harp 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 haple