John Slack, the old tavern keeper before mentioned, was the father of Mrs. McClean, wife of Ephraim McClean, who for many years kept the Cottage tavern on the summit of Laurel Hill, and no doubt the fame of this house under the management of the McCleans is attributable in great measure to the early training of Mrs. McClean in her father's old tavern, where she was reared. Heretofore in these pages the reader has been introduced to old taverns and old tavern keepers on the mountain division of the road, a long division covering two hundred miles, including the intervening glades and valleys. Surprise is often expressed that there were so many good taverns in the mountains, remote from fertile fields and needed markets. That they were equal to the best on the road is conceded; and that the old taverns of the National Road have never been surpassed for bounteous entertainment and good cheer, is likewise conceded; in fact, has never been disputed. It may seem a trifling thing to be written down in serious history, that the old taverns of the mountains excelled all others in the matter of serving buckwheat cakes; but it is germane and true. To relieve this statement from the imputation of being a trifling one, it may be added that there are men and women still living on the line of the National Road who often heard the great statesman, orator and patriot, Henry Clay, praising the good qualities of the buckwheat cakes furnished by the old mountain taverns with as much fervor and more enthusiasm than he ever exhibited in commending his favorite measure, the Protective Tariff. And, as a matter of fact, it might be stated in this connection, that the making of buckwheat cakes is essentially a home industry, not, however, of the infantile order, and while it may not need protection, is certainly deserving of encouragement. Another memorable feature of the mountain taverns was the immense fires kept constantly burning in the old bar rooms during the old-time winters. In many instances the grates were seven feet in length, with corresponding width and depth, and would contain an ordinary wagon load of coal; and when the fires were stirred up in these immense grates, and set to roaring, the jolly old wagoners occupying the bar rooms paid little heed to the eagerness of the howling mountain weather. The old landlord of the mountains took special pride in keeping up his bar room fire. He kept a poker from six to eight feet long, and would not allow it to be used by any one but himself. Boss Rush, not inaptly termed "the prince of landlords," was so careful and punctilious about the management of his bar room fire that he kept his big poker under lock and key, so that no one could use it but himself, always using it at the right time, and keeping up a uniform and proper temperature for the comfort of his guests. With this parting tribute to the memory of the old taverns and tavern keepers of the mountains, the attention of the reader is now