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 English. “Dim Saesneg,” said the woman. I repeated my question in Welsh. “Two miles,” said she. “Still two miles to Holyhead by the road,” thought I. “Nos da,” said I to the woman, and sped along. At length I saw water on my right, seemingly a kind of bay, and presently a melancholy ship. I doubled my pace, which was before tolerably quick, and soon saw a noble-looking edifice on my left, brilliantly lighted up. “What a capital inn that would make,” said I, looking at it wistfully, as I passed it. Presently I found myself in the midst of a poor, dull, ill-lighted town. “Where is the inn?” said I to a man. “The inn, sir? you have passed it. The inn is yonder,” he continued, pointing towards the noble-looking edifice. “What, is that the inn?” said I. “Yes, sir, the railroad hotel—and a first-rate hotel it is.” “And are there no other inns?” “Yes; but they are all poor places. No gent puts up at them—all the gents by the railroad put up at the railroad hotel.” What was I to do? after turning up my nose at the railroad, was I to put up at its hotel? Surely to do so would be hardly acting with consistency. “Ought I not rather to go to some public-house, frequented by captains of fishing-smacks, and be put in a bed a foot too short for me,” said I, as I reflected on my last night’s couch at Mr. Pritchard’s. “No, that won’t do—I shall go to the hotel; I have money in my pocket, and a person with money in his pocket has surely a right to be inconsistent if he pleases.”