The saloon is one of those places at the south where great men, small men, men of different spheres and occupations, men in prominently defined positions, men in doubtful calls of life, and men most disreputably employed, most do congregate.  At one end of the saloon is a large oyster counter, behind which stand two coloured men, with sauces, savories, and other mixtures at hand, ready to serve customers who prefer the delicacy in its raw state.  Men are partaking without noting numbers.  Mr. O’Brodereque has boys serving who take very good care of the numbers.  Extending along one side of the saloon is an elaborately carved mahogany counter, with panels of French white and gilt mouldings.  This is surmounted with a marble slab, upon which stand well-filled decanters, vases, and salvers.  Behind this counter, genteelly-dressed and polite attendants are serving customers who stand along its side in a line, treating in true southern style.  The calling for drinks is a problem for nice ears to solve, so varied are the sounds, so strange the names:  style, quantity, and mixture seemed without limit, set on in various colours to flow and flood the spirits of the jovial.  On the opposite side of the saloon are rows of seats and arm-chairs, interspersed with small tables, from which the beverage can be imbibed more at ease.  On the second story is the great “eating saloon,” with its various apartments, its curtained boxes, its prim-looking waiters, its pier-glass walls.  There is every accommodation for belly theologians, who may discuss the choicest viands of the season.

The company are assembled,—­the lower saloon is crowded; Mr. O’Brodereque, with great dignity, mounts the stand,—­a little table standing at one end of the room.  His face reddens, he gives several delinquent coughs, looks round and smiles upon his motley patrons, points a finger recognisingly at a wag in the corner, who has addressed some remarks to him, puts his thumbs in the sleeve-holes of his vest, throws back his coat-collar, puts himself in a defiant attitude, and is ready to deliver himself of his speech.

“A political speech from the General!  Gentlemen, hats off, and give your attention to Mr. General O’Brodereque’s remarks!” resounds from several voices.  Mr. O’Brodereque is somewhat overcome, his friends compliment him so:  he stands, hesitating, as if he had lost the opening part of his speech, like a statue on a molasses-cask.  At length he speaks.  “If it was a great political question, gentlemen, I’d get the twist of the thing,—­I’d pitch into it, big!  These little things always trouble public men more than the important intricacies of government do.  You see, they are not comesurate,—­that’s it!” says Mr. Brodereque, looking wondrously wise the while.  After bowing, smiling, and acknowledging the compliments of his generous customers with prodigious grace, he merely announces to his friends—­with eloquence that defies imitation, and turns rhetoric