Tremeirchion is only a hamlet overlooking the Vale of Clwyd, inhabited by tradesmen, farm-employees, and navvies, and their families; but my impression is that though the Vale contains a large number of landed proprietors, few of them are prouder than the occupants of the hamlet. Sarah Ellis, who rented a cottage from my aunt at the grand rate of 30 shillings a year, carried herself more majestically than any royal person I have since seen, and seemed to be always impressing her dignity on one. There was Mr. Jones, of Hurblas, Jones, of Tynewydd, Jones, of Craig Fawr, Hugh, the blacksmith, Sam Ellis, the navvy--they are revived in my mind now, and I fail to see what cause they had of being so inordinately haughty as I remember them to have been. Then there was my aunt--she was proud, David was proud--they were all exceedingly proud in Tremeirchion. I am reminded how they despised all foreigners, hated the Sassenach, and disparaged their neighbours, and how each thought his, or her, state, manners, or family to be superior to any other. Yet, if their condition was not humble, where shall we look for humbleness? But I am doubtless wrong in calling this opinionative habit ‘pride’; perhaps ‘prejudice’ would describe it, the prejudice born of ignorance, and fostered in a small, untravelled community, which knew nothing of the broad, sunny lands beyond the fog-damp Vale. The North-Welsh are a compound of opposites,--exclusive as Spaniards, vindictive as Corsicans, conservative as Osmanlis; sensible in business, but not enterprising; quarrelsome, but law-abiding; devout, but litigious; industrious and thrifty, but not rich; loyal, but discontented. Our tavern-kitchen on a Saturday night was a good school for the study of the North-Welsh yeoman and peasant, for then it used to be full of big-boned men, dressed in velveteen coats and knee-breeches, who drank like troopers, and stormed like madmen. The farmer, butcher, tailor, shoemaker, navvy, game-keeper, and a ‘gent’ or two held high carnival during the last hours of the working week; and David and rosy-cheeked Jane and myself had to trot briskly in the service of supplying these mighty topers with foaming ale. The first quart made them sociable, the second made them noisily merry. Tom Davies, the long-limbed tailor, would then be called for a song, and, after a deal of persuasion, he would condescend, in spite of his hoarseness, to give us ‘Rule Britannia,’ or the ‘March of the Men of Harlech,’ the chorus of which would be of such stupendous volume that the bacon flitches above swung to the measure. If, while under the influence of the ale and the patriotic song, the French had happened to invade the Vale of Clwyd, I do believe that if the topers could have got within arm’s length of them the French would have had a bad time of it.