The population of Rusthall, to judge from the language and behaviour of its boys and young men, must be in a very primitive stage of civilisation. The stupid foulness and vileness of their conduct in the neighbourhood of that public resort, the Toad Rock, any day and every day deserve the attention of the police. [Illustration: SCENE AT “HIGH ROCKS.”] Tunbridge Wells is a neighbourhood of rocks, but none others approach the weird scene at the spot appropriately called High Rocks, less than two miles distant, on the way to Groombridge. It is _not_ the “Finest Scenery in England,” as claimed by Mr. Thomas Coster, proprietor of the “High Rocks Hotel,” who charges sixpence to enter; but it is highly curious. Many ingenious and enterprising sightseers, chiefly active cyclists, resenting the being clicked through a turnstile at sixpence a head, take Mr. Coster and his encircling fences in the rear, and, entering a little wood, insinuate themselves into his domain and see his rocks for nothing. His rocks! On the whole, their enterprise has my respectful admiration, for it seems absurd to treat Nature as if she had made this scene in the infancy of the world for the purpose of providing a showman with an income. The writer of a guide-book published in 1810 describes the “High Rocks” as “romantic scenery,” and says that, “combining with the wish to please and be pleased,” the spot “tended to create an agreeable relief to that tædium which will frequently encroach on a place of public resort.” There is a specious plausibility about this which leads the reader at first to idly agree; but the muzziness of thought and woolliness of expression very soon lead one to the opinion that the writer, although he may have had an inkling of what he meant when he set out, very soon lost himself on the way. [Illustration: THE MARQUIS OF ABERGAVENNY’S “A.”] The High Rocks cover a space of about two acres, and consist of a great wooded bluff hanging, cliff-like, over the road, and intersected in innumerable directions with fissures, gullies, and ravines from fifty to seventy feet deep. These ravines are crossed by numerous wooden bridges, and ascended or descended by rustic stairs. There is the Bell Rock, which gives forth a metallic sound when struck; the Warning Rock, and all sorts of other rocks, fantastically named; and there are swings and brake-loads of excursionists, and mazes. Altogether, the place is pretty well exploited, and the penknife has been busy on every spot within reach. [Illustration: THE NEVILLE GATE, FRANT.]