"That is the pillar of Eliseg, sir," said my guide. "Let us
go and see it," said I. We soon reached the stone. It is a fine
upright column about seven feet high, and stands on a quadrate
base. "Sir," said my guide, "a dead king lies buried beneath this
stone. He was a mighty man of valour and founded the abbey. He
was called Eliseg." "Perhaps Ellis," said I, "and if his name was
Ellis the stone was very properly called Colofn Eliseg, in Saxon
the Ellisian column." The view from the column is very beautiful,
below on the south-east is the venerable abbey, slumbering in its
green meadow. Beyond it runs a stream, descending from the top of
a glen, at the bottom of which the old pile is situated; beyond the
stream is a lofty hill. The glen on the north is bounded by a
noble mountain, covered with wood. Struck with its beauty I
inquired its name. "Moel Eglwysig, sir," said my guide. "The Moel
of the Church," said I. "That is hardly a good name for it, for
the hill is not bald (moel)." "True, sir," said John Jones. "At
present its name is good for nothing, but estalom (of old) before
the hill was planted with trees its name was good enough. Our
fathers were not fools when they named their hills." "I daresay
not," said I, "nor in many other things which they did, for which
we laugh at them, because we do not know the reasons they had for
doing them.
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