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 into a
discordant exposition of his own important self--that, not having
examined the constitution for more nor three Sundays, they must,
upon the honour of a gentleman, excuse his political speech.
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