What a scene of bustle and confusion a metropolitan railway station presents a few minutes before the starting of a train, and more especially in holiday time. Men, women, and children, in every direction, hurriedly traversing the crowded platform; luggage barrows, with porters, rushing to and fro; newspaper venders bawling “Times! Chronicle! Punch!” Cabs galloping into the yard with anxious passengers; others, after having deposited their living burthens, slowly quitting it; the crowd of persons pressing forward for their tickets, jamming and jostling each other, as if the existence of each individual depended upon his or her obtaining that necessary passport. At length all are supplied and seated in their various carriages. Phiz! goes the steam, and the train slowly and majestically quits the station, gathering fresh speed in its progress, until the travellers find themselves whirled along at the rate of thirty or forty miles an hour; station after station appear and disappear like the lightning flash of a summer’s cloud—
“A moment bright, then lost for ever,”
and in the short space of a few hours the journey to Shrewsbury is accomplished.
BATTLEFIELD.
Within two miles of Shrewsbury, and nearly the same distance from the railway, upon the right of the line, the traveller will behold Battlefield Church, built by Henry the Fourth to commemorate the celebrated Battle of Shrewsbury, which, like that of Bosworth, has been immortalised by the magic pen of Shakspere. Who cannot call to remembrance the gallant and fiery Hotspur, or the future Hero of Agincourt?—“Young Harry with his beaver on,”—and last, not least, fat Jack Falstaff, his humourous catechism upon “Honour;” with whom discretion was the better part of valour, notwithstanding his “long hour’s fight by Shrewsbury clock?” Here, covered with wounds, the ambitious Hotspur fell, and his dead body, which had been buried on the field, was unearthed, and barbarously bruised between two millstones, and afterwards beheaded and quartered.
SHREWSBURY.
The old town of Shrewsbury contains many objects of considerable interest and historical association, which will afford to the antiquary or the curious abundant gratification for the few hours he may devote to them. Those to which the traveller should in particular direct his attention are the Castle, the Abbey, and St. Giles’s Church; the two former were built by the first Norman Earl of Shrewsbury, Roger de Montgomery.
The town is beautifully situated on the Severn, on a peninsula made by the bend of the river; and, standing upon gentle eminences, it presents a bold and commanding appearance. Upon the west side of the town, stretching along upon the banks of the river, and over-arched with magnificent lime trees, is a most delightful promenade—called the Quarry.
Having stayed the night in Shrewsbury, the following morning I once more placed myself in a railway carriage for a short ride upon the line to Chirk, at which place I had made up my mind to commence my pedestrian tour. I think it necessary, however, to impress upon the minds of tourists that the Llangollen Road Station (which is a mile beyond Chirk) is unquestionably the key upon this side of the country to the very heart of the finest scenery in Wales, and that from thence he can obtain public conveyances which run daily to Capel Curig, Snowdon, Bala, Barmouth, Dolgelley, and a hundred other enchanting places in the Principality.
Arriving at Chirk Station, I, like the Honourable Dick Dowlas, with my wardrobe on my back, and a light heart, proceeded on the road to the village. Bees hummed, birds sang, and blossoms sent forth their fragrance, to delight the traveller as he gaily trudged “the footpath way.” Cheerfulness was above, beneath, and around me, and in my heart. I had not taken many paces when I was accosted by an elderly person, in a straw hat, fustian shooting coat, knee breeches, gaiters, and shoes, he had a stout cudgel in his hand, and knapsack more capacious than mine strapped over his shoulders. He appeared to be about fifty-five years of age, and being furnished like myself, it struck me that a passing traveller might naturally take us for father and son.