I reached Llanarmon, another small village, situated in a valley, through which the Ceiriog, or a river very similar to it, flows. It is half-way between Llangollen and Llan Rhyadr, being ten miles from each. I went to a small inn, or public-house, sat down, and called for ale. A waggoner was seated at a large table with a newspaper before him on which he was intently staring. “What news?” said I in English. “I wish I could tell you,” said he in very broken English; “but I cannot read.” “Then why are you looking at the paper?” said I. “Because,” said he, “by looking at the letters I hope in time to make them out.” “You may look at them,” said I, “for fifty years without being able to make out one. You should go to an evening school.” “I am too old,” said he, “to do so now; if I did the children would laugh at me.” “Never mind their laughing at you,” said I, “provided you learn to read; let them laugh who win!” “You give good advice, mester,” said he; “I think I shall follow it.” “Let me look at the paper,” said I. He handed it to me. It was a Welsh paper, and full of dismal accounts from the seat of war. “What news, mester?” said the waggoner. “Nothing but bad,” said I; “the Russians are beating us and the French too.” “If the Rusiaid beat us,” said the waggoner, “it is because the Francod are with us. We should have gone alone.” “Perhaps you are right,” said I; “at any rate, we could not have fared worse than we are faring now.” I presently paid for what I had had, inquired the way to Llan Rhyadr, and departed. The village of Llanarmon takes its name from its church, which is dedicated to Garmon, an Armorican bishop, who, with another called Lupus, came over into Britain in order to preach against the heresy of Pelagius. He and his colleague resided for some time in Flintshire, and whilst there enabled, in a remarkable manner, the Britons to achieve a victory over those mysterious people the Picts, who were ravaging the country far and wide. Hearing that the enemy were advancing towards Mold, the two bishops gathered together a number of the Britons, and placed them in ambush in a dark valley, through which it was necessary for the Picts to pass in order to reach Mold, strictly enjoining them to remain quiet till all their enemies should have entered the valley, and then do whatever they should see them, the two bishops, do. The Picts arrived, and when they were about half-way through the valley, the two bishops stepped forward from a thicket, and began crying aloud, “Alleluia!” The Britons followed their example, and the wooded valley resounded with cries of “Alleluia! alleluia!” The shouts and the unexpected appearance of thousands of men caused such terror to the Picts, that they took to flight in the greatest confusion, hundreds were trampled to death by their companions, and not a few were drowned in the river Alan {371} which runs through the valley.