I tasted it, and then took a copious draught. The ale was indeed admirable, equal to the best that I had ever before drunk—rich and mellow, with scarcely any smack of the hop in it, and though so pale and delicate to the eye nearly as strong as brandy. I commended it highly to the worthy Jenkins.
‘That Llangollen ale indeed! no, no! ale like that, your honour, was never brewed in that trumpery hole Llangollen,’
‘You seem to have a very low opinion of Llangollen?’ said I.
‘How can I have anything but a low opinion of it, your honour? A trumpery hole it is, and ever will remain so.’
‘Many people of the first quality go to visit it,’ said I.
‘That is because it lies so handy for England, your honour. If it did not, nobody would go to see it. What is there to see in Llangollen?’
‘There is not much to see in the town, I admit,’ said I, ‘but the scenery about it is beautiful: what mountains!’
‘Mountains, your honour, mountains! well, we have mountains too, and as beautiful as those of Llangollen. Then we have our lake, our Llyn Tegid, the lake of beauty. Show me anything like that near Llangollen?’
‘Then,’ said I, ‘there is your mound, your Tomen Bala. The Llangollen people can show nothing like that.’
Tom Jenkins looked at me for a moment with some surprise, and then said: ‘I see you have been here before, sir.’