memorial of a meeting known as "Cenadon
Hedd." The study of these likenesses is one
of growing interest for me every morning, for a
more dreadful selection of human types cannot
be conceived. Whether " Cenadon Hedd" be
a meeting, or an association, or an anthropological
museum, or a gallery of " cuts" from the
faces of malefactors of various shades of guilt, I
can only admire the abnegation of those good
men who, by this exhibition, were careless of
exposing themselves to such misconstruction.

There are magnates in the district, with
houses and castles of average merit, but which,
in the dearth of excitement, become objects
of extraordinary interest to visitors. The
magnates are regarded by the population with a
reverence and servility that is almost abject.
Even the housekeeper of the arch magnate, who
reigns in a small way when her principals are
up in town for the season, enjoys a share of
this awful respect. The arch magnate, the
well-known Colonel Slater, has built himself a
sham baronial castle (architect, "middle-aged"
Jenkinson, whose skill in mediæval theatricals is
well known), with solid towers and gloomy
archways, and slits of windows, and which is as
depressing and dark internally as the heartiest
mediævalist would desire. We tourists can be
admitted on certain days, when " the castle is
shown," on payment of " three and sixpence,"
to Colonel Slater's housekeeper. On these
occasions, the tourists are marshalled in flocks,
and awed into a silent appreciation of the favour
conferred on them, by the Prim and Grim
housekeeper, who keeps her hands folded on her
waist like a lady abbess, and utters a " please"
to every sentence, like the snap of a courier-bag.
The Prim and Grim leads the timid and cowering
flock, marching in front like a bell-wether.
"The principal s'loon, on right; grandfather
of the present Colonel Slater; over the
fireplace, Lady Whilemina Slater, by Renn'ls."

Herds of tourists stare these famous worthies
out of countenance. Stray tourists from the
manufacturing towns take up a butterfly
penwiper with much interest, trying to discover the
action, but are promptly called to order by the
Prim and Grim, who reproves them sternly,
"Please not to touch the family things." Then
the herd is driven on down dark galleries, like
cellars, stumbling and brushing against the walls,
and being told that they are in "the western
corridor," until they drift, one by one, with
mouths open, and eyes on the ceiling, into the
"grand dining-room," where there is the large
sensational picture over the fireplace: " Mr.
Jackson Slater, M.P., brother of the present
Colonel Slater, cutting the first" (some tourists
from the manufacturing towns think she is going
to add, " first tooth," and have a " well a deary
me!" quite ready)—"the first sod of the Pulla
Wiska Railway." A splendid historical scene,
crowded with figures. Here curiosity is greatly
stimulated by something like cold meat and a
cruet-stand on a sideboard, and the tourists would
like much to go over and " feel" the cruets, but
the eye of the Prim and Grim is on them, and
they are driven on to what they take for the
vaults, but which turns out to be the chapel.
Here the tourist eagerness to touch, can no
longer be restrained, and many fling themselves
on various volumes, until the Prim and Grim,
immeasurably shocked and disgusted, calls out,
"Please not to touch the family prayer-books."

Our natives are a very primitive and simple
race. Their only failing is ale and sweetmeats.
There seems to be but one policeman: a stout
person, who goes about, in a paternal way, with
a walking-stick and a brass plate on his belt, as
if he were a house door. He does a great deal
of work with this walking-stick, leaning on it
abstractedly; but he mostly seems to be going
on business errands, which perhaps he is. No
doubt he sighs for real business, and is driven
to madness as he reads in his newspaper of the
captures of burglars, shoplifters, and murderers,
which other more favoured towns enjoy.
Sometimes he comes on a herd of little boys, who have
the same curious vendetta here with the guardian
of the peace as they have at other places, whom
he invariably routs with the curious cabalistic
word "Poola! Poola!" or with something that
sounds like it. Wicked stone-throwers, makers
of mud-pies, marble-players, and other abandoned
children, quail before this mysterious symbol,
"Poola, Poola!" and fly in disorder. A strange
language, almost hopeless to think of mastering.
As a specimen, a place called Trynan is to be
sold, and Jones or Griffith, as auctioneer,
invites attention to the following lots, quite
appalling in their syllables and pronunciation:

LOT 1. Cae-tros-y-lon Pella.

LOT 2. The House and Land of Bewdy Newydd.

DITTO. Caer-olu Nesa, lae-coed Llann-yr-oden, and
part of Ddolhir.

LOT 5. Drylly-Clawdd.

LOT 7. Dafarndywyrch.

These dreadful words would damp the
enthusiasm of the most ardent philologist. So,
having had some faint idea of " picking up a
little Welsh," with as little trouble as one
might pick up a fern or a pebble, I see the folly
of such a hope, and dismiss it for ever.

The natives, it is to be noticed, always speak
with a foreign accent, which, in the women's
mouths, is pretty. Of the mouths themselves,
so much cannot be said, nor of Welsh eyes or
noses. Why do they always persistently
answer your questions with a " No, sir, sure,"
and a " Yes, sir, sure"? Yet they can be witty
too, as when I hear the " gigman," driving over
the suspension-bridge, angrily bid the herdsman
take his cows out of the way: "After all,
they ain't so easy to drive as a 'orse, sir," was
his good-humoured expostulation. The donkeys
here seem to have luxurious lives—as many are
to be met with well groomed and even frisky,
trotting along, carrying milk-cans deftly fitted
to their bodies. One of them, I observe, knows
the houses on his beat perfectly, and, with
unusual sagacity, pulls up at his own proper gates
and doors. Our bread comes to us in something
like a perambulator, under charge of a baker
about ten years old.