"What is this about, dear? My poor friend!"

I could hardly answer her. I could have fallen before her and worshipped her, for the tone of her voice. I answered with grief: "You were so unkind, and you danced with him!"

Captain Bulstock laughed aloud.

“A duel, I declare; and for you, Ada!” She smiled.

"There's a galop now. Sidney, I'll make Mr. Wicks change it to a quadrille, and we will dance it together."

Anything to prevent bloodshed," said the captain.

Oh triumph! oh joy! oh delicious moment! as I led her away Even now, a yellow dress and dark hair brings back that moment. She was mine, she would be mine; she was true, noble, generous!

"I am not quite pleased with you," she said, as we took our place at the top. You do not trust me."

"Oh, I do, I do! But you do not care for me. You like that fellow better."

"Who? Captain Bulstock ?” "No. Goodman."

"I don't like him at all; he is a conceited, precocious little puppy."

She was mine again, she would be mine for ever! The rest was rapture; Wicks became glorified into a seraphic orchestra, the room into a considerable ball-room. I could have begun again and again, and quadrilled it all. night long.

Then came supper: a noble banquet, in a room which, for obvious reasons, had been kept under lock and key. It was past one A.M.

altogether!" (I believed that they referred to me, and blushed.) She looked confused, and tossed her charming head.

Whisper, dear," she said to them. "No?" was the answer in delighted surprise. 'Well, I am so glad. I'll come and see you in the morning, and tell you about it.'

I felt that this did not quite refer to me. "What will a certain poor fellow do?" was asked in a whisper. "Shall we tell him ?"

with a look of wistful interest; there was even Again I saw the bright face bent on me a little pain in the face. She bent down to me:

"Mind you are at home to-morrow when I come, for I have a little keepsake to bring you."

the distance, and the tyrant Bulstock came up Then the golden face seemed to fade out in to claim his prey.

There was a weight, a mystery at my heart. It made me dismal. They told me in the carriage as we went home-broke it to me gently, Bulstock had proposed to her that night and had been accepted. He was a good match, with a staff appointment, interest, &c. Oh, how I suftoo proud to let them know it. They thought I fered! I was in agony all that night, but I was was "sulky," and it was said, "You see, he really has no feeling for anything." Oh, that night, that golden vision! It haunted me long afterwards like a dismal yet a lovely dream. Such is the story of my first small love.

After that, home life ended suddenly, and I was sent away to school.

A BASIN OF SOUP.

Roast fowls glistened everywhere in their own LEAVES FROM THE MAHOGANY TREE. refreshing native brown, and tongues likewise bent into their own agreeable curve, and rich in their peculiar varnish. Tongue, in those days, IN those dark, those pitch dark ages, before seemed to me the viand for which I would, side dishes were invented, and when the majority in preference, run personal risk of arrest and of the half-savage chasers of the mammoth lived capture. I will not particularise the other on fullers'-earth and cold lizard, what would not delicacies; enough that there was "champagne a tyrant of Central Asia have given for a French to the mast-head," as a stout and cheerful cook-a Ude, a Francatelli, or a Carême ? If doctor observed, his hand affectionately grasp-such a man had then lived, would not Nasopileing the neck of a flask.

heaver have instantly sent waggon loads of silk, For the moment these delicacies took away the rich cloths of gold and silver, chests of cinna thought of HER. She was not there. I wondered mon, carts full of pearls and sapphires, to at it after a time; for the conjunction of our lure the great beneficent genius to his kingdom? common nature, with rich and rare delicacies Would he not have declared war on the rival of this sort, seemed about as natural and in-king; and with spearmen, horsemen, batteringevitable as that of the magnet and the bit of iron. Then it flashed upon me, where was he, Bulstock? Her father presently appeared, and said, jocosely, "he supposed she had gone off in a post-chaise with some one, and had abandoned him in his old age." After supper, dancing began again, and then she reappeared, and nodded over to me, brightly and happily. Then orders were passed that we were to go

away.

66

Going away," she cried, with her hand on my shoulder; taking off my little beau ?". Oh indeed!" said our people, "fine doings

rams, and other implements of war, have instantly marched on his city, given it to sword and fire, and carried off that illustrious stranger? And having got that great master under lock and key, would he not have threatened him with the most terrible death unless he instantly invented a dish lighter, more nutritious, and more savoury, than any he had ever before devised? Immured in the hot and strong dungeon of King Nasopileheaver, could there be any doubt what new plat that mighty brain in the white nightcap would have conceived. What is the lightest, most nourishing, most whole

some, most savoury, of all cooked food? SOUP, of course.

three dozen carrots, a dozen onions, two dozen pieces of celery, twelve turnips, a fowl, and two partridges. It must simmer six hours. Then get two pounds of fillet of veal, stew it, and pour the soup over the meat. Add more celery; then mix bread, and eventually serve up the soup with the shin bone (the real wooden leg) emerging like the bowsprit of a wreck from the sea of vegetables.

There used to be a simple dish made in Paris (originally at Plombières) which was called cherry soup. It was made with blackheart cherries, butter, sugar, and the crumbs of toasted bread. When well prepared, it was said to be delicious.

Blessings on the man who invented soup! For it rejoices the tired stomach, disposes it to placidly digest, encourages the noble organ, and comes as a promise of future good things. It is a gentle experiment to test if the stomach be in sound working order. It contains the greatest amount of nourishment that can be taken with the least exertion. Chemically it is a wonder (the cooks of the future will all be taught the elements of chemistry), for Broth, which is the humble father of soup, is literally an extract of all the soluble parts of meat. The ozmazome melts first; then the albumen. To make good soup, it is chemically necessary that the water boil slowly, so that the albumen may not coagulate in the centre of the meat before being extracted. And the ebullition must be slow, so that the different ingredients of the extract may unite with each" other easily and thoroughly.

A French epicurean writer of eminence asserts that ten solid volumes would not contain the recipes of all the soups which have been invented in those grand schools of good eating, the kitchens of Paris. The soup is to a dinner what the portico is to a mansion; it is not merely the first thing to which you come, but it also serves to give an idea of what the architeet intends to do afterwards; much as the overture of an opera conveys foreshadowing, and glimpses of what is to follow. A simple dinner should have the prelude of a simple soup; which, however, requires to be perfect, and demands a care, patience, and waiting watchfulness, which good housewives are more likely to bestow than a professed cook. It has been often noticed by epicureans that thoroughly good soups are rare in great men's houses. The reason is, that the kitchenmaids keep taking the soup for their ragout and side dishes, and filling it up with water, till the crude adulteration has infected the whole. In small houses the soup is a principal object, and receives the most religious care. The chief fault in England is, that soups are over spiced and under vegetabled. They are also too hurried. By quick violent boiling all the soluble and finest parts of the ingredients pass off in puffs of indignant steam, while the coarser parts only are retained in the solution. The process of soup making is a slow chemical process, and nature will not be hurried without having her revenge.

French cooks, in their versatile invention and restless desire to please, and delight, give strange and striking names to their new dishes. They have "The Soup of the Good Woman,' and above all, "The Potage à la Jambe du Bois (The Soup of the Wooden Leg").

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That glorious old coxcomb, Louis Eustache Ude, who had been cook to two French kings, and who found it hard to please his noble patrons at Crockford's, never forgave the world for not permitting him to call himself an artist. Scrapers of catgut," he says "call themselves artists, and fellows who jump like kangaroos claim the same title; yet the man who had under his sole direction the great feasts given by the nobility of England to the Allied Sovereigns, and who superintended the grand banquet at Crockford's on the occasion of the coronation of our amiable and beloved sovereign, Victoria, was denied the title prodigally showered on singers, dancers, and comedians, whose only quality," says the indignant chef "not requiring the aid of a microscope to discover is pride."

One of the most delicious, but least known French soups is the potage à la Camerani. It was introduced early in the century by M. Camerani, a famous Scapin (or knavish tricky servant) in the Italian Comedy. This erudite gourmand was celebrated for several sorts of ragouts, and more especially for a mode of cooking snails which made them even preferable to ortolans. The Camerani soup, however, cost more than four pounds a tureen full.

You took first, Neapolitan maccaroni and Parmesan cheese. Then, Gournay butter, two dozen livers of fat fowls, celery, cabbage, carrots, parsnips, leeks, and turnips, all of which were minced and mixed with the chopped livers, and placed in the stew-pan with some butter. The pot with the soup was then prepared, and the different ingredients scientifically placed in layers. First the maccaroni, then the mince, next the Parmesan. The pot was then placed on a slow fire, and the whole was allowed to soak till a perfect interfusion of tastes and flavours had taken place, and the potage à la Camerani could be poured into the plate of the delighted gourmand.

Eccentric Dr. Kitchener, after giving a recipe for a West Indian soup made with craw-fish, and mixed with spices and vegetables, says quietly, "One of my predecessors recommends cray-fish pounded alive as an ingredient in the broth to sweeten the sharpness of the blood." The

But the wooden leg is an after ingredient. Like most receipts of the first class, this one is horribly expensive; but, like most other expensive recipes, it is just as good made more eco-energetic doctor makes no moral reflection on nomically.

Take a wooden leg-no, that is afterwards. Procure a shin of beef and put it in a pot, with

this suggestion, but his footnote reminds us of the cruelty of cooks, and of Charles Lamb's humourous doubts as to whether whipping pigs to

soup.

death, though inhuman as a practice, might not still open; let them cook, let them invent a impart a gusto; Lamb then putting the celebrated hypothesis, argued so learnedly and exhaustively at St. Omer's, as to whether man is not justified in using the whip, if the flavour of a pig so slain, superadd a pleasure upon the palate of the eater more intense than any possible suffering conceivable in the animal. The question also arises whether it is wrong to fatten the Strasbourg goose, in order to enlarge his liver. A French writer says, "The bird is crammed with food, deprived of drink, and fixed near a great fire, its feet nailed to a plank." The torment would be unbearable, but when the big-hearted, though small-brained bird reflects that his liver will minister to the delight of Europe, he is consoled. Ude is as cruel as the solid men of Strasbourg. In an important chapter on "skinning eels," he says, "Take one or two live eels, throw them into the fire, and as they are twisting about on all sides lay hold of them with a towel in your hand and skin them from head to heel." This method is the best, he says, as it is the only method of drawing out all the oil which is unpalatable and indigestible. He then complains that he has been accused of cruelty, but defends himself eloquently, as his object, he says, is only to gratify the taste and preserve the health. Mr. Hayward, commenting on this, compares Ude to the member of the Humane Society who, wishing to save chimney sweep boys from their dangerous work, suggested that a live goose might be dragged up the chimney instead, and, some one remonstrating with the humane man, he promptly replied that a couple of ducks would do as

well.

The English cook does not excel in soup. Soup must be persuaded and reasoned with; it will not submit to the impetuous tyranny of a person in a hurry. The wine, spices, and anchovy are cast into the "enchanted pot" too soon by us, and their subtle flavours volatilise and pass away into air, into thin air. What terrible memories most of us have of soups at home and abroad! O that last peasoup at Mrs. Fitzgiblet's! It was dished up too precipitately, and therefore, being peasoup, it settled into a heavy miry deposit at the bottom of the tureen, and what we got was a yellowish warm water. There are other sorts of odious soups peculiar to the houses of careless Amphitryons; such as cold gravy soup with a husky skin over it; mock turtle with slabs of hard veal in it; vegetable, with peas hard as buck shot rattling about in it. There is one very favourite soup in which you come to streaks of solid sauce and veins of burning pepper, and there is also an unappreciated white soup which tastes like bill-stickers' paste.

People brag of croquet as a successful new amusement" It brings young people together, you know." But what of the old people? For these waifs and strays of the busy world, who have dropped out of the ranks and have got out of sight of the flags, and out of hearing of the band, there is one source of amusement

See, my Lord Fitzfidget, what a delightful old age this notion offers to your notice! Make Binns turn all those dusty deed boxes and iron safes out of your den; remove those county histories you only pretend to consult, that Clarendon's Rebellion you never read, and put the room in fighting order for newer and more intellectual pleasures. This done, ring for the gardener, and order in small bundles, carefully sorted, of potatoes, mushrooms, champignons (the nankeen-coloured, generally thought poisonous, and mind there is no mistake about them), parsnips, carrots, beetroot, turnips, peas, garlic, onions, cucumbers, celery, celery seed, parsley, leeks, common thyme, lemon thyme, orange thyme, knotted marjoram, sage, mint, winter savory, sweet basil, borage, bayleaves, tarragon, chervil, and burnet. Then send to the cook (who will, no doubt, smile, but not disrespectfully), for cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, cloves, mace, black and white pepper, lemon peel, Seville oranges, salt, anchovies, garlic, and cayenue. Tell Mrs. Redburn to send you in some lean juicy beef, mutton, and veal, some chickens, and, if it be the game season, a partridge or two, a snipe, and a woodcock. Some truffles and morells, fresh, black, and fine, and two or three bottles of Madeira will then be all your remaining wants for a pleasant morning's amusement. Of course we presume you have a neat steam kitchen range already fitted up on a small scale, and a shelf of bright stew-pans. The disjointed elements of a feast lie before you. You are like Euclid with his floor covered with isosceles triangles, and circles, and with a problem to solve. As a beginner, first try a "Soup without water;" you will make less mess, and if you fail, the materials thrown away will not be costly.

Come then, my lord, tuck up your sleeves, take courage, and fall to work. Cut three pounds of beef and veal into thin slices, put them into a stone jar with a dozen sliced turnips, two onions, and a little salt; cover the jar close in a saucepan of boiling water. There is no colouring or variety in that. Then try Mulligatawny.

Take two quarts of water, my lord, and boil a fowl; then add to it, a white onion, a chili, two teaspoonfuls of pounded ginger, two of curry powder, one teaspoonful of turmeric, and half a spoonful of black pepper; boil these for half an hour; then fry some small onions and add to the soup; season with salt, and serve up.

Who has not seen with admiration, mingled with pity, a huge turtle fresh from its azure bath in sweet Indian seas, fresh from gales off the storm-vexed Bermoothes or calms off Trinidad, cowering in a London eating-house window, its feeble flappers vainly fumbling about the straw, and a large placard upon the shell of the mute and bewildered martyr informing us that "this turtle will be killed to-morrow." That turtle will require arms full of sweet herbs, three bottles of Madeira, some forcemeat balls, and

tables and light chairs are dispersed about the shop for the convenience of customers. Here my companion compounded a drink of soda water and gin and lemon and ginger, of which he wished me to partake. I declined the mixture and took a glass of sherry. We might have sat five minutes, when a tall and important looking personage lounged into the wine-shop. As he entered he cast a supercilious look upon all the occupants of the tables; then, raising his head, he removed his cigar and emitted a long column of smoke from his lips as a contemptuous verdict of lofty disapproval on the society he had joined. He was well-dressedirreproachably, so far as the quality and cut of his clothes were concerned; but they seemed to assert that conscious independence of their wearer that new clothes will assert over a person who has been up all night. His black hair and small moustache were scrupulously well arranged, but his eyes blinked in the daylight, seemingly for want of a night's rest.

He sauntered up to our table and emitted another superior column of smoke over our heads.

"Know this swell ?" my Yankee friend whispered.

I shook my head.

so.'

"Oh," said the swell, "I always carry them

"Then maybe you don't live in London, sir?" 'Oh, bay Jove, no. The fact is my uncle has lately died and left me a fine property down in Essex, and till the lawyers have settled up 1 came to have a flutter in town."

“Then yeu'll excuse me, once again, but if I was in yure place I wouldn't flutter my notes," and the American appealed to me for justification. "Ye see yeu never know what company yeu may be in."

I thought I knew what company I was in; but I didn't say so.

"Aw! for that matter," said the swell, "I know I am always safe in the company of gentlemen."

"That's correct. But heow do yeu tell a gentleman from a coon ?"

"Well, I think a man's a gentleman-aw-if he's got money in his pocket.'

Happen you're right. But heow much money must a man have in his pocket to prove him a gentleman ?"

"Nothing less than five pund," said the swell. Wal, I dunno. But for my part, I shouldn't like yeu to think yeu were talkin with anyone but a gentleman as far as I'm concerned," and my American friend produced his purse.

Thought he might be a member of yure Congress, or a tailor's advertisement, or some"

other nob."

There was a spare chair at our table, and the person thus irreverently alluded to, after some time spent in mentally estimating the relative merits of the other vacant chairs, appeared to prevail on himself to take it and sit down.

"Spree, last night," he condescended to say presently. Champagne supper and things till all was blue."

"Very pretty tipple," said my American friend.

Ya-as. Then coming home with some fellahs we saw a Hansom waiting outside a doctor's door, and we chained the man's cab to an iron post."

"Man cuss much ?"

"Aw," said the swell, before he opened it, bay Jove, I'll bet you a new hat, you haven't got five pund in your purse."

"Done with yeu !" said my esteemed friend. And on exhibiting his purse, he showed nearly thirty sovereigns as well as I could judge.

"Aw, then I've lost, and I owe you a hat. Aw, here is my card." He handed it to us both. Frederick Church, Esquire.

I was impressed with the notion that the faces of both these men were somehow familiar to me. The American nudged me again and bestowed upon me an encouraging wink.

"Reckon now yeu won't bet my friend here he hasn't got five sovereigns about him ?" He nudged me again.

"Ya'as I will," said Mr. Church, languidly. "I often do it for a lark. I am generally about

Bay Jove, ya'as. Doctor damning the cab-right twice out of three times.” man and swearing he should be late, cabby I said that I didn't bet. cutting into his horse like forty thousand, and couldn't tell what was up."

Aw, well, some people don't. I wouldn't persuade anybody 'm sure. Sure to lose in the long run. Bay Jove, I know I do. But just for the sport of the thing, I don't mind stand"No; 'pon m' word, you know-you'll allowing a new hat if you've got five pund about you. me. Waiter, bottle of champagne !" "Wal, reckon I'm not particular, so as we du liquor. (Original Champagne Charlie," the American whispered to me).