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British Highways And Byways From A Motor Car

<h2>V</h2> <h3>THE BORDER TOWNS, SHREWSBURY AND LUDLOW</h3> 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 ChesPg 59ter 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-Pg 60appointed 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 richestPg 61 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 soPg 62 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 bronzePg 63 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 townPg 64 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,Pg 65 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. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/09.jpg" alt="RUINS OF URICONIUM, NEAR SHREWSBURY." title="RUINS OF URICONIUM, NEAR SHREWSBURY." /> RUINS OF URICONIUM, NEAR SHREWSBURY.</div> 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 withPg 66out 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. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/10.jpg" alt="STOKESAY MANOR HOUSE, NEAR LUDLOW." title="STOKESAY MANOR HOUSE, NEAR LUDLOW." /> STOKESAY MANOR HOUSE, NEAR LUDLOW.</div> 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 thePg 67 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. Pg 68 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 pePg 69culiar 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." <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/11.jpg" alt="THE FEATHERS HOTEL, LUDLOW." title="THE FEATHERS HOTEL, LUDLOW." /> THE FEATHERS HOTEL, LUDLOW.</div> 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 famPg 70iliar 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,Pg 71 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 wholePg 72 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 thePg 73 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." <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/12.jpg" alt="LUDLOW CASTLE, THE KEEP AND ENTRANCE." title="LUDLOW CASTLE, THE KEEP AND ENTRANCE." /> LUDLOW CASTLE, THE KEEP AND ENTRANCE.</div> 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. Pg 74 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 poorerPg 75 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. ThePg 76 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 signPg 77 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 ourPg 78 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,Pg 79 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. <hr style="width: 65%;" />Pg 80 <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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