By eight o'clock, any Sunday morning, I was to be
observed by an admiring public on the wharf. The garb
and attributes of sacrifice consisted of a black
frockcoat, rosetted, its pockets bulging with
sweetmeats and inferior cigars, trousers of light blue,
a silk hat like a reflector, and a varnished wand. A
goodly steamer guarded my one flank, panting and
throbbing, flags fluttering fore and aft of her,
illustrative of the Dromedary and patriotism. My other
flank was covered by the ticket-office, strongly held
by a trusty character of the Scots persuasion, rosetted
like his superior, and smoking a cigar to mark the
occasion festive. At half-past, having assured myself
that all was well with the free luncheons, I lit a
cigar myself, and awaited the strains of the "Pioneer
Band." I had never to wait long--they were German and
punctual--and by a few minutes after the half-hour I
would hear them booming down street with a long
military roll of drums, some score of gratuitous asses
prancing at the head in bearskin hats and buckskin
aprons, and conspicuous with resplendent axes.
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