Yorton, with the lofty spire of Clive on the left hand, and by winding, twisting lanes we find the beautiful village of Grinshill, where at the "Elephant and Castle" we have tea, forgetting all about the church, until our time is swiftly fleeing away. In most picturesque

scenery we gradually come to the strange and striking ruins of Moreton Corbet. Here are castles and houses of four dates and ages, all in ruins together, the last and stateliest never finished, gaunt and roofless grandeur, cursed and left deserted for the pigeons, owls, and bats. Robert Corbet, who began "the most gorgeous and stately house after the Italian modell," in 1606 died of the plague. In 1644 the Puritans twice plundered it, "slewe tenne, tooke Sixe Loads of Iron," and finally burnt it.

THE LABOURER'S REST IS DEATH

103

Near by are parish church and parsonage in black and white, with well-kept lawns and rare and stately trees. The tombs of the Corbets are dazzling and resplendent in their blazonry, twenty-five quarterings of arms proudly leading up to a vile king and a bastard baby. Gorgeous effigies upheld by painted images, angels and shields galore. A careful old parson comes in to see what I am doing. He proudly shows me the perfect squint or hagioscope, the splashes of leaden bullets on the outer walls, and an inscription, dated 1577, which will well fit in to end this tedious tale:

THE HOME OF THE HEREFORDS

W

HEN in the heat of August fine weather seemed assured, we ventured farther forth,

taking a few things with us, and leaving our usual train at Ludlow, we turned southwards, or away from home, instead of northwards or towards home. As we wended slowly up the steep street of the quaint medieval town, and then gazed down that terrible hill on the other side where the ancient gatehouse blocks the way, through whose narrow portal we must carefully pass, and then go down again steeper and steeper to the narrow bridge over the rushing river far below, it seemed as if we were facing another world whose glories we could never see, work as we would, for our little lives are far too short to find a tithe of what is worth the seeing.

Few could pass over that ancient bridge at Ludford without lingering in the recesses of its three fayre" arches to see the foaming river down below, and the high-pitched woods above on one side, and, on the other, the high-pitched town, crowned with the stately tower of the church, which was founded by the Confessor when the pilgrims of Ludlow brought him the ring from St. John; and dominated by the ruined fortress-palace where for centuries kings and princes and nobles lived and fought and drank and died, and many notable things were done. Here Comus first was acted, and now that ruins and princes are all crumbling to dust, the music of the words of Comus bids fair to outlast them all. When John Egerton, Earl of Bridgewater, was ap