to a Jew, who closed it on Saturdays, the law of the State compelling all to close their shops one day in the week.  In every street, we were struck with the glorious liberty enjoyed by the pigs.  On all hands, the swinish multitude were seen luxuriating in unrestricted freedom.  Mr. Boynton, who received us kindly, did not know of any place where we could be accommodated with private board and lodging, but promised to make inquiry that evening.  He was a man of about forty years of age, wearing on the Sabbath, and even in the pulpit (as most American ministers do), a black neckerchief, and shirt-collar turned down over it.  That night we had to go to an hotel, and were recommended to the Denison House, which we found pretty cheap and comfortable.  But the American hotels are not, in point of comfort, to be compared for a moment to those of Old England.  My wife was too tired to go out in the evening; and unwilling for my own part to close the Sabbath without going to some place of public worship, I thought I would try to find the sanctuary of “my brethren—­my kinsmen according to the flesh”—­the Welsh.  Following the directions I had received, I arrived at the top of a certain street, when I heard the sound of sacred song; but I could not tell whether it was Welsh or not, nor exactly whence it came.  As I stood listening, an overgrown boy came by, of whom I inquired, “Where does that singing come from?”—­“I guess it comes from a church down below there.”  “Is it a Welsh Church?”—­“I can’t tell, but I guess it is.”  “Well, then,” I rejoined, “I guess I will go and see.”  I turned, and the youth “guessed” he would follow me.  I got to the door.  The singing had not ceased.  It was Welsh—­the language in which I had first heard “Am Geidwad i’r Colledig!"[1] How interesting in the “Far West” to hear sounds so sweet and so familiar to my childhood!  None but those who have experienced can tell the charm of such an incident.  The minister was in the pulpit.  His dress and hair were very plain, and his complexion was extremely dark.  He was evidently a Welshman:  there was no mistake about it:  his gravity, plainness, attitude—­all told the fact.  I ventured forward, and walked along to the stove, which to me was an object of agreeable attraction.  Around the stove were two or three chairs.  A big aristocratic-looking Welshman, a sort of a “Blaenor,” who occupied one of these chairs, invited me to take another that was vacant.  The eyes of all in the synagogue were upon me.  My “guessing” informant had followed me even there, though he evidently understood not a word of Welsh.  The building was about 40 feet by 35, without galleries, and was about two-thirds full.  The pulpit was fitted up in the platform style—­the “genuine” American mode.  The text was, “How shall we escape, if we neglect so great a salvation?” The sermon was good and faithful.  The audience—­the men on one side of the chapel, and the women on the other—­did not excite much interest.