PEOPLE, then, were conservative with regard to food. For the ordinary Englishman was no appetizing _plat_, no refinement of cookery—anything out of the usual ruck would be promptly denounced, and fiercely spurned, as French _kickshaws_. Plain roast and boiled meats were universal, from the highest to the lowest; the quantity of animal food consumed throughout the country was enormous; and, what was more, it was all of home production. No frozen meat, no tinned provisions; the only known way of preserving then, was the time-honoured one of salting. In London alone, according to the very meagre statistics of the day, the number of bullocks slaughtered yearly was 110,000; of sheep and lambs 776,000; calves 210,000; hogs 210,000; sucking pigs, 60,000; besides an unknown quantity of animals of other kinds. This may be an approximate estimate of the number, based, probably, on the quantity sold at the various markets to the butchers, but can give us no idea of the weight, and consequent average consumption per head. Fish was scarce, and dear; the war, naturally, prevented the fishermen from going far from the coast, and their numbers, moreover, were thinned by impressment. No railways to bring this very perishable commodity quickly to market, no ice to preserve it on its journey; the smack must go to port to unload her cargo, and, being entirely dependent on her sails, was at the mercy of the winds. Inland, they never knew the taste of salt-water fish, unless some kind friend sent a cod, or turbot, packed in straw, in a basket, as a present by the mail, or stage, coach. Nor could the Londoner, then, get the abundant supply of our salmon rivers, which he now, in common with the whole of England, enjoys. Game was very scarce, and dear. A country gentleman would not have dared to brave the public opinion of his county, by selling his game, and battues were unknown. The poachers did, undoubtedly, a good trade; and about Christmas time the mail, and stage, coaches came up, loaded with hares, &c.—a fact amusingly chronicled in the _Morning Post_ of the 26th of December, 1807: “The first of the Norwich and Yarmouth coaches arrived at a late hour on Thursday, when, strange to relate, every one of the passengers, inside and outside, were found _dead_! Not less than four hundred brace of _dead game_ being unloaded from it, for the banqueting of the _living Londoners_ at this luxurious season.” If, however, a story told in the _Times_ of the 20th of January, 1803, is true, it was not always safe to buy game from the coaches: “Saturday night last, an epicure from Fish Street Hill, anxiously watched for the arrival of a Kentish coach, at the King’s Head, in the Borough, in order to purchase a _Hare_ from the coachman, for his Sunday’s dinner; an outside passenger, having learned his errand, brought him under the gateway, and sold him a very large one, as he thought, for nine shillings, which, however, upon his return home, proved to be a _badger_.”