A FORTNIGHT IN NORTH WALES.

I SHALL never forget the night view, the only one I had, of our Shaksperian Shrewsbury. The lounge upon the English bridge, beneath which the shallowy Severn braided a flashing silver network, as it nimbly worked between the rush tufts and the rounded stones; the quarry-walk, with its splendid feathery lime-trees, casting such deep mysterious shadows; and the long galleys of the Shrewsbury boys resting so silently on the deep, smooth river, kissed ever and anon with Cynthia's sparkling kisses, as the eddies whirled from off their lightsome keels; each precious touch of light, every broad shadow of that night's quiet harvest moon has sunk with a softened grace into my memory.

The quaint old town, too, as I wandered through it, steeped in the warm mist of autumn, and cast into charming light and shade by the silent sailing orb above, reminded me of some past period in history. Not a change seems to have been made since Prince Hal marched up Wyle-cop on his way to cut the comb of furious Hotspur, and to lay low the hopes of "damned Glendower" on the bloody "Battle Field."

The old wooden houses, curiously picked out with black and white, making them look, as a lady fancifully observed,

as though they had been built of mourning cards,-Ireland's mansion, with its curiously carved gables, and the antique market-house, sleeping upon its shadow in the open place, made pictures at every turn.

Why do you linger so on the English border? says the reader, and not plunge at once into the mountain country? Indeed, I scarcely know myself, except it be that here is the last outwork of merry old England,-the last spot west with which Englishmen have old associations, or where the historical "cakes and ale" flourished. Every step across the Welsh bridge leads us gradually into a new country, among a different people, having a different language. We meet with no more inns, and we shut Shakespere's book. 'Tis true the mountains, woods, and streams await us, but the jolly face of the Englishman is seen no more, and the whole spirit of the people is about to change!

The railway from Shrewsbury to Llangollen Road Station is flat and unpicturesque enough, and the famous "Battle Field" is improved off the face of the earth by turnip and wheat fields, which, from their luxuriant appearance, would seem to imply that the old bone of contention has proved excellent manure.

Grind, grind, grind, go the breaks, and "Llangollen Road!" "Llangollen Road!" sounds faintly at first, and then more distinctly, as the guard walks from the further end of the platform, and unlocks each carriage door consecutively. And so, good reader, you find yourself all of a sudden upon the threshold of one of the sweetest valleys in the world.

By the time my travelling wallet fits well into the hollow of my back, I find myself on the great Holyhead road,

still kept smooth as a bowling-green. Beneath me, on the right, fringed by ash and nut trees, the Dee, with a thousand sinuous turns, rushes over its rock-strewn bed; and against the blue misty gorge which hollows upwards from it, stretch the graceful arches of the Elsmere aqueduct and the railway viaduct. As I gaze, a long straight line of steam is dashed instantaneously across the latter, rests there for a moment, and then melts away; whilst on the former a small sail scarce moves along the air-suspended parapet. In the distance, peak after peak, purple as heathbells, stand against the sky, and towards their bases mingle in a thousand colours, that would drive the artist wild with delight. In front, forming a fine strong foreground, are rudely-built gigantic lime-kilns, throwing out wreaths of blue-white smoke, which drive to an interminable distance the air-built purple hills.

Hackneyed as this valley is, there is no mistake about its surpassing beauty, and being the true one by which to enter North Wales. It is the soft and beautiful gate to the deep and wooded valleys of Merioneth, which lead on so gracefully to the bare chaotic landscapes, the grassless hills, and the granite peaks of Carnarvonshire.

The only pleasant spot in the village of Llangollen is the fine old bridge which spans with many arches the wide rocky torrent of the Dee. Here the artist might stop for hours, noting the ever-changeful waters hurrying round the huge boulders, or smoothly shooting over the cold grey slate-beds.

The Cistercians, who must have been great artist monks, nestled for a long time in a charming little abbey, called Abbey Crucis, a short distance from the bridge. The

ruins of this building have been cleared out by Lord Dungannon, and the axe has laid low the fine old ashtrees that used to flourish in the ruined nave.

There is what is called a fine view from the mountain, Dinas Bran, of the Vale of Llangollen-that is, you have a birds-eye prospect of the landscape. All mountain views, however, in confined localities, are false; they alter entirely the natural relative position of objects, and make a complete hodge-podge of the chiaro-scuro. Trees, for instance, seen from above, are mere bushes of green, without outline or expression; and all the charms of light and shade, as seen in a sunny wood, are entirely lost. Ideas of height, again, are confounded by excessive foreshortening, and nothing looks, in short, what it is. Mountain views are only truly fine where the features of the country are very large, and where objects are so distant that their natural relations to each other are not appreciably altered.

There is a most charming view from the shattered old wire suspension-bridge across the Dee, as the pedestrian returns to the Holyhead Road. This spot, in the season, must be the delight of anglers, the stream breaking in a thousand directions over a stone-strewn bed. "How like Creswick it is!" came continually to my lips, as I gazed; and, indeed, the purplish grey of the rocks, and the myriad tones of the submerged pebbles, which look almost apocryphal on his canvasses in the Academy, have everywhere their originals in this land of mountain streams.

The Holywell Road, from this point to Corwen, runs beside the Berwen range of precipitous hills, leaving the

valley of the Dee still to the right and far beneath you. There is a sameness in this portion of the road, which the pedestrian might avoid by coaching it. Corwen itself is the very picture of ugliness.

I was glad enough to escape the dead level of the Holyhead road: so taking my way through the charming Vale of Edeirnion, pushed on to Bala, a good twelve-mile morning's walk, through the richly-wooded valley scenery which seems peculiar to Merioneth. The day was sweltering hot, and for eight miles no "David Jones" was to be found who retailed cwrw da.

Dusty, thirsty, and footsore, after toiling up hill-sides, and picking my way down torrent-tracks, how like balm to the spirits was the first view of Bala Lake! For five miles towards the south-west the water lay like a mirror, and reflecting as faithfully the trees on its margin and the hill-sides shelving into it, whilst far out in the distance the gigantic Arran Mountain ran its sharp peak 3,000 feet into the sky.

But was it mountain, or some towering mist, tinted like the pearl-shell, that seemed to float against the distant air? I sat down upon the shore, and thought how beautiful was this world of ours. I bethought me of sweet Coniston Water, so like the scene before me. I got up and walked, and, musing as I walked, thought of some one I had left behind me. How, in the beautiful places of the earth, pleasant memories, like good angels, flock to us

unawares!

Thus musing and moralizing, I wandered on until I found myself suddenly brought up at the door of the "Blue Lion," in Bala Town.