The Staff of Life in Scotland. -- Money is round and flat. --
Cheap Restaurants. -- Democratic Bill of Fare. -- Caution to the
Public. -- "Parritch!" -- The Secret of Scotland's Success. --
The National Drink of Scotland. -- Scotch and Irish Whiskies. --
Whisky a very slow Poison. -- Dean Ramsay's best Anecdote.
In 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:
"_Monday_--Porridge, sausage and potato.
"_Tuesday_--Scotch broth, beef pie.
"_Wednesday_--Peasoup and ham.
"_Thursday_--Porridge, sausage and potato.
"_Friday_--Fish and potato.
"_Saturday_--Porridge, sausage and potato."
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."