hot with a pennyworth of bread in a warm and
comfortable refreshment-room like the Carlisle
Temperance Hall. Here is Dr. Elliott's recipe
for soup that may be honestly sold, not given in
charity, at prices suited to the pressure of
hard times: " Suppose that to-morrow one hundred
gallons of soup must be ready at eleven
o'clock, or at noon. On the preceding afternoon
—that is to-day, at two or three P.M.—put
fifty pounds of whole white peas into cold water
for fifteen hours. At ten o'clock at night, put
one hundred pounds weight of beef hough, and
necks, at twopence-halfpenny per pound, the
bones chopped, and the meat all cut into small
pieces. Put the meat and bones into the soup
casks (old treacle casks will do), barely cover
them with cold water, and turn on the steam
through the pipe that goes into each cask,
After many succussions, or cracks, which
gradually get less loud, the boiling begins; and the
peculiarity of this method is that the water
never boils away, but actually increases by
about three-fifths in ten hours; so that allowance
must be made for this in the several casks.
If the heat be from gas jets, the boiling might
be left unheeded all night. At six in the morning
the peas, after the maceration in cold water,
are added; but they must be in bags, each holding
twenty-five or thirty pounds of peas; sixty-five
pounds of pot-barley are at the same time
added, not in bags, but loose. At nine o'clock
take out the peas, bruise them well (as in
peas-pudding), and empty the contents of the bags
into the casks. At ten o'clock add ten pounds
of salt and ten ounces of black pepper, ten
pounds of onions, sometimes carrots, potatoes,
or oatmeal. By eleven o'clock you will have
excellent soup. Twenty-five gallons of water is
the measure to begin with—one hundred gallons
of soup is the result; and at one penny per
pint, the whole will sell for the very lawyer-like
sum of three pounds six shillings and eight-
pence, leaving a profit."

Soup like that we can warrant without tasting.
Peas and pot-barley are rich in nourishment,
seasoning is not left out, the meat is
handsomely remembered, and the whole
nourishment out of everything used goes with the
brew.

When the poor hunger, every man who has a
kitchen can make of it a soup-kitchen at the cost
of but few pence, by setting up a pot au feu on
the French system, or stock-pot for the
pot-liquor, meat cuttings, bones, scraps, and other
nourishing odds and ends that find their way too
commonly into the dust-hole. The rich may
dine at a first-rate hotel, and get soup of which
the stock is made by thus collecting shreds and
leavings of the dresser and the dinner-table.
A very modest household can yield out of its
waste a quart or two of good soup that needs
only a bit of onion, or celery, or dash of any
sort of vegetable, with pepper and salt, to make
it food and health to somebody who hungers.
The only trouble involved in this sort of
soup-making is the duty it brings with it of finding
the right persons to receive the help it will
enable the soup-maker to give. But that trouble
is a duty. It is only the active and thoughtful
mercy that is twice blessed, or even once blessed,
except now and then by a rare accident. As
well curse society aloud as be a blind alms-
giver.

JUDICIAL MURDER.

Of the many heavy burdens which a
sovereign has to bear, the power of life and death is
one of the heaviest. Piux IX. is still a sovereign
who struggles hard to retain in his hands
that awful responsibility; and he has lately
wielded it in a manner which would make most
men wretched to their dying day.

Only a little while ago, as we are all aware,
poor Locatelli was relentlessly sent to his final
account before a juster tribunal than that of
prelates and popes, on the accusation of stabbing
the pontifical gendarme Vellerti in a street row.
The offence amounted to no more than homicide,
as aggravated in its circumstances as you please,
but not to premeditated murder. Yet the
degree of his offence is a matter of comparatively
trifling importance, compared with the brutally
clumsy way in which he was judicially butchered.
The grand question is whether he were or
were not really guilty of the crime imputed to
him.

The ultramontane journals state that there
no longer remains a doubt about Locatelli's
guilt; but the reasons for thus casting away
doubt are not forthcoming; on the contrary.
His trial can hardly be called a trial. It was
conducted with closed doors. The accuser and
the witnesses were brought in one by one, and
then removed, and never confronted with him
nor with each other; he was kept ignorant of
what evidence was given against him, and by
whom. The judges alone held the thread of the
story; to everyone else it was an incomplete and
tangled web, and so remains. In the official report
the witnesses were only indicated by false initials,
rendering it impossible to estimate the personal
value of their testimony. One witness deposed
that the man who struck the blow was tall and
thin; another that he was short and fat; another
that he was of middle height. The knife which
inflicted the blow was found, in a dense crowd,
at five or six paces' distance from the assumed
assassin. When arrested, Locatelli's own knife
was found in his pocket, closed. A French
officer who saw him immediately after his arrest,
declared that he was very drunk, implying thereby
that he was incapable at the time of committing
the act; but his evidence was pooh-poohed
away, on the ground that he was only one; as if
the word of one truthful person did not carry
more weight than the oaths of twenty suborned
partisans.

Locatelli protested his innocence to the last,
in a way which convinced his hearers of his
sincerity. A man named Castrucci, when he got
beyond the Roman frontier and out of the reach
of the papal claws, sent word that it was he who
inflicted the wound; he treated the affair as of