the chiguire,
to use the vulgar name, and let him lie in steep in a white-wine
vinegar, _en marinade_, as the French say--"

"Where are you to find the white-wine vinegar in the Savannahs?" said
Cashel. "You forget, sir, that we are speaking of a country where a fowl
roasted in its own feathers is a delicacy."

"Oh, how very singular! Do you mean that you eat it, feathers and all?"
said Mrs. White.

"No, madam. It's a prairie dish, which, I assure you, after all, is not
to be despised. The _plat_ is made this way. You take a fowl,--the wild
turkey, when lucky enough to find one,--and cover him all over with soft
red clay; the river clay is the best. You envelop him completely; in
fact, you make a great ball, somewhat the size of a man's head. This
done, you light a fire, and bake the mass. It requires, probably, five
or six hours to make the clay perfectly hard and dry. When it cracks,
the dish is done. You then break open the shell, to the outside of which
the feathers adhere, and the fowl, deliciously roasted, stands before
you."

"How very excellent,--_le poulet braise_ of the French, exactly," said
Lord Kilgoff.

"How cruel!" "How droll!" "How very shocking!" resounded through the
table; the Dean the only one silent, for it was a theme on which, most
singular to say, he could neither record a denial nor a correction.

"I vote for a picnic," cried Mrs. White, "and Mr. Cashel shall cook us
his _dinde a la Mexicaine_."

"An excellent thought," said several of the younger part of the company.

"A very bad one, in my notion," said Lord Kilgoff, who had no fancy for
seeing her Ladyship scaling cliffs, and descending steep paths, when his
own frail limbs did not permit of accompanying her. "Picnics are about
as vulgar a pastime as one can imagine. Your dinner is ever a
failure; your wine detestable; your table equipage arrives smashed or
topsy-turvy--" "_Unde_ topsy-turvy?--_unde_, topsy-turvy, Softly?" said
the Dean, turning fiercely on the curate. "Whence topsyturvy? Do you
give it up? Do you, Mr. Attorney? Do you, my Lord? do you give it up,
eh? I thought so! Topsy-turvy, _quasi_, top side t' other way."

"It's vera ingenious," said Sir Andrew; "but I maun say I see no
neecessity to be always looking back to whare a word gat his birth,
parentage, or eddication."

"It suggests unpleasant associations," said Lord Kilgoff, looking
maliciously towards Linton, who was playing too agreeable to her
Ladyship. "The