"This field is so spacious, that it were easy for a man to lose himself in it: and if I should spend all my pilgrimage in this walk, my time would sooner end than my way." + -BISHOP HALL. THE STORY OF AN OLD FARM OR Life in New Jersey in the Eighteenth Century. CHAPTER I. The Peapack Stage-Sunday Morning at Bedminster Church— A Retired Hamlet. THE 'HE traveller by the old highway-the post or stage roadleading from Somerville to Peapack, in Somerset county, New Jersey, will remember the village of the Lesser Cross Roads, which faces one when some eight miles on the journey, perched on the southerly side of a sloping eminence. "One of those little places that have run 'I climb no farther upward, come what may!"" Just here is located the "Old Farm," whose story, or rather the story of whose early settlers and their contemporaries, it is purposed to chronicle. Let us visit this little hamlet and learn something of its history, and of the generations that have lived, toiled and died amid the cheerful hills and smiling valleys of the rolling country north of the village; for it is the gateway of Somerset's most pleasing regions-the approach to scenes of quiet beauty and pastoral loveliness unsurpassed in this portion of New Jersey. We will choose one of those generous June days when early summer has veiled its youthful bloom in a maze of leaf, mystery and shade. That our approach to this secluded village may be with an humble spirit, in harmony with the rural calm of its homely atmosphere, we will journey down-or rather up-by the travel-stained stage-wagon that for so many years has lum bered out of Somerville every afternoon about three o'clock. Squeezing in on the front seat by the driver's side, our legs and feet are soon seemingly inextricably entangled with mail bags, bundles, whiffletrees and the horses' tails. Well! the stage is "loaded up," three on a seat-twelve inside-with quite a mountain of luggage piled up behind. Rattling down the main street, and turning north on the Peapack road, the town, with its outlying villas standing amid parterres of flowers and shaded gardens, is soon left behind. Pounding over a wooden bridge that spans a little stream the fair-ground is passed, and the team settles down to its regulation jog of five miles an hour, over the pleasant levels of Bridgewater township. On either side lie well-tilled fields, rich with the promise of bounteous harvests. Barn-swallows twitter in a farmyard hard by; a kingfisher, with a loud cry, sails away at our approach, and another little tenant of the air salutes us from behind a hedge with a flood of sweet harmony. From over the fences come the sound of whetting scythes, the rattle of mowing knives, and the talk and laughter of the haymakers; while the breeze for miles away is fragrant with the perfume of freshly tossed clover-cocks. Insensibly the passengers grow more sociably inclined as they exclaim over the charming weather, the rustic beauty of the landscape, and the sweet sounds of nature on every side. Our driver proves to be loquacious, and familiar with all the gossip of the long road he has travelled twice daily for many years, so he soon has his passengers in animated talk as to the news of their respective neighborhoods. Stop after stop is made at farmhouses and cottages by the roadside; now to leave a morning paper-twelve hours from the New York press-now a bundle or package, which latter has to be fished from under the seats, calling out nervous giggles from the women, with numerous "oh mys!"-"that's my foot!"-and like ejaculations. Now and then some one is "taken up," or "let down," the last stop for that purpose having been to discharge a stout farmer's wife from the rear seat of the stage; the intervening passengers must need crouch, half standing, holding down the backs of the seats, while she wades to the door, dragging after her a large newspaper parcel, a spreading turkey-feather fan, and a huge paper bandbox encased in blue checked gingham. This impedimenta FROM SOMERVILLE TO PEAPACK. 3 carries in its wake several hats and belongings of her fellow travellers. The stout woman receives a warm welcome from two buxom girls and a sunburned farmer, who wait behind a paling fence, with a background of well-sweep, rusty clapboards, and porch o'erclambered with honeysuckle and June roses. The wide-open, brown eyes of the shorter and plumper girl take in with lively interest each occupant of the stage. While leaning gracefully over the gate, the sunlight burnishing her rich waves of chestnut hair, the maiden's glances rest a little longer, perhaps, on the younger men of the party. But her glimpse of the travelling world is transitory, for soon our Jehu, having collected his fare, has returned a fat wallet to his trouser-leg, and climbed over the front wheels to his seat. The stage rattles on, and reaching a short incline bounces over a "thankee-marm," sending the trunks on the shackly rack behind springing in air, and the rebound almost bumping together the knees and chins of those of us on the front seat. We are now on the new road-so the driver tells us. There is certainly nothing in the highway peculiarly applicable to newness, but like the New Forest in England, or Harper's New Monthly Magazine in New York, having once been new it never can grow old. Besides, it must be new-you can see for yourself the old road meandering off toward the foot hills on the east, taking in on its way an ancient weather-beaten tavern, that once did a flourishing business. But this "cut off" was opened some thirty years ago, leaving the old hostelrie stranded in the shallows of deserted traffic. Should the ghost of its former proprietor, the genial Bill Allen, ever walk its crumbling porches, he could easily discern across the fields the tide of travel setting along the new road, which once paid tribute in a silvery stream to his now decaying till. By and by the horses are tugging and straining up the long ascent of a spur of the "Blue" range of New Jersey hills, which the people hereabouts delight in calling "the mountains." Reaching the crest, we pause for a breathing, and enjoy an extended view of a charming landscape, richly diversified with the variegated hues of the luxuriant June vegetation. In the foreground lies the Revolutionary village of Pluckamin; church spires rising above the dense foliage of the clustering trees, |