“Shrowsbury,” as already noted, is the correct pronunciation of the name of Shropshire’s capital; a mode that still follows the structure of the Saxon place-name, “Scrobbesbyrig.” But it is not reasonable to suppose that the outlander who has never been to Shrewsbury should know all the rights and wrongs of the case, and though it may grate upon the Salopian to hear strangers talk of “Shroosbury,” he can have no possible remedy until he procures a reform in the spelling of the word. Meanwhile, the outlander aforesaid is often severely entreated for his solecism. Sometimes, too, he deserves all he gets, as for example when, somewhere about 1894, the author of “Pictures in Parliament” taunted a Shropshire member with using a “Salopian pronunciation which for some time hid from the ordinary member a knowledge that he was alluding to Shrewsbury.” It did not hide the identity, and moreover, no Salopian ever did or could use any other pronunciation. Now, if that member had said “Salop” there would have been more room for criticism, although by that name Shrewsbury is just as often known in Shropshire. It may be presumed that every one knows the county to be often so-called, but it is a novelty for strangers in these gates to hear the word applied to the town. To this day the railway booking-clerks for at least twenty miles round Shrewsbury are commonly asked for tickets to “Salop,” and the very milestones adopt the same name. The Earls of Shrewsbury, on the other hand, are (it may not be generally known) miscalled by that title, and are really Earls of Salop. Not, let it be noted, of the town of Salop, but of the county; as seen in the original patent of nobility granted to the ancestral Talbot in 1442. But, although there is not the shadow of a warrant for their adoption of the “Shrewsbury” title, they appear never to have used any other, and in literature, from Shakespeare downwards, the same custom has always been observed. But why? Is it possible that the ill meaning of the French word “Salop” has forbidden the use?

The town presents a hold front from this side of the river, crossed in these peaceful times without let or hindrance by the English Bridge, a beautiful seven-arched stone structure built in 1774. It looks not a little foreign when viewed from the river-banks, with the osier-grown islands in mid-stream; houses and church spires clustered beyond, and the Castle turrets closing the view on the right; while the approach over the bridge discloses a street so steep that it fills the untravelled Londoner with as much astonishment as it did the lawyer come to Shrewsbury for the first time by the “Wonder” coach. “I think I’ll get off,” he said nervously, touching Hayward on the arm.

“You be d——d!” shortly replied that past master of the whip and ribbons, as, springing his team up the hill, he brought the coach round in a circular course, and, shooting his wheelers and pointing his leaders, made with the certainty of an arrow through the archway, and into the stony courtyard of the “Lion.”

The hill leading in this astonishing fashion into Shrewsbury is Wyle Cop, the main thoroughfare in old days. Its name, meaning “Hilltop,” is sufficiently descriptive. The “Lion” still stands on the summit, on the left hand, its coach-entrance yawning as of old; the streets, as narrow as ever, giving point to Sam Hayward’s clever feat of coachmanship.

“Pleasant and chatty,” says one who frequented the Holyhead Road in those days, “was Ash, the guard of the ‘Wonder’ coach, but the coachman, one of two brothers, Hayward^[1] by name, could by no means be so called. The other brother drove the Holyhead Mail. The coachman of the ‘Wonder’ was grimly silent. ‘I will wager,’ said one of this taciturn Jehu’s passengers to another, ‘that you don’t get a word out of him from the “Hen and Chickens” at Birmingham to the “Lion” at Shrewsbury, barring a pure answer to a question.’” The bet was won, for Hayward kept silence all the way.

But he was no misanthrope. A naturally cheerful nature was overlaid by an undue sense of responsibility to the proprietors of the “Wonder,” whose law was “ten miles an hour, including stoppages; or put the paint-brush over the name of the ‘Wonder’ on the dickey.” Had his road not been one of the best in the world—true almost to the spirit-level, and constructed of hard dhu-stone—he could not have kept that excellent time, day by day, and from year to year. As it was, the doing of it absorbed the man’s very existence. He might hum an air to himself, but talk he would not.

“What the deuce ails you, Hayward?” asked one of his box passengers, “are you dumb, man?”

Then the Sphinx broke silence: “Can’t drive and talk, too,” he said; and, closing his mouth like a steel trap, spoke no more.

That he was not only a master of the ribbons, but also of a peculiar feat in driving, has already been hinted. This exploit, only once known to be attempted by any other,^[2] was repeated every time he brought the “Wonder” into Shrewsbury, and never failed to draw an appreciative knot of spectators, or to transfix with horror any strangers who might chance to be among the outside passengers. There was always some difficulty in driving up the steep and narrow Cop and into the “Lion” yard, standing on the near side. Other coachmen quartered slowly up, and then, having first drawn to their off side, turned carefully across and slowly piloted their teams through the narrow entrance of the “Lion.” Hayward’s method was radically different. Galloping up the hill and almost scraping the near-side kerb, he would pass the inn, and then, suddenly thonging his leaders, smartly turn them round in their own length opposite the street called “Dogpole.” Then, calling to the “outsides” to “mind their heads,” he would drive the coach at a trot into the yard, with an inch to spare.

When the “Wonder” was driven off the London road, and became only a two-horse coach, running between Shrewsbury and Birmingham, Hayward drove the “Greyhound” between Shrewsbury and Aberystwith. Then, following the example of Tony Weller, he “took a widow and a pub.” This house, the “Raven and Bell,” next door to the “Lion,” was long since pulled down. He died November 1st, 1851, but his widow was still in business in 1856. Hayward lies near the scene of his daily exploit, in the churchyard of St. Julian’s, under the shadow of the square tower seen in the accompanying view of Wyle Cop. The flowers bloom fresh at the head of his grave.