an ancient tumulus in the middle of this beautifully secluded glen. It was erected by Cyngen ab Cadell Dryrnllug, in memory of his great grandfather Eliseg, whose son Brochmail Ysgythrog, grandfather of the founder of this rude monument of filial veneration, was engaged in the memorable border wars at the close of the sixth century; and was defeated at the Battle of Chester, a.d. 607. During the great rebellion this pillar was thrown down by Oliver Cromwell’s “Reformers,” who in their fiery zeal for destruction mistook it for a “Popish Cross;” and it remained for more than a century in its broken recumbent condition, when it was restored by the patriotism and intelligence of Mr. Lloyd of Trevor Hall, and replaced upon its pedestal with a suitable memorial to record the fact. It now forms an interesting relic of antiquity, and is probably the oldest British Cross (bearing a carved inscription) which exists in these islands. That said inscription has long been a puzzle to the learned investigator of archaeological remains.
Having wandered through the verdant meads of the “happy valley,” the adventurous tourist may probably wish to climb the lofty hill, which is crowned by the romantic ruins of the Castle of Dinas Bran. This memorable fortress of the past, is a remarkable object from all parts of the vale; for whose safety and defence it was long the abode of a line of chiefs renowned in Cambrian lore. The view from the summit is exceedingly picturesque,
grand, and imposing; and naturally prompts the exclamation of the Poet of the Seasons—
“Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around.”
On descending the mountain-path, the traveller may perchance look round for a comfortable resting-place and good refreshment; he will readily find both, either at the Hand, or the King’s Head Hotel. In the album of the latter house of entertainment he may also peruse the following bacchanalian effusion in honour of “Llangollen Ale,” which he will then be in the mood to enjoy; and as he quaffs this nectar of the valley, he may thus chaunt its praises, if in a convivial humour, to the music of a Welsh harp—
LLANGOLLEN ALE.
While other poets loudly rant
About Llangollen’s Vale,
Let me, with better taste, descant
Upon Llangollen Ale.
The daughters of the place are fair,
Its sons are strong and hale:
What makes them so? Llangollen air?
No, no!—Llangollen Ale.
And Nature only beautified
The landscape, to prevail
On travellers to turn aside
And quaff Llangollen Ale.
For though the scene might please at first
As charms would quickly stale;
While he who tastes will ever thirst
To drink Llangollen Ale.