I shall say but little of Chester, as of every other place on the line
of our journey so well known as to be on the itinerary of nearly
everybody who makes any pretensions at touring Britain. The volumes
which have been written on the town and the many pages accorded it in
the guide-books will be quite sufficient for all seekers after
information. Frankly, I was somewhat disappointed with Chester. I had
imagined its quaintness that of a genuine old country town and was not
prepared for the modern city that surrounds its show-places. In the
words of an observant English writer: "It seems a trifle
self-conscious--its famous old rows carry a suspicion of being swept and
garnished for the dollar-distributing visitor from over the Atlantic,
and of being less genuine than they really are. However that may be, the
moment you are out of these show-streets of Chester, there is a singular
lack of charm in the environment. The taint of commerce and the smoke of
the north hangs visibly on the horizon. Its immediate surroundings are
modern and garish to a degree that by no means assists in the fiction
that Chester is the unadulterated old-country town one would like to
think it." Such a feeling I could not entirely rid myself of, and even
in following the old wall, I could not help noting its carefully
maintained disrepair. I would not wish to be understood as intimating
that Chester is not well worth a visit, and a visit of several days if
one can spare the time; only that its charm was, to me, inferior to that
of its more unpretentious neighbors, Shrewsbury and Ludlow. Our stay was
only a short one, since our route was to bring us to the town again;
still, we spent half a day in a most delightful manner, making a tour of
the "rows" and the odd corners with quaint buildings. The tourist,
fortified with his red-backed Baedecker, is a common sight to Chester
people, and his "dollar-distributing" propensity, as described by the
English writer I have quoted, is not unknown even to the smallest fry of
the town. Few things during our trip amused me more than the antics of a
brown, bare-foot, dirt-begrimed little mite not more than two or three
years old, who seized my wife's skirts and hung on for dear life,
pouring out earnestly and volubly her unintelligible jargon. We were at
first at a loss to understand what our new associate desired, and so
grimly did she hang on that it seemed as if another accession to our
party was assured--but a light dawned suddenly on us, and, as the brown
little hand clasped a broad English copper, our self-appointed
companion vanished like a flash into a neighboring shop.
Even when touring in your "wind-shod" car, as an up-to-date English poet
puts it, and though your motor waits you not a stone's throw from your
hotel, you may not entirely dispense with your antiquated equine friend
as a means of locomotion. So we learned when we proposed to visit Eaton
Hall, the country place of the Duke of Westminster, which lies closely
adjoining Chester, situated deep in the recesses of its
eight-thousand-acre park. A conspicuous sign, "Motors strictly
forbidden," posted near the great gateway, forced us to have recourse to
the hackman, whose moderate charge of eight shillings for a party of
three was almost repaid by his services as a guide. He was voluble in
his information concerning the Duke and especially dwelt on his
distinction as the richest man in the world--an honor which as good and
loyal Americans we could not willingly see wrested from our own John D.
of oleaginous fame. Eaton Hall is one of the greatest English
show-places, but it is modern and might well be matched by the castles
of several of our American aristocracy. Tame indeed seemed its swept and
garnished newness, its trim and perfect repair, after our visits to so
many time-worn places, with their long succession of hoary traditions.
The great library, with its thousands of volumes in the richest
bindings and its collections of rare editions, might well be the despair
of a bibliophile and the pictures and furnishings of rare interest to
the connoisseur--but these things one may find in the museums.
Over a main road, almost level and as nearly straight as any English
road merits such a description, we covered the forty miles from Chester
to Shrewsbury without incident. The most trying grade given in the
road-book is one in twenty-five, and all conditions are favorable for
record time--in absence of police traps. Four miles out of Chester we
passed Rowton Station, lying adjacent to Rowton Moor, where King
Charles, standing on the tower of Chester Wall which bears his name, saw
his army defeated by the Parliamentarians. We made a late start from
Chester, but reached Shrewsbury in time to visit many parts of the town
after dinner. We found it indeed a delightful old place, rich in
historic traditions, and the center of a country full of interesting
places. The town is built on a lofty peninsula, surrounded on three
sides by the River Severn, and the main streets lead up exceedingly
steep hills. In fact, many of the steepest and most dangerous hills
which we found in our travels were in the towns themselves, where grades
had been fixed by buildings long ago. The clean macadam in Shrewsbury
made it possible to drive our car without chains, though it rained
incessantly, but so steep and winding are some of the streets that the
greatest caution was necessary.
Shrewsbury is described by an English writer as a "sweet-aired, genuine,
dignified and proud old market town, the resort of squires, parsons and
farmers, and mainly inhabited by those who minister to their wants. It
never dreams of itself as a show-place." He also adds another strong
point in its claim to distinction: "Some years ago a book was published
by a zealous antiquarian, enumerating with much detail all the families
of England of a certain consequence who still occupied either the same
estate or estates contiguous to those upon which they were living in the
Fifteenth Century. The shire of which Shrewsbury is the capital very
easily headed the list in this honorable competition and thereby
justified the title of 'proud Salopians,' which the more consequential
of its people submit to with much complacency, even though it be not
always applied in a wholly serious way."
It is a genuine old border town, so far unspoiled by commercialism.
Modern improvements have not invaded its quaint streets to any great
extent, and many of these still retain their old names--Dog-pole,
Wylecop and Shoplatch--and are bordered by some of the finest
half-timbered houses in Britain. Nor is Shrewsbury wanting in famous
sons. In front of the old grammar school building is a bronze statue of
Charles Darwin, the man who changed the scientific thought of a world,
who was born here in 1809. This same grammar school was built in 1630
and is now converted into a museum of Roman relics, which have been
found in the immediate vicinity. In its earlier days, many distinguished
men received their education here, among them Sir Philip Sidney and
Judge Jeffreys. The Elizabethan market-house and the council-house which
was visited by both Charles I and James II on different occasions are
two of the most fascinating buildings to be seen in the town. There are
scant remains, principally of the keep of the castle, built by the
Norman baron to whom William the Conqueror generously presented the
town. St. Mary is the oldest and most important church, and in some
particulars it surpasses the cathedral at Chester. It is architecturally
more pleasing and its windows are among the finest examples of antique
stained glass in the Kingdom.
We spent some time among the remarkable collection of relics in the
museum, and as they mainly came from the Roman city of Uriconium, we
planned a side-trip to this place, together with Buildwas Abbey and the
old Saxon town of Much Wenlock, all of which are within twenty miles of
Shrewsbury. When we left the Raven Hotel it was raining steadily, but
this no longer deterred us, and after cautiously descending the steep
hill leading out of the town we were soon on the road to Wroxeter, the
village lying adjacent to the Roman ruins. We found these of surprising
extent and could readily believe the statement made in the local
guide-book that a great city was at one time located here. Only a
comparatively small portion has been excavated, but the city enclosed by
the wall covered nearly one square mile. One great piece of wall about
seventy-five feet long and twenty feet in height still stands above
ground to mark the place, but the most remarkable revelations were found
in the excavations. The foundations of a large public building have been
uncovered, and the public baths to which the Romans were so partial are
in a remarkable state of preservation, the tile flooring in some cases
remaining in its original position. There is every indication that the
city was burned and plundered by the wild Welsh tribes sixteen hundred
or more years ago.
A few miles farther, mainly through narrow byways, brought us to
Buildwas Abbey, beautifully situated near the Severn. Evidently this
fine ruin is not much frequented by tourists, for we found no custodian
in charge, and the haunts of the old monks had been converted into a
sheepfold by a neighboring farmer. Yet at one time it was one of the
richest and most extensive monasteries in England. On our return to
Shrewsbury, we passed through Much Wenlock, a very ancient town,
which also has its ruined abbey. It is remarkable how thickly these
monastic institutions were at one time scattered over the Kingdom, and
when one considers what such elaborate establishments must have cost to
build and to maintain, it is easy to understand why, in the ages of
church supremacy, the common people were so miserably poor.
[Illustration: RUINS OF URICONIUM, NEAR SHREWSBURY.]
Aside from the places of historic interest that we visited on this trip,
the country through which we passed would have made our half day a
memorable one. Though the continual rain intercepted the view much of
the time, yet from some of the hilltops we had vistas of the Severn
Valley with its winding river that we hardly saw surpassed in a country
famous for lovely landscapes. We regretted later that our stay at
Shrewsbury was so short, for we learned that in the immediate vicinity
there are many other places which might well have occupied our
attention; but in this case, as in many others, we learned afterwards
the things we should have known before our tour began.
Late in the afternoon we started for Ludlow. It was still raining--a
gray day with fitful showers that never entirely ceased but only varied
in intensity. Much of the beauty of the landscape was hidden in the gray
mist, and the distant Welsh hills, rich with soft coloring on clear
days, were entirely lost to us. Yet the gloomy day was not altogether
without its compensation, for if we had visited Stokesay when the
garish sunshine gilded "but to flaunt the ruins gray," we should have
lost much of the impression which we retain of the gloom and desolation
that so appropriately pervaded the unique old manor with its timbered
gatehouse and its odd little church surrounded by thickly set
gravestones.
[Illustration: STOKESAY MANOR HOUSE, NEAR LUDLOW.]
It was only by an accidental glance at our road-book that we saw
Stokesay Castle as an "object of interest" on this road about eight
miles north of Ludlow. This old house is the finest example in the
Kingdom of a fortified manor as distinguished from a castle, its
defensive feature being a great crenolated tower, evidently built as a
later addition when the manor passed from a well-to-do country gentleman
to a member of the nobility. This is actually the case, for there is on
record a license granted in 1284 to Lawrence de Ludlow permitting him to
"crenolate his house." The house itself was built nearly two hundred
years earlier and was later surrounded by a moat as a further means of
defense. Considering its age, it is in a wonderfully good state of
preservation, the original roof still being intact. We were admitted by
the keeper, who lives in the dilapidated but delightfully picturesque
half-timbered gatehouse. The most notable feature of the old house is
the banqueting hall occupying the greater portion of the first floor,
showing how, in the good old days, provision for hospitality took
precedence over nearly everything else. Some of the apartments on the
second floor retain much of their elaborate oak paneling and there are
several fine mantel-pieces. A narrow, circular stairway leads to the
tower, from which the beauty of the location is at once apparent.
Situated as the mansion is in a lovely valley, bounded by steep and
richly wooded hills at whose base the river Onny flows through luxuriant
meadows, one is compelled to admire the judgment of the ancient founder
who selected the site. It indeed brought us near to the spirit and
customs of feudal times as we wandered about in the gloom of the
deserted apartments. How comfortless the house must have been--from our
standard--even in its best days, with its rough stone floors and rude
furnishings! No fireplace appeared in the banqueting hall, which must
have been warmed by an open fire, perhaps in the center, as in the hall
of Penshurst Place. How little these ancient landmarks were appreciated
until recently is shown by the fact that for many years Stokesay Manor
was used as a blacksmith-shop and a stable for a neighboring farmer. The
present noble proprietor, however, keeps the place in excellent repair
and always open to visitors. In one of the rooms of the tower, is
exhibited a collection of ancient documents relating to the founding of
Stokesay and to its early history.
After visiting hundreds of historic places during our summer's
pilgrimage, the memory of Ludlow, with its quaint, unsullied, old-world
air, its magnificent church, whose melodious chime of bells lingers with
us yet, its great ruined castle, redolent with romance, and its
surrounding country of unmatched interest and beauty, is still the
pleasantest of all. I know that the town has been little visited by
Americans, and that in Baedeker, that Holy Writ of tourists, it is
accorded a scant paragraph in small type. Nevertheless, our deliberately
formed opinion is still that if we could re-visit only one of the
English towns it would be Ludlow. Mr. A.G. Bradley, in his delightful
book, "In the March and Borderland of Wales," which everyone
contemplating a tour of Welsh border towns should read, gives an
appreciation of Ludlow which I am glad to reiterate when he styles it
"the most beautiful and distinguished country town in England." He says:
"There are towns of its size perhaps as quaint and boasting as many
ancient buildings, but they do not crown an eminence amid really
striking scenery, nor yet again share such distinction of type with one
of the finest mediaeval castles in England and one possessed of a
military and political history unique in the annals of British castles.
It is this combination of natural and architectural charm, with its
intense historical interest, that gives Ludlow such peculiar
fascination. Other great border fortresses were centers of military
activities from the Conquest to the Battle of Bosworth, but when Ludlow
laid aside its armour and burst out into graceful Tudor architecture, it
became in a sense the capital of fourteen counties, and remained so for
nearly two hundred years."
[Illustration: THE FEATHERS HOTEL, LUDLOW.]
We were indeed fortunate in Ludlow, for everything conspired to give us
the best appreciation of the town, and were it not for the opinion of
such an authority as I have quoted, I might have concluded that our
partiality was due to some extent to the circumstances. We had been
directed to a hotel by our host in Shrewsbury, but on inquiring of a
police officer--they are everywhere in Britain--on our arrival in
Ludlow, he did us a great favor by telling us that "The Feathers" hotel
just opposite would please us better. We forthwith drew up in front of
the finest old black and white building which we saw anywhere in the
Kingdom and were given a room whose diamond-paned windows opened toward
church and castle. No modern improvements broke in on our old-time
surroundings--candles lighted us when the long twilight had faded away.
The splendid dark-oak paneling that reached to the ceiling of the dining
room and the richly carved mantel-piece, they told us, were once in
rooms of Ludlow Castle. As we sat at our late dinner, a familiar melody
from the sonorous chimes of the church-tower came through the open
window to our great delight. "O, what a nuisance those bells are," said
the neat waiting maid, "and a bad thing for the town, too. Why, the
commercials all keep away from Ludlow. They can't sleep for the noise."
"Do the chimes ring in the night?" we asked. "At midnight and at four
o'clock in the morning," she said, and I was fearful that we would not
awake. But we did, and the melody in the silence of the night, amid the
surroundings of the quaint old town, awakened a sentiment in us no doubt
quite different from that which vexed the soul of the commercial. But we
felt that credit was due the honest people of Ludlow, who preferred the
music of the sweet-toned bells to sordid business; and, as the maid
said, the bells did not awaken anyone who was used to them--surely a fit
reward to the citizens for their high-minded disregard of mere material
interests.
I said we were fortunate at Ludlow. The gray, chilly weather and almost
continual rain which had followed us for the last few days vanished and
the next morning dawned cool and fair, with sky of untainted blue. Our
steps were first turned towards the castle, which we soon reached. There
was no one to admit us. The custodian's booth was closed, but there was
a small gate in the great entrance and we walked in. We had the noble
ruin to ourselves, and a place richer in story and more beautiful and
majestic in decay we did not find elsewhere. A maze of gray walls rose
all around us, but fortunately every part of the ruin bore a printed
card telling us just what we wanted to know. The crumbling walls
surrounded a beautiful lawn, starred with wild flowers--buttercups and
forget-me-nots--and a flock of sheep grazed peacefully in the wide
enclosure. We wandered through the deserted, roofless chambers where
fireplaces with elaborate stone mantels and odd bits of carving told of
the pristine glory of the place. The castle was of great extent,
covering the highest point in Ludlow, and before the day of artillery
must have been well-nigh impregnable. The walls on the side toward the
river rise from a cliff which drops down a sharp incline toward the edge
of the water but leaving room for a delightful foot path between rows of
fine trees. The stern square tower of the keep, the odd circular chapel
with its fine Norman entrance, the great banqueting hall, the elaborate
stone fireplaces and the various apartments celebrated in the story of
the castle interested us most. From the great tower I saw what I still
consider the finest prospect in England, and I had many beautiful views
from similar points of vantage. The day was perfectly clear and the wide
range of vision covered the fertile valleys and wooded hills
interspersed with the villages, the whole country appearing like a vast
beautifully kept park. The story of Ludlow Castle is too long to tell
here, but no one who delights in the romance of the days of chivalry
should fail to familiarize himself with it. The castle was once a royal
residence and the two young princes murdered in London Tower by the
agents of Richard III dwelt here for many years. In 1636 Milton's "Mask
of Comus," suggested by the youthful adventures of the children of the
Lord President, was performed in the castle courtyard. The Lord of the
castle at one time was Henry Sidney, father of Sir Philip, and his
coat-of-arms still remains over one of the entrances. But the story of
love and treason, of how in the absence of the owner of the castle, Maid
Marion admitted her clandestine lover, who brought a hundred armed men
at his back to slay the inmates and capture the fortress, is the saddest
and most tragic of all. We saw high up in the wall, frowning over the
river, the window of the chamber from which she had thrown herself after
slaying her recreant lover in her rage and despair. A weird story it is,
but if the luckless maiden still haunts the scene of her blighted love,
an observant sojourner who fitly writes of Ludlow in poetic phrase never
saw her. "Nearly every midnight for a month," he says, "it fell to me to
traverse the quarter of a mile of dark, lonely lane that leads beneath
the walls of the castle to the falls of the river, and a spot more
calculated to invite the wanderings of a despairing and guilty spirit, I
never saw. But though the savage gray towers far above shone betimes in
the moonlight and the tall trees below rustled weirdly in the night
breeze and the rush of the river over the weir rose and fell as is the
wont of falling water in the silence of the night, I looked in vain for
the wraith of the hapless maiden of the heath and finally gave up the
quest."
[Illustration: LUDLOW CASTLE, THE KEEP AND ENTRANCE.]
When we left the castle, though nearly noon, the custodian was still
belated, and we yet owe him sixpence for admittance, which we hope to
pay some time in person. A short walk brought us to the church--"the
finest parish church in England," declares one well qualified to judge.
"Next to the castle," he says, "the glory of Ludlow is its church, which
has not only the advantage of a commanding site but, as already
mentioned, is held to be one of the finest in the country." It is built
of red sandstone and is cruciform in shape, with a lofty and graceful
tower, which is a landmark over miles of country and beautiful from any
point of view. I have already mentioned the chime of bells which flings
its melodies every few hours over the town and which are hung in this
tower. The monuments, the stained-glass windows and the imposing
architecture are scarcely equalled by any other church outside of the
cathedrals.
We had made the most of our stay in Ludlow, but it was all too short.
The old town was a revelation to us, as it would be to thousands of our
countrymen who never think of including it in their itinerary. But for
the motor car, it would have remained undiscovered to us. With the great
growth of this method of touring, doubtless thousands of others will
visit the place in the same manner, and be no less pleased than we were.
From Ludlow we had a fine run to Worcester, though the road was
sprinkled with short, steep hills noted "dangerous" in the road-book.
Our fine weather was very transient, for it was raining again when we
reached Worcester. We first directed our steps to the cathedral, but
when nearly there beheld a large sign, "This way to the Royal Porcelain
Works," and the cathedral was forgotten for the time by at least one
member of our party. The Royal Porcelain Works it was, then, for hadn't
we known of Royal Worcester long before we knew there was any
cathedral--or any town, for that matter? It is easy to get to the Royal
Porcelain Works: a huge sign every block will keep you from going astray
and an intelligent guide will show you every detail of the great
establishment for only a sixpence. But it is much harder and more costly
to get away from the Royal Worcester Works, and when we finally did we
were several guineas poorer and were loaded with a box of fragile ware
to excite the suspicions of our amiable customs officials. Nevertheless,
the visit was full of interest. Our guide took us through the great
plant from the very beginning, showing us the raw materials--clay, chalk
and bones--which are ground to a fine powder, mixed to a paste, and
deftly turned into a thousand shapes by the skilled potter. We were
shown how the bowl or vase was burned, shrinking to nearly half its size
in the process. We followed the various steps of manufacture until the
finished ware, hand-painted, and burned many times to bring out the
colors, was ready for shipment. An extensive museum connected with the
works is filled with rare specimens to delight the soul of the admirer
of the keramic art. There were samples of the notable sets of tableware
manufactured for nearly every one of the crowned heads of Europe during
the last century, gorgeous vases of fabulous value, and rare and curious
pieces without number.
When we left the porcelain works it was too late to get into the
cathedral, and when we were ready to start in the morning it was too
early. So we contented ourselves with driving the car around the noble
pile and viewing the exterior from every angle. We took the word of
honest Baedeker that the interior is one of the most elaborate and
artistic in England but largely the result of modern restoration. The
cathedral contains the tomb of King John, who requested that he be
buried here, though his life was certainly not such as to merit the
distinction. Here, too, is buried the elder brother of King Henry VIII,
Prince Arthur, who died at Ludlow Castle in 1502; and had he lived to be
king in place of the strenuous Henry, who can say what changes might
have been recorded in English history? All these we missed; nor did we
satisfy ourselves personally of the correctness of the claim that the
original entry of the marriage contract of William Shakespeare and Anne
Hathaway is on file in the diocese office near the gateway of the
cathedral. Along with the other notable places of the town mentioned in
the guide-book as worthy of a visit is the great factory where the fiery
Worcestershire sauce is concocted, but this did not appeal to our
imagination as did the porcelain works. Our early start and the fine,
nearly level road brought us to Stratford-upon-Avon well before noon.
Here we did little more than re-visit the shrines of Shakespeare--the
church, the birthplace, the grammar school--all familiar to the
English-speaking world. Nor did we forget the Red Horse Inn at luncheon
time, finding it much less crowded than on our previous visit, for we
were still well in advance of the tourist season. After luncheon we were
lured into a shop across the street by the broad assurance made on an
exceedingly conspicuous sign that it is the "largest souvenir store on
earth." Here we hoped to secure a few mementos of our visit to Stratford
by motor car. We fell into a conversation with the proprietor, a genial,
white-haired old gentleman, who, we learned, had been Mayor of the town
for many years--and is it not a rare distinction to be Mayor of
Shakespeare's Stratford? The old gentleman bore his honors lightly
indeed, for he said he had insistently declined the office but the
people wouldn't take no for an answer.
It is only a few miles to Warwick over winding roads as beautiful as any
in England. One of these leads past Charlecote, famous for Shakespeare's
deer-stealing episode, but no longer open to the public. We passed
through Warwick--which reminded us of Ludlow except for the former's
magnificent situation--without pausing, a thing which no one would do
who had not visited that quaint old town some time before. In
Leamington, three miles farther on, we found a modern city of forty
thousand inhabitants, noted as a resort and full of pretentious hotels.
After we were located at the Manor House there was still time for a
drive to Kenilworth Castle, five miles away, to which a second visit was
even more delightful than our previous one. For the next day we had
planned a circular tour of Warwickshire, but a driving, all-day rain
and, still more, the indisposition of one of our party, confined us to
our hotel. Our disappointment was considerable, for within easy reach
of Leamington there were many places that we had planned to visit. Ashow
Church, Stoneleigh Abbey, George Eliot's birthplace and home near
Nuneaton, the cottage of Mary Arden, mother of Shakespeare, Rugby, with
its famous school, and Maxstoke Castle--an extensive and picturesque
ruin--are all within a few miles of Leamington.
From Leamington to London was nearly an all-day's run, although the
distance is only one hundred miles. A repair to the car delayed us and
we went several miles astray on the road. It would have been easier to
have returned over the Holyhead Road, but our desire to see more of the
country led us to take a route nearly parallel to this, averaging about
fifteen miles to the southward. Much of the way this ran through narrow
byways and the country generally lacked interest. We passed through
Banbury, whose cross, famous in nursery rhyme, is only modern. At
Waddesdon we saw the most up-to-date and best ordered village we came
across in England, with a fine new hotel, the Five Arrows, glittering in
fresh paint. We learned that this village was built and practically
owned by Baron Rothschild, and just adjoining it was the estate which he
had laid out. The gentleman of whom we inquired courteously offered to
take us into the great park, and we learned that he was the head
landscape gardener. The palace is modern, of Gothic architecture, and
crowns an eminence in the park. It contains a picture gallery, with
examples of the works of many great masters, which is open to the public
on stated days of the week.
On reaching London, we found that our tour of the Midlands had covered a
little less than eight hundred miles, which shows how much that distance
means in Britain when measured in places of historic and literary
importance, of which we really visited only a few of those directly on
the route of our journey or lying easily adjacent to it.