effort to subdue Wales. It contests with Carnarvon and Conway for first
place among the Welsh ruins and is easily one of the half dozen most
remarkable castellated fortresses in the Kingdom. It is perched on a
mighty rock which drops almost sheer to the wide, sandy marsh along
the sea, and just below it on the landward side is the village that
gives the castle its name. Inside the great quadrangle, we find the
trim neatness that characterizes the ruins belonging to the crown. We
ascend the stairway leading to the battlements and follow the path
around the walls and towers. A thousand pities that the rain shuts out
the view, for surely there are few such panoramas of sea and mountain
in Britain as one may get from the walls of Harlech. Shall we let one
more fortunate than we, having seen the prospect on a cloudless day,
tell its beauty in poetic phrase?
"It is a scene of unparalleled beauty, whichever way one turns; whether
to the sea, out beyond the sandy beach at the foot of Castle Rock,
running far away, a sheet of intensest blue, until it meets the pale
sapphire of the sky; or whether toward the mountains of the north,
Snowdon, the snow-crowned king of them all, rising in matchless majesty
above his satellites; or to the landward where the tiny village nestles
at the foot of craglike hills; or to the westward where the great
promontory of Lleyn stretches away, throwing here and there into the
sky its isolated peaks, so full of savage sternness tempered with weird
beauty."
Verily, these misty days in Britain often hide visions of beauty from
one's eager eyes. We will ask little of the story of Harlech, but it
is a stirring one. It saw strenuous times as a stronghold of Owen
Glendwr, who captured it in 1404 and held it against the forces of
Henry IV., who re-took the castle four years later, driving the Welsh
prince into the mountains. Here came Margaret, the queen of the Sixth
Henry, during the war of the Roses, and the castle yielded, only after
a long siege, to the onslaught of the adherents of the House of York.
Indeed, Harlech was the last fortress in England to hold out for the
Lancastrian cause. But far more memorable than the siege are the wild
swinging cadences of the "March of the Men of Harlech," to which the
conflict gave birth. During the civil war, the castle was the last
in Wales to hold out for King Charles, and its story closes with its
surrender to the army of the Commonwealth in 1647.
The rain ceases shortly after we leave Harlech, and the air becomes
clear, though the sky is still overcast. It is fortunate, for we
see some of the wildest and most impressive of Welsh scenery. Great
clifflike hills, splashed with red shale and purple heather or clad
in the somber green of the pines, rise abruptly from the roadside. At
Beddgelert the beauty culminates in one of the finest scenes in Wales.
The valley, a plot of woods and meadows, is surrounded on every hand
by the giant hills, whose sides glow with red and purple rock which
crops out among the scattered pines that climb to the very crests. Two
clear, dashing mountain streams join their waters to form the river
Glaslyn, which winds through a mighty gorge to the sea; and alongside
the river runs the perfect road over which we have just been coursing.
The Royal Goat, right by the roadside, invites us to pause for our late
luncheon; a charming old-fashioned inn, odd as its name, but homelike
and hospitable. At Beddgelert the beauty begins to fade and one sees
only commonplace country and barren hills until he reaches Carnarvon.
[Illustration: ON THE RIVER LLEDR, WALES.
From Original Painting by Daniel Sherrin.]
Returning from Holyhead, we followed the fine coast road from Bangor
to Conway, where we paused to renew our acquaintance with one of the
most charming towns in the Kingdom. In many respects it is unique, for
nowhere will one find more perfect relics of feudal time, or feel more
thoroughly its spirit than at Conway. The little city still lies snugly
behind its ancient wall, whose one and twenty watch towers stand grimly
as of old, though shorn of their defenders in these piping times of
peace. And the castle, from many viewpoints the most picturesque of
them all, looks marvelously perfect from a little distance--so perfect
that one could hardly wonder to see a flash of armor from the stately
battlements. Yet with all its antiquity, Conway, inside its walls, is
clean and neat and has an air of quiet prosperity. So widely known are
its charms that perhaps it should have no place in this record; and yet
it is probable that the great majority of American visitors in England
never see Conway--which assumption is my excuse for a few words of
appreciation.
If there were no castle or wall, there would be ample warrant for
coming to see one of the most charming Elizabethan mansions in the
Island. Plas Mawr--the Great House--indeed deserves its name; a
huge building of many gables, odd corners and stone-mullioned,
diamond-paned windows. Inside there are great paneled rooms with
richly bossed plaster ceilings, wide fireplaces with mantelpieces
emblazoned with the arms of the ancient owners, and many narrow winding
passageways leading--you never quite learn whither. Very appropriate
is the ghostly legend of the house, and even more fitting the better
substantiated story of the visit of Queen Elizabeth--that splendid
royal traveler who might well be our patron saint. Stately is the great
chamber, the sitting-room of the Queen's suite, with its paneled walls,
its highly ornate ceiling, its great group of no less than a dozen
windows; and the fireplace, six feet or more across, where a great
log might be thrown to glow, a solid core of heat--fit indeed for the
evening musings of the royal guest.
A thorough round of Plas Mawr will serve to give one an appetite for
luncheon at the Castle Hotel--at least this was the result in our
particular case. But one would not really need much of an appetite
to be tempted by the luncheon set forth at the Castle Hotel, one of
the cleanest, brightest and best-ordered of the many inns at which we
stopped in our wanderings.
In a jaunt up the Conway River, one will see much pleasing scenery
of hill, valley and river, and will come at Bettws-y-Coed into the
Holyhead road, which splendid highway we follow through Llangollen
and Oswestry to Shrewsbury. This route abounds in interest; Chirk is
famous for its castle and there is an ivy-covered ruin at Whittington,
but we do not pause in our swift flight for any of them. The sky has
cleared and delightful vistas greet our eyes as we hasten through "the
sweet vale of Llangollen." We come into Shrewsbury almost ere we know
it, and a half hour later catch sight of the great church tower of
Ludlow town.
[Illustration: WHITTINGTON CASTLE, SHROPSHIRE.]
A longing for a farewell glimpse of Warwickshire comes upon us as we
leave Ludlow on the afternoon of the following day; and what pleasanter
memory could we choose for the closing days of our long pilgrimage
in England than a flight through the charming country that lies at
her very heart? True, we will pass over roads that we have traversed
before, but could one ever weary of Stratford and Warwick and Coventry,
and of the quiet Midlands that lie about them?
We pause for one last look at the cathedral at Worcester, its great
tower of warm red stone standing sharp against the cloudless sky; it
is altogether one of the most perfect in proportion and design of
all the churches in the Island. Then we hasten through the summer
landscape--its prevailing green dashed with the pale gold of the
yellowing harvests--to Droitwich and through Alcester, with its
dull-red brick and black-oak beams, into the now familiar streets of
Stratford-on-Avon. We pause at the busy souvenir store of which two
years before the white-haired mayor was proprietor; but he has since
retired, his successor tells us. As one of the notables of the town,
he points out Miss Corelli, the novelist, who has made her home in
Stratford and waxed rich through much advertising, which sometimes
assumed forms highly distasteful to her fellow-townsmen. For it chanced
that one Andrew Carnegie would present a handsome library building
to Stratford should the town provide a suitable site, but for some
reason Miss Corelli objected, and by engaging the plan in some of
the endless legal quibbles possible in England, she defeated it. The
mayor was vexed beyond measure and when the attorney for Miss Corelli
interrogated him,
"Did you not say that you would give a thousand pounds to get Miss
Corelli out of Stratford?"
"I have never said so," replied his honor, "but though a thousand
pounds does not grow on a gooseberry bush for me, I really believe I
would."
This retort so irritated the authoress that she brought an action
for libel and was awarded a farthing damages. But this bit of gossip
hardly accords with the spirit of Stratford at the coming of twilight,
when the low sun flashes on the still bosom of the immemorial Avon
and pierces the gloom beneath the great trees that cluster around the
church.
We come here again from Coventry on the following day to join the
worshipers in the fane where sleeps the Master of English Letters. It
is a perfect day and the large light-toned windows lend an air almost
of cheerfulness to the graceful interior of Stratford Church, and the
great organ fills it with noble melody. With such surroundings, perhaps
we miss much of the sermon--at least we can recall nothing of it in the
lapse of time--but the memories that come back to us now are of the
mingled feelings of reverence and inspiration that dominated us during
the hour we lingered.
As we leave the church--our car has stood by the roadside the while--an
intelligent little fellow approaches us, urging his services as guide,
and he looks so longingly at the car that we take him in. In all
our wanderings about Stratford, and hardly a highroad or byway has
escaped us, we have missed the old cottage where Mary Arden is said
to have lived. Is said to have lived--alas, that hypothetical "said"
that flings its blight over so many of our sacred shrines. But what
matters it, after all? What mattered it to the pious votary of olden
time that the relics of his revered saint, so fraught with comfort and
healing to him, turned out to be the bones of a goat? There shall be
no question for us on this perfect day of English summer that the low
gray walls and sagging dull-red tile roof of the cottage before us
once sheltered the mother of Shakespeare. It stands behind a low stone
wall, in the village of Wilmcote, two or three miles from Stratford,
a blaze of old-fashioned flowers in front of it and creepers and rose
vines clamber over its gray walls. It is only a farmhouse tenement now,
but with the old buildings grouped about it and its dovecot, it makes a
picture well suited to the glamour that legend throws about the place.
Our small guide eagerly points it out and proposes to seek admittance
for us; but we desire no such disenchantment as this would likely
bring. We ask him to point the way to Shottery, for we wish a final
glimpse of Anne Hathaway's cottage, whose authenticity is only a shade
better attested than that of the home of Mary Arden.
The road from Stratford to Banbury is winding and steep in places,
and Sun-Rising Hill is known over the Kingdom as the most formidable
in the Midland Country; the road climbs it in sweeping curves and the
increasing grade brings the motor to "low" ere we reach the top. But
the prospect which greets one from its summit makes the climb worth
while, a panorama of green and gold fading into the purple haze of
distance. The Red Lion at Banbury appeals to us and we rest awhile in
the courtyard after luncheon. Along the walls directly in front of us,
a blaze of purple bloom, stretches the "largest wisteria in England,"
one hundred and eighty feet in length, its stem like a good-sized tree.
It has been thus with so many of the old-time inns; each has had some
peculiar charm. But surely no architect ever planned the Red Lion Inn;
it is a rambling building that seems to have grown up with the years.
No straight line curbs its walls; none of its floors maintain the same
level; it is a maze of strangely assorted apartments, narrow, winding
hallways and odd nooks and corners.
The road we follow to Daventry is a retired one, very narrow and almost
lost in places between high hedges and over-arching trees. It leads
through quaint villages, snug and cozy among the hills, seemingly
little disturbed by the workaday world beyond. What a change it is to
come into the Holyhead road at Daventry, the splendid highway that
charms one more and more every time he passes over it; and did ever
anyone see it more golden and glorious than we as we hasten toward
Coventry in the face of the setting sun? The giant elms and yews and
pines that border the road stand sharply against the wide bar of lucent
gold that sweeps around the horizon, flecked here and there with purple
and silver clouds. Soon the three slender spires of the old city loom
out of the purple mists that hover over it and stand in clear outline
against the sunset sky, a scene of calm and inspiring beauty. As we
come nearer the shadows resolve themselves into the houses of the
charming old town, in the heart of which we come to our pleasant inn.
There is little more to be told; our second long pilgrimage through the
sunlit fields and rain-swept wolds of Britain and Ireland draws near
its close. We take our final leave of Coventry with keen regret and
soon come into the Northamptonshire Hills. We see the Bringtons again,
far more delightful under cloudless skies than in the gray summer
shower that wrapped the little hamlets during our former visit.
Beyond Northampton, a memory of Ben Franklin brings us to Ecton,
apparently the sleepiest of Midland villages. We follow the straggling
line of thatched cottages to the church, where gray stones with almost
illegible inscriptions mark the graves of Eleanor and Thomas Franklin,
uncle and aunt of one who, in some respects, was our greatest American.
The Franklin manor house is gone and Benjamin himself had little to do
with Ecton save as a visitor to his ancestral home. He relates that in
searching the parish records he learned that he was the youngest son of
the youngest son for no less than five generations--verily, genius has
little respect for the law of primo-geniture so sacred in England. His
grandfather, also a Benjamin, left Ecton for London, where he engaged
in the dyer's trade and varied the drudgery of his calling by writing
much poetry of doubtful merit. His youngest son, Josias, emigrated
to America in 1682, and the rest is American history, too well known
to need recording here. Ecton, somnolent and remote, seems little
conscious today of the achievements of the mighty son of her Franklin
squires of a few centuries ago.
At Bedford, the brightest and most progressive-looking of English
towns, we enter the old home of Howard, who civilized the prisons of
the world and whose memory is kept green by the excellent work of the
Howard societies of our own and other countries. Near at hand is the
Bunyan memorial chapel, with many relics of the author of "Pilgrim's
Progress." And one is mildly astonished to see the collection of the
works of this famous preacher and to note how "Pilgrim's Progress"
outshone and survived a flood of mediocre, if not stupid, theological
writings which he poured forth. We hasten onward through Cambridge,
and night finds us at the Angel in Bury St. Edmunds. Of our last day's
wanderings I have already told in my chapter on East Anglia.
Travel-stained but unwearied, the tried and trusty companion of our
pilgrimage stands before our London hotel. It is hard to think of
her--is the pronoun right?--as a thing of iron and steel; she has
won a personality to us; but, metaphor aside, what a splendid means
to a splendid end the motor has become! In two summers we have seen
more of Britain than one might find it practicable to see in years
under old conditions, and we have seen the most delightful, though
unfamiliar, side. I trust that some small measure of our appreciation
has been reflected in these pages, though I well recognize that neither
the words nor the power to use them are mine by which there might be
conveyed a truly adequate idea of such a pilgrimage.
XXI
LUDLOW TOWN
I am going to write a chapter, though it be a short one, on Ludlow
Town, which, among the hundreds of places rich in historic association
and redolent of romance that we visited in our wanderings, still
continues pre-eminent in our memories. We took occasion to pause here
four or five times for the night, and each succeeding sojourn only
served to heighten our appreciation of the delightful old town and
its traditions. One will not tire of the Feathers Inn--surely one of
the most charming of the very old hostelries and noted as one of the
best preserved brick-and-timber houses in the Kingdom. True, copious
applications of black and white paint gives it a somewhat glaring
appearance, but the beauty of the sixteenth century facade with its
jutting gables, carved beams and antique windows, will appeal to the
most casual beholder. The interior is old-fashioned, but comfortable
withal, and an air of quiet pervades the place. It is not without a
touch of modernity, for between our first and last visit gas lights
superseded candles. On one occasion, when the Feathers was full, we
went to the Angel and will not soon forget the portly Boniface who
welcomed us: a mighty man indeed, who might well be the prince of
inn-keepers and who would tip the scale at not less than twenty-five
stone--for thus they reckon ones weight in England.
Nothing could be more delightful on the evening of a fine summer day
than to wander about the town and to view the church tower and castle
walls from different angles. Our favorite walk was over the castle
bridge and along the river, whose waters beyond the weir lay broad and
still, reflecting the gray towers far above. One will find few more
romantic sights than the rugged bulk of Ludlow Castle, standing on
its clifflike eminence in sharp outline against the evening sky. Just
beneath rise the ranks of stately lime trees bordering the pleasant
walk cut in the hill slope, which falls sharply to a narrow bank along
the river. One may complete the circuit by following the path between
the trees and making a rather steep descent to the road along the bank.
The river above the weir is radiant with the reflected glories of the
skies; and the rush of the falling water alone breaks on the evening
stillness. We linger long; the crimson fades from the heavens and
river, but a new, almost ethereal beauty possesses the scene under the
dominance of a full summer moon. The walls and towers lose their traces
of decay in the softened light, and one might easily imagine Ludlow
Castle, proud and threatening, as it stood in the good old times. Did
we catch a glint of armor on yonder grim old tower, or a gleam of
rushlight through its ruinous windows? But our reverie vanishes as the
notes of "Home Sweet Home" come to us, clear and sweet from the church
tower chime.
[Illustration: LUDLOW CASTLE, THE WALK BENEATH THE WALL.]
I wish I might write the fuller story of the castle, but its eight
hundred years were too eventful for the limits of my book. A few
scattered incidents of its romance are all that I may essay--and one
can but keenly regret that Walter Scott did not throw the enchantment
of his story over Ludlow rather than the less deserving Kenilworth.
The castle was built soon after the Conquest, and its warlike history
begins with a siege by King Stephen, who wrested it from its founders,
the Mortimers, and presented it to his favorite, the doughty warrior,
Joce de Dinan. He greatly enlarged and improved it, but was sorely
troubled by Hugh Mortimer, the erstwhile lord of the castle, who
soon made open war upon its new possessor. Joce was no match for
his adversary in men and wealth, but managed to capture Mortimer by
strategy and imprisoned him in the tower which still bears his name.
His captivity was not of long duration, since Joce allowed him to
purchase his freedom at the cost of a large part of his wealth.
After this, according to the old chronicles, began the bloody strife
between de Dinan and the DeLacys over a portion of an estate in the
valley of the Teme. Finally, after many fierce conflicts, the two
feudal lords met face to face under the walls of Ludlow and engaged
in deadly combat. The redoubtable Joce had just worsted his opponent
when three of the latter's followers appeared on the scene, and finding
the lord of Ludlow already wounded and quite exhausted, his defeat and
even death at the hands of his enemies seemed imminent. From the castle
towers his lady and fair daughters, Sybil and Hawyse, who had watched
the fray with sinking hearts, now rent the air with their cries of
despair, but the castle was deserted by the men-at-arms, and only Fulke
Fitzwarrene, a youth of seventeen, who was considered too young and
inexperienced for bearing arms, remained. He was of noble birth, lord
of the manor of Whittington in Salop--and did we not see the ivy-clad
ruin of his castle?--and he had been placed in the family of de Dinan
to be trained in the noble art of warfare, the only one considered fit
for a gentleman of those days. When he responded to the cries of the
distressed ladies, the fair Hawyse, whose beauty had already wrought
havoc with the heart of the bashful Fulke, turned upon him with all the
fury she could summon:
"Coward, what doest thou loitering here when my father, who gives thee
shelter and protection, is being done to death in yonder valley?"
Stung by the maiden's words, Fulke paused not for reply. He snatched a
rusty helmet and battleaxe from the great hall and, no war steeds being
in the castle, flung himself on a lumbering draught horse and galloped
away to his patron's rescue. Shall we tell of his doughty deeds in the
quaint language and style of the old chronicler?
"Fulke had a foul helmet which covered his shoulders and at the first
onset he smote Godard de Braose, who had seized his lord, with his
axe and cut his backbone in two parts, and remounted his lord. Fulke
then turned towards Sir Andrew de Reese and smote him on his helmet of
white steel that he split it down to the teeth. Sir Arnold de Lys saw
well that he could in no manner escape, for he was sorely wounded and
surrendered to Sir Joce. The Lacy defended himself, but he was soon
taken. Now is Sir Walter de Lacy taken and Sir Arnold de Lys and they
are led over the river towards the castle of Dinan. Then spoke Sir
Joce, 'Friend burgher, you are very strong and valiant; and if it had
not been for you I should have been dead before this, I am much bound
to you and shall be always. You shall live with me and I will never
fail you.' Then the lad answered and said, 'Sir, I am no burgher, do
you not know me, I am Fulke, your foster child.' 'Fair son,' said he,
'blessed be the time that I ever nourished you, for a man will never
lose his labor that he does for a brave man.'"
Surely such a gallant feat could have but one proper outcome and the
bold Sir Fulke was soon married to the fair Hawyse in the beautiful
circular chapel just built by her father and which stands almost intact
to charm the beholder today. And the Right Reverend Bishop of Hereford
came with his splendid retinue to perform the ceremony. It is a pity
indeed that one may not close the pretty tale here in the happy fashion
of the modern novel, but the wild way of the Welsh Border interferes.
Walter de Lacy and Arnold de Lys have escaped from Ludlow Castle. So
great is the courtesy of their captor that he will not taste food until
his guests have dined. But one day when their meal is ready, they
cannot be found. A fair traitress in the castle, Maid Marion of the
Heath, who has become infatuated with Arnold, has connived at their
escape, though no one knows of this at the time.