i831.] French Cookery. 25 



distinguishing those swindling pseudo mushrooms from the glorious 

 vegetable whose name they assume unlawfully, and without licence 

 of the herald's college of cookery — from the genuine champignon, our 

 first love in youth and our comfort in old age. 



We have now gone through the four works, whose titles are appended 

 to this article. There are many others of a similar kind as excellent in 

 their way, which, at present, we have not leisure to notice. France 

 has always been prolific in such works, while England, on the contrary, 

 can boast of few. This may be one reason of the superiority of the 

 French aiisine, for superior it certainly is. Another reason is, that 

 the French are a nation of diners-out, while we call ourselves a fire- 

 side people, and, as such, only excel in plain roasts or boils. French- 

 men and French women of rank, at Paris, will not scruple to enter the 

 Cafe cle Paris or Laiter's, while a gentleman in England scarcely 

 ever comes within the walls of a tavern. Hence your British rump 

 steaks, veal cutlets, pork chops, stewed steaks, and other barbarisms, 

 congenial alike to cossack and cockney taste. We are free to admit that 

 among the nobility and gentiy in England— among the classes who can 

 afford to give from £100. to £500. a-year to a cook, we meet with all 

 that is " brightest and best" in cookery ; and that sometimes a decent 

 dinner may be had at some clubs ; but for the man who wishes for 

 every-day enjoyment — for the rational and tasteful eater, withovit an 

 over-grown fortune — and who has unfortunately for himself learned the 

 art to live well, and " cleanly" — for such a man, without a perfect 

 establishment, and for all such reasoning and right royal animals — 

 Paris is the place to have your " local habitation" — and Laiter's, 

 Verb's, or the Cafe de Paris, the houses to dine. 



We had intended to say somewhat on French wines, but the con- 

 sideration of that important subject must be reserved for a separate 

 article. 



MIUANDA n ARAGON ; A TALE OF THE INaUISITION. 



" Come, some more wine," said Miranda. " Let vis drink to-night — 

 to-morrow we may sleep the long sleep." 



" Let us rather to rest," said Henrico St. Lorent, " and gather 

 strength for to-morrow's work. Have you no accounts to settle with 

 conscience, Miranda ?" 



" Accounts ? — yes ; and that is precisely the reason why I would 

 drink and forget." 



'Twas the eve of the battle of Blenheim : the mind of Miranda was 

 overwhelmed by an extraordinary incident. For some days previous, a 

 gipsy woman had pitched her tent amongst the troops, and, in her 

 double capacity of suttler and fortune-teller, had conveyed something to 

 Miranda's ear which depressed him more than the circumstance of an 

 approaching battle was in itself likely to do. A friendship had been 

 cultivated between Miranda and St. Lorent of no ordinary growth. The 

 former, therefore, after some hesitation, consented to unburthen his 

 mind to his comrade. 



" I am not your countryman, St. Lorent, nor has my name always 

 been IMiranda d'Aragon. I am l)y birth a Spaniard. I will say little 

 of my wild, passionate youth, but come at once to the subject on which 

 I would unburthen my heart, and claim of your friendship the last 



M.M. New Heries.—Voh. XII. No. 07. E 



