I got into a crowded car and rode to my hotel on West Baltimore street; for the principal street is divided into East and West Baltimore streets by a canal, which it crosses near the center of the city.
Having a week or two before me, with very little to do, I determined to see all the places of interest in the vicinity, for I had, theretofore, neglected to visit them, although I had frequently been in Baltimore. I had never even visited the Washington Monument there.
Here let me commend Baltimore for being the only city that has ever erected a monument to the memory of that pure-hearted patriot to whom we are indebted for our liberties and free institutions—George Washington!
Baltimore has another monument which was erected in honor of the Maryland soldiers who fell in the war of 1812; and is hence styled the “Monumental City.”
The Washington Monument is indeed quite a fine structure. It is built of marble to the height of about two hundred feet, and its top is adorned with a large statue of the “Father of His Country.” Within, is a spiral stairway of stone, like that in the Bunker Hill Monument; but it is not lighted with gas, nor has it any embrasures for the admission of air and daylight. The superintendent, or some one employed for the purpose, accompanies each visitor, who wishes to ascend, carrying a lantern. He may well be termed a man who has a great many “ups and downs” in the world. From the top of this monument, the view of the city is excellent; almost every house in it can be seen.
Of course, I visited this monument, but as nothing extraordinary occurred, and especially nothing funny, I will not entertain the reader with a full description of my visit, nor of the monument itself.
I was always fond of rowing, and as the weather was mild and pleasant next day, I concluded to go down to the harbor, hire a boat and take a row. I was told that I could get one at the foot of a little street running obliquely toward the piers from the junction of Broadway and Pratt streets, the latter being the street on which the Philadelphia trains run into the city—and I took a street-car and went down.
When I asked the man for the boat, he looked at my crutch and said:
“Can you row?”
I told him that reminded me of a lady friend of mine, who shortly after my return from the “field of glory,” asked me if I didn’t find my corporeal defect very inconvenient about eating. “Why shouldn’t I row?” said I. “A man don’t hold the oars with his toes, any more than he holds his knife and fork in them when eating at the table—which would look rather odd, and render it necessary for him instead of sitting in the usual manner to take a somewhat novel position.”