in this neighbourhood. About three miles from here, in the
north-west part of the valley, is an old edifice. It is now a
farm-house, but was once a splendid abbey, and was called--"

"The abbey of the vale of the cross," said I, "I have read a deal about
it. Iolo Goch, the bard of your celebrated hero, Owen Glendower, was
buried somewhere in its precincts."

We went on: my companion took me over a stile behind the house which he
had pointed out, and along a path through hazel coppices. After a little
time I inquired whether there were any Papists in Llangollen.

"No," said he, "there is not one of that family at Llangollen, but I
believe there are some in Flintshire, at a place called Holywell, where
there is a pool or fountain, the waters of which it is said they
worship."

"And so they do," said I, "true to the old Indian superstition, of which
their religion is nothing but a modification. The Indians and sepoys
worship stocks and stones, and the river Ganges, and our Papists worship
stocks and stones, holy wells and fountains."

He put some questions to me about the origin of nuns and friars. I told
him they originated in India, and made him laugh heartily by showing him
the original identity of nuns and nautch-girls, begging priests and
begging Brahmins. We passed by a small house with an enormous yew-tree
before it; I asked him who lived there.

"No one," he replied, "it is to let. It was originally a cottage, but
the proprietors have furbished it up a little, and call it Yew-tree
Villa."

"I suppose they would let it cheap," said I.

"By no means," he replied, "they ask eighty pounds a year for it."

"What could have induced them to set such a rent upon it?" I demanded.

"The yew-tree, sir, which is said to be the largest in Wales. They hope
that some of the grand gentry will take the house for the romance of the
yew-tree, but somehow or other nobody has taken it, though it has been to
let for three seasons."

We soon came to a road leading east and west.

"This way," said he, pointing in the direction of the west, "leads back
to Llangollen, the other to Offa's Dyke and England."

We turned to the west. He inquired if I had ever heard before of Offa's
Dyke.

"Oh yes," said I, "it was built by an old Saxon king called Offa, against
the incursions of the Welsh."

"There was a time," said my companion, "when it was customary for the
English to cut off the ears of every Welshman who was fou