pass the evening of
life. East Grinstead otherwise has not much beauty, its commanding
pinnacled church tower being more impressive from a distance, and its
chief street mingling too much that is new with its few old timbered
facades, charming though these are.

[Illustration: _The Judge's Houses, East Grinstead._]

The town, when it would be frivolous, to-day depends upon the occasional
visits of travelling entertainers; but in the eighteenth century East
Grinstead had a theatre of its own, in the main street, a play-bill of
which, for May, 1758, is given in Boaden's _Life of Mrs. Siddons_. It
states that "Theodosius; or, the Force of Love," is to be played, for
the benefit of Mrs. P. Varanes by Mr. P., "who will strive as far as
possible to support the character of this fiery Persian Prince, in which
he was so much admired and applauded at Hastings, Arundel, Petworth,
Midhurst, Lewes, &c." The attraction of the next announcement is the
precise converse: "Theodosius, by a young gentleman from the University
of Oxford, who never appeared on any stage."

[Sidenote: NOBILITY AND THE ALTAR]

The play-bill continues with a delicate hint: "Nothing in Italy can
exceed the altar in the first scene of the play. Nevertheless, should
any of the nobility or gentry wish to see it ornamented with flowers,
the bearer will bring away as many as they choose to favour him with."
Finally: "N.B.--The great yard dog that made so much noise on Thursday
night during the last act of King Richard the Third, will be sent to a
neighbour's over the way."

The Sussex Martyrs, to whom a memorial, as we shall see, has recently
been raised above Lewes, are usually associated with that town; but on
July 18, 1556, Thomas Dungate, John Forman, and Anne, or Mother, Tree,
were burned for conscience' sake at East Grinstead.

Between East Grinstead and Forest Row, on the east, just under the hill
and close to the railway, are the remains of Brambletye House, a rather
florid ruin, once the seat of the great Sussex family of Lewknor. In its
heyday Brambletye must have been a very fine place. Horace Smith's
romance which bears its name, and for which Horsfield, in his _History
of Sussex_, predicted a career commensurable with that of the Waverley
novels, is now, I fear, justly forgotten. The slopes of Forest Row,
which was of old a settlement of hunting lodges belonging to the great
lords who took their pleasure in Ashdown Forest, are now bright with ne