And so the years rolled on; and at the commencement of the nineteenth century, old England, instead of enjoying the blessings of universal peace, such as the spread of the Gospel of Christianity might have taught us to expect, found herself involved in rather more warfare than was good for trade, or anything else. The first "innings" of the Corsican usurper was a short but merry one; the second saw him finally "stumped." And from that period dates the "avenging of Waterloo" which we have suffered in silence for so long. The immigration of aliens commenced, and in the tight little island were deposited a large assortment of the poisonous seeds of alien cookery which had never exactly flourished before. The combat between the Roast Beef of old England and the bad fairy "_Ala_," with her attendant sprites Grease, Vinegar, and Garlic, commenced; a combat which at the end of the nineteenth century looked excessively like terminating in favour of the fairy. It has been repeatedly urged against my former gastronomic writings that they are unjustly severe on French cookery; that far greater minds than mine own have expressed unqualified approval thereof; that I know absolutely nothing about the subject; and that my avowed hatred of our lively neighbours and their works is so ferocious as to become ridiculous. These statements are not altogether fair to myself. I have no "avowed hatred" of our lively neighbours; in fact, upon one occasion on returning from the celebration of the Grand Prix, I saw a vision of----but that is a different anecdote. My lash has never embraced the entire _batterie de cuisine_ of the _chef_, and there be many French _plats_ which are agreeable to the palate, as long as we are satisfied that the _matériel_ of which they are composed is sound, wholesome, and of the best quality. It is the cheap _restaurateur_ who should be improved out of England. I was years ago inveigled into visiting the kitchen of one of these grease-and-garlic shops, and----but the memory is too terrible for language. And will anybody advance the statement that a basin of the _tortue claire_ of the average _chef_ deserves to be mentioned in the same breath with a plate of clear turtle at Birch's or Painter's? or that good genuine English soup, whether ox-tail, mock-turtle, pea, oyster, or Palestine, is not to be preferred to the French _purée_, or to their teakettle broth flavoured with carrots, cabbages, and onions, and dignified by the name of _consommé_?