"It will be, however, one day," replied the Master; "men will not always start at these nick-names as at a trumpet-sound. As social life is better protected, its comforts will become too dear to be hazarded without some better reason than speculative politics."
"It is fine talking," answered Bucklaw; "but my heart is with the old song,—
"To see good corn upon the rigs,
And a gallows built to hang the Whigs,
And the right restored where the right should be,
O that is the thing that would wanton me."
"You may sing as loudly as you will, cantabit vacuus,"—answered the Master; "but I believe the Marquis is too wise—at least too wary, to join you in such a burthen. I suspect he alludes to a revolution in the Scottish Privy-council, rather than in the British kingdoms."
"O, confusion to your state-tricks," exclaimed Bucklaw, "your cold calculating manœuvres, which old gentlemen in
