them has dared to assert
his independence since.

We are by no means sure that French cookery has not done more to preserve
the peace of Europe, during the last twenty years, than all other causes
put together. It is impossible to think of a war with France. The mind
staggers under the supposititious case of the nations of the earth
deprived of French _bon-bons_. Imagine the commerce with France suspended!
Who would perfume us? who feast us? who dress us? Where would our gloves
come from? what should we do for slippers? how should we be off for soap?
Would there be any more ribbons? any more brandy fruits? any more
meringues? any more chocolate? Where should we look for another BLANCARD,
another FAUVEL-GOURAUD? Would there be any more dancing? any more
fashions? any more any thing? The true _Mysteres de Paris_ nobody knows
any thing about but the Parisians themselves, and they are too cunning to
pronounce their open sesame loud enough to be heard by the rest of the
world. How like gudgeons we all snapped at the bait of EUGENE SUE! But the
Mysteries of Paris are written in a kind of Parisian Coptic, which none
but the Parisian can read.

The English eat, or at least a portion of them do, and they cook, but who
ever heard of an English eating-house, or of an English cook? We have
heard of DOLLY'S chop-house, but its reputation was gained by the quality
of its guests rather than the merit of its cooks. For aught the world
knows to the contrary, there is not an eating-house in any of the European
capitals beside Paris. But every body knows the names, the situation, and
even the _carte du jour_ of at least a dozen restaurants in the French
capital without ever having been there. The 'Rocher' is as well known as
the Rock of Gibraltar, and Very and Chatelain have reputations as extended
as those of Guizot and Theirs. Vatel is more famous than Vattel, and the
cook will doubtless be remembered when the philosopher is forgotten: he
will never die, at least, while the memory of Sevigne lives.

Not long since we saw on a sign-board, stuck up at the entrance of a
cellar on the corner of Reade-street and Broadway, '_Au Rocher de
Cancale_,' painted in very soup-maigreish looking letters, with an attempt
at the representation of an oyster-shell. Now look at the impudence of the
thing; at the Frenchiness of it! Here we are with our Prince's Bays, our
York-rivers, our Mill-ponders, our Shrewsburys, and Blue pointers, a
shilling's worth