This was touching a theme which found a
responsive chord in the bosom of every man present.
"Our commerce is destroyed," hollowed old John Rewcastle, a Jedburgh
smuggler, from the lower end of the table.
"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.
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