On the third of October—I think that was the date—as my family and myself, attended by trusty John Jones, were returning on foot from visiting a park not far from Rhiwabon, we heard, when about a mile from Llangollen, a sudden ringing of the bells of the place, and a loud shouting. Presently we observed a postman hurrying in a cart from the direction of the town. “Peth yw y matter?” said John Jones. “Y matter, y matter!” said the postman, in a tone of exultation. “Sebastopol wedi cymmeryd Hurrah!” “What does he say?” said my wife anxiously to me. “Why, that Sebastopol is taken,” said I. “Then you have been mistaken,” said my wife, smiling, “for you always said that the place would either not be taken at all, or would cost the allies to take it a deal of time, and an immense quantity of blood and treasure, and here it is taken at once, for the allies only landed the other day. Well, thank God, you have been mistaken!” “Thank God, indeed,” said I, “always supposing that I have been mistaken—but I hardly think, from what I have known of the Russians, that they would let their town—however, let us hope that they have let it be taken, Hurrah!” We reached our dwelling. My wife and daughter went in. John Jones betook himself to his cottage, and I went into the town, in which there was a great excitement; a wild running troop of boys was shouting “Sebastopol wedi cymmeryd Hurrah! Hurrah!” Old Mr. Jones was standing bareheaded at his door. “Ah,” said the old gentleman, “I am glad to see you. Let us congratulate each other,” he added, shaking me by the hand. “Sebastopol taken, and in so short a time. How fortunate!” “Fortunate indeed,” said I, returning his hearty shake; “I only hope it may be true.” “O, there can be no doubt of its being true,” said the old gentleman. “The accounts are most positive. Come in, and I will tell you all the circumstances.” I followed him into his little back parlour, where we both sat down.