ings along the
road-side. Seeing a woman seated knitting at the door of a little
cottage, I asked her in English the name of the old, ruinous house?

"Cadogan Hall, sir," she replied.

"And whom does it belong to?" said I.

"I don't know exactly," replied the woman, "but Mr Morris at the farm
holds it, and stows his things in it."

"Can you tell me anything about it?" said I.

"Nothing farther," said the woman, "than that it is said to be haunted,
and to have been a barrack many years ago."

"Can you speak Welsh?" said I.

"No," said the woman, "I are Welsh but have no Welsh language."

Leaving the woman I put on my best speed and in about half an hour
reached Wrexham.

The first thing I did on my arrival was to go to the bookshop and
purchase the Welsh Methodistic book. It cost me seven shillings, and was
a thick, bulky octavo with a cut-and-come-again expression about it,
which was anything but disagreeable to me, for I hate your flimsy
publications. The evening was now beginning to set in, and feeling
somewhat hungry I hurried off to the Wynstay Arms through streets crowded
with market people. On arriving at the inn I entered the grand room and
ordered dinner. The waiters, observing me splashed with mud from head to
foot, looked at me dubiously; seeing, however, the respectable-looking
volume which I bore in my hand--none of your railroad stuff--they became
more assured, and I presently heard one say to the other, "It's all
right--that's Mr So-and-So, the great Baptist preacher. He has been
preaching amongst the hills--don't you see his Bible?"

Seating myself at a table I inspected the volume. And here perhaps the
reader expects that I shall regale him with an analysis of the
Methodistical volume at least as long as that of the life of Tom O' the
Dingle. In that case, however, he will be disappointed; all that I shall
at present say of it is, that it contained a history of Methodism in
Wales, with the lives of the principal Welsh Methodists. That it was
fraught with curious and original matter, was written in a
straightforward, Methodical style, and that I have no doubt it will some
day or other be extensively known and highly prized.

After dinner I called for half a pint of wine. Whilst I was trifling
over it, a commercial traveller entered into conversation with me. After
some time he asked me if I was going further that night.

"To Llangollen," said I.

"By the ten o'clock train?" said