. . . I halted at the small hostelry, where a rampant red lion swings and creeks its invitation to man and beast. Ushered into the inn’s “best parlour”, I amused myself by observing the multifarious decorations of this state apartment. Around the walls hung various Scripture subjects, most woefully caricatured by the artist. The mantle-piece was decorated with wax and crockery-ware effigies of the same class, and the grate’s costume was truly original. Carefully pinned to a curtain hung a very knowing lace cap, with boarders of that extraordinary width and abundance seen only among the Welsh belles, and most beautifully ‘got up’ as the ladies say. On a corner table, too, lay a hat, which, by its gloss, newness, and clever shape, evidently intended to invite the cap to church the following Sunday; and the entrance of a tight, blooming, dark-eyed, and sprightly-looking Welsh girl with my intended repast, soon enabled my calculating curiosity to supply a face worthy of the becoming national costume.