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 Mr. 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. He 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,
after all, he did not feel himself at ease with his company; he might
suspect the questions asked by a north-country minister and a young
barrister to savour more of idle curiosity than profit. At any rate, in