garner'd in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own."
Longfellow.
It was quite dark when we reached the tavern of Mr. Benson, near Sampsonville, about three miles below Stony Point. Haverstraw was two miles distant, and, wearied with the rambles of the day, I halted at Benson's until morning. After an early breakfast I proceeded to the foot of Torn Mountain, a little northwest of Haverstraw, to visit a man named Allison, who was eighty-eight years old. I had been informed of his vigor of body and mind, and was much disappointed on finding him in bed, feeble and sinking from the effects of a fall. Our conversation was brief, but his short communications were interesting. He was a young man of eighteen when the fort at Stony Point was built, and assisted in carrying material for its construction from the main. In company with many others in the neighborhood not allowed to join in Wayne's expedition, he hung upon the rear of the little army on that eventful night; and when the shout of victory arose from the fort, his voice was among the loudest in the echo that was sent back by the yeomanry gathered upon the neighboring hills. He gave me a minute account of the movements of the Americans before crossing the morass, and told me of a black walnut-tree still standing by the roadside between Haverstraw and Stony Point, under which the negro, Pompey, took charge, as pilot, of Wayne's assaulting force. I had intended, on leaving Mr. Allison, to go down near the river bank, where Arnold and Andre met; but the hour was approaching at which I had promised myself to return to Verplanck's Point, so I postponed my visit to this interesting spot until a subsequent date.