BREAKFAST, DINNER, AND SUPPER.
Not only is the dinner-table a criterion of rank on board a man-of-war,
but also the dinner hour. He who dines latest is the greatest man; and
he who dines earliest is accounted the least. In a flag-ship, the
Commodore generally dines about four or five o’clock; the Captain about
three; the Lieutenants about two; while _the people_ (by which phrase
the common seamen are specially designated in the nomenclature of the
quarter-deck) sit down to their salt beef exactly at noon.
Thus it will be seen, that while the two estates of sea-kings and
sea-lords dine at rather patrician hours—and thereby, in the long run,
impair their digestive functions—the sea-commoners, or _the people_,
keep up their constitutions, by keeping up the good old-fashioned,
Elizabethan, Franklin-warranted dinner hour of twelve.
Twelve o’clock! It is the natural centre, key-stone, and very heart of
the day. At that hour, the sun has arrived at the top of his hill; and
as he seems to hang poised there a while, before coming down on the
other side, it is but reasonable to suppose that he is then stopping to
dine; setting an eminent example to all mankind. The rest of the day is
called _afternoon_; the very sound of which fine old Saxon word conveys
a feeling of the lee bulwarks and a nap; a summer sea—soft breezes
creeping over it; dreamy dolphins gliding in the distance. _Afternoon!_
the word implies, that it is an after-piece, coming after the grand
drama of the day; something to be taken leisurely and lazily. But how
can this be, if you dine at five? For, after all, though Paradise Lost
be a noble poem, and we men-of-war’s men, no doubt, largely partake in
the immortality of the immortals yet, let us candidly confess it,
shipmates, that, upon the whole, our dinners are the most momentous
attains of these lives we lead beneath the moon. What were a day
without a dinner? a dinnerless day! such a day had better be a night.
Again: twelve o’clock is the natural hour for us men-of-war’s men to
dine, because at that hour the very time-pieces we have invented arrive
at their terminus; they can get no further than twelve; when
straightway they continue their old rounds again. Doubtless, Adam and
Eve dined at twelve; and the Patriarch Abraham in the midst of his
cattle; and old Job with his noon mowers and reapers, in that grand
plantation of Uz; and old Noah himself, in the Ark, must have gone to
dinner at precisely _eight bells_ (noon), with all his floating
families and farm-yards.
But though this antediluvian dinner hour is rejected by modern
Commodores and Captains, it still lingers among “_the people_” under
their command. Many sensible things banished from high life find an
asylum among the mob.
Some Commodores are very particular in seeing to it, that no man on
board the ship dare to dine after his (the Commodore’s,) own dessert is
cleared away.—Not even the Captain. It is said, on good authority, that
a Captain once ventured to dine at five, when the Commodore’s hour was
four. Next day, as the story goes, that Captain received a private
note, and in consequence of that note, dined for the future at
half-past three.
Though in respect of the dinner hour on board a man-of-war, _the
people_ have no reason to complain; yet they have just cause, almost
for mutiny, in the outrageous hours assigned for their breakfast and
supper.
Eight o’clock for breakfast; twelve for dinner; four for supper; and no
meals but these; no lunches and no cold snacks. Owing to this
arrangement (and partly to one watch going to their meals before the
other, at sea), all the meals of the twenty-four hours are crowded into
a space of less than eight! Sixteen mortal hours elapse between supper
and breakfast; including, to one watch, eight hours on deck! This is
barbarous; any physician will tell you so. Think of it! Before the
Commodore has dined, you have supped. And in high latitudes, in
summer-time, you have taken your last meal for the day, and five hours,
or more, daylight to spare!
Mr. Secretary of the Navy, in the name of _the people_, you should
interpose in this matter. Many a time have I, a maintop-man, found
myself actually faint of a tempestuous morning watch, when all my
energies were demanded—owing to this miserable, unphilosophical mode of
allotting the government meals at sea. We beg you, Mr. Secretary, not
to be swayed in this matter by the Honourable Board of Commodores, who
will no doubt tell you that eight, twelve, and four are the proper
hours for _the people_ to take their Meals; inasmuch, as at these hours
the watches are relieved. For, though this arrangement makes a neater
and cleaner thing of it for the officers, and looks very nice and
superfine on paper; yet it is plainly detrimental to health; and in
time of war is attended with still more serious consequences to the
whole nation at large. If the necessary researches were made, it would
perhaps be found that in those instances where men-of-war adopting the
above-mentioned hours for meals have encountered an enemy at night,
they have pretty generally been beaten; that is, in those cases where
the enemies’ meal times were reasonable; which is only to be accounted
for by the fact that _the people_ of the beaten vessels were fighting
on an empty stomach instead of a full one.