Many of the ghost-stories of a hundred years and more ago originated in the smugglers’ midnight escapades. It was, of course, entirely to their advantage that superstitious people who heard unaccountable sounds and saw indescribable sights should go off with the notion that supernatural beings were about, and resolve thenceforward to go those haunted ways no more. The mysterious “ghostly drummer” of Herstmonceux, who was often heard and seen by terrified rustics whose way led them past the ruined castle at night, was a confederate of the Hastings and Eastbourne smugglers, to whom those roofless walls and the hoary tombs of the adjoining churchyard were valuable storehouses. Rubbed with a little phosphorus, and parading those spots once in a way with his drum, they soon became shunned. The tombstones in Herstmonceux churchyard, mostly of the kind known as “altar-tombs,” had slabs which the smugglers easily made to turn on swivels; and from them issued at times spirits indeed, but not such as would frighten many men. The haunted character of Herstmonceux ceased with the establishment of the coastguard in 1831, and the drummer was heard to drum no more. The churchyards of the Sussex coast and its neighbourhood still bear witness to the fatal affrays between excisemen and smugglers that marked those times; and even far inland may be found epitaphs on those who fell, breathing curses and Divine vengeance on the persons who brought them to an untimely end. Thus at Tandridge, Surrey, near Godstone, may be seen a tall tombstone beside the south porch of the church, to one Thomas Todman, aged thirty-one years, who was shot dead in a smuggling affray in 1781. Here follow the lamentable verses, oddities of grammar, spelling, and punctuation duly preserved: Thou Shall do no Murder, nor Shalt thou Steal are the Commands Jehovah did Reveal but thou O Wretch, Without fear or dread of Thy Tremendous Maker Shot me dead Amidst my strength my sins forgive As I through Boundless Mercy hope to live. The prudery of some conscientious objector to the word “wretch” has caused it to be almost obliterated. [Picture: Tandridge church] At Patcham, near Brighton, the weatherworn epitaph on the north side of the church to Daniel Scales may still with difficulty be deciphered: Sacred to the memory of DANIEL SCALES who was unfortunately shot on Thursday evening, November 7th 1796 Alas! swift flew the fatal lead, Which piercèd through the young man’s head He instant fell, resigned his breath, And closed his languid eyes in death. All you who do this stone draw near, Oh! pray let fall the pitying tear. From this sad instance may we all, Prepare to meet Jehovah’s call. Daniel Scales was one of a desperate smuggling gang, who had had many narrow escapes, but was at last shot through the head.