rant of mankind, pointing to
a body, or a class, or a government, as the sole cause of whatever they
suffer or dislike, and then--_tell_ them to be moral! peaceable! not to
use those tens of thousands of brawny arms, inured to the sledge-hammer;
oh, no! tell them that _force_ means to stand still--or disperse--or
gabble--any thing but to--_fight!_ And such vile "juggling with us in a
double sense" as this, is evangelical morality!

In justice to the Liberal party, I shall add that it does not sanction
the ravings of this hypocrite, but laughs at his illiterate pretensions
to the character of a public writer. As evidence of this, the editor of
the _Welshman_, a Liberal journal, published at Carmarthen, has ably
castigated this sedition-monger, who has exposed his own ignorance in
venting his wrath at the infliction.

* * * * *

Pontardulais. Monday Evening.

It was pleasant to emerge from that dingy seat of fanaticism and fury,
pseudo religion and moral violation of religion's broad principles. Its
aspect almost recalled the description of one of Rome's imperial
monsters, equally in physionomy and nature--"a mixture of dirt and
blood." The day was superb, and the adjacent country, though rather tame
_for Wales_, improved in rural beauty as we approached a crossway very
near to this village, Pontardulais. Two cottages appeared in a green,
quiet, dingle we were descending to, watered by a small river, and
surrounded by sloping meadows, now yellowed by the evening sun, and well
inhabited by their proper population, sheep and cows, now beginning
their homeward course at the call of the milkmaid; the only other motion
in this simply beautiful landscape, being a scattered gleaner or two,
with her load, and the rather thick volume of blue smoke curling up from
one of those cots, which, standing so close, without any other near,
prompted the idea of some rustic old couple in conjugal quietude,
smiling out life's evening, by themselves, apart from all the world.
Such was the perfect calm of scene, and the day in which summer heat was
joined to the golden serenity of autumn.

We were beginning to dismiss ugly Rebeccaism from our thoughts,
meditating where we should find one of those Isaac Waltonian hostelries,
with a sign swinging from an old tree, which we delight to make our
evening quarters; for Pontardulais, we knew, was too lately a little
battle-field to afford hope of this tranquil bliss,