Major André, after describing the decorations of this supper-room, says that “there were four hundred and thirty covers, twelve hundred dishes, and twenty-four black slaves in Oriental dresses, with silver collars and bracelets, ranged in two lines, and bending to the ground as the general and admiral approached the saloon; all these, forming together the most brilliant assemblage of gay objects, and appearing at once as we entered by an easy descent, exhibited a _coup-d’œil_ beyond description magnificent.” Toward the end of supper, the herald of the Blended Rose, in his habit of ceremony, attended by his trumpeters, entered the saloon and proclaimed the King’s health, the Queen’s, and that of the royal family. After the toast to the King, all the company rose and sang “God Save the King,” which must have been a very trying moment to those Whig ladies present, who through all the enjoyment of the day were doubtless considerably pricked in their consciences. More loyal toasts followed, to the army and navy, their commanders, and finally to the ladies and their knights, the ladies’ toast being: “The Founder of the Feast.” We are pained to read that some of the gentlemen, among them one of the same party as our quaint journalist, were so ungallant as to remain at table, declaring their intention of devoting the night to Bacchus,--alas for Venus! The guests did not disperse until dawn began to redden the eastern sky, and some tarried until the sun was up. Here I cannot forbear transcribing some verses written by a lady--Miss Hannah Griffitts--residing in Philadelphia at this time, in which, though an ardent loyalist, she, as a member of the Society of Friends, expressed her indignation against the whole affair. The poem is in answer to the question, “What is it?” and the Quaker lady’s reply rings forth with no uncertain sound. “A shameful scene of dissipation, The death of sense and reputation; A deep degeneracy of nature, A frolic ‘for the lush of satire.’ A feast of grandeur fit for kings, Formed of the following empty things: Ribbons and gewgaws, tints and tinsel, To glow beneath the historic pencil; (For what though reason now stands neuter, How will it sparkle,--page the future?) Heroes that will not bear inspection, And glasses to affect reflection; “Triumphant arches raised in blunders, And true Don Quixotes made of wonders. Laurels, instead of weeping willows, To crown the bacchanalian fellows; The sound of victory complete, Loudly re-echoed from defeat; The fair of vanity profound, A madman’s dance,--a lover’s round. “In short, it’s one clear contradiction To every truth (except a fiction); Condemned by wisdom’s silver rules, The blush of sense and gaze of fools. “But recollection’s pained to know That ladies joined the frantic show; When female prudence thus can fail, It’s time the sex should wear the veil.”