the juice of many lemons. Only a professional
man dare touch that precious creature.
But Mock -Turtle, my Lord Fitzfidget, is
within your grasp, though Milton may not be.

First, my lord, take your calf's head, remove
the brains, wash it, and boil it for an hour. Then
cut up some ham and a knuckle of veal, and
stew with vegetables of all sorts, cloves, lemon
peel, and sweet herbs. Let it stew for two
hours. Then thicken it with butter and two
table-spoonfuls of flour, and strain and cut the
head and tongue into square mouthfuls (to simulate
the real head and tongue). Season with
browning, lemon juice, catsup, and wine. There
is now left for you, my lord, the crowning pleasure
of making the forcemeat balls, and adding to
the haut gout (if you wish to add perfume to the
violet), anchovies, mushrooms, truffles, curry
powder, artichoke bottoms, salmons' livers,
lobsters cut into mouthfuls, a bottle of Madeira,
salted neats' tongue cut into pieces, and brain
balls fried in crumbs. A passionate desire of
excellence has led the English cook to make
this soup a Thesaurus, nay a very Gaza of good
things, hoping to transcend the great fish soup
of the luxurious West Indian Islands.

The Egyptians make a delicious soup of
lentils. The Scotch leek soup is very palatable;
indeed in the world of soups both rich and poor
may find an endless choice — from asparagus
soup to water soup, from the costly Bisque
to soup maigre, from mock mutton broth (only
gruel and catsup) to the gorgeous and imperial
turtle.

AMONG SHARPS.

IN February last year, I came to London for
the day, on business which took me into the
City. Having accomplished the purpose of my
visit more quickly than I expected, I was strolling
leisurely along St. Paul's Churchyard, with
the view of working my way into the Strand.
The time of day was something after twelve at
noon, and of all the busy stream of people that
flowed city ward or ebbed past me, it seemed
that I was the only loiterer. A man, however,
walking nearly as slowly as I, seeing me smoking
as he passed, at last stopped and asked for a
light. I gave him a match. He fell back a
little out of the stream of traffic into the shelter
of a shop window corner, to light his cigar in
peace. He was a short man about six and
thirty, with brown beard and whiskers, face a
trifle marked with small-pox, well dressed, of
gentlemanly appearance, and spoke with a
strong (indeed, much too strong) American
twang.

As I continued my stroll, I soon became aware
that I was followed by this gentleman. The
slower I walked, the slower he walked. It is
not comfortable to be followed — so I pulled
up to let him pass. Instead of doing so, he no
sooner came up with me, than he pulled up too.

He set his head just a thought out of the
perpendicular, and looking me full in the face said,

"Guess this is a tall city? Rather tangled to
get about in, though? Now, it ain't like Philadelphy,
where our critters knew what they was
going at before they begun to build, and ruled
all the streets straight ahead in right lines.
No, sir."

"No?" I said curtly, and was moving on.

"No, sir," he continued, walking by my
side, " and its useless for a stranger in yure
city to give his mind to going anywhere, for he
ain't likely to get there. Now if it ain't re-ude
of a stranger asking it, because he is a stranger
(and we know how to treat strangers in our
country, sir), where air yeu going to? Happen
yeu can put me in the way where I'm goin' to."

"I am making for the Strand," I said; " if
your way lies in that direction I can show it
you; if not, I can tell you how to find it."

"Just where I'm castin' about to get to," he
returned; " my moorins is at a hotel opposite
Somerset House, and as soon as I get into the
Strand, I can fix myself right up. So I'll just
couple on to you."

I allowed him to do so. I hinted that I
had no wish to show discourtesy to a citizen of
that great nation to which he belonged. My
companion had plenty to say. He rattled on
about the States being this and the States being
that, so that it was needless for me to do any
more talking than an occasional interjection of
surprise or satisfaction, each of which was
acknowledged with a Yes, sir, or a No, sir,
completely final. He told me he had only been in
England for a fortnight — just taken a run over
to see the old country — and should be back in
Noo York again in a couple of months.

When we had passed through Temple Bar, I
told him he could be in no further doubt as to
his way, since he was now in the Strand.

"I'm considerable obliged," he said, " I'll
do as much for you when you come to Noo
York. But you ain't goin' to part company like
that?"

I had freed my arm and held out my hand to
wish him good morning.

"You'll just do a spell?" he continued.

"A what?" said I.

"Du I not make myself clear to the British
intellect? Reckon you'll liquor?"

No, I reckoned I had rather be excused.

"Wal," he said, chewing his cigar so that
it assumed a rotary motion, and its point
described a circle over his face. " Wal, sir, it's a
custom we hev in our country, and we think it
rather scaly manners to refuse. Reckon you
Britishers do not think it scaly to slight a
friend's hospitality in the street. We du."

As he persisted in regarding my refusal
almost in the light of a personal insult, and
would not listen to any explanation that we do
not regard the declining of "drinks" in a
similar light in our own country, I yielded the
point.

We retraced our steps a short distance and
entered a wine store, on the City side of Temple
Bar, a very respectable place where wines are
drawn from the wood. Small round marble