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.