No region in the vicinity of New York has more natural beauty or historic interest than that lying west of the Palisades. Until a few years ago it was to most people an almost unknown land. Hackensack, Englewood, Paterson, and Passaic were familiar names; but the country north of these was seldom visited. Recently the valleys of the Ramapo, Pascack, Saddle, and Hackensack Rivers have attracted many suburban homeseekers, and their character is rapidly changing. Yet their charm still centers in the ancient stone farmhouses that speak of a civilization that has lasted for two hundred and fifty years. In some of the villages are churches built in early colonial times, and about these cluster the graves of the forefathers. New names have been given to many of the hamlets, and the present residents know little and care less for their past history. Only in musty records, and fading memories, do the ancient Indian and Dutch names survive. Ka Keat, Mahakemack, Minesing, Aquackanock, are some of these. From Tappan on the north to English Neighborhood on the south, a distance of thirty miles, this country, except in the four chief towns, was until a generation ago stagnant; its population was no greater than at the beginning of the nineteenth century. A few years since, the writer journeyed with a friend to one of its ancient churchyards, to commit to its grave the body of an aged lady. There it rests with those of ten generations of the Bogarts, Brinkerhoffs, Demarests, Zabriskies, and other historic families. A number of natives had gathered at the porch of the church on the capstone of whose arch was engraved “Nisi Dominus Frustra.” As this is the motto of the Reformed Church of America I, as one of its ministers, felt at home. The day was stormy, and I asked that the building might be opened for a funeral service. The gentleman addressed said he feared that this was impossible, as the pastor was opposed to such a proceeding. The parsonage was next to the church, and I sent word to the minister asking him to assist me in the burial office. My card was returned with a curt refusal. The old sexton was more communicative, and from him I learned the story of this “True Reformed Dutch Church”; could this have been reported word for word it would rival in interest the best of Miss Wilkins’ or Mrs. Wiggin’s tales. Two facts remain in my memory; first, that Dr. Solomon Froeligh was to this peculiar people all that Knox had been to those who sat under the Scotch Reformer; and, second, that the True Reformed Dutch Church was the remnant of God’s elect; for the rest of Christendom had irrevocably passed under condemnation.