“I suppose you get your ale from Llangollen,” said I, “which is celebrated for its ale over Wales.”
“Get our ale from Llangollen?” said Tom, with a sneer of contempt, “no, nor anything else. As for the ale, it was brewed in this house by your honour’s humble servant.”
“Oh,” said I, “if you brewed it, it must of course be good. Pray bring me some immediately, for I am anxious to drink ale of your brewing.”
“Your honour shall be obeyed,” said Tom, and disappearing, returned in a twinkling with a tray, on which stood a jug filled with liquor, and a glass. He forthwith filled the glass, and pointing to its contents, said—
“There, your honour, did you ever see such ale? Observe its colour! Does it not look for all the world as pale and delicate as cowslip wine?”
“I wish it may not taste like cowslip wine,” said I; “to tell you the truth, I am no particular admirer of ale that looks pale and delicate; for I always think there is no strength in it.”
“Taste it, your honour,” said Tom, “and tell me if you ever tasted such ale.”
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, who exultingly exclaimed—
“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.