of Shrewsbury carries with it associations of imposing importance;—seated
upon a hill rising from a noble ambient river, it was thus doubly
fortified by nature; while art, with no unsparing hand, had raised an
almost impregnable rampart of stone, flanked by many towers and gates.
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The imagination will thus readily picture CAER PENGWERN: the woody
eminence, with its curiously wrought buildings and domestic mansions
ranged in irregular groups, surmounted by lofty spires and embattled
turrets, irradiated by the effulgence of the meridian sun, or catching
the last smiles of his departing ray,—a commanding castle on the narrow
isthmus, with its stately towers and formidable walls, frowning in august
pride high above the surrounding plain,—solitary convents, crested with
pinnacles and gables, in the verdant meadows on the margin of the rolling
stream, over which strongly fortified bridges with massive portcullis and
towers, afforded a defence from hostile invaders.
This faint retrospect must kindle in the mind considerations of the
progress and fluctuations of science and taste,—the character, condition,
and habits of men in these times,—with the works done “in their days and
in the old time before them;”—while the contemplation thereof cannot fail
of exciting gratitude to the SUPREME GIVER, for the security we _now_
enjoy, without the precaution of barbican and battlements.