death, though inhuman as a practice, might not
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
pea-soup at Mrs. Fitzgiblet's! It was dished
up too precipitately, and therefore, being
pea-soup, 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
still open; let them cook, let them invent a
soup.

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, bay-
leaves, 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 cayenne. 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
torm-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