can be familiarly illustrated and explained.  Besides Scottish replies and expressions which are most characteristic—­and in fact unique for dry humour, for quaint and exquisite wit—­I have often referred to a consideration of dialect and proverbs.  There can be no doubt there is a force and beauty in our Scottish phraseology, as well as a quaint humour, considered merely as phraseology, peculiar to itself.  I have spoken of the phrase “Auld langsyne,” and of other words, which may be compared in their Anglican and Scottish form.  Take the familiar term common to many singing-birds.  The English word linnet does not, to my mind, convey so much of simple beauty and of pastoral ideas as belong to our Scottish word LINTIE.

I recollect hearing the Rev. Dr. Norman Macleod give a most interesting account of his visit to Canada.  In the course of his eloquent narrative he mentioned a conversation he had with a Scottish emigrant, who in general terms spoke favourably and gratefully of his position in his adopted country.  But he could not help making this exception when he thought of the “banks and braes o’ bonny Doon”—­“But oh, sir,” he said, “there are nae linties i’ the wuds.”  How touching the words in his own dialect!  The North American woods, although full of birds of beautiful plumage, it is well known have no singing-birds.

A worthy Scottish Episcopal minister one day met a townsman, a breeder and dealer in singing-birds.  The man told him he had just had a child born in his family, and asked him if he would baptize it.  He thought the minister could not resist the offer of a bird.  “Eh, Maister Shaw,” he said, “if ye’ll jist do it, I hae a fine lintie the noo, and if ye’ll do it, I’ll gie ye the lintie.”  He quite thought that this would settle the matter!

By these remarks I mean to express the feeling that the word lintie conveys to my mind more of tenderness and endearment towards the little songster than linnet.  And this leads me to a remark (which I do not remember to have met with) that Scottish dialects are peculiarly rich in such terms of endearment, more so than the pure Anglican.  Without at all pretending to exhaust the subject, I may cite the following as examples of the class of terms I speak of.  Take the names for parents—­“Daddie” and “Minnie;” names for children, “My wee bit lady” or “laddie,” “My wee bit lamb;” of a general nature, “My ain kind dearie.”  “Dawtie,” especially used to young people, described by Jamieson a darling or favourite, one who is dawted—­i.e. fondled or caressed.  My “joe” expresses affection with familiarity, evidently derived from joy, an easy transition—­as “My joe, Janet;” “John Anderson, my joe, John.”  Of this character is Burns’s address to a wife, “My winsome”—­i.e. charming, engaging—­“wee thing;” also to a wife, “My winsome marrow”—­the latter word signifying a dear companion, one of a pair closely allied to each other; also the address of Rob