He then went to a drawer, and taking out a book, put it into my hand, and seated himself in a blunt, careless manner. The book was the first volume of the common Wrexham edition of Huw’s works; it was much thumbed—I commenced reading aloud a piece which I had much admired in my boyhood. I went on for some time, my mind quite occupied with my reading; at last lifting up my eyes, I saw the man standing bolt upright before me, like a soldier of the days of my childhood, during the time that the adjutant read prayers; his hat was no longer upon his head, but on the ground, and his eyes were reverently inclined to the book. After all, what a beautiful thing it is, not to be, but to have been a genius. Closing the book, I asked him whether Huw Morris was born in the house where we were, and received for answer that he was born about where we stood, but that the old house had been pulled down, and that of all the premises only a small outhouse was coeval with Huw Morris. I asked him the name of the house, and he said Pont y Meibion. “But where is the bridge?” said I. “The bridge,” he replied, “is close by, over the Ceiriog. If you wish to see it, you must go down yon field; the house is called after the bridge.” Bidding him farewell, we crossed the road, and going down the field speedily arrived at Pont y Meibion. The bridge is a small bridge of one arch which crosses the brook Ceiriog; it is built of rough moor stone; it is mossy, broken, and looks almost inconceivably old; there is a little parapet to it about two feet high. On the right-hand side it is shaded by an ash. The brook, when we viewed it, though at times a roaring torrent, was stealing along gently. On both sides it is overgrown with alders; noble hills rise above it to the east and west; John Jones told me that it abounded with trout. I asked him why the bridge was called Pont y Meibion, which signifies the bridge of the children. “It was built originally by children,” said he, “for the purpose of crossing the brook.” “That bridge,” said I, “was never built by children.” “The first bridge,” said he, “was of wood, and was built by the children of the houses above.” Not quite satisfied with his explanation, I asked him to what place the road across the little bridge led, and was told that he believed it led to an upland farm. After taking a long and wistful view of the bridge and the scenery around it, I turned my head in the direction of Llangollen. The adventures of the day were, however, not finished. CHAPTER XXI The Gloomy Valley—The Lonely Cottage—Happy Comparison—Clogs—the Alder Swamp—The Wooden Leg—The Militiaman—Death-bed Verses.