round it." The duck, who spends his useful
life in flitting from lake to brook in search of
rush-buds and olive-brown watercresscs, would
(if he could but taste this sauce) rejoice in
being so embalmed, and exult in being so
honoured. The teal used to be, and we have
no doubt still is, slyly eaten by the self-denying
Carthusians and Carmelites on fast days, it
being Jesuitically regarded as an aquatic bird,
and therefore half a fish. Saint Liguori, the
most accomplished of casuists, especially
rejoiced in this ingenious evasion of the severe
laws of Lent. It is not impossible that he
himself first drove the poulterer's cart through
the Pope's decrees on this point. This evasive
bird is gratefully cooked with olives, or truffles,
with thistles, with oysters, with cauliflowers,
and it is good in pâtés and in terrines.

The quail, humbly supine on his little mattress
of transparent bacon, is an object agreeable to
three senses. Enveloped in lard, or clothed
with a vine-leaf, the plump little creature
is equally delectable. A good roast of quails,
even in Paris, costs more than two fat fowls (and
this is no joke, for there are places where one
fat capon can cost as much as twelve shillings).
Of the French quails, the best are those of
Montredon, near Marseilles. There are a thousand
ways of disguising them; with beef marrow,
truffles, herbs, and mushrooms; they are
good à la braise, à la poêle, an gratin (with
crumbs), with cabbages, or with lentils coulis.
In the lark season it is not uncommon at hotels
to disguise larks as quails, but an epicure, even
though blind, could tell the difference; for
though the lark is much in esteem with poets,
and is indeed decidedly a quiet, amiable, well-
disposed, and even respectable bird, he is only
a toothpick, a mere pastime, in comparison witli
the exquisite bird that fed the Israelites in the
desert.

One of the greatest efforts of Ude's life was
the construction of an enormous game-pie,
which the Earl of Sefton wished to present
to the appreciative corporation of Liverpool.
This pie was to be a monster proof of the author's
learning and generosity. Its contents were to be
of the best; it was to overflow with good things;
it was to be an Amalthea's horn, brimming with
bonne-bouches. One fine morning, inspired by
the sunshine that streamed round him as he
stood monarch of all he surveyed in the earl's
kitchen—M. Louis Eustache Ude, formerly
cook of Louis the Sixteenth—collected around
him great piles of game, poultry, veal, ham,
bacon, forcemeat, and truffles. His caskets of
spices stood near him, open, a bin of flour was
at hand, and huge rolls of flower-scented
Devonshire butter were within call. Let us follow
the alchemist of the kitchen through all his
enchantments, for even to think of them with
the mind's eye—if the mind's eye can think,
which we do not feel quite certain about—gives
one the keenest seaside appetite. Ude first
buttered a large brazier pan, and then lined it
as one would line a hat, with a thin
unctuous sheet of fat bacon. In the centre, he
gravely placed a very large turkey, breast
downward, well larded, and stuffed with four very
fine boned and larded pullets, seasoned with
salt, pepper, and allspice, and with forcemeat
laid in the trenches of the backs. The great
composer then deposited round the patriarch
turkey, the centre of all, eight boned
and larded pheasants, seasoned and stuffed
with truffles, and inside each pheasant was a
boned and larded partridge, on the principle of
the Chinese puzzle, and promising well for the
future. The chinks and cavities were filled
in with truffles, calf's liver, bacon, livers of
game and fowls, and the white flesh and dark
opaque livers of six rabbits, which had been
chopped into forcemeat to garnish the monster
corporation pie. But this was a mere sketch at
present. The troops were on the ground, it is
true, but the real battle had yet to be won. A
shovel of coals too much on the oven-fire, and the
splendour of a Sefton might be doomed to dust
and ashes. Ude, gay and sanguine, then stuffed
in a good deal of larded veal, some special wedges
of ham, and twenty pounds of fragrant and
carefully culled truffles. He covered the whole
with a sheet of fat bacon, seasoning it all over;
he parted from it with a longing lingering
look; and hermetically closing the brazier by
putting a paper all round the cover, put it
in the oven for a fiery probation of two hours.
It was then allowed to get quite cool, and was
tempered by imprisonment in an ice-house to
make it thoroughly cold. Ude then dipped the
braizer into warm water to loosen the contents,
and, the first stage of the work of art being
over, he removed the gravy and fat, and put
the meat, &c., into a temporary purgatory of ice.

The paste had now to be made. He first
threw about a coal-scuttle full of flour into
a vast earthen bowl, and prepared the butter
in a stew-pan with boiling water and some
salt. The flour was beaten up into a paste
with a giant wooden spoon, then worked on
the dresser, and placed before the fire for a
moment, covered with a cloth, to help the
manipulation. So far, so good. Ude felt
like Phidias, when chiselling out the form of
Apollo, or like Cellini, when in the fiery agony
of casting his famous statue of Perseus. The
fate of Europe seemed to hang upon that pie.
Heaven only knew what indigestions among
the worthy corporation the failure of that
paste might not occasion. Ude next spread on
the honoured table of the venerated earl, a large
thick sheet of paste, and moulded the inner walls
of the treasure-house of delicacies. The iced
meat was already firm, and jellied together to
receive its envelope, which Ude skilfully lapped
over the top. He then covered the top with a
second vast sheet, and pasted it down over the
first, shaping it as he did so, and moulding the
walls with architectural hand and dexterous
masonic fingers. When form and symmetry
were obtained, Ude squeezed out of the fat
putty-like paste, a projecting border to form
the foot, and with nimble fingers pinched out
a border and cornice-rims for the top. With