Two or three miles further a tributary enters the Severn, larger than any which it has hitherto received. This is the Vyrnwy, which drains a considerable area south of a watershed extending from near Aran Mowddwy to the Berwyn Hills, though now a heavy tribute has been exacted from its waters by the town of Liverpool. This great feat of engineering was completed, after years of labour, in 1890. Up to that time Liverpool had drawn its main supply from reservoirs on Rivington Pike. A huge dam, as our illustration (page 89) shows, has been built across the narrowest part of the Vyrnwy valley. It is 1,255 feet in length and 60 in height; the foundations, which at some parts had to be carried down to a depth of 50 feet, resting on the solid rock. By this means a lake has been formed, four miles in length, which hides beneath its waters—800 feet above sea-level—a little village and its church. A curious mound rises near the junction of the two rivers, designed, as some think, to guard the passage; and then the Severn, turning again to the east, passes on towards Shrewsbury. Its valley now has become more open: parks and country houses here and there dapple the gentler slopes within no great distance of the river, and the views of the hills are always beautiful.

The group of the Breiddens is gradually left behind, then rises the steep mass of Pontesbury Hill, backed by the long ridge of the Stiper Stones, with their broken crests of rugged and hard white rock, and behind them the broad backs of the Longmynds or the distant pyramid of Corndon. But, of course, to enjoy to perfection views of the land which feeds the upper waters of the Severn, it is necessary to quit the valley and obtain a Pisgah sight from some commanding hill. Thence we look over mile after mile of lowland, woodland, cornfield, and pasture, undulating downwards from bare rough hillsides on which the copses often are thickly clinging, to the margins of brooks and to the bed of the main river. To the west, line after line of hills recedes more dimly into the distance, till at last one shadow is pointed out as Plinlimmon, and another, yet fainter, as Cader Idris, and sometimes an apex of a far-off pyramid is said to be Snowdon. South of us, and yet more to the east, lie the nearer masses already mentioned, while in these directions the eye may detect, from some points of view, the peaked summits of the Caradoc Hills, or may rest upon the huge hog’s back of the Wrekin as it rises abruptly from the Shropshire lowland. There are few prettier districts in our country than the borderland between England and Wales; and that part of which we now speak can hold its own with most others. Here and there, perhaps, the hills are a little bare, and we seldom find much boldness of outline. In the Shelve district also, the lead mines with their white spoil-banks are distinctly an offence to the eye; but the wooded glens are often singularly beautiful, and the outlook from the heath-covered moorlands gives a sense of breadth and freedom, like the open sea.

As it nears Shrewsbury, the Severn quits for a time the hill-country, though it is only near the waterside that the land is distinctly a plain. The town itself is at the edge of a low plateau, and some of its streets are fairly steep, though the ascents are not long. The situation is fine, and in former days, when the town was restricted to narrower limits, must have been much more striking than it is at present. The river bends in sharp curves, like a reversed S, as though the hills had made a final struggle to hold it in bondage. Of these loops, that on the eastern side is the larger; and it forms a kind of horseshoe, almost enclosing a hilly headland of moderate elevation, which shelves down towards the neck of the isthmus, but falls steeply, sometimes almost precipitously, towards the river brink. Thus, with the Severn for a moat on more than three sides, and a comparatively narrow and defensible approach on the fourth, the position is almost a natural stronghold, and it was selected at a comparatively early date as the site of a fortified town.

If we could believe certain chroniclers, the history of Shrewsbury would begin more than four hundred years before the Christian era; but we can hardly doubt that the town existed in the days of the Romans. Towards the close of the sixth century English invaders came marauding up the valley of the Severn, and destroyed the old city of Wroxeter. For a time the fugitives found a refuge in the fortified palace of the Princes of Powis, which then stood on the headland now occupied by Shrewsbury; but before long that stronghold also became a prey to the plunderers, and the Britons were forced to seek safety among the fastnesses of Wales. Then Pengwern, as it had been called, became Scrobesbyrig—“the burgh of bushes”—from which obviously it has obtained its present name. Before very long its importance as a frontier town was fully recognised, but at first it remained small—probably because it was too near Wales for merchants or for men of peace—so that at the date of Domesday Book, though it had four churches, it contained only 252 houses. The castle was built a few years later by Roger de Montgomery, a Norman earl, and a gateway leading to the inner court is a relic of his work. The enclosing wall of the town was completed in the reign of Henry III. This follows, as far as possible, the line of the ancient river-cliff, which on the southward side is parted from the Severn by a strip of level land. Portions of this wall still remain, and it can be traced more or less perfectly along the southern and eastern sides.

The fortress resisted Stephen, who besieged it in 1138; on its fall, by way of reading a lesson to his enemies, he hanged ninety-four of the defenders. Later on, Shrewsbury was twice betrayed by the Welsh, and had one or two other “sensational” experiences, till the famous fight “for a long hour by Shrewsbury clock.” It was a race for the fortress between Hotspur and Henry IV., which was won by the king, who succeeded next day in forcing an action at a place since called Battlefield, about a league north of the town, and a mile from the Severn. The river figures more than once in the accounts of the marching and counter-marching connected with the battle, in which, as everyone knows, the king gained a complete victory, Hotspur falling on the field. Some of his principal associates felt the headsman’s axe a couple of days after the fight. In the Wars of the Roses the town was for the House of York, and two sons were born to the Duke within its walls: one died in infancy, and the other was the younger of the two lads murdered in the Tower. In the great Civil War the townsmen repaired their ruined walls and declared for King Charles, who spent a short time in Shrewsbury early in the struggle; but, later on, they were caught napping, for two parties of the Parliamentary Army effected an entrance during the night, one of them by scaling the steep slope below the old Council House. This daring band was headed by Captain Benbow, who afterwards took part with Prince Charles, was captured at Worcester, and was shot on the scene of his former exploit. He was buried in St. Chad’s Church, “October y^e 16th, 1651,” as may still be read on his tombstone. Since then Shrewsbury has dwelt in peace, and during the last half-century has increased greatly and prospered proportionally. It is now a very important railway junction; the station, too small for its present needs, being on the lower ground on the eastern side of the neck of land already mentioned.

In former days the river was crossed by two bridges only, giving access to the headland—one from the eastern side, and so called the English bridge; the other, from the north-western, which, of course, bore the name of the Welsh bridge. Both were fortified in mediæval times, but they were rebuilt in more modern fashion during the eighteenth century. South of the Welsh bridge the plateau occupied by the old town slopes more gently down to the brink of the Severn. This part—a grassy space, planted with avenues of trees, which has long borne the name of the Quarries, from some old excavations—now forms a public park, which, as may be inferred from the illustration (p. 95), adds greatly to the attractions of the town. Between the Welsh and English bridges is the Boathouse Ferry.

Shrewsbury has produced its fair share of eminent men, among whom are the fighting old admiral, Benbow, and the great naturalist, Charles Darwin; but for many years past its school has been among its chief glories. This was one of Edward VI.’s foundations, but it assumed its present high position as a nursery of scholars under Dr. Butler, who was appointed headmaster about the beginning of the present century. A few years ago the ancient site had to be discarded, for more room had become imperatively necessary, and new buildings were erected on Kingsland, an excellent site near the edge of the plateau to the south-west, looking towards the town across the Severn. The old school buildings, which are on the left-hand side of the road going down to the railway station, are of considerable architectural interest, for they date from the end of the sixteenth century; they are now used for a town museum and free library. But to a lover of architecture, the especial charm of Shrewsbury lies in its old black-timbered houses. In these it is richer than any town, even in the West of England, with the sole exception of Chester. Indeed, even after the “improvements” which have been rendered necessary by the development of commerce, the street architecture of Shrewsbury is universally quaint and attractive; for we find, shuffled together like the cards in a pack, houses of all dates during the last three centuries. This gives a picturesque irregularity both to the façades and the sky-lines in the streets. But these black-timbered houses keep the chance visitor in a constant state of quiet excitement; he never knows what may be disclosed at the next turning, for Shrewsbury is pre-eminently a town of pleasant architectural surprises. Some of the houses are dated; as is usual, they generally belong to the later part of Elizabeth’s reign, and all probably were built during the half century centring on the year 1600. The best specimens are Ireland’s Mansion in the High Street, and the group of old shops in Butcher Row, which is considered by Mr. Parker to be the finest example of the kind in England.

But if the antiquary halts in Shrewsbury he will not find it very easy to take his departure. Two of the Shrewsbury churches are unusually interesting; one, St. Mary’s, the principal church of the town, stands almost on the brink of the river-cliff, a little to the south of the castle, and its tall tapering spire adds greatly to the picturesque grouping, which, notwithstanding modern changes, the town still presents on the eastern side. St. Mary’s is a church of various dates, impossible to describe in a few words; for it has been altered and augmented repeatedly. There is Norman work in the north and south porches of the nave and in the basement of the tower; Early English in the transept; Decorated and Perpendicular in the body of the church, the east window being a very fine example of the former style. It has recently undergone considerable structural repairs, for the upper part of the spire was blown down in a gale early in the year 1894, and its fall greatly damaged the roof of the nave and the fittings of the interior. Holy Cross, the other important church, commonly called the Abbey, stands on the low ground, or in the Foregate, on the English side of the fortress, on the right bank of the Severn. It is a relic of an abbey founded by the first Norman lord of Shrewsbury. The vicissitudes which it has experienced are obvious at a glance. The rather low western tower, with the bays immediately adjoining, are evidence of a reconstruction in the fourteenth century; and Perpendicular work is, on the whole, the more conspicuous in the western and older part. We rail often—and with good cause—at the restorers of our own age, but they of the century and a half before the Reformation were no whit better, as this church can testify. The east end is modern, for it was destroyed after the dissolution of the monasteries, and was only rebuilt in 1887; but some fine massive Norman work remains inside the church, especially in the pillars of the nave, and there are some interesting monuments. The conventual buildings have been destroyed, except a stone pulpit, which was once in the refectory, and now remains looking disconsolately at the rails and trucks in the goods-yard of the railway; for this occupies the site of the monastic buildings, and is on the opposite side of the Severn to the station.

On leaving Shrewsbury, the Severn still continues to wind. Immediately below the town, it strikes off in a north-easterly direction for well over a mile, then, again swinging to and fro, it almost touches the foot of Haughmond Hill, from which it recoils, still oscillating, in a direction rather east of south. It has now entered an undulating and fertile district, where in one place its waters flow by some river-cliff or wooded brae; in another, between fields which shelve gently down to its brink; in a third, through flat meadows, over which, as can sometimes be detected, it has taken in past ages more than one course. Now more extensive views may be obtained, even from its stream—views to which a distinctive character and a special charm is often added by the peculiar shapes of the hills which here and there rise quite suddenly from the lowlands. Of them, Haughmond Hill is one; the Wrekin is another, but on a far larger scale; the Caradoc Hills are a third instance, but these form quite a little range. All have the same origin; they are wedge-like masses of very old and hard rock, the relics of primæval volcanos, which crop out here and there among the softer sandstones and marls from which the long-continued action of rain, stream, and river has carved the Shropshire lowland. Haughmond Hill looks down upon the scene of the battle between the forces of Henry IV. and of Hotspur, and is associated with its memories, for the Douglas, who had come to aid the Percies, while seeking to escape along its craggy slopes, was so disabled by a fall that he was taken prisoner. On the western side of the Hautmont—for that was the original name—a priory was founded by William Fitzalan, in the days of King Stephen. The monks soon found their way to royal, and even to papal, favour, for they were permitted to say the divine office in a low voice and with closed doors, even when the land lay under an interdict. Then the priory became an abbey of the Augustinian order, until at last it shared the fate of all others at the Reformation, passing into lay hands and being cared for no longer. It is now a complete ruin; the church is gone, though just enough remains to show that it was cruciform in plan. The monastic buildings have been nearly destroyed, though a couple of Norman doors remain, and the more important structures can be identified. The best preserved part is the chapter-house, in the west front of which are three fine arches in the Transitional-Norman style. The views from the slopes above are very attractive, as the eye ranges over the Shropshire lowlands, with their rich alternations of pasture, cornfield, and wood, to the ridges already named, and still further towards the Longmynds, the Breiddens, the Berwyns, and the yet more distant ranges of Wales.

On winds the Severn, gliding with steady flow by meadows, shelving fields or copses, till it comes at last to Atcham, with its bridge and picturesque old church near the waterside. Here was born Ordericus, afterwards historian of William the Conqueror. About a mile below, the little Tern adds its waters to the Severn, near the home of the Berwicks; and yet another mile, and the river glides by the parish church of Wroxeter, with its interesting Norman work, and the site of the Romano-British city of Uriconium, on the famous Watling Street road; founded, as is supposed, about the reign of Trajan, to guard the passages over the Severn and the outlets from Wales. In the year 577 a band of West Saxons forced their way, plundering and destroying as they went, up the rich valley of the Severn. Uriconium was taken, and, as the bard lamented, “The white town in the valley went up in flames, the town of white stone gleaming among the green woodland; the hall of its chieftain left without fire, without light, without song: the silence broken only by the eagle’s scream—the eagle who had swallowed fresh drink—heart’s blood of Kyndylan the Fair.” The walls of Uriconium were three miles in extent, and the area enclosed was larger by nearly a third than that of Pompeii. Excavations have been made which have disclosed a basilica, or public hall, a hypocaust belonging to the baths, and many foundations of houses; but no work of a high class, either in architecture or in decorative art, has been discovered. Uriconium at best was only a provincial city, and that in distant Britain; and even if it had possessed any important buildings, they would have perished, if not from the fury of the barbarian invaders, at least by the hands of those in later days, who used it as a quarry. Most of the things dug up are preserved in the museum at Shrewsbury. “In the corner of the hypocaust three skeletons were found—one of a man, and two of women; by the side of the former lay a heap of copper coins, numbering a hundred and thirty-two, which belonged to the days of the later emperors, and some bits of rotten wood and rusty iron, which may have been the fragments of a box. It is supposed that some poor wretches, perhaps servants at the baths, sought refuge here during the sack of the city, and then perished, either suffocated by the smoke of its burning or buried alive by the fallen ruins.”[2]

Below Wroxeter, the undulation of the country through which the Severn now flows, for a time with a straighter course, becomes rather more strongly marked. The Cound brook joins the river on the right, flowing down by Condover village, with its Hall, “a perfect specimen of Elizabethan stonework,” and its interesting church and monuments. Then the Severn glides under a red sandstone cliff and beneath the wooden bridge of Cressage, with its memories of old oak trees; then through wooded ravines as the ground begins to rise. On its right bank copse-clad slopes enrich the view, while in one direction or another the great hill masses stand out against the sky. Among these the Wrekin is generally the most conspicuous, and now for a time it rises on the northern side of the river almost without a rival. It is the Salopian’s landmark—his Olympus or Parnassus—“all round the Wrekin” is his toast. This is no wonder, for few hills in Britain, considering its moderate elevation—1,320 feet above the sea—are more imposing in aspect, because it rises so boldly and abruptly from the lowland; and though the Salopian could not assert that “twelve fair counties saw the light” of its beacon fire, as was said of the Malverns, still, from far distances and from unexpected places the Wrekin is visible. In shape it is a rather long ridge, steep on either side, capped by three fairly distinct summits, of which the central is the highest. But from many points the lower summits seem to be lost in the central one, and the Wrekin assumes a form rudely resembling a huge tumulus. Like several of the other hills, it is largely composed of very ancient volcanic rocks.

As we look down the stream, the view before long appears to be closed by a wooded ridge, which seems at first to prohibit further progress. This is Benthall Edge, which may be said to begin at Lincoln Hill, on the left bank of the Severn, and on the opposite side to join on to Wenlock Edge, to the south-west. It is formed of the Wenlock limestone, belonging to the Silurian system, and so called from the townlet of Much Wenlock. This owes its origin and part of its name—for “Much” is a corruption of monasterium, like moutier in French—to its priory, once famed as “the oldest and most privileged—perhaps the wealthiest and most magnificent—of the religious houses of Shropshire.” Now it is only a ruin, except that the priory-house is still inhabited, and is a remarkably good instance of a domestic building of the fifteenth century. The ruins, however, are very extensive, and in parts most picturesque. But as they are a league away from the riverside, and are hid by the wooded slopes of Wenlock Edge, we must turn to another ruin, which stands on the level strath, almost by the waterside, just before the hills close in upon the Severn. This is Buildwas Abbey, formerly an abode of the Cistercians, which bears traces of that strict order in the simplicity of its architecture. Still, its ruins are admirable in their noble simplicity. “They impress us with the power of its designer, who ventured to trust simply to the strength of his composition and the grace of his outlines, so as to dispense with almost all ornamentation whatever. It thus gives it a sense of calmness and repose, for which we seek in vain in works of more modern date.”[3] The style indicates the passage from Norman to Early English; the influence of the latter, on the whole, predominating. The church and chapter-house are still in fair preservation. The abbot’s house—mainly thirteenth-century work—has been restored, and is inhabited. The date of the foundation is a little uncertain; but it is believed to have been about the middle of the twelfth century. Buildwas was a wealthy abbey in its day, but made no figure in history.

Through the ridge of Benthall Edge the Severn has sawn its way, so that the river-valley now becomes almost a gorge, along which, on the abrupt southern side, the Severn Valley railway has been conducted, and this not without considerable engineering difficulties. Wooded steeps and grey crags on either side of the strong stream flowing at their feet form a series of exquisite pictures, though unhappily not for long, for a change comes where the dirty hand of man has smirched the face of Nature. To the north and to the east of the limestone hills lies the most noted of the Shropshire coalfields, that of Coalbrook Dale, which is rich also in iron, though its mineral wealth is becoming exhausted. Dismantled engine-houses and great piles of dark rubbish are only one shade less unpicturesque than tall chimneys vomiting black fumes, smelting furnaces, the apparatus of the pit-mouth, and smouldering spoil-banks. But before the days of “smoke, and wealth, and noise,” this part of the ravine of the Severn, and even Coalbrook Dale itself, must have been very beautiful.

Ironbridge is a dingy-looking town, built on the steep hillside, which gets its name from the metal arch—120 feet in span—by which the Severn was bridged in the year 1779. On the opposite side of the river, hardly more than a mile away, is Broseley, noted for pottery and clay pipes; and another mile west of that, Benthall, equally noted for encaustic tiles. The neighbourhood of the Severn, as far as Coalport, has fallen off in beauty as it has increased in wealth. But soon, in a geological sense, “the old order changeth, yielding place to new”: the Severn quits the coal-measures to enter once more upon the red rocks, which belong to a more recent period. Smoking chimneys and spoil-banks are left behind, the valley widens, though the scenery continues to be far from tame, and we pass on by Linley and by Apley Park; the river sometimes gliding beneath sandstone crags and steeply sloping woods, till in about four miles we reach Bridgnorth.

The situation is a striking one: the Severn has carved out a deep and rather narrow valley in the sandstone rock, and a tributary stream has fashioned another after a like pattern. Between these the upland forms a wedge-like promontory, defended on either side by a steep, almost precipitous, scarp. On this, not very much less than a couple of hundred feet above the river, the upper town, the church, and the castle were built. The town has gradually climbed down the eastern slope towards the Severn, it has spread out along its margin, it has crossed the stream and has occupied the tract of level meadow on the opposite side, the two portions being connected by a bridge which is in part far from modern. From the lower town here to the upper one on the plateau is a steep ascent, even though the principal road winds up. The church stands near the edge of the scarp, on which the wall of its graveyard is built. Needless to say, it commands a very striking view—sandstone crags, and steeply shelving woods and green fields beyond, with the river and the lower town in the glen beneath. The most interesting part of Bridgnorth is its broad High Street, bounded at one end by a gateway, with the old market hall—a black and white structure, of the date 1652, which is supported on brick arches. This street also contains one or two fine houses of about the same era. Others, again, will be found in or near to the churchyard, and yet another near the end of the street, which descends so steeply as the main way to the lower town. This, which bears the date 1580, is a particularly good specimen of the black-timbered houses so abundant in the valley of the Severn. Here, in the year 1729, Percy was born, the collector and editor of the “Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.” Bridgnorth Castle also must not be forgotten; occupying the extremity of the promontory already mentioned, it was a place of great strength in olden days, and stood more than one siege. It was destroyed after holding out for a month for King Charles. The most conspicuous remnant is a massive wall, a portion of the keep, which has heeled over to one side, at so great an angle—about 17 degrees—that it looks actually unsafe. The adjacent church was designed by Telford, the eminent engineer, to whom we are more indebted for the suspension bridge over the Menai Straits than for this rather ugly Renaissance building.

For some miles below Bridgnorth the valley of the Severn is extremely pretty, the banks half slopes of pasture, half masked with trees. “Now it is a little wider, now a little narrower, the hills a little steeper here or a little more wooded there, the grass by the riverside always green, the Severn sweeping on as it swings from side to side of the valley,” and breaking here and there into a series of little rapids. It passes Quatford, the site of a Saxon fortress, which was erected in the tenth century, and through the Forest of Morf, long since brought under cultivation. Quatford was a place of some importance till some years after the Conquest, when Bridgnorth was built, and most of its inhabitants removed to the new stronghold. The river leaves on its western side the old Forest of Wyre, which, though it still retains some pretty woods, had lost its best trees even so long ago as the days of Camden. It is now better known as a coalfield, though it is not one of much commercial importance.

The Severn glides on beneath the wide arch of an iron railway bridge and across the parting of Shropshire and Worcestershire to Bewdley, pleasantly situated on a slope by the river-bank, and well worthy of its name, Beau lieu. In olden times it had an extensive trade by means of the river, when it was a place of import and export, especially for the Principality. All the country round is pretty, notwithstanding occasional symptoms of factories. The lanes are sometimes cut deep in the red sandstone, and here and there the rock is hollowed out into dwellings after a primæval fashion. Three miles or so away to the east is busy but unpicturesque Kidderminster, famed for its carpets. Stourport follows, not less busy, and yet less picturesque, where the Severn is joined by the river after which the place is named. Here the construction of the Worcestershire and Staffordshire Canal has turned a hamlet into a town. Undulating ground on either hand, the long low line of the Lickey Hills some miles away to the east, the slightly more varied forms of the Abberley Hills on the west, limit a piece of country pleasant to the eye through which the Severn flows for several miles, past Shrawley and Ombersley. Then the valley becomes a little broader and flatter. The scarp of the Cotswolds, with Bredon Cloud as an advanced bastion, replaces the Lickey Hills, and on the other side, as the tower of Worcester Cathedral grows more and more conspicuous in the view, the Malvern Hills, with their mountain-like outlines, divert the attention from their humbler advanced post on the north. There are no places of importance near the Severn, though Hartlebury Palace, which has belonged to the See of Worcester for over a thousand years, lies about a league away on the east.

Worcester has no special charm in point of situation, though the river itself and the distant hills are always an attraction, but some of its streets are quaint, and its cathedral is grand. The site, comparatively level, but raised well above the river, early attracted settlers, and it is believed to have been inhabited before the days of the Romans. It figures from time to time in our history, but its most stirring days were in the Civil War, when it took the king’s side, was twice besieged, twice compelled to surrender, and twice suffered severely for its “malignity.” But even the king’s death did not bring peace to Worcester, for it was occupied by the younger Charles, and the decisive battle which crushed the hopes of the Cavaliers was fought in its very streets. Since the Restoration it has been undisturbed, and has prospered, especially since it added the manufacture of porcelain to that of gloves, for which it has long been famed, the compounding of sauce to the potting of lampreys, and took to making bricks and yet more strongly scented chemicals.

The cathedral overlooks the Severn, its precincts being almost bounded by the river-bank. It is a noble pile, the tall central tower being a conspicuous object for many a mile away in the valley, though it has been, perhaps, overmuch restored. Parts, however, of the fabric had become so decayed that it was thought necessary to re-build them. A crypt belongs to a building erected soon after the Norman Conquest, but the greater part of the present structure is Early English, and very beautiful work of its kind, being begun about 1225. The nave, however, is of later date, with the exception of one or two incorporated fragments of the preceding cathedral. Some of the monuments also are interesting. Though King John loved not churches, he lies in the middle of the choir, where his effigy remains, the earliest one of a royal personage in England; a beautiful chantry chapel commemorates Prince Arthur, the elder brother of Henry VIII., and no visitor is likely to forget the mysterious gravestone with its single and sorrowful inscription, “Miserrimus.” Cloisters, chapter-house, and other portions of the conventual buildings still remain, though the fine old Guesten Hall was destroyed not many years ago. The town also retains some fairly interesting houses, though neither these nor the twelve parish churches are likely to divert the visitors’ attention from the cathedral.

Below Worcester the Teme comes into the Severn from the west. Few rivers of its size pass through more charming or more interesting scenery. It collects a group of streams that have risen among the great hill-masses on the edges of Radnor and Montgomery, and in the southern part of Shropshire. They have flowed by craggy slopes and wild moorland, by lonely farms and quiet villages, by ancestral oaks and ancient halls, by ruined forts and many a relic of primæval folk. But on these we must not linger; a glance at Ludlow must suffice. It is one of the most attractive towns in England—church and castle crown a hill between the Teme and the Corve, and from it the streets run down the slope. In olden time Ludlow was a place of great importance, for the castle was the chief of thirty-two that guarded the Welsh Marches, and here the Lords Presidents of Wales held their courts. Even after this state had passed away, the town was a centre of county society. The castle, a picturesque ruin, crowns the headland, the inner court occupying its north-western angle, and the main block of buildings overlooks a wooded cliff. These are of various dates, from Norman to Tudor; the most remarkable being a curious little circular chapel of Late Norman work, which now stands alone, its small chancel having disappeared. The castle witnessed sharp fighting more than once in the Border Wars, and finally surrendered to the troops of the Parliament. Here died Arthur, Prince of Wales, son of Henry VII.; here also Milton wrote “The Masque of Comus” and Butler part of “Hudibras.” The church—a grand building in the Perpendicular style, on a commanding site—is justly designated one of the noblest parish churches in England. There are several good specimens of timber-work among the older houses; the most striking, perhaps, being the Reader’s House in the churchyard, and the Feathers Inn. The grand old trees in Oakley Park, the Clee Hills, Stokesay Castle, Tenbury Church, and St. Michael’s College, are but a few of the many attractions of the surrounding district.

For some fourteen miles below Worcester the Severn flows through its wide and pleasant valley without passing near any place of special interest, unless it be Kemsey, with its fine church standing within the enclosure of a Roman camp, or Upton, which makes much vinegar and enjoys, besides, considerable traffic up and down the river; for its bridge, in place of a central arch, has a platform which can be raised to let vessels pass. But the foreground scenery, fertile and wooded, is often very pretty: the scarp bounding the limestone uplands of the Cotswolds is pleasant to see, and the range of the Malverns is always beautiful. Passing thus through a fertile land, we come to Tewkesbury, with its abbey church, less magnificent but hardly less interesting than the Cathedral of Worcester, and its black-timbered houses not far behind those of Shrewsbury. But as this town belongs to the Avon even more than to the Severn, it shall be described in connection with the former river.

THE SEVERN.

CHAPTER II.
THE UPPER OR WARWICKSHIRE AVON.

From this upland country—pleasantly varied by cornfield, pasture, and copses—the Avon makes its way to the northern margin of the county, and then, working round to the south-west, forms for a while the boundary between it and Leicestershire. Entering Warwickshire, the Avon passes near Rugby. All know the great railway junction, immortalised by Charles Dickens, and the famous school, with its memories of old Laurence Sheriffe the founder, and Dr. Arnold, its great headmaster. Then the river is joined by the tributary Swift, which, while hardly more than a brook, has rippled by the little town of Lutterworth. There, higher up the slope, is the church where Wiclif ministered, the pulpit from which he preached. There, spanning the stream, is a little bridge, the successor of that from which the ashes, after his bones had been dug up and burnt by order of the Council of Constance, were flung into the water. So the Swift bore them to the Avon, and the Avon to the Severn, and that to the sea, to be dispersed abroad into all lands—“which things are an allegory.”

The Avon flows on through the pretty, restful scenery of Warwickshire, which has been rendered classic by the authoress of “Adam Bede,” twisting in great curves gradually more and more to the south. It leaves, some three miles away from its right bank, the spires and ancient mansions of Coventry—once noted for its ribbons, now busy in making cycles; it sweeps round Stoneleigh Abbey, with its beautiful park and fine old oaks, where a comparatively modern mansion has replaced a Cistercian monastery. On the opposite side, half a league away, are the ruins of Kenilworth Castle, with their memories of Leicester and Queen Elizabeth. It glides beneath Guy’s Cliff, where the famous Earl, the slayer of the Dun Cow, after his return from the Holy Land, dwelt in a cave as a hermit, unrecognised, till the hour of his death, by his own wife, though she daily gave him alms. A little further, and a short distance away on the left, on the tributary Leam, is the modern town of Leamington, which began a career of prosperity just a century ago on the discovery of sundry mineral springs. Then the Avon sweeps by the foot of the hill on which stands the old town of Warwick. The site is an ideal one—a hill for a fortress, a river for a moat—and has thus been occupied from a distant antiquity. Briton, Roman, Saxon—all are said to have held in turn the settlement, till the Norman came and built a castle. The town retains two of its gates and several old timbered houses, one of which, the Leicester Hospital, founded in 1571, is perhaps the finest in the Midlands; and on the top of the hill, set so that “it cannot be hid,” is the great church of St. Mary. It is in the Perpendicular style, more or less, for the tower and nave were rebuilt after a great fire in 1694, the choir escaping with little injury. Two fine tombs of the Earls of Warwick are in this part, but the glory of the church is the Beauchamp Chapel, with its far-famed altar-tomb and effigy of Richard Beauchamp, the founder. He died in 1439; and near him lie the Earl of Leicester, Queen Elizabeth’s favourite, and other members of the house of Dudley.

Warwick Castle is one of the most picturesquely situated mansions in England. It stands on a rocky headland, which descends almost precipitously to the Avon. One of our illustrations (p. 111) may give some notion of the beauty of the view over the rich river-plain; the other (p. 109) indicates the aspect of the castle itself. A mediæval fortress has been gradually transformed into a modern mansion, yet it retains an air of antiquity and not a little of the original structure. It incorporates portions of almost all dates, from the Norman Conquest to the present day. The oldest part is the lofty tower, called Cæsar’s tower, which must have been erected not many years after the victory at Hastings. The residential part mostly belongs to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, though alterations and additions have been made, especially during the restoration, which was rendered necessary by a lamentable fire in 1871. We must leave it to the guide-books to describe the pictures, antiquities, and curiosities which the castle contains—relics of the Civil War, when it was in vain besieged by the king’s forces, the sword and porridge-pot of the legendary Guy, and the famous Warwick Vase, dug up near Tivoli at Hadrian’s Villa. But the view from the windows is so beautiful that the visitor will often find a difficulty in looking at pictures on the walls; he will be well rewarded if afterwards he stroll down towards the old mill by the riverside.

After leaving Warwick the Avon keeps winding towards the south-western boundary of the county till, before reaching this, it arrives at another and yet more noted town. Stratford-on-Avon is a household word wherever the English tongue is spoken. No American thinks his visit to the country of his ancestors is complete till he has made a pilgrimage to the birthplace and the grave of Shakespeare—nay, even our distant kinsmen in Germany are not seldom drawn thither by the same magnetic force. The town, till the days of railways, was a quietly prosperous, old-fashioned place, in harmony with the scenery of the neighbourhood. This is thoroughly characteristic of the Midlands, and exhibits one of their most attractive types. “The Avon, a fairly broad bright stream, sweeps silently along on its way to the Severn, through level meadows, where the grass grows green and deep. The higher ground on either side rolls gently down, descending sometimes to the margin of the stream, but elsewhere parted from it by broad stretches of level valley. The slopes are dotted with cornfields, and varied by clumps of trees and lines of hedgerow timber. It is a peaceful, unexciting land, where hurry would seem out of place.”[4] The little house where Shakespeare was born—in 1564, on the 23rd of April, as they say—after many vicissitudes has been saved to the nation, and perhaps a little over-restored. It is a parcel-timbered dwelling without enrichment—one of those common in the Midlands—such as would be inhabited by an ordinary burgess of a country town.

When Shakespeare returned, a prosperous man, to his birthplace, he lived in a much better house near the church, which he purchased in 1597. This, however, was pulled down by an ill-tempered clerical vandal in the middle of the last century. Shottery, where we can still see the cottage of Anne Hathaway, whom Shakespeare loved not wisely but too well, is a mile away; and about four times that distance is the picturesque old brick and stone mansion of Charlecote, with its beautiful park. Here dwelt Sir Thomas Lucy, with whose deer the youth made too free, and on account of whose anger he ran away to London. The dramatist, it is said, took his revenge on the knight in the portrait of Justice Shallow, but when he looked back on the ultimate results of his flight from Stratford he might have justly said, “All’s well that ends well!”

In the month of his birth, 1616, Stratford Church received the body of William Shakespeare. “Church and churchyard are worthy of being connected with so great a memory. The former is a fine cruciform structure, crowned with a central spire; the latter a spacious tract, planted with aged trees. An avenue of limes leads up to the church porch, between which, perhaps, the poet often passed to worship, and whose quivering shadows may one sad day have fallen upon his coffin. But there is a part of the God’s acre where, perhaps, more than any other, we may think of him, for it is one which can hardly have failed to tempt him to musing. The Avon bounds the churchyard, and by its brink is a terraced walk, beneath a row of fine old elms. On the one hand, through the green screens of summer foliage, or through the chequered lattice-work of winter boughs, we see the grey stones of the church—here the tracery of a window, there a weather-beaten pinnacle—then, through some wider gap, the spire itself. On the other hand, beneath the terrace wall, the Avon slowly and silently glides along by bridge and town, by water-meadows, bright with celandine in spring and thick with lush grass in June.”[5]