PARAGRAPH ON PARRITCH.
Once upon a time, a worthy tradesman who had his “wonn” in a certain populous city “i’ the wast,” was in the habbit of nightly indulging a predilection for a comfortable lounge in an auction-room, where he managed to procure a fund of ease and amusement sufficient to dissipate the effects of the dry details of the day. On one occasion, while paying a tribute of more than ordinary attention to a string of elaborate eulogia on the merits of some article of sale, delivered by the eloquent lips of him of the hammer, his ears were suddenly assailed by the well known voice of his son, a boy of five years of age, who had been charged with a message of special importance from the guidwife, to the frequenter of the nocturnal howff. “Fayther!” vociferated the unceremonious rascal, “yer parritch is ready!” Honest Thomas looked certain “unutterable things,” as the eyes of a hundred individuals were simultaneously directed first to the quarter whence the salute proceeded, and then to the subject of the address. He cleared the mob in one step—bolted from the threshold in another, and finished a third with a smart application of a weighty tacketted shoe to the astonished retreater’s seat of honour, while he grinned out, “Ye deevil’s Jawcobeet! the next time ye come wi’ sic an eerand, say a Gentleman’s waitin on me.” An opportunity soon occurred for a display of the urchin’s new-acquired politesse;—two evenings afterwards he was observed popping in his antiquated phiz, and magnanimously bawling the intelligence regarding the gentleman in waiting. He was answered with a complaisant “Vera weel,” and a promise of immediate attendance. A new turn in the business of the lounge, banished the circumstance from the father’s recollection—the boy returned in breathless haste to repeat the requisition, which he did in a clearer, louder, and more anxious tone than ever—true, withal, to the late hint on etiquette—Fayther! If ye dinna come quick, the Gentleman’ll be quite cauld!