een the man of
Llydaw."

"Whom do you call a man of Llydaw?" said I.

"Whom but yourself?" said he of the hat.

"I am not a man of Llydaw," said I in English, "but Norfolk, where the
people eat the best dumplings in the world, and speak the purest English.
Now a thousand thanks for your civility. I would have some more chat
with you, but night is coming on, and I am bound to Holyhead."

Then leaving the men staring after me, I bent my steps towards Holyhead.

I passed by a place called Llan something, standing lonely on its hill.
The country round looked sad and desolate. It is true night had come on
when I saw it.

On I hurried. The voices of children sounded sweetly at a distance
across the wild champaign on my left.

It grew darker and darker. On I hurried along the road; at last I came
to lone, lordly groves. On my right was an open gate and a lodge. I
went up to the lodge. The door was open, and in a little room I beheld a
nice-looking old lady sitting by a table, on which stood a lighted
candle, with her eyes fixed on a large book.

"Excuse me," said I; "but who owns this property?"

The old lady looked up from her book, which appeared to be a Bible,
without the slightest surprise, though I certainly came upon her
unawares, and answered:

"Mr John Wynn."

I shortly passed through a large village, or rather town, the name of
which I did not learn. I then went on for a mile or two, and saw a red
light at some distance. The road led nearly up to it, and then diverged
towards the north. Leaving the road I made towards the light by a lane,
and soon came to a railroad station.

"You won't have long to wait, sir," said a man, "the train to Holyhead
will be here presently."

"How far is it to Holyhead?" said I.

"Two miles, sir, and the fare is only sixpence."

"I despise railroads," said I, "and those who travel by them," and
without waiting for an answer returned to the road. Presently I heard
the train--it stopped for a minute at the station, and then continuing
its course passed me on my left hand, voiding fierce sparks, and making a
terrible noise--the road was a melancholy one; my footsteps sounded
hollow upon it. I seemed to be its only traveller--a wall extended for a
long, long way on my left. At length I came to a turnpike. I felt
desolate and wished to speak to somebody. I tapped at the window, at
which there was a light; a woman opened it. "How far to Holyhead?" said
I in En