The Waverley novels, by Sir Walter Scott, complete in 12 vol., printed from the latest English ed., embracing the author's last corrections, prefaces & notes.

362 WAVERLEY NOVELS.
ing, "If they were obliged to bring water for the canting whigs, they were
not bound to afford them the use of bowls or pitchers gratis."
In this prison, which is still termed the Whig's Vault, several died of the
diseases incidental to such a situation; and others broke their limbs, and
incurred fatal injury, in desperate attempts to escape from their stern
prison-house. Over the graves of these unhappy persons, their friends,
after the Revolution, erected a monument with a suitable inscription.
This peculiar shrine of the Whig martyrs is very much honoured by their
descendants, though residing at a great distance from the land of their
captivity and death. My friend, the Rev. Mr. Walker, told me, that'being
once upon a tour in the south of Scotland, probably about forty years
since, he had the bad luck to involve himself in the labyrinth of passages
and tracks which cross, in every direction, the extensive waste called Lochar
Moss, near Dumfries, out of which it is scarcely possible for a stranger to
extricate himself; and there was no small difficulty in procuring a guide,
since such people as he saw were engaged in digging their peats -a work
of paramount necessity, which will hardly brook interruption. Mr. Walker
could, therefore, only procure unintelligible directions in the southern
brogue, which differs widely from that of the Mearns. He was beginning
to think himself in a serious dilemma, when he stated his case to a farmer
of rather the better class, who was employed, as the others, in digging his
winter fuel. The old man at first made the same excuse with those who
had already declined acting as the traveller's guide; but perceiving him in
great perplexity, and paying the respect due to his profession, "You are a
clergyman, sir?" he said. Mr. Walker assented. "And I observe from
your speech, that you are from the north?"- " You are right, my good
friend," was the reply. "And may I ask if you have ever heard of a place
called Dunnottar?" " I ought to know something about it, my friend,"
said Mr. Walker, "since I have been several years the minister of the
parish."- -" I am glad to hear it," said the Dumfriesian, "for one of my
near relations lies buried there, and there is, I believe, a monument over
his grave. I would give half of what I am aught, to know if it is still in
existence." —" He was one of those who perished in the Whig's Vault at
the castle?" said the minister; "for there are few southlanders besides
lying in our churchyard, and none, I think, having monuments."- " Even
sae even sae," said the old Cameronian, for such was the farmer. He
then laid down his spade, cast on his coat, and heartily offered to see the
minister out of the moss, if he should lose the rest of the day's dargue.
Mr. Walker was able to requite him amply, in his opinion, by reciting the
epitaph, which he remembered by heart. The old man was enchanted with
finding the memory of his grandfather or great-grandfather faithfully recorded amongst the names of brother sufferers; and rejecting all other offers
of recompense, only requested, after he had guided Ir. Walker to a safe
and dry road, that he would let him have a written copy of the inscription.
It was whilst I was listening to this story, and looking at the monument
referred to, that I saw Old Mortality engaged in his daily task of cleaning
and repairing the ornaments and epitaphs upon the tomb. His appearance
and equipment were exactly as described in the Novel. I was very desirous
to see something of a person so singular, and expected to have done so, as
he took up his quarters with the hospitable and liberal-spirited minister.
But though Mr. Walker invited him up after dinner to partake of a glass
of spirits and water, to which he was supposed not to be very averse, yet
he would not speak frankly upon the subject of his occupation. Iie was
in bad humour, and had, according to his phrase, no freedom for conversation with us.
His spirit had been sorely vexed by hearing, in a certain Aberdonian
kirk, the psalmody directed by a pitch-pipe, or some similar instrument,
which was to Old Mortality the abomination of abominations. Perhaps,