pretty fellow, you, with a long coat on your back, and no English on your tongue; an’t you ashamed of yourself? Why, here am I in a short coat, yet I’d have you to know that I can speak English as well as Welsh, aye, and a good deal better.” “All people are not equally clebber,” said I, still speaking Welsh. “Clebber,” said he, “clebber! what is clebber? why can’t you say clever? Why, I never saw such a low, illiterate fellow in my life;” and with these words he turned away, with every mark of disdain, and entered a cottage near at hand. “Here I have had,” said I to myself, as I proceeded on my way, “to pay for the over-praise which I lately received. The farmer on the other side of the mountain called me a person of great intelligence, which I never pretended to be, and now this collier calls me a low, illiterate fellow, which I really don’t think I am. There is certainly a Nemesis mixed up with the affairs of this world; every good thing which you get, beyond what is strictly your due, is sure to be required from you with a vengeance. A little over-praise by a great deal of under-rating—a gleam of good fortune by a night of misery.” I now saw Wrexham Church at about the distance of three miles, and presently entered a lane which led gently down from the hills, which were the same heights I had seen on my right hand, some months previously, on my way from Wrexham to Rhiwabon. The scenery now became very pretty—hedge-rows were on either side, a luxuriance of trees, and plenty of green fields. I reached the bottom of the lane, beyond which I saw a strange-looking house upon a slope on the right hand. It was very large, ruinous, and seemingly deserted. A little beyond it was a farm-house, connected with which was a long row of farming buildings along the roadside. Seeing a woman seated knitting at the door of a little cottage, I asked her in English the name of the old ruinous house. “Cadogan Hall, sir,” she replied. “And whom does it belong to?” said I. “I don’t know exactly,” replied the woman, “but Mr. Morris at the farm holds it, and stows his things in it.” “Can you tell me anything about it?” said I. “Nothing farther,” said the woman, “than that it is said to be haunted, and to have been a barrack many years ago.” “Can you speak Welsh?” said I. “No,” said the woman; “I are Welsh, but have no Welsh language.” Leaving the woman, I put on my best speed, and in about half-an-hour reached Wrexham.