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“A moment bright, then lost for ever,”

and in the short space of a few hours the journey to Shrewsbury is accomplished.

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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.

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