As we said before, nothing particular occurred during our journey through England to excite our attention or curiosity; but on passing into Wales--Flintshire--our attention is at once arrested by the difference of the scenery through which we pass. Soon after leaving Chester, we get a sight of the river Dee on our right, and continue to run down by its side past Flint, Bagillt, Holywell, and Mostyn, then we take a bend to the left and skirt a part of the Irish Channel past Rhyl, Abergele, and Colwyn to Conway, with its extensive ruins of a once vast and noble castle, through, under, and about the ruins of which the double lines of iron rails twist and twine and sinuously encoil themselves like a boa constrictor of civilization and demolisher of wrecks, ruins, and vestiges of the feudal ages and semi-barbarism. Our iron charger dashes up to the very walls of the ancient stronghold, close past the base of a tower, and right under the hanging ruins of another, which is in truth a "baseless fabric," but no "vision," for there it is suspended in mid air, a fabric without a base, holding on to its surroundings by the cohesive power of their early attachments. We rush into the very bowels of the keep itself, snorting and puffing defiance to the memoried sternness of the grim warriors who once held the place against all intruders. Anyone who has not had an opportunity before of visiting North Wales should keep a sharp look-out right and left, and they will get a peep at most of the principal places on the route: the Welsh mountains on the left, their summits illuminated by the sun sinking towards the west, and the mass of them thrown into shadow in fine contrast.
Now we are at Penmænmawr, that pretty little watering place, with its neat-looking houses snugly nestling in the laps of the hills, and we pass along so close to the sea, we can feel the spray from the waves as they break on the shore.
Passing Llanfairfechan and Aber we are at Bangor, and almost immediately afterwards make a dive into the long, dark chamber of the Tubular Bridge, with a shriek and rumbling rattle that is almost startling. In a few seconds we are out into the daylight again, and get a view of the Straits of Menai; and on the right-hand side, looking back, get an excellent sight of the Tubular Bridge. At the moment of our passing, a ship in full sail was running before the wind through the Straits, which added considerably to the picturesque beauty of the scene. On the left a fine view of the "Suspension Bridge" is obtained. We are soon past Llanfair, and across that bleak and desolate part of the island of Anglesea between the Menai Straits and the Valley. Arriving at Holyhead, we go on board the steamer which is to carry us across the Channel to Dublin. The boat not starting immediately, but giving us a little time to look around, we go on shore again, and saunter up and down the narrow hilly streets of Holyhead, listening in vain for the sound of a word spoken in our mother tongue. Not a word could we hear, not a word of English could we get without asking for it. The most of the people can speak English with a foreign-like accent, but you seldom hear it unless you address them in English. Even the urchins in the streets carry on their games and play in the Welsh and unintelligible sounds resembling language.