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_.
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