“Our agriculture is ruined,” said the Laird of Broken-girth-flow, a territory which, since the days of Adam, had borne nothing but ling and whortle-berries.
“Our religion is cut up, root and branch,” said the pimple-nosed pastor of the Episcopal meeting-house at Kirkwhistle.
“We shall shortly neither dare shoot a deer nor kiss a wench, without a certificate from the presbytery and kirk-treasurer,” said Mareschal-Wells.
“Or make a brandy jeroboam in a frosty morning, without license from a commissioner of excise,” said the smuggler.
“Or ride over the fell in a moonless night,” said Westburnflat, “without asking leave of young Earnscliff; or some Englified justice of the peace: thae were gude days on the Border when there was neither peace nor justice heard of.”
“Let us remember our wrongs at Darien and Glencoe,” continued Ellieslaw, “and take arms for the protection of our rights, our fortunes, our lives, and our families.”
“Think upon genuine episcopal ordination, without which there can be no lawful clergy,” said the divine.
“Think of the piracies committed on our East-Indian trade by Green and the English thieves,” said William Willieson, half-owner and sole skipper of a brig that made four voyages annually between Cockpool and Whitehaven.
“Remember your liberties,” rejoined Mareschal, who seemed to take a mischievous delight in precipitating the movements of the enthusiasm which he had excited, like a roguish boy, who, having lifted the sluice of a mill-dam, enjoys the clatter of the wheels which he has put in motion, without thinking of the mischief he may have occasioned. “Remember your liberties,” he exclaimed; “confound cess, press, and presbytery, and the memory of old Willie that first brought them upon us!”
“Damn the gauger!” echoed old John Rewcastle; “I’ll cleave him wi’ my ain hand.”