musing over the memories of the old pike. William G. Beck, an old stage driver, still living in Fairfield, Iowa, has vivid recollections of the road. In a letter he states that, "if there is anything in the world that makes him, at the age of seventy-four, jump up and crack his heels together and wish he was a boy again, it is reading about the men and things of the National Road." He is a son of James Beck, of the old bridge building firm, and commenced to drive stage on the Old line when in his minority. He was born in Uniontown in 1819, went to Iowa in 1847, and was on the National Road as a stage driver as late as 1846. In his letter he states that in 1846 the Old line and the Good Intent both carried the mails. There was a "Lock mail" in leather pouches, and a "Canvass mail," the latter very frequently called "the second mail," carried in alternate months by the respective lines. In December, 1846, he says the Old line carried the "Lock mail." The details of an exciting race on the road he furnishes as follows: "A Good Intent coach was driven by Jacob Cronch to the railway station, immediately upon the arrival of the train at Cumberland, loaded up with the 'Canvass mail,' and started off under full speed for the West. The 'Lock mail,' which fell to me, was taken to the postoffice and overhauled, causing a considerable detention. While waiting in front of the postoffice for the mail bags, Jacob Shuck and other Good Intent drivers chided me with the fact that the 'Canvass' had such a start that I could not get near it. I made up my mind that if it was in the hides of my two teams I would catch him, and pass him. It was after nightfall, and in crossing a water way in Cumberland my lamps went out, and what I deemed a calamity turned out in the end to be an advantage. As soon as I crossed the Wills creek bridge, I put my team in a full run and never pulled them up until I reached Rock Hill, seven miles out of Cumberland. At that point, in the winding of the road, I espied the lights on the coach of my rival, while he, by reason of the going out of my lights, was unable to see me, although, on the long stretches, he was constantly watching for a glimpse of me. Much to his surprise I drew up along side of him, and side by side we drove into Frostburg, lashing our tired teams at every jump. The grooms at the Frostburg station had my second team hitched to the coach by the time I was fairly stopped. A friendly driver ran with the way mail to the Frostburg postoffice, while another re-lit my lamps. I did not leave my seat. The reins over the fresh team were thrown up to me, and I was off again in a full run. The way mail bag was thrown into the front boot as I dashed past the postoffice. At Sand Spring (foot of Big Savage) I passed the 'Canvass' and held the lead, trotting my team every inch of the road to Piney Grove, the end of my route, which I reached twenty-two minutes in advance of my competitor. Lem Cross kept the tavern