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On my second night in town I went to hear Horace
Greeley address an open-air meeting. I can see his noble old head
yet above the crowd, and hear his opening appeal. Farther I never
got. A marching band of uniformed shouters for Grant had cut right
through the crowd. As it passed I felt myself suddenly seized; an
oilcloth cape was thrown over my head, a campaign cap jammed after,
and I found myself marching away with a torch on my shoulder to the
tune of a brass band just ahead. How many others of Mr. Greeley's
hearers fared as I did I do not know. The thing seemed so ludicrous
(and if I must march I really cared very little whether it was for
Greeley or Grant) that I stuck it out, hoping as we went to come
somewhere upon my hat, which had been lost in the sudden attack;
but I never saw it again.
Speaking of parading, my old desire to roam, that kept cropping out
at intervals, paid me a characteristic trick at this time. I was
passing through a horse-market when I saw a fine-looking, shapely
young horse put up at what seemed a ridiculously low price.


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