The great general now set seriously to work.  Scarce had he commenced, when an innocent young man, who had finished his sweets and was meditating an attack on some nuts, espied the crackers lying idle before the gastronomic general, and said, “Will you lend me the nutcrackers, sir?” The great general raised his head, and gave the youth one of those piercing looks with which Napoleon used to galvanize all askers of impertinent questions.  The youth, understanding the refusal conveyed in that terrible glance, had however enough courage to add, “You don’t want them, sir!” This was too much to bear in silence; so he replied with awful distinctness, “But I reckon I shall, sir!” Then dropping his head to the original position, he balanced a large piece of pumpkin-pie on the point of his knife, and gallantly charged with it down his throat.  Poor youth! a neighbour relieved his distress, and saved his ivories.

Nearly a quarter of an hour has elapsed; dinner is all over, the nuts are all cracked and put in the pockets, and away the company go either to the other end of the saloon, where the stove is placed, round which they eat their nuts and smoke their cigars, or to drink at the bar.  When the smoking is over, clasp-knives are opened.  Don’t be alarmed; there is no bloodshed intended, although half a dozen people strolling about with these weapons may appear ominous.  Watch their faces; the lower part of their cheeks goes in with high-sucking pressure, then swells again, and the active tongue sweeps with restless energy along and around the ivory barriers within its range.  In vain—­in vain it strives to dispossess the intruders; rebellious particles of nut burrow deep between the ivories, like rabbits in an old stone dike.  The knife comes to the rescue, and, plunging fearlessly into the dark abyss, the victory is won.  Then the victors commence chewing a l’outrance, and expectorate on the red-hot stove, till it hisses like a steam-engine, or else they deluge the floor until there is no alternative but thick shoes or damp feet.  The fumes of every known alcohol exhale from the bar, and mix with the head-bursting fragrance of the strongest “Warginny.”  Some seek safety in flight; others luxuriate in the poisonous atmosphere, and scream out, like deeply-injured men, if any door by chance be left open.

Behold! the table is laid again for dinner; piles of food keep coming in; the company arrive—­some in coats, some in waistcoats only; some in coloured shirts, some in red flannel shirts; one, with sleeves turned up to the elbow.  “Who on earth are these?” I ask, in my ignorance.  “Oh! those, I guess, are the officers of the ship.”  Truly, they are “free,” but whether “enlightened” also I had no opportunity of ascertaining.  A short ten minutes, and they are all scattered, and the piles of food with them.  Once more I look, and, behold! the table is again preparing.  Who can this be for?  Doubts are speedily solved, as a mixture of niggers and whites sit down to the festive hoard; it is the boys—­alias waiters—­whose turn has come at last.  Their meal over, the spare leaves of the table are removed, half a dozen square tables dot the centre line of the saloon, and all is comparatively quiet.  This process takes place at every meal—­8 A.M., 1 P.M., and 5 P.M.—­with the most rigid punctuality.