unguarded moment, a manifest Scotticism slips into their conversation. There is a portion of the semi-educated working population, again, who, imitating the snobbish element of the middle grade, speak Scotch freely only in their working clothes. On Sundays, and extra occasions, when dressed in their very best, there is just about as much Scotch in their talk as will show one how poorly they can speak English, and just about enough English to render their Scotch ridiculous. Observing all this, and taking it in conjunction with the other denationalising tendencies of the age, there are those who predict that the time is not far distant when Burns’s poems, Scott’s novels, and Hogg’s tales will be sealed books to the partially educated Scotsman. That there is a growing tendency in the direction indicated is quite true, but the disease, I believe, is only skin deep as yet, and the bone and sinew of the country remain quite unaffected. That there will be a sudden reaction in the patient must be the sincere desire of every patriotic Scot. If the prediction of obsoletism is ever to be realized, then, “the mair’s the pity.” Scotland will not stand where she did. For very much—oh, so much—of what has made her glorious among the nations of the world will have passed away, taking the sheen of her glory with it. What Scotsmen, as Scotsmen, should ever prize most is bound up inseparably with the native language. Ours is a matured country, and the stirring scenes of her history on which the mind of the individual delights to dwell, are so frequently enshrined in spirited ballad and song, couched in the pithy Scottish vernacular, that, to suppose these latter dead—they are not translatable into English—is to suppose the best part of Scottish history dead and buried beyond the hope of resurrection. For its own sake alone the Scottish tongue is eminently deserving of regard—of cultivation and preservation. Scotsmen should be—and so all well-conditioned Scotsmen surely are—as proud of their native tongue as they are of their far-famed native bens and glens. For why, the rugged grandeur of the physical features of our country are not more worthy of admiration than the language in which their glories have been most fittingly extolled. They have characteristics in common; for rugged grandeur is as truly a feature of the Scottish language as it is the dominant feature of Scottish scenery. True, its various dialects are somewhat tantalising. The Forfar man is vividly identified by his “foo’s” and his “fa’s,” and his “fat’s” and his “fans”; and the Renfrewshire man by his “weans,” his “wee weans,” and his “yin pound yin and yinpence,” etc. Taking a simple phrase as an example—(_Anglice_):—“The spoon is on the loom.” The Aberdonian will tell you that “The speen’s on the leem.” The Perthshire man will say “That spun’s on the luim”; and the Glasgow citizen will inform you that “The spin’s on the lim.” In a fuller example, a Renfrewshire person will vouchsafe the information that he “Saw a seybo synd’t doon the syvor till it sank in the stank.” A native of Perthshire will only about half understand what the speaker has said, and may threaten to “rax a rung frae the boggars o’ the hoose and reeshil his rumple wi’t,” without sending terror to the soul of his West country confederate. Latterly, an Aberdonian may come on the scene and ask, “Fa’ fuppit the loonie?” and neither of the forenamed parties will at once perceive the drift of his inquiry. To illustrate how difficult it may be for the East and...