called into requisition.  But at the very outset a tremendous difficulty stared me in the face.  Nine out of every ten of the people I met or passed spoke in a language that to me was as unintelligibly mysterious as the cuneiform characters on Mr. Layard’s Nineveh sculptures.  It was a hard, harsh, guttural dialect, which even those who were to the manner born seemed to jerk out painfully and spasmodically from their lingual organs.  This was especially obvious during a bargain, where an excited market-man was endeavoring to pass off a tough old gander as a tender young goose, to some equally excited customer.  It was dissonant enough to my ear, but I fancy it would have driven a sensitive Italian to distraction.  After listening to the horrible jargon for some time, I could easily believe the story which poor William Maginn used to tell with such unction, of the origin of the Welsh language.  It was to this effect.—­When the Tower of Babel was being built, the workmen all spoke one tongue.  Just at the very instant when the “confusion” occurred, a mason, trowel in hand, called for a brick.  This his assistant was so long in handing to him, that he incontinently flew into a towering passion, and discharged from the said trowel a quantity of mortar, which entered the other’s windpipe just as he was stammering out an excuse.  The air, rushing through the poultice-like mixture, caused a spluttering and gurgling, which, blending with the half-formed words, became that language ever since known as Welsh.—­I think it my duty to advise the reader never to tell this anecdote to any descendants of Cadwallader, who are peculiarly sensitive on the subject, and so hot-blooded, that it is not at all unlikely the injudicious story-teller might be deprived of any future opportunity of insulting the Ap-Shenkins, the Ap-Joneses, and the race of very irascible Taffys in general.

I had, however, little time to study either language or character; so, after a plain dinner at the Merlin’s Head, the chief inn of the place, I set out for the purpose of seeing the newspaper proprietor.  Fortified by a letter of introduction and some testimonials, I entered his shop,—­he was a bookseller and stationer,—­and inquired for Mr. F——.

“That’s my name,” said a red-faced man behind the counter.  I handed him the introductory note, he glanced at it and then at me, thrust it into his waistcoat pocket, and, as soon as he had served the customer with whom he was engaged, led the way into a little room adjoining the place of business.

Mr. F—–­ owned the newspaper; but, as he never ventured in a literary way beyond reading proofs of advertisements, he was compelled to employ an editor to do the leaders, select from the exchanges, prepare the local news, and get up the reporting.  He was, however, a practical printer, and, in the main, a good fellow.  After looking at my testimonials and asking a few questions, my services were accepted, and I was duly installed as editor of the “M——­