To this repast, with thankful hearts, a company of five-and-twenty sat down, and, as nearly as my recollection now serves me, the friends did ample justice to my Shanghae dinner. After two hours over the varied dishes (varied in size and style of cooking only), the cloth was removed, and the intellectual treat commenced with a song, written "expressly for this occasion," by the Young 'Un, which was delivered with admirable effect by "one who had been there," and in the chorus of which the guests unitedly joined, with surprising harmony and unison. The following toasts were then submitted:
By the Man in the Black Coat.—The Memory of the defunct Rooster we have this day devoured: Peace to his manes! (Drank standing, in silence.)
By a Successful Breeder.—The health, long life, and prosperity, of our absent cash customers,—at home and abroad.
By an Amateur.—Honor to the discoverer of the exact difference between a "Shanghae" and a "Cochin-China" fowl, if he shall ever turn up!
By the "Confidence" Man.—The Continuity of the beautifully-elongated Chinese fowls: May their shadows never be less!
By a Victim.—The Bother'em Wot-yer-call-'ems: Dammum! (Nine cheers for Doctors Bennett and Miner.)
By a Disappointed "Fancier."—Barn-yard fowls and white-shelled eggs, for my money. (Three cheers for the old-style biddies.)
By the Youth in a White Vest.—"Fanny Fern": The hen that lays the golden eggs. (Six cheers for Fanny, and the fair sex generally.)
By a Repentant.—The whole Shanghae Tribe: Curse 'em; the more fowls you see of this race, the less eggs there are about! (This was deemed slightly personal, but it was permitted to pass; the gentleman spoke with unusual feeling; he had been only three years in the trade, and had expended some sixteen hundred dollars in experimenting with a view to establish a breed that would lay two eggs daily.)