In walking up this mountain village I saw no one, and heard no sound but the echo of my steps amongst the houses. As I returned, however, I saw a man standing at a door—he was a short figure, about fifty. He had an old hat on his head, a stick in his hand, and was dressed in a duffel great coat. “Good day, friend,” said I; “what may be the name of this place?” “Pont Fadog, sir, is its name, for want of a better.” “That’s a fine name,” said I; “it signifies in English the bridge of Madoc.” “Just so, sir; I see you know Welsh.” “And I see you know English,” said I. “Very little, sir; I can read English much better than I can speak it.” “So can I Welsh,” said I. “I suppose the village is named after the bridge.” “No doubt it is, sir.” “And why was the bridge called the bridge of Madoc?” said I. “Because one Madoc built it, sir.” “Was he the son of Owain Gwynedd?” said I. “Ah, I see you know all about Wales, sir. Yes, sir; he built it, or I dare say he built it, Madawg ap Owain Gwynedd. I have read much about him—he was a great sailor, sir, and was the first to discover Tir y Gorllewin, or America. Not many years ago his tomb was discovered there with an inscription in old Welsh—saying who he was, and how he loved the sea. I have seen the lines which were found on the tomb.” “So have I,” said I; “or at least those which were said to be found on a tomb: they run thus in English:— “‘Here, after sailing far, I, Madoc, lie, Of Owain Gwynedd lawful progeny: The verdant land had little charms for me; From earliest youth I loved the dark-blue sea.’” “Ah, sir,” said the man, “I see you know all about the son of Owain Gwynedd. Well, sir, those lines, or something like them, were found upon the tomb of Madoc in America.” “That I doubt,” said I. “Do you doubt, sir, that Madoc discovered America?” “Not in the least,” said I; “but I doubt very much that his tomb was ever discovered with the inscription which you allude to upon it.” “But it was, sir, I do assure you, and the descendants of Madoc and his people are still to be found in a part of America speaking the pure iaith Cymraeg better Welsh than we of Wales do.” “That I doubt,” said I. “However, the idea is a pretty one; therefore cherish it. This is a beautiful country.” “A very beautiful country, sir; there is none more beautiful in all Wales.” “What is the name of the river, which runs beneath the bridge?” “The Ceiriog, sir.” “The Ceiriog,” said I; “the Ceiriog!” “Did you ever hear the name before, sir?” “I have heard of the Eos Ceiriog,” said I; “the Nightingale of Ceiriog.” “That was Huw Morris, sir; he was called the Nightingale of Ceiriog.” “Did he live hereabout?” “O no, sir; he lived far away up towards the head of the valley, at a place called Pont y Meibion.” “Are you acquainted with his works?” said I.