Porridge

Everything tastes of porridge. However we may deceive ourselves, whatever castles in the air we may construct, the fact of home life will always intrude. Sir Walter Scott tells us of an insane man who thought the asylum his castle, the servants his own menials, the imnates his guests. “Although,” said he, “I am provided with a first-rate cook and proper assistants, and although my table is regularly furnished with every delicacy of the season, yet so depraved is my palate that everything I eat tastes of porridge.” His palate was less vitiated than his imagination.