might be done almost with impunity—­though there was never wanting, of course, the not entirely unpleasurable excitement of knowing that you were breaking the law, that somebody might have turned informer, and that at any moment a raid might be made.  Every unknown face necessarily meant danger, each stranger was a person to be looked on with suspicion till proved harmless.  Even the friends and well-wishers of the illicit distiller did not always act in the way most conducive to his comfort and well-being, for if his still turned out a whisky that was extra seductive, he speedily became so popular, so run after, and the list of his acquaintances so extended, that sooner or later tidings of his whereabouts leaked round to the ears of the gaugers, and arrest, or a hasty midnight flitting, was the outcome.  Besides, such popularity became a severe tax on the pocket of the distiller, for the better the whisky the greater the number of those who desired to sample it, and the oftener they sampled it, the more they yearned to repeat the process.  Nor was it safe to make a charge for the liquor thus consumed, lest it might chance that some one of those who partook of it might, out of revenge for being charged, lay an information.

About the end of the eighteenth century there lived in a remote glen on Cheviot a Highlander, one Donald M’Donald, who was famous for the softness and flavour of the spirit he distilled.  Whether it was a peculiar quality imparted to his whisky by some secret process known only to Donald himself, a knowledge and skill perhaps handed down from father to son from generation to generation, like the secret of the brewing of heather ale that died with the last of the Picts, one cannot say.  Only the fact remains that, like the heather ale of old, Donald’s whisky was held in high esteem, its effects on the visitors who began in numbers to seek the seclusion of his bothy, as “blessed” as were ever those of that earlier mysterious beverage beloved of our Pictish ancestors: 

     “From the bonny bells of heather
       They brewed a drink long-syne,
     Was sweeter far than honey,
       Was stronger far than wine. 
     They brewed it, and they drank it,
       And lay in a blessed swound
     For days and days together
       In their dwellings underground.”

Donald M’Donald had formerly been a smuggler, but he had wearied of that too active life, and he had longed for an occupation more sedentary and less strenuous.  Distilling suited his temperament to a nicety.  It was what he had been used to see as a boy when his parents were alive, for his father before him had been a “skeely” man in that line.  So Donald built to himself a kind of hut in a wild, unfrequented glen.  A little burn, clear and brown, ran chattering past his door; on the knolls amongst the heather grouse cocks crowed merrily in the sunny August mornings, and the wail of curlews smote sadly on the ear through the long-drawn summer twilights.  Seldom did human foot tread the heather of that glen in the days before Donald took up his abode there; to the raven and the mountain-fox, the muir-fowl and the whaup, alone belonged that kingdom.