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 It is not without a touch of modernity, for between our first and last visit gas lights superseded candles.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.

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.

After the marriage, Joce and Fulke leave for a visit in Berkshire, entrusting the castle to thirty knights and seventy soldiers. But Maid Marion is ill; she remains behind, only to notify Arnold de Lys that he will find a silken cord from one of the castle windows and that she will draw up a ladder for him to enter her chamber. He hastens to comply and brings at his back an hundred men-at-arms, who slay the sleeping knights and soldiers of the garrison in their beds. And Marion, when she learns of the tragedy the next morning, snatches her recreant lover’s sword, thrusts him through the body and in her disappointment and despair hurls herself from the window upon the cruel rocks far beneath.

When Joce and Fulke heard the astounding news, they hastened back to Ludlow and with a force of seven thousand men besieged DeLacy, who was strongly entrenched in the castle. Joce pressed the siege with great vigor, burning the great gate and making a breach in the outer walls; and DeLacy, as a last resort, called upon the Welsh chieftains for assistance. These outlawed gentry were never known to let the opportunity for a fight go begging, and responded with twenty thousand men, forcing Joce to appeal to King Henry. The king, who was especially friendly to Joce, sent peremptory orders to DeLacy to evacuate the castle forthwith, which he did.

But we will follow the traditions of the castle no farther. The incident related shows its wealth of romantic associations. Its sober history is no less full of interesting vicissitudes. It figured largely in the wars of the Roses; it was for many years the home of Prince Arthur, eldest son of Henry VII., and his early death placed the irrepressible Henry VIII. on the throne. For nearly two hundred years the castle was the seat of the Lord President of the Marches, and Ludlow was in a certain sense the capital of the border counties. In Elizabeth’s time Sir Henry Sidney of Penshurst, father of the more famous Sir Philip, was Lord President, serving for twenty-seven years; yet he suffered from the neglect that the queen so often showed to her most faithful subjects, and near the close of his life he pathetically writes:

“The Queen will not be moved to reward me. I have not now so much ground as will feed one mutton. My lady is gone with smallpox which she got by continually nursing her Majesty in that sickness. I am now fifty-four years of age, toothless and trembling, five thousand pounds in debt and thirty thousand pounds worse than at the death of my dear King and master, Edward VI.”

Sixty years later the Parliamentary cannon planted on Whitcliff, just opposite, brought the active history of Ludlow Castle to an end. In 1651 it was finally dismantled; the lead and timbers were stripped from the roof, the mantels and furnishings were sold and the fine old structure given over to unhindered decay for nearly two hundred years.

The fortunes of Ludlow have been closely intertwined with those of the castle. Since the fall of the fortress, little has happened to disturb the serenity and quietude of the town. It is prosperous today in a quiet way as a country market, and though it has many visitors, it has in no sense, as yet, become a tourist resort. One will find many fine buildings, odd nooks and corners, and very quaint streets, all quite devoid of any taint of modernity. The town is deservedly proud of its parish church—as fine, perhaps, as any in England. It occupies the opposite end of the high rock on which the castle sits and, after the castle, is easily the glory of Ludlow. It is built of red sandstone, time-stained to a dull brown, touched in places with silver gray; the shape is cruciform and the splendid square tower with its pinnacled corners forms a landmark for many miles from the surrounding country. It was originally built about 1200, on the site of an earlier church, though of course the present almost perfect structure is the result of thorough restoration. The windows are unusually good, though modern, and the tower was rebuilt and fitted with the fine mechanical peal of bells that ring six times daily with a different refrain for each day of the week. The tombs and monuments are numerous, but mostly those of old-time border dignitaries.

We found much pleasure in wandering about the town on the morning of our last visit. The commodious market-house was filled with farmers and their wives from the country, who offered their products for sale, and as we mingled with them we heard nothing spoken but English. Down toward the castle a curiosity shop attracted our attention; a brick and timber house which was crammed to the very garret with antique arms, armor, jewelry, china, glass, ivory, furniture, brass—but we might not enumerate its contents in pages. Nor was this all, for at a short distance an old Norman chapel had been leased by the proprietor and it, too, was filled to overflowing with ancient things of all degrees, from a spoon or cup to a massive carved-oak bed worth two hundred pounds.

The shop keeper, a benevolent-looking, gray-bearded old gentleman, is an authority on antiques and shows us many curios of astonishing value. But his daughter is more shrewd at business. No effort is made to sell us anything—only to interest us—and the apparent honesty of the shop people spoils many a deal. I am desirous of some souvenir of Ludlow, something distinctly suggestive of the place; an old sword, or pistol or what not, that might possibly—I ask no more than possibly—have been used in the frays that once raged round the castle. There are ancient swords and pistols galore; but they are French rapiers or Scotch claymores, and though I eagerly seek for a mere suggestion that one of them might possibly have come from Ludlow, I am told that it could hardly be; such treasures have been picked up long ago and should one be found it would command a large price. It is a disappointment, but it gives us confidence in the purchases we finally make—so many, in fact, that our ready cash is quite exhausted; but such a trifling matter is of no consequence—we are perfectly welcome to take the goods and send the money when we reach London.

“We have done considerable business with Americans,” says the young woman. “Were you ever at Mount Vernon?—of course you have been. We supplied the antiques used in furnishing Washington’s kitchen there. One of the ladies of the committee happened to visit Ludlow and gave us the order.”

Before we finally leave the old town which has charmed us so much, we cannot forbear a last look at the castle, whose gray walls are flaunted by the noonday sun. We enter the wide grass-grown court; it is quite deserted and we make a farewell round of the lordly though ruinous apartments. It is the day of all days for a view from the battlements of the keep, over which flies the red and white banner of St. George. We climb the shattered and somewhat precarious stairs and behold the pleasant vale of the Teme, lying far beneath, every feature clear and distinct in the lucent, untainted summer day. The verdant valley, with its silvery river, its fine parks, its mansions, farmhouses, towns and villages, and the far blue outlines of the Welsh hills, make a scene quite too enchanting for any words of mine to describe. The town just outside the castle walls lies slumberously below the church tower, upon which the great clock points to the hour of twelve; the bells peal forth the melody that finds a response always and in every heart,—doubly so in that of the exiled wanderer—“Home Sweet Home,” and which never seemed to us so strong in its appeal, for we are to sail within the week.