There is nothing in all the universe, except herself, that God did not create. She is the mother of the four female deceivers of the city of Destruction; she is the mother of Death; she is the mother of every evil and misery; and she has a fearful hold on every living man: her name is Sin. “_He who escapes from her hook_, _for ever blessed is he_,” said the angel. Thereupon he departed, and I could hear his voice saying, “_Write down what thou hast seen_, _and he who shall read it carefully_, _shall never have reason to repent_.” The above is an outline of the work of Elis Wyn—an extraordinary work it is. In it there is a singular mixture of the sublime and the coarse, of the terrible and ludicrous, of religion and levity, of the styles of Milton, of Bunyan, and of Quevedo. There is also much in it that is Welsh, and much that may be said emphatically to belong to Elis Wyn alone. The book is written in the purest Cambrian, and from the time of its publication has enjoyed extensive popularity in Wales. It is, however, said that the perusal of it has not unfrequently driven people mad, especially those of a serious and religious turn. The same thing is said in Spain of the ‘Life of Ignatius Loyola.’ Peter Williams, in ‘Lavengro,’ the Welsh preacher who was haunted with the idea that he had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost, is frequently mentioning the work of Elis Wyn. Amongst other things, he says that he took particular delight in its descriptions of the torments of hell. We have no doubt that many an Englishman, of honest Welsh Peter’s gloomy temperament, when he reads the work in its present dress will experience the same kind of fearful joy.