Not so _very_ old a toll-house, for it was the successor of Preston turnpike-gate which, erected on the outskirts of Brighton town about 1807, was removed north of Withdean in 1854, as the result of an agitation set afoot in 1853, when the Highway Trustees were applying to Parliament for another term of years. It and its legend "NO TRUST," painted large for all the world to see, and hateful in a world that has ever preferred credit, were a nuisance and a gratuitous satire upon human nature. No one regretted them when their time came, December 31st, 1878; least of all the early cyclists, who had the luxury of paying at Patcham Gate, and yielded their "tuppences" with what grace they might. On the less hallowed north side of the churchyard of Patcham may still with difficulty be spelled the inscription: 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. It is a relic of those lawless old days of smuggling that are so dear to youthful minds. Youth, like the Irish peasant, is always anarchist and "agin the Government"; and certainly the deeds of derring-do that were wrought by smuggler and Revenue officer alike sometimes stir even middle-aged blood. [Illustration: OLD DOVECOT, PATCHAM.] Smuggling was rife here. Where, indeed, was it not in those times? and Daniel Scales was the most desperate of a daring gang. The night when he was "unfortunately shot," he, with many others of the gang, was coming from Brighton laden heavily with smuggled goods, and on the way they fell in with a number of soldiers and excise officers, near this place. The smugglers fled, leaving their casks of liquor to take care of themselves, careful only to make good their own escape, saving only Daniel Scales, who, met by a "riding officer," was called upon to surrender himself and his booty, which he refused to do. The officer, who himself had been in early days engaged in many smuggling transactions, but was now a brand plucked from the burning, and zealous for King and Customs, knew that Daniel was "too good a man for him, for they had tried it out before," so he shot him through the head; and as the bullet, like those in the nursery rhyme, was made of "lead, lead, lead," Daniel was killed. Alas! poor Daniel. An ancient manorial pigeon-house or dovecot still remains at Patcham, sturdily built of Sussex flints, banded with brick, and wonderfully buttressed. [Sidenote: PRESTON]