d the Jersey hills. To journey
there today does not even call for the study of time-tables. Mr.
Manhattan rises at the usual hour and eats his usual leisurely
breakfast. At, say, nine o'clock, he settles back behind the
steering-wheel of his motor-car. Crossing the Hudson by the Forty-second
Street Ferry, he climbs the Weehawken slope, and swings westward over
one of the uninviting turnpikes that disfigure the marshy land between
the Passaic and the Hackensack. Then he finds the real Jersey, the
Jerseyman's Jersey, of rolling hills, and historic memories of
Washington's Continental troops in ragged blue and buff.--Morristown,
with its superb estates, the stiff climb of Schooley's Mountain, the
descent along the wooded ravine, the road following the winding
Musconetcong River through Washington, the clustered buildings of
Lafayette College crowning the Pennsylvania shore, and in good time for
luncheon Mr. Manhattan is over the bridge connecting Easton and
Phillipsburg.

A few years ago there appeared a little book telling of the experiences
of a family migrating from Connecticut to Ohio in 1811. In interesting
contrast to the morning dash just outlined is the story of that journey
of a little more than one hundred years ago. Before crossing the North
River the voyagers solemnly discussed the perilous waters that
confronted them. "Tomorrow we embark for the opposite shore: may Heaven
preserve us from the raging, angry waves!" The first night's stop was at
Springfield, where, within the living memory of the older members of the
party, a skirmish between the American troops and the soldiers of King
George had taken place.

Another day's travel carried the party as far as Chester. At that point
the task of travel became arduous. Over miry roads, in places blocked by
boulders, there was the painful, laborious ascent of the steep grade
leading to the summit of what we now call Schooley's Mountain. There the
party camped for the night, beginning the descent early the morning of
the following day. The brisk three or four hours' run that gives the
motorist of today just the edge of appetite needed for the full
enjoyment of his midday meal was to those hardy adventurers of a century
ago almost the journey of a week.

For transatlantic travel there was the Black Ball line, between New York
and Liverpool, first of four ships, and later of twelve. That service
had been founded in 1816 by New York merchants. The Red Star line
foll