denote: PYECOMBE CROOKS]

If you are for the Weald it is by this bostel that you should descend,
but if still for the Downs turn to the east along the summit, and you
will come to Pyecombe, a straggling village on each side of the London
road just at the head of Dale Hill. Pyecombe has lost its ancient fame
as the home of the best shepherds' crooks, but the Pyecombe crook for
many years was unapproached. The industry has left Sussex: crooks are
now made in the north of England and sold over shop counters. I say
"industry" wrongly, for what was truly an industry for a Pyecombe
blacksmith is a mere detail in an iron factory, since the number of
shepherds does not increase and one crook will serve a lifetime and
more. An old shepherd at Pyecombe, talking confidentially on the subject
of crooks, complained that the new weapon as sold at Lewes, although
nominally on the Pyecombe pattern, is a "numb thing." The chief reason
which he gave was that the maker was out of touch with the man who was
to use it. His own crook (like that of Richard Jefferies' shepherd
friend) had been fashioned from the barrel of an old muzzle-loader. The
present generation, he added, is forgetting how to make everything: why,
he had neighbours, smart young fellows, too, who could not even make
their own clothes.

Pyecombe is but a few miles from Brighton, which may easily be reached
from it. A short distance south of the village is the Plough Inn, the
point at which the two roads to London--that by way of Clayton Hill,
Friar's Oak, Cuckfield, Balcombe and Redhill, and the other (on which we
are now standing) by way of Dale Hill, Bolney, Hand Cross, Crawley and
Reigate--become one.

On the way to Brighton from the Plough one passes through Patcham, a
dusty village that for many years has seen too many bicycles, and now is
in the way of seeing too many motor cars. In the churchyard is, or was,
a tomb bearing the following inscription, which may be quoted both as a
reminder of the more stirring experiences to which the Patcham people
were subject a hundred years ago, and also as an example of the truth
which is only half a truth:

[Sidenote: SMUGGLER AND EXEMPLAR]

Sacred to the memory of Daniel Scales, who was unfortunately shot
on Thursday Evening, Nov. 7, 1796.

Alas! swift flew the fatal lead
Which pierced through the young man's head,
He instant fell, resigned his breath,
And closed his languid eyes in death.