CHAPTER XLIV.
BURSTING OF THE BUBBLE.

Laying aside all badinage, for the moment, I think it may be presumed that I have had some share of experience in this business, practically, and I think I can speak advisedly on this subject. As far back as during the years 1839, '40 and '41, I erected, in Roxbury, a poultry establishment on a large scale, upon a good location, where I had the advantages of ample space, twenty separate hen-houses, running water and a fine pond on the premises, glass-houses (cold, and artificially heated, for winter use), and every appurtenance, needful or ornamental, was at my command.

I purchased and bred all kinds of domestic fowls there, and they were attended with care from year's end to year's end. But there was no profit whatever resulting from the undertaking,—and why?

The very week that a mass of poultry—say three to five hundred fowls—is put together upon one spot, they begin to suffer, and fail, and retrograde, and die. No amount of care, cleanliness or watching, can evade this result. In a body (over a dozen to twenty together), they cannot thrive; nor can the owner coax or force them to lay eggs, by any known process.[17]

To succeed with the breeding of poultry, the stock must be colonized (if a large number of fowls be kept), or else only a few must find shelter in any one place, about the farm or country residence. And my experience has taught me that five hens together will yield more eggs than fifty-five together will in the same number of months.

I honestly assert, to-day, that of all the humbug that exists, or which has been made to exist, on this subject, no part of it is more glaringly deceptive, in my estimation, than that which contends for the profit that is to be gained by breeding poultry—as a business by itself—for market consumption. The idea is preposterous and ridiculous, and no man can accomplish it,—I care not what his facilities may be,—to any great extent, upon a single estate. The thing is impossible; and I state this, candidly, after many years of practical experience among poultry, on a liberal scale, and in the possession of rare advantages for repeated experiment.

I do not say that certain persons who have kept a few fowls (from twenty-five to a hundred, perhaps), and who have looked after them carefully, may not have realized a profit upon them, in connection with the farm. But, to make it a business by itself, I repeat it, a mass of domestic and aquatic fowls cannot be kept together to any advantage whatever, their produce to be disposed of at ordinary market value.

The fever for the "fancy" stock broke out at a time when money was plenty, and when there was no other speculation rife in which every one, almost, could easily participate. The prices for fowls increased with astonishing rapidity. The whole community rushed into the breeding of poultry, without the slightest consideration, and the mania was by no means confined to any particular class of individuals—though there was not a little shyness among certain circles who were attacked at first; but this feeling soon gave way, and our first men, at home and abroad, were soon deeply and riotously engaged in the subject of henology.

Meantime, in England they were doing up the matter somewhat more earnestly than with us on this side of the water. To show how even the nobility never "put their hand to the plough and look back" when anything in this line is to come off, and the better to prove how fully the poultry interests were looked after in England, I would point to the names of those who, from 1849 to 1855, patronized the London and Birmingham associations for the improvement of domestic poultry.

The Great Annual Show, at Bingley Hall, was got up under the sanction of His Royal Highness Prince Albert, the Duchess of Sutherland, Lady Charlotte Gough, the Countess of Bradford, Rt. Hon. Countess of Littlefield, Lady Chetwynd, Hon. Viscountess Hill, Lady Littleton, Hon. Mrs. Percy, Lady Scott, and a host of other noble and royal lords and ladies, whose names are well known among the lines of English aristocracy.

But, as time advanced, the star of Shanghae-ism began to wane. The nobility tired of the excitement, and the people of England and of the United States began to ascertain that there was absolutely nothing in this "hum," save what the "importers and breeders" had made, through the influence of the newspapers; and while a few of the last men were examining the thickness of the shell, cautiously and warily, the long-inflated bubble burst! and, as the fragments descended upon the devoted heads of the unlucky star-gazers, a cry was faintly heard, from beneath the ruins—"Stand from under!"

I had been watching for this climax for several months; and when the explosion occurred, as nearly as I can "cal-'late," I wasn't thar!

CHAPTER XLV.
THE DEAD AND WOUNDED.

"G.P. Burnham, Esq.

"Dear Sir: I'm afraid the jig is up! There's a big hole in the bottom somewhere, or I am mistaken. I think the dance is concluded; and if it isn't time to 'blow out the lights' and shut down the gate, just let us know,—will you? Where's Bennett, and Harry Williams, and Dr. Eben, and Childs, and Ad. White, and Brackett, and Johnny Giles, and Uncle Alden, and Buckminster, and Chickering, and Coffin, and Fussell, and Chenery, and Gilman, and Hatch, and Jaques, and Barnum, and Southwick, and Packard, and Balch, and Morton, and Plarsted, and Geo. White, et id omne genus? Where are they all? S-a-y!

"What has become of Platt, and Miner, and Newell, and Hudson, and Heffron, and Taggard, and Hill, and Swett, and M'Clintock, and Dr. Kerr, and Devereux, and Thacher, and Haines, and Hildreth; and Brown, and Smith, and Green, and their allies? Are they dead, or only 'kilt'? Let me know, if you can, I beseech you!

"'O, where, tell me where,' is my bonnie friend John Moore, and mine ancient frère Morse, and my loved chum Howard, and the wily Butters? And where's Pedder—the immaculate Pedder? And Charley Belcher, too, and bragging Cornish, and Billy Everett, and our good neighbors Parkinson, and George, and Sol. Jewett, and President Kimball, and know-nothing King, and the reverend Marsh, and Pendletonian Pendleton of Pendleton Hill, and their satellites? Have all departed, and left no wreck behind? I reckon not!

"Seriously, friend B——, what does all this mean? Has the fever passed by? Can't we offer another single prescription? Has the last man been heard from? Has there been found 'a balm in Gilead' to heal the wounds of the afflicted sufferers? Is the thing finished? Are they all cured? Did you say all? Dunder and blixen! Is anybody hurt? What are we to do? 'Speak, or die!'

"Where are the 'Committee,' and the 'Judges,' and the 'Trustees,' and the 'Managers'? Where is the 'Society' whose name, 'like linked sweetness long drawn out,' I haven't time to write? Where is that balance in the Treasurer's hands,'—and where is that functionary himself? Did he ever exist at all? What has become of the premiums that were awarded at the last show in Boston? And when, in the language of the enthusiastic Mr. Snooks (at the Statehouse in 1850), will that Association begin 'to be forever perpetuated,'—eh?

"I have got on hand three hundred of the Shanghae devils! What can I do with them? There is a neighbor of mine (a police-officer), who has got stuck with a lot of 'Cochin' chickens, which he swears he won't support this winter; and he has at last advertised them as stolen property, in the faint hope, I suppose, that some 'green 'un' will come forward and claim them. You can't get rid of these birds! It is useless to try to sell them; you can't give them away; nobody will take them. You can't starve them, for they are fierce and dangerous when aggravated, and will kick down the strongest store-closet door; and you can't kill them, for they are tough as rhinoceroses, and tenacious of life as cats. Ah! Burnham, I have never forgiven the man who made me a present of my first lot! Do you want what I've got left? Will you take them? How much shall I pay you to receive them? Help me out, if you can.

"I am not aware that I ever committed any offence, that this judgment should be thus visited upon my poor head! I never sold fowls for what they were not; I never cheated anybody, that I know of; I do not remember ever having done any unjust act that should bring down upon me this terrible vengeance. Yet I am now the owner of nearly three hundred of these infernal, cursed, miserable ghosts in 'feathered mail,' which I cannot get rid of! Tell me what I shall do, and answer promptly.

"Yours, in distress,

"—— — ——."

I have smiled over this document, so full of feeling and earnestness, so lively and touching in its recollections of the days when we went chicken-ing, long time ago! But I have never been able to reply fully to my ardent friend's numerous inquiries. I don't want those "three hundred Shanghae devils," though. I have now on hand nine of them (only, thank Heaven!) myself; and that is quite enough for one farm, at the present current price of grain.

What has become of all the friends about whom my correspondent so carefully inquires, I don't know. Not five of them are now in the hen-trade, however; and there are not ten of them who got out of the business with a whole skin, from the commencement.

The engine has collapsed its boiler. There was altogether too much steam crowded on, and the managers were not all "up to snuff." The dead and wounded and dying are now scattered throughout New England and New York State chiefly, and their moans can occasionally be heard, though their groans of repentance come too late to help them.

They recklessly invested their twenties, or fifties, or hundreds, and, in some instances, their thousands of dollars, in this hum, without any knowledge of the business, and without any consideration whatever, except the single aim to keep the bubble floating aloft until they could realize anticipated fortunes, on a larger or smaller scale, as the case might be. But the "cars have gone by," and they may now wait for another train. Perhaps it will come!

Poor fellows! Poor, deluded, crazy, reckless dupes! You have had your fun, many of you, and you will now have the opportunity to reflect over the ruins that are piled up around you; while, for the time being, you may well exclaim, with the sulky and flunkey Moor,

"Othello's occupation's gone!"

CHAPTER XLVI.
A MOURNFUL PROCESSION.

I looked out, and beheld an immense gathering of human beings approaching in a line that stretched away as far as the eye could reach,—a dense mass of moving mortality, that soon arrived, and passed the window, beneath me. I was alone in the room, and could ask no questions. I could only see what occurred before me; and I noted down, as they passed by, this motley procession, which moved in the following

Order of March.

Escort of Indescribables.

Hatless Aid. [ Chief Marshal in Black. ] Bootless Aid.

Police.  Two Ex-Mormons in White Tunics.  Police.

Calathumpian Band.

The "Ins." [ Collector and Postmaster. ] The "Outs."

Banner.
Motto—"We know of Burns that Russia Salve can't cure."

"Aids to the Revenue." [ Marshal. ] Drawbacks on the Revenue.

Kaleb Krushing. [ The Man who Fainted in Mexico. ] Jorge ah! Poll.

"Fanny Fern,"
Flanked by a company of disappointed Publishers,
twenty-four deep, in twelve sections.

Banner.
Motto.—"She's a brick!"

Aids. [ Marshal. ] Aids.

President of the "N.E. Mutual Admiration" Hen Society.

Fat Marshal. [ The Great Show Man. ] Lean Marshal.

Band, playing the "Rogue's March."

Marshal. Ghost of Joice Heth. Marshal.

Escort in the rear, with charged bayonets.

[The good this association had accomplished was borne along by a stout "practical farmer," in a small thimble; the records of its doings were inscribed on a huge roll of paper, 16,000 yards long, carried upon a truck drawn by twelve yoke of "pure" Devon oxen.]

Banner.—Motto: "Ourselves and those who vote for us."

Band, playing "Hope told a flattering tale."

Pall Bearers. [ HIS COFFIN, behind. ] Heirs to his estate.

Band.—Air: "O, I never will deceive you!"

Full Band.

Banner.—Motto: "Don't he feel bad!"

Marshal. [ The "editor," suffering from a severe attack of roup. ] Marshal.

Full Band.—Air: Dead March.

Banner.—Motto: "You're sure to win—if you don't lose!"

☞ A smooth-skinned pure "Suffolk" Pig, imported. ☜

Twenty-four Sewing Machines, "warranted."

Nine "Bother'em Pootrums," rampant.

The Hen that lays two eggs a day!

Treasurer of the "Mut. Adm'n Society."

Defunct Hucksters, in a tip-cart.

Four empty Hen-Coops, on wheels.

☞ Breeders of pure Alderney cattle! ☜
who furnish Pedigrees with long tails.

An effigy of the Last Man that will buy Shanghae chickens
(in a strait-jacket).

The Hen-Men who "pity Poor Burnham."

My Own Cash Customers,
10,000 strong!

Cavalcade.

"THE PEOPLE,"
Music,
And the rest of Mankind,
etc.

The scene was closing! That immense concourse of humbugs and humbugged had passed on, and I was alone once more. But, a moment afterwards, I saw the head and face of a comical and good-humored looking Yankee (just beneath the window), who was in the act of puffing into the air a huge budget of bubbles, that danced and floated in the atmosphere for a brief moment, and which, bursting, suddenly awoke me. Here is a sketch of the finale.

CHAPTER XLVII.
MY SHANGHAE DINNER.

An auction was immediately got up at the American Museum, in New York; and after a vast deal of drumming, puffing and advertising this magnificent, just-imported, pure-bred poultry, the sale came off, to a sorry company, indeed! And the gross amount of the sales of the fowls thus disposed of, really, was insufficient to pay the freight bills for bringing them across the Atlantic, to say nothing of their original high cost abroad. The show-man has since left the hen-business, I learn, "a wiser if not a better man;" while John retired with the simple exclamation, "Most extr'ornerry result I hever 'eer'd of in hall my life!"

Soon after this little episode occurred, the second show of the "National Poultry Society" (in January, 1855) came off at Barnum's Museum, in New York; which, notwithstanding the best endeavors of the "President," was a failure. The "Committee" shut out of their premium list the Grey Shanghaes, altogether; and the result of this last exhibition was just what I had anticipated. But Mr. Barnum can well afford to foot the bills; and, as he is perfectly willing to do this, no objection will be raised to his choice, I presume. This final exhibition at New York, I have no doubt, closed up the business, for the present.

As soon as this last fair had closed, and when the lucky and unlucky contributors returned to Boston, I invited a party of my former confrères to my residence, to dinner. I had been preparing for this little event for several days; and the following was the actual "bill of fare" to which we all sat down, at Russet House, Melrose, on the fifth day of February, 1855:

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.)

By One of my "Friends."—The Young 'Un: The only hen-man who has put the knife in up to the handle with a decent grace! (Nine cheers followed, for the importer of the only pure-bred poultry in America.)

This last sentiment called me to my feet, naturally enough; and, as nearly as I remember, I thus addressed my guests, amidst the most marked and respectful attention:

"Gentlemen: I think I have seen it written somewhere, or I have heard it said, 'It is a long lane that has no turn in it.' I believe, however, that, although the lane we have most of us been travelling for the last six years has proved somewhat tortuous as well as lengthy, we have now passed the turn in it, and have arrived very nearly at the end of the road.

"Few of you, gentlemen, have met with so many thorns, en route, as I have; none of you, perhaps, have gathered so many roses. I am content, and I trust that everybody is as well satisfied with the results of this journey as I am. The Shanghae trade is done, gentlemen! We have this day eaten up what, four years ago, would have been the nucleus, at least, of a small fortune to any one of us who at that time might have chanced to have possessed it. But the fever is over; the demand for giraffe cocks and chaise-top hens is passed; the 'poor remains of beauty once admired, in my premium fowls,' now lie scattered about the dishes that have just left this table; and 'Brahma-pootra-ism' is now no longer rampant.

"Perhaps, gentlemen, as you entertain opinions of your own upon this delightfully pleasing subject of poultry-raising generally, and of the propagation of Shanghae fowls in particular, you would care to hear nothing of my views regarding this point. Yet, I pray you, indulge me for a single moment—in all seriousness—and permit me to say (without the slightest intention of being personal), that we have proved ourselves a clan of short-sighted mortals, at the best, during the last half-dozen years, in our crazy devotion to what we have deemed an honorable and laudable 'profession,' but which has been, in reality, the most shallow, heartless, unreasonable, silly and bottomless humbug that grown-up men have ever been cajoled with, since the hour when Adam was fooled by the accomplished and coquetting Eve!" (Cries of "You're more'n half right!" "That's a fact!" "Exactly—just so!")

"There is now living in Melrose, Mass., gentlemen, a breeder who begun at the beginning of this excitement, who has since followed up the details of this hum with a zeal worthy of a better cause; and who has accumulated a handsome competency in this traffic, by attending strictly to his own affairs, while he has uniformly acted upon the principle that this world is sufficiently capacious to accommodate all God's creatures, without jostling. If you should chance to meet this now retired fowl-fancier, he will tell you that he has had, and believes he still has, many personal friends; but the very best 'friend' he has ever known is the enjoyment of his present income of eight per cent. interest, per annum, upon thirty thousand dollars. But this is a digression, and I beg pardon for the allusion.

"I look back with no regrets at the past, gentlemen. We have seen a great many merry days, and, in the midst of the competition and humbuggery in which we enlisted, we have often differed in sentiment. But here,—at the close of the route on which we have so long been journeying,—let us remember only the good traits that we any of us possess, while from this point we forget the errors that ourselves and our companions may have committed, forever." (Three times three, "and one more," were here given for the speaker, his friends, and all the rest of mankind.)

"I will say no more, gentlemen. My stomach is too full for further convenient utterance; and I will conclude with a sentiment to which, I am sure, you will all respond. I will give you—

"'The Hen Fever!'"—

"Don't, don't!" shrieked the crowd. "We've had that disease once, and that is quite sufficient."

"Indulge me, gentlemen, one moment, and I will propose, then—

"'The Hen Trade: Though a fowl calling, it puts fair money in the purse, when "judiciously" managed. May none of you ever do worse, pecuniarily, in this humble "profession," than has your friend—the subscriber.'"

Another round of hearty cheers succeeded this sentiment, a parting bumper was enjoyed, and the circle separated, to meet again at Philippi,—or elsewhere,—where the author hopes to encounter only friendly faces, whatever may have been his business relations with his acquaintances in the days that are now passed away.

The mania is over. I have frankly repeated to you the humble history of this curious fever, and we have reached

THE END.