walader Jones (as he was then called) was not a very likely person to become an editor. We are not aware that he had written anything besides a small pamphlet against the late Rev. John Elias, who had charged the Independents with being Semi—Pelagians. His produetion is a vigorous attack, conducted with much acuteness, and considerable warmth. Mr. Elias never replied, but reminded his hearers at a subsequent association held at Dolgelley, that he could pray for those who had written against him. Mr. Jones possessed not the fiery eloquence of Williams, the sound adamantive scholarship of Michael Jones, the completeness of John Roberts, the public spirit of Jones, Holywell, the learning and elegance of Everett, nor the tremendous, inexhaustible, everlasting perseverance of Morgan. His preaching attribute was strong common sense, and his stock—in—trade was an immense fund of patience of which the Printer's Devil often had occasion to complain bitterly in taking the proofs to his residence. Yet, of the thirteen brethren, probably none would have proved a formidable competitor for the centores' chair, if we except Everett, who was an elegant and prolific writer.
Probably not many of our readers have seen the editor of the Dysgedydd at work, and a peep at the good man in his office may not prove void of interest to them. Perhaps it may induce them to visit Dolgelly and its vicinities,—a land where the beauties of nature have been prodigally lavished, to prepare the very home of repose. Cader Idris, in its cloud capped majesty, the foaming Aran, the placid Wnion, the wilds of Clywedog, the delicious spots of Brithdir, the cradled valley from the Dysgedydd Office to the peak of Aran Fawddwy, the ruins of Cymmer Abbey, the waterfalls of Ganllwyd, and the stately windings of the Mawddach, will afford ample scope for delightful excursions. To find the editor at home and at work, the visitor must leave the town about nine in the morning in the early part of the month, when the materials for the forthcoming Dysgedydd are in course of selection. Cross the Lower Bridge (Bont Fawr) with its seven solid arches, turn to the right and proceed towards Llwyn, where the ancestors of the celebrated Dr. Owen lived. Then slowly ascend along Rhiw Careg Feirig for about a mile, and turn on the left to a narrow lane, and he will presently find himself at Cefnmaelan, a spacious farm house where the archdruid, as he is called sometimes, resides. Probably the first to give him welcome at the door will be a stout, shaggy, goodhumoured shepherd's dog, and that his semi—courteous and knowing bark will be the first voice to greet the ear. As the Meronians are not very strict observers of etiquette, the pilgrim may "walk in" through the wide open doors without further ceremony. He enters into a large kitchen where on his right hand he will find the fire place, the left side of which we warrant will be in the safe possession of Mr. Editor. A small round oak table, about seven feet in circumference, will be on his right, and on which will be found a small white cup with red letters thereon. In that a small penny or two penny phial is placed, which forms the editorial inkstand. Editor's pen is a plain unclarified quill, which has written all the etitorial articles for the last three or perhaps four years. On an this immense pile of the Patriot, Carnarvon Herald, and, we trust, the PRIN-
