She thought it quite a fearful thing to go through the Harlem tunnel; but here there was a road cut through great, high, frowning rocks that made you feel as if you were in a dungeon. Then a long, level stretch of salt meadows with ditches cut across them, that suggested a vague idea of Holland. We did not know the world quite so well then.
Newark, in those days, was a sort of country town with country roads in all directions. At intervals, a stage went up Broad Street, which was handsome and wide and lined with stately trees. They thought it best to wait awhile for this, lest Hanny should get too tired.
"But you can't half see," declared Delia.
"When we come to the curiosities, we will get out," said Mr. Whitney. "We can't afford to miss them."
They passed a pretty park full of magnificent elms, with an old grey stone church standing in it, one of the oldest churches in the State. There were a number of stores, interspersed with private dwellings, and everything wore a sort of leisurely aspect. A little farther up was another park,—commons, they were called then. The modest old houses and large gardens and fields gave it a still more complete country aspect.
The stage stopped at a tavern where some people were waiting. The sign was "The Black Horse Tavern."
"We will get out and begin our adventures," said Mr. Whitney, smilingly. "This little sort of creek was called First River. I dare say in past days it came rushing over the hill in quite a wild way."
"Is there a Second River?" asked Delia, mirthfully.
"Indeed there is, at Belleville. There used to be an old mill hereabouts, and this was the mill brook. Once or twice, in a freshet, the stream has risen so that it swept the bridge away."
"It's meek enough now," said Ben. "Black Horse Tavern! That ought to be in a book."