ble industry over the tap-room door in a sign announcing that "no miners are allowed." "You have mines in the mountains, have you?" we inquired. "No, no," said the landlord, impatiently: "it means boys," he added, in explanation of the misleading orthography. Three brothers named Boyd, all of them coaching veterans, lived in Clear Spring, and we had been referred to them for reminiscences of the road. First we asked for Thomas Boyd. "He's dead," we were told. "Sam Boyd?" "Dead too." | "George Boyd?" "Dead." And thus are swept away, not singly, but in groups, the men who played an active part in the palmy days of the old "pike." In a yard at Clear Spring we found the last of the coaches, a massive vehicle in faded grandeur, with panelled landscapes and a superabundance of gilt ornamentation, with springs so flexible that the pressure of as light a foot as you please sways it, and with a commodious interior upholstered in crimson damask, out of which all the brilliancy has been extracted by time. An old negro was sleeping on the box, and the branches of the chestnuts were thrown over the roof. But in a moment imagination lifts us on the wings which span time and distance, the varnish is restored to its original lustrousness, the damask cushions acquire a freshness of dye, and in place of the abandoned wreck we see the resplendent coach of fifty years ago, seated on the box of which we spin away up the hill out of Clear Spring. If the road between Hagerstown and Clear Spring is unattractive, between Clear Spring and Hancock it approaches in beauty the grandest passes of the Sierras; and to paraphrase a witty antithesis of Aldrich's, if there is a more charming journey in the world than that from Clear Spring to Hancock, it must be the journey from Hancock to Clear Spring. There is a salient resemblance between the scenery of the Alleghanies and that of the Sierras. The two ranges have the same dusky and balsamic profusion of evergreens, the same deep and ever-silent glens imprisoned by almost sheer walls of pine, the same continuity and multiplicity of ridges, and in many other superficial points the similarity is sustained. The difference in altitude is not observable without instruments, and the affinity continues to the end, with two exceptions. Above the evergreen ridges of the Sierras an occa sional and perpetually snow-clad peak lifts a glistening apex to the azure; that is one difference; and while the majesty of the western mountains is harrowing, the beauty of the Alleghanies is invariably soothing and comprehensible. The road begins the ascent of the mountain at Clear Spring, and is overarched with oaks, chestnuts, and sugar-maples. As the grade increases, the pines multiply, and near the summit the hardy evergreens are almost alone. The view expands, and through the tangled shrubs and loftier foliage, between which the road is cut, glimpses are revealed of pale green valleys and mountain walls, singularly even along their crests. At the summit of Sidling Hill there is an immense prospect of ridges beyond ridges, visible along their whole length, which look like the vast waves of a petrified ocean. The basin disclosed is of extraordinary extent, and the mountains are crowded together, with little more than gorges between, in which lie depths of blue and purple haze. The turmoil of traffic here, the beat of hoofs, the rumble of wheels, the tintinnabulations of the teamsters' bells, the bellowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, and the cries of the drovers, once so familiar, would now sound strangely inappropriate; but even in the travellers of long ago a thrill of novelty must have been excited by the stream of commerce flowing through these mountain confines. From the crest we drove down the farther slope, which has a break-neck grade, through avenues of pines and over rushing little brooklets, spending their crystal force across the road, we passed Indian Springs, the site of a noted tavern, and many primitive log-cabins, which shelter the few agriculturists of the region, and in about an hour we came into a long narrow valley, with the Chesapeake canal embanked between the road and the flashing Potomac, on the farther side of which we could see the Baltimore and Ohio Railway traced in the mountain-side, with the oblique dip of the rock and the ferruginous color of the earth revealed. There was an old toll-house, with a pretty maid installed, who had no change for the coin we gave her, and who went calling across the fields for the domestic exchequer, "Oh, mother! Oh, mother!" so loudly that the mountains caught her voice, and repeated in the still evening air, with hollow, sepulchral mockery, "Oh, mother! Oh, fects of toiling over mountain after mountain, Mrs. Bevans became a tremendous object of interest to us. Near sundown, when the silent valleys were flooded with the golden light of the afternoon, it was evident that our team was unfit to go much farther; but no habitation was in sight, although from time to time we saw an abandoned toll-house or tavern, and once we met a freckled boy, who said it was about five miles to "Mrs. Bevans's." We continued on for over six miles, and then we met a freckled and angular man, who said "Mrs. Bevans's" was about three miles farther. We labored over another mother!" Not far beyond the toll-house day sped, and our horses showed the efa swift curve is made around an embankment, which extends far below, and here, at Millstone Point, one of the many fatal accidents of the old times occurred. Either when the driver was intoxicated or asleep, he drove his coach down the embankment, and several persons were killed. The overfast and reckless driving often led to disasters, the liability to which was compensated for in the minds of many passengers by the speed and exhilaration of the journey. At Millstone Point, also, a committee from Hancock once came out to meet General Jackson. Some excavations were being made in the neighborhood, and several blasts were fired in hon-mountain and down a rocky road, inclosed or of the occasion as "Old Hickory" approached. "Didn't the detonations alarm your horse, general ?" inquired a solicitous committee-man. "No, Sir," said Jackson, emphatically; "my horse and I have heard a similar sort of music before." Hancock, which was one of the busiest villages on the road, is now lugubriously apathetic, and the citizens sit before their doors with their interest buried in the past. The main street is silent, and the stables are vacant. No one who ever travelled over the road can fail to remember the many excellences of Ben Bean's, which stood midway on the main street. The old house is still standing, in much the same condition that it always was with a long white front shaded with chestnuts and locusts, with a trough of water rippling before the door, with a breezy and commodious porch, and with low-ceilinged apart ments, cleanly sanded. But Ben Bean has long been gathered to his fathers, and the gayety and activity that made his tavern in a measure famous have left no echo. His successors are two precise and elderly nieces, who entertain summer boarders, and are timid about transient customers. The little alcove in the tap-room, where the glasses, flasks, and demijohns confronted the thirsty and exhausted traveller, is closed beyond appeal; perhaps that is for the better; but the tinkling of glasses and the hearty interchange of greetings and compliments that enlivened the room of old seem more desirable than the present vacancy and silence. Between Hancock and Cumberland the road is almost deserted, and there is no tavern in over forty miles. We were told that we might find accommodations for the night at Mrs. Bevans's," and as the by the gloomy pines. At the foot, in a hollow, was a splendid old tavern, unroofed, moss-grown, windowless, and doorless. This was Mrs. Bevans's" in the past, and at one side of it, in contrast with its massive masonry, was a small cabin of two rooms, with some six or seven unappetizing children about the door; this was the "Mrs. Bevans's" of the present. It was out of the question; the children took the edge off our hunger, and we urged the horses farther on, being informed that we would find a farm-house on the summit of the next mountain. We passed through a moist, malarial valley, and as we endeavored to assuage our craving for food with our pipes, the artist told a story that evoked a burst of laughter. At that moment we were in front of an odd, neglected-looking house, and a sallow man, with a long black goatee and mass of uncombed black hair falling over his shoulders, was weeding in a garden overgrown with weeds. He imagined he was the object of our mirth, and advancing to the high fence, he deliberately said, in drawling tones, "If you fellows don't get out of that, I'll put a bullet through you," and he re-appeared on the porch soon after with a musket in his hands. We were so innocent of offense, and he could have fulfilled his threat with such impunity, escaping to the mountains, and defying all pursuit, that we retired ingloriously; and the incident is mentioned here to show the primitive simplicity of certain dwellers by the old highway. The isolation and wildness of the region made it a favorite ground of the bushwhackers, from whom the Union soldiers suffered more than elsewhere during the late war. "A nice fellow that," said we to Lean der, when we had reached a safe distance. | by a grizzled old farmer. "Can you give "Yes, indeed, Sir," said he. "You'd us something good for supper?" we eagerhave fired back, wouldn't you?" "Yes, ly inquired. "Well," said he, with readiSir," answered Leander, as compliantly ness, "that depends upon what you conand emphatically as ever; but, as a mat- sider good. Some folks are satisfied with ter of fact, he had no weapon, and his an- | pig and bread; others turn up their noses swer was dictated by his customary affirmativeness. The sun had gone down when we attained the next summit; but we were received for the night in an old farm-house at beefsteak and onions. I've seen a man sneer at boiled pork and turnips. Now we ain't got anything as good as that: but we've good milk and bread and ham." We would have been glad to compromise with him on something much inferior to the supper he served us; and when we had eaten we sat with him on his porch, where we could hear the throbbing note of the whip-poor-will and the ghostly screech of the owls. It was intensely quiet and lonely on the mountain. A herd of tame deer browsed about the garden, and once or twice we heard a sound like that of a wild-cat in the dense woods surrounding. The old farmer talked about the "pike." The loss of it isn't very bad," he said. When it was at its 66 ་་ height all the people along here depended on it for a living, and now they're driven to farmin', which is much better for them." We slept well, partitioned from a numerous family by a board; there were a few insects, but we had become accustomed to much larger numbers, and after breakfast in the morning we paid our bill, which was not exorbitantly fixed at seventy-five cents, and resumed our journey, reaching Cumberland early in the after noon. Cumberland benefited largely by the "pike," especially when it was the western terminus of the Baltimore and Ohio Railway, and the point of transfer for passengers and freight going further west or east. A paragraph in the local annals announces that "the extent of passenger travel over the national road during 1849 was immense, and the reports of the agents show that from the 1st to the 20th of March the number of persons carried was 2586." Four years later, in 1853, the same annals announce the completion of the railway to Wheeling. "The effect was soon felt in Cumberland, as most of the stage lines were taken off, and the great business of transferring merchandise at this point was largely diminished." But while Cumberland was the busiest dépôt on the "pike" when that route was superseded, it continued to succeed through other resources, and it is now an active town. Among the old inhabitants is Samuel Luman, who was formerly one of the best-known drivers between Wheeling and Cumberland. One night when he was coming through the "Shades of Death" he was attacked by highwaymen. He had an exciting quarter of an hour, which he will never forget, but he escaped without injury to himself or his passengers. West of Cumberland the national road proper extends to Wheeling, partly following the route of General Braddock, who has left an interesting old mile-stone at Frostburg. The old iron gates have been despoiled, but the uniform tollhouses, the splendid bridges, and the iron distance posts show how ample the equipment was. The coaches ceased running in 1853; the "June Bug," the "Good Intent," and the "Landlord's," as the various lines were called, sold their stock, and a brilliant era of travel was ended. ly deserving the name, are known to have gained a precarious livelihood by taking meagre portraits of the worthies of the period in black and white or in color. We should know this to have been the fact by the portraits, quaint, and often rude and awkward, which have come down to us, without anything about them to indicate what artist painted them. Occasionally in these canvases, from which the stiff ruffles and bands of the Puritans stare forth at us, a suggestion of talent is evident. Cotton Mather alludes to a certain artist, whom he speaks of as a limner. But in those times there was, at best, no art in this country except what was brought over occasionally in the form of family portraits, painted by Vandyck or Rembrandt, Lely or Kneller. These precious heirlooms, scarcely appreciated by the stern theologians of the time, were, however, not without value in advancing the cause of civilization among the wilds of the Western world. Unconsciously the minds of coming generations were influenced and moulded by VOL. LIX.-No. 354.-52 to us was John Watson, who executed portraits in Philadelphia in 1715. He was a Scotchman. It is to another Scotchman, who married and identified himself with the rising fortunes of the colonies, that we are, perhaps, able to assign the first distinct and decided art impulse in the United States. We owe to Bishop Berkeley the most notable impulse which the dawning arts received in this country, when he induced John Smybert to leave London, in 1725, and settle in Boston, where he had the good fortune to marry a rich widow, and lived prosperous and contented until his death in 1751. Smybert was not a great painter. If he had remained in Europe, his position never would have been more than respectable, even at an age when the arts were at a low ebb. But he is entitled to our gratitude for perpetuating for us the lineaments of many worthies of the period, and for the undoubted impetus his example gave to the artists who were about to come on the scene, and assert the right of the New World to exercise its ener |