n Scotland, the staff of life is porridge, pronounced parritch by the natives.

Porridge is served at breakfast in every Scotch home, from the castle to the cottage. It is the first dish at breakfast, or the only one, according to the income.

Porridge is a food which satisfies and strengthens, and which, it seems, is rich in bone-forming matter.

Many a brave young Scotch undergraduate, with rubicund face and meagre purse, breakfasts off a plate of porridge which he prepares for himself, while ces messieurs of Oxford breakfast like princes.

I saw a labourer near Dumfries, who, on his wages of twelve shillings a week, was bringing up a family of eight children, all of them robust and radiant with health, thanks to porridge. The eldest, a fine fellow of eighteen, had carried off a scholarship at Aberdeen University. In England, no professional career would have been open to him.

Few of the lower class English people will condescend to eat porridge; they will have animal food twice a day, if they can get it, and beer or other stimulants. Twenty years of prosperity and high wages have spoiled, ruined the working class in England. Now wages have fallen, or rather work has become scarce, and these people, who never thought of saving anything in the days of their splendour, are plenty of them lacking bread. They are not cured for all that. If you offered them porridge, they would feel insulted. "It is workhouse food," they will tell you.

When the Scotch maidservant receives her wages, she goes and puts part in the Savings Bank, like the French bonne of the provinces. When the English servant takes up hers, she straightway goes and buys a new hat to get photographed in it. Money burns her pockets.

Money is round, say the English, it was meant to roll; money is flat, say the Scotch and the Normans, it was meant to be piled up.

When he is in work, the workman of London, Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, will spend three or four shillings a day on his keep; when he is out of work, he stands about the tavern-door and whines for help.

I visited one day, in Aberdeen, a restaurant where a copious repast was being served for the modest sum of two pence a head. The room was full of healthy-looking workmen, tidily dressed and busily doing honour to the porridge and other items on the menu.

The bill of fare for the week was posted up at the door. Here is a copy of it:

A trifle monotonous, perhaps, this bill of fare, I own; but, at all events, you will admit that for twopence the Aberdeen workman can have a good square meal.

What would the Parisians have given for this fare during the siege!

On the walls, I observed the following notice:

"The public are respectfully requested to pay in advance, so as to avoid mistakes."

"To avoid mistakes!" Thoroughly Scotch this little caution!

I had always seen porridge eaten before the other food. So seeing a worthy fellow ask that his porridge might be brought to him after his sausage and potato, I made bold to ask him the explanation of it.

"Do you take your porridge after your meat?" I enquired.

"Ay, mon," he replied, "it's to chock up the chinks."

Ask a Scotch rustic what he takes for breakfast, and he will answer proudly:

"Parritch, mon!"

And for dinner?

"Parrritch!!"

And for supper?

"Parrrritch!!!"

If he took a fourth meal, he would roll in another r; it is his way of expressing his sentiments.

I like people who roll their r's: there is backbone in them.

Robert Burns, who has sung of the haggis and the whisky of his native land, has only made indirect mention of porridge. He ought to have consecrated to it an ode in several cantos.

Porridge! it is the secret of the Scot's success. Try to compete with a man who can content himself with porridge, when you must have your three or four meals a day and animal food at two of them.

It is porridge that gives a healthy body, cool head, and warm feet;

Porridge promotes the circulation of the blood;

It is porridge that calms the head after the libations of overnight.

It is porridge that keeps the poor man from ending his days in the Union.

It is porridge that helps the son of the humble peasant to aspire to the highest career, in allowing him to live on a scholarship at the University;

It is porridge that makes such men of iron as Livingstone and Gordon;

And, above all, it is porridge that puts the different classes in Scotland on a footing of equality once a day at least, and thus makes of them the most liberal-minded people of Great Britain.

The national drink of Scotland is Scotch whisky.

The Scotch will tell you that Irish whisky is no good; the Irish will tell you that Scotch whisky is simply detestable. I have tasted both, and, having no national prejudice on the point, have no hesitation in saying that there is nothing to choose between them: both are horrible.

Whisky may easily be obtained by dissolving a little soot in brandy. As the coal-smoky taste is much more pronounced in the Scotch whisky than in the Irish, I conclude that, in the latter, the dose is smaller.

They say that of all alcoholic liquors whisky is the least injurious. By "they" must be understood all the good folks who cannot do without this beverage. There must, however, be truth in it, or Scotland and Ireland must have been depopulated long since. And, as we know the Scotch generally live to a good old age, and centenarians are not rare in the Land o' Cakes, if whisky be a poison, it must be a slow one—a very slow one.

The prettiest anecdote, in Dean Ramsay's Reminiscences, relates to whisky, and I cannot refrain from quoting it.

An old Scotch lady had just sent for her gardener to cut the grass on her lawn.

"Cut it short," she said to him; "mind, Donald, an inch at the bottom is worth two at the top."

Always the same way of speaking in moral sentences so common in Scotland.

The work done, the good lady offered Donald a glass of whisky, and proceeded to pour it out, but showed sign of stopping before the top was reached.

"Fill it up, ma'am, fill it up," said the shrewd-witted fellow, "an inch at the top is worth twa at the bottom."