The first thing I did on my arrival was to go to the bookshop and purchase the Welsh methodistic book. It cost me seven shillings, and was a thick, bulky octavo, with a cut-and-come-again expression about it, which was anything but disagreeable to me, for I hate your flimsy publications. The evening was now beginning to set in, and feeling somewhat hungry, I hurried off to the Wynstay Arms, through streets crowded with market people. On arriving at the inn, I entered the grand room and ordered dinner. The waiters, observing me splashed with mud from head to foot, looked at me dubiously; seeing, however, the respectable-looking volume which I bore in my hand—none of your railroad stuff—they became more assured, and I presently heard one say to the other, “It’s all right—that’s Mr. So-and-so, the great Baptist preacher. He has been preaching amongst the hills—don’t you see his Bible?” Seating myself at a table, I inspected the volume. And here, perhaps, the reader expects that I shall regale him with an analysis of the methodistical volume at least as long as that of the life of Tom O’ the Dingle. In that case, however, he will be disappointed; all that I shall at present say of it is, that it contained a history of Methodism in Wales, with the lives of the principal Welsh Methodists. That it was fraught with curious and original matter, was written in a straightforward, methodical style, and that I have no doubt it will some day or other be extensively known and highly prized. After dinner I called for half a pint of wine. Whilst I was trifling over it, a commercial traveller entered into conversation with me. After some time he asked me if I was going further that night. “To Llangollen,” said I. “By the ten o’clock train?” said he. “No,” I replied, “I am going on foot.” “On foot!” said he; “I would not go on foot there this night for fifty pounds.” “Why not?” said I. “For fear of being knocked down by the colliers, who will be all out and drunk.” “If not more than two attack me,” said I, “I shan’t much mind. With this book I am sure I can knock down one, and I think I can find play for the other with my fists.” The commercial traveller looked at me. “A strange kind of Baptist minister,” I thought I heard him say. CHAPTER LXII Rhiwabon Road—The Public-house Keeper—No Welsh—The Wrong Road—The Good Wife. I paid my reckoning and started. The night was now rapidly closing in. I passed the toll-gate, and hurried along the Rhiwabon road, overtaking companies of Welsh going home, amongst whom were many individuals, whom, from their thick and confused speech, as well as from their staggering gait, I judged to be intoxicated. As I passed a red public-house on my right hand, at the door of which stood several carts, a scream of Welsh issued from it. “Let any Saxon,” said I, “who is fond of fighting, and wishes for a bloody nose, go in there.”