The Vale, on both sides the river Dee, is at length brought to a high state of cultivation. Looking down the valley from the railway viaduct, or from the more elevated portions of the Holyhead road, the scene presents a strange admixture of beauty and ugliness; and a stranger, for the first time viewing the scene, would declare, “I see nothing but smoke.” On the north side of the river are the extensive iron works of the New British Iron Company, disgorging smoke and flame day and night, and on the opposite side of the river are the Vron limestone quarries and kilns, equally active in discharging huge volumes of vapour. The tourist must pass on from these manufacturing localities, and his eye will soon rest upon scenery of surpassing loveliness and grandeur. The wood-crowned heights of Trevor, the Eglwyseg and Berwyn range of mountains, the old battered fortress, _Castell Dinas Bran_, the luxuriant Vale, which presents the form of a capacious amphitheatre, and the Dee, vending its course over beds of clay-slate, limestone, and granitic boulders,—these, with abundance of full-grown timber, snug villas, white-washed cottages, and well-managed farms, with fertile fields and well-farmed hill-sides, show of what materials the panoramic valley is composed. Could Moore have viewed it, as we have done on a bright summer day, he would have been constrained to quote his own beautiful line, “The valley lies smiling before me.” Of _Llangollen_ itself we shall attempt no description. Its charms have been transmitted to glowing canvass and sung in rapturous verse from Anna Seward downwards; its hostelries, the _Hand_ and the _Royal Hotels_, its “trouts,” its mountain mutton, sparkling ale, and other delicacies, have too long been the “household words” of tourists, album-writers, and after-dinner orators, to render eulogium or even “faint praise” from us in the slightest degree necessary. * * * * *