sparrow.  If the nobler fowl can cross the water as safely as the beef and mutton of everyday life, he will receive the honour he deserves in this country.  Some students with the deathless thirst of scientific men for acclimatization, speak well of the Bohemian pheasant, which, unlike some other denizens of Bohemia, is fat.  But there are probably less familiar birds in America that rival the duck and the wild turkey, and excel the Bohemian pheasant.  The existence of maize, however, on the Western Continent has been a snare to American cooks, who have yielded to an absorbing passion for hot corn-cakes.

France is, of course, the land in which the Muse of cooking is native.  “If we turn north towards Belgium,” says a modern author, “we shall find much that is good in cooking and eating known, if not universally practised.”  He has also made the discovery that the Belgian air and climate are admirably suited to develop the best qualities of Burgundy.  It is from these favoured and ingenious people that England ought to learn a lesson, or rather a good many lessons.  To begin at the beginning, with soup, does not every one know that all domestic soups in England, which bear French names, are really the same soup, just as almost all puddings are, or may be, called cabinet pudding?  The one word “Julienne” covers all the watery, chill and tasteless, or terribly salt, decoctions, in which a few shreds of vegetables appear drifting through the illimitable inane.  Other names are given at will by the help of a cookery-book and a French dictionary; but all these soups, at bottom, are attempts to be Julienne soup.  The idea of looking on soup “as a vehicle for applying to the palate certain herbal flavours,” is remote indeed from the Plain Cook’s mind.  There is a deeply rooted conviction in her inmost soul that all vegetables, which are not potatoes or cabbages, partake of the nature of evil.  As to eating vegetables apart from meat, it was once as hard to get English domestics to let you do that, as to get a Cretan cook to serve woodcock with the trail. “Kopros is not a thing to be eaten,” says the Cretan, according to a traveller; and the natural heart of the English race regards vegetables, when eaten as a plat apart, with equal disfavour.  Probably the market gardener’s ignorance and conservatism are partly in fault.  Cabbage he knows, and potatoes he knows, but what are pennyroyal and chervil?  He has cauliflower for you, but never says, “Here is rue for you, and rosemary for you.”  Cooks do not give him botany lessons, and a Scottish cook, deprived of bay-leaf, has been known to make an experiment in the use of what she called “Roderick Randoms,” members of the vegetable kingdom which proved to be rhododendron.  As for pennyroyal, most people have only heard of it through Mr. Bonn’s crib to Aristophanes.