were forced to run their vessel ashore, and
abandon her; and the revenue-officers, though
they captured no men—and were not likely
to capture any men while a farm-house or
other lurking place could be found in the
country—carried the vessel into the port of
Poole in Dorsetshire, and lodged its cargo in
the custom-house there.

Such an interference with the trade
of the neighbourhood did not fail to cause
considerable excitement.  The ladies' lace,
the landed gentleman's claret, might be cut
off next; nay, the very rents of his tenants
might be wanting; for, though at every
burial the deceased was declared on oath to be
buried in woollen dead clothes, Sussex farmers
could still find no sufficient demand for
their fleeces without sending them abroad.
Something, it was clear, ought to be done;
and, although the respectable portion of the
population were disinclined to be the first to
move, the bold smugglers of the county might
safely reckon upon public sympathy, in any
reasonable attempt to administer a lesson to
the common enemy.

Towards the end of the month, a body of
smugglers, to the amount of sixty and
upwards, held a night meeting by torchlight in
a solitary part of Charlton forest.  All were
well provided with fire-arms, and Dymond,
the nominal proprietor of the seized cargo,
was there.  At this meeting a plan was
arranged. Accordingly on the night between
the sixth and seventh of the next month they
proceeded to act.  They appear to have had
little fear of anything save a company of soldiers;
who, being but lately posted in the
neighbourhood, might be supposed to be
wanting in sympathy with the general feeling
of the inhabitants.  To meet this difficulty,
portions of the gang were stationed at
different places on the road to secure a retreat;
and about thirty of the number, well armed,
marched boldly into the town of Poole;
seized and pinioned the revenue-officers, and
broke into the custom-house.  Here, to their
great joy, they found the whole of their cargo
of tea—about thirteen or fourteen hundred-weight
—a quantity in those days of very large
value.  This, in the midst of a large town
and by a bright moon, they loaded on pack-horses,
and then rode leisurely away through
the streets and along the highroad.  Nor
could anybody afterwards find the men, or
guess their names, or say whose were the
horses, or trace one ounce of the tea, or
discover any one, far or near, who had seen
anything or knew anything whatever of
these proceedings.  The lawyer shrugged
his shoulders; the farmer laughed a horse
laugh; the landed gentleman winked over
his claret at his guest.  His Majesty's
proclamation posted up at toll-gates and on fences
was torn down, or daubed with mud.  The
local code of morals was honourably observed.
Somebody may have had information to give,
but no mouth was opened to give it.

Yes: there lived at that time at Fordingbridge,
in Hampshire, close adjoining, a shoe-maker
named Daniel Chater; one of those
unsocial men who are out of tune with the
spirit of their time and neighbourhood—or,
let us not be too hard—he may have been,
poor, a distraint for rent may have been
hanging over him.  Money, by a certain day
and hour, may have been absolutely necessary
to save him from ruin or disgrace.  This
man knew Dymond: and it happened that
the smuggling escort passed at daylight,
after the breaking open of the custom-house,
through Fordingbridge.  How little
Dymond imagined that any one man in
that village would be so base as to betray
the party, is evidenced by a touching circumstance.
Seeing Chater standing in his little
garden by the road-side, Dymond stopped
one of the horses, dismounted, and shaking
hands with his acquaintance over the fence,
conversed with him for a moment.  Dymond
then drove on with the rest of the gang.
After the king's proclamation was out, a
suspicion had, somehow or other, arisen against
Dymond; Chater then recalled this fact,
and felt no doubt that he was one of the
party.  Chater accordingly opened a
correspondence with the custom-house officers, one
of whom, a Mr. William Galley, was
despatched with a letter to Major Batten, a
Sussex Justice of the Peace, with instructions
to pass through Fordingbridge, and take
Daniel Chater with him, keeping their business
secret, as they hoped to escape the
vengeance of the neighbourhood.

The shoemaker and his companion rode
away quietly through the Sussex lanes, taking
counsel with no one, till they came to C
hichester; where they were forced to inquire
after Major Batten.  Here they heard that
the Justice of the Peace was at Stanstead,
near Rowland Castle.  To this place they
accordingly set out, going through Leigh,
where they met some respectable men named
Austin, and asked of them their way.  The
Austins were going in the same direction, and
offered to direct them.  All this had caused
delay; and, in asking after Major Batten, they
had been compelled to reveal their destination
to several persons—a revelation which, if
the officer should happen to be known to any
one in that part, would have been dangerous.
But the officer had come from Southampton,
many miles off, and had no apprehensions.
Their prudent course, however, was clearly
to go on without delay upon their business:
but, coming into the village of Rowland Castle
on the Sunday about noon, and being hot
and weary, they stopped at the White Hart,
a good inn kept by Elizabeth Payne, widow,
who had two sons, blacksmiths, in the same
village.  Payne is still a common name in
these parts, and Widow Payne's family had
no doubt too deep a root in the neighbourhood
to be without the common feeling of the
place and time.  She had her misgivings