The druggist sells hats; the shoemaker is the sole bookseller, if that dignity may be allowed him on the strength of the three Welsh Bibles, and the guide to Caernarvon, which adorn his window; ink is sold by the apothecary; the grocer sells ropes, (a commodity which, I fear, I shall require before my residence here is over,) and tooth-brushes.

A clothes-brush is a luxury yet unknown to Llanrwst.

As to books, for want of any other English literature, I intend to learn Paradise Lost by heart at odd moments.

But I must conclude.

Write to me often, my dear Mother, and all of you at home, or you may have to answer for my drowning myself, like Gray's bard, in "Old Conway's foaming flood," which is most conveniently near for so poetical an exit.
Ever most affectionately yours, T.B.M.
Llanrwst: August 32, 1821.
My dear Father,--I have just received your letter, and cannot but feel concerned at the tone of it.