I sat for a moment in thought. “It is an
honor,” said I finally; “an honor so large
that under it I feel small.”
“Now,” said Doctor Ward, placing a gnarled
hand on my shoulder, “you begin to talk like
a Marylander. It’s a race, my boy, a race
across this continent. There are two trails—one
north and one mid-continent. On these paths two
nations contend in the greatest Marathon of all the
world. England or the United States—monarchy
or republic—aristocracy or humanity’?
These are some of the things which hang on the issue
of this contest. Take then your duty and your
honor, humbly and faithfully.”
“Good-by,” he said, as we steamed into
Baltimore station. I turned, and he was gone.
ON SECRET SERVICE
If the world was lost
through woman, she alone can save it.—Louis
de Beaufort.
In the days of which I write, our civilization was,
as I may say, so embryonic, that it is difficult for
us now to realize the conditions which then obtained.
We had great men in those days, and great deeds were
done; but to-day, as one reflects upon life as it then
was, it seems almost impossible that they and their
deeds could have existed in a time so crude and immature.
The means of travel in its best form was at that time
at least curious. We had several broken railway
systems north and south, but there were not then more
than five thousand miles of railway built in America.
All things considered, I felt lucky when we reached
New York less than twenty-four hours out from Washington.
From New York northward to Montreal one’s journey
involved a choice of routes. One might go up
the Hudson River by steamer to Albany, and thence
work up the Champlain Lake system, above which one
might employ a short stretch of rails between St.
John and La Prairie, on the banks of the St. Lawrence
opposite Montreal. Or, one might go from Albany
west by rail as far as Syracuse, up the Mohawk Valley,
and so to Oswego, where on Lake Ontario one might
find steam or sailing craft.
Up the Hudson I took the crack steamer Swallow,
the same which just one year later was sunk while
trying to beat her own record of nine hours and two
minutes from New York to Albany. She required
eleven hours on our trip. Under conditions then
obtaining, it took me a day and a half more to reach
Lake Ontario. Here, happily, I picked up a frail
steam craft, owned by an adventurous soul who was not
unwilling to risk his life and that of others on the
uncertain and ice-filled waters of Ontario. With
him I negotiated to carry me with others down the St.
Lawrence. At that time, of course, the Lachine
Canal was not completed, and the Victoria Bridge was
not even conceived as a possibility. One delay
after another with broken machinery, lack of fuel,
running ice and what not, required five days more
of my time ere I reached Montreal.
