OATMEAL PORRIDGE.--Would some Scotch housewife kindly enlighten me as to the proper mode of preparing the above delicacy? I fancy there must be some mistake about the method I have hitherto adopted. Is it _really_ necessary to "boil for forty-eight hours, and then mix with equal quantities of gin, Guinness's Stout, Gum Arabic, and Epsom Salts?" I have followed this recipe (given me by a young friend, who says he has often been in Scotland) faithfully, but the result is not wholly satisfactory. I doubt whether genuine porridge should be of the consistency of a brick-bat, or taste of hair-oil.--UNDAUNTED. * * * * * [Illustration: CLERICAL ÆSTHETICS. _Fair Parishioner_. "AND DO YOU LIKE THE PULPIT, MR. AURIOL?" _The New Curate_. "I DO NOT. ER--IT HIDES TOO MUCH OF THE FIGURE, AND I LIKE EVERY SHAKE OF THE SURPLICE TO TELL!"] * * * * * "BLOOD" V. "BULLION." "Well then, it now appears you need my help. Go to then: you come to me, and you say, 'SHYLOCK, we would have moneys'--you say so; You that did void your rheum upon my beard, And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold: moneys is your suit. What should I say to you? Should I not say 'Hath a dog money?'" _Merchant of Venice_, Act I., Scene 3. "With bated breath and whispering humbleness?" Not so! There comes a season when the stress Of insolent and exacting tyranny Makes the most patient turn. Autocracy, Without the despot's vaunted virtue, pride, Shows small indeed. Can Power lay aside Its swaggering port, and low petition make (Driven by those Treasury thirsts which never slake) For help from those it harries? PHARAOH's scourge Was the taskmaster's weapon, used to urge The Hebrew bondsmen to their tale of toil, But they round whom the Russian's knout thongs coil, Are of the breed of those the Russian palm Can make petition to. Could triumph balm The wounds of ages, here were balm indeed; But blood revolts. Race of the changeless creed, And ever-shifting sojourn, SHAKSPEARE's type Deep meaning hides, which, when the world is ripe For wider wisdom, when the palsying curse Of prejudice, the canker of the purse, And blind blood-hatred, shall a little lift, Will clearlier shine, like sunburst through a rift In congregated cloud-wracks. _Shylock_ stands Badged with black shame in all the baser lands. Use him, and--spit on him! That's Gentile wont; Make him gold-conduit, and befoul the font,-- That's the true despot-plan through all the days, And cackling _Gratianos_ chorus praise. "The Jew shall have all justice." Shall he so? The tyrant drains, his gold, then bids him--"Go!" _Shylock_? The name bears insult in its sound; But _he_ was nobler than the curs who hound The patient Hebrew from his home, and drive Deathward the stronger souls they dread alive.