"Have you any of the manuscripts of Huw Morus?" said I.
"None," said he, "but I have one of the printed copies of his
works."
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 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. 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 little bridge led, and was told that he believed it led to an
upland farm.
