spaul o’ that bubbly jock[50].”  The unfortunate man was completely nonplussed.  A Scottish gentleman was entertaining at his house an English cousin who professed himself as rather knowing in the language of the north side of the Tweed.  He asked him what he supposed to be the meaning of the expression, “ripin the ribs[51].”  To which he readily answered, “Oh, it describes a very fat man.”  I profess myself an out-and-out Scotchman.  I have strong national partialities—­call them if you will national prejudices.  I cherish a great love of old Scottish language.  Some of our pure Scottish ballad poetry is unsurpassed in any language for grace and pathos.  How expressive, how beautiful are its phrases!  You can’t translate them.  Take an example of power in a Scottish expression, to describe with tenderness and feeling what is in human life.  Take one of our most familiar phrases; as thus:—­We meet an old friend, we talk over bygone days, and remember many who were dear to us both, once bright, and young, and gay, of whom some remain, honoured, prosperous, and happy—­of whom some are under a cloud of misfortune or disgrace—­some are broken in health and spirits—­some sunk into the grave; we recall old familiar places—­old companions, pleasures, and pursuits; as Scotchmen our hearts are touched with these remembrances of

     AULD LANG SYNE.

Match me the phrase in English.  You can’t translate it.  The fitness and the beauty lie in the felicity of the language.  Like many happy expressions, it is not transferable into another tongue, just like the “simplex munditiis” of Horace, which describes the natural grace of female elegance, or the [Greek:  achaexithmon gelasma] of AEschylus, which describes the bright sparkling of the ocean in the sun.

I think the power of Scottish dialect was happily exemplified by the late Dr. Adam, rector of the High School of Edinburgh, in his translation of the Horatian expression “desipere in loco,” which he turned by the Scotch phrase “Weel-timed daffin’;” a translation, however, which no one but a Scotchman could appreciate.  The following humorous Scottish translation of an old Latin aphorism has been assigned to the late Dr. Hill of St. Andrews:  “Qui bene cepit dimidium facti fecit” the witty Principal expressed in Scotch, “Weel saipet (well soaped) is half shaven.”

What mere English word could have expressed a distinction so well in such a case as the following?  I heard once a lady in Edinburgh objecting to a preacher that she did not understand him.  Another lady, his great admirer, insinuated that probably he was too “deep” for her to follow.  But her ready answer was, “Na, na, he’s no just deep, but he’s drumly[52]”

We have a testimony to the value of our Scottish language from a late illustrious Chancellor of the University of Edinburgh, the force and authority of which no one will be disposed to question.  Lord Brougham, in speaking of improvements upon the English language, makes these striking remarks:—­