I went on for some time, my mind quite occupied with my reading; at last lifting 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 out-house 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.