A MODERN form of smuggling little suspected by the average Englishman is found in the illicit whisky-distilling yet carried on in the Highlands of Scotland and the wilds of Ireland, as the records of Inland Revenue prosecutions still annually prove. The sportsman, or the more adventurous among those tourists who roam far from the beaten track, are still likely to discover in rugged and remote situations the ruins of rough stone and turf huts of no antiquity, situated in lonely rifts in the mountain-sides, always with a stream running by. If the stranger is at all inquisitive on the subject of these solitary ruins, he will easily discover that not only are they not old, but that they have, in many cases, only recently been vacated. They are, in fact, the temporary bothies built from the abundant materials of those wild spots by the ingenious crofters and other peasantry, for the purpose of distilling whisky that shall not, between its manufacture and its almost immediate consumption, pay duty to the revenue authorities. This illegal production of what is now thought to be the “national drink” of Scotland and Ireland, is not of any considerable antiquity, for whisky itself did not grow popular until comparatively recent times. Robert Burns, who may not unfairly be considered the poet-laureate of whisky, and styles it “whisky, drink divine,” would have had neither the possibility of that inspiration, nor have filled the official post of exciseman, had he flourished but a few generations earlier; but he was born in that era when whisky-smuggling and dram-drinking were at their height, and he took an active part in both the drinking of whisky and the hunting down of smugglers of it. One of the most stirring incidents of his career was that which occurred in 1792, when, foremost of a little band of revenue officers, aided by dragoons, he waded into the waters of Solway, reckless of the quicksands of that treacherous estuary, and, sword in hand, was the first to board a smuggling brig, placing the crew under arrest and conveying the vessel to Dumfries, where it was sold. It was this incident that inspired him with the poem, if indeed, we may at all fitly claim inspiration for such an inferior Burns product: THE DE’IL’S AWA’ WI’ THE EXCISEMAN The De’il cam’ fiddling thro’ the town, And danc’d awa’ wi’ the exciseman; And ilka wife cry’d, “Auld Mahoun, I wish you luck o’ your prize, man.” We’ll mak’ our maut and brew our drink, We’ll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; And monie thanks to the muckle black De’il, That danced awa’ wi’ the exciseman. There’s threesome reels, and foursome reels, There’s hornpipes and strathspeys, man; But the ae best dance e’er cam’ to our lan’, Was—the De’il’s awa’ wi’ the exciseman.