not in itself a particularly attractive place; but it
has a good inn, and many interesting villages may be reached from it,
the little light railway that runs from the town to Tenterden, along the
Rother valley, making the exploration of this part of Sussex very
simple.

Horace Walpole came to difficulties hereabout during his Sussex journey.
His sprightly and heightened account is in one of the letters: "The
roads grew bad beyond all badness, the night dark beyond all darkness,
our guide frightened beyond all frightfulness. However, without being at
all killed, we got up, or down--I forget which, it was so dark,--a
famous precipice called Silver Hill, and about ten at night arrived at a
wretched village called Rotherbridge. We had still six miles hither, but
determined to stop, as it would be a pity to break our necks before we
had seen all we had intended. But, alas! there was only one bed to be
had: all the rest were inhabited by smugglers, whom the people of the
house called mountebanks; and with one of whom the lady of the den told
Mr. Chute he might lie. We did not at all take to this society, but,
armed with links and lanthorns, set out again upon this impracticable
journey. At two o'clock in the morning we got hither to a still worse
inn, and that crammed with excise officers, one of whom had just shot a
smuggler. However, as we were neutral powers, we have passed safely
through both armies hitherto, and can give you a little farther history
of our wandering through these mountains, where the young gentlemen are
forced to drive their curricles with a pair of oxen. The only morsel of
good road we have found, was what even the natives had assured us were
totally impracticable; these were eight miles to Hurst Monceaux."

[Sidenote: FOR BOOK BORROWERS]

A pretty memento of the Cistercian Abbey here, of which small traces
remain on the bank of the river, has wandered to the Bodleian, in the
shape of an old volume containing the inscription: "This book belongs to
St. Mary of Robertsbridge; whoever shall steal or sell it, let him be
Anathema Maranatha!" Since no book was ever successfully protected by
anything less tangible than a chain, it came into other hands,
underneath being written: "I John Bishop of Exeter know not where the
aforesaid house is; nor did I steal this book, but acquired it in a
lawful way." On the suppression of the Abbey of Robertsbridge by Henry
VIII. the lands passed to Sir William Sidney, gr