went, not without some risk
of falling. At last we came to a gate; it was locked; however, on John
Jones shouting, an elderly man with his right hand bandaged, came and
opened it. I asked him what was the matter with his hand, and he told me
that he had lately lost three fingers whilst working at a saw-mill up at
the castle. On my inquiring about the inn he said he was the master of
it, and led the way to a long neat low house, nearly opposite to a little
bridge over a brook, which ran down the valley towards the north. I
ordered some ale and bread-and-butter, and whilst our repast was being
got ready John Jones and I went to the bridge.

"This bridge, sir," said John, "is called Pont y Velin Castell, the
bridge of the Castle Mill; the inn was formerly the mill of the castle,
and is still called Melin y Castell. As soon as you are over this bridge
you are in shire Amwythig, which the Saxons call Shropshire. A little
way up on yon hill is Clawdd Offa or Offa's dyke, built of old by the
Brenin Offa in order to keep us poor Welsh within our bounds."

As we stood on the bridge I inquired of Jones the name of the brook which
was running merrily beneath it.

"The Ceiriog, sir," said John, "the same river that we saw at Pont y
Meibion."

"The river," said I, "which Huw Morris loved so well, whose praises he
has sung, and which he has introduced along with Cefn Uchaf in a stanza
in which he describes the hospitality of Chirk Castle in his day, and
which runs thus:

"Pe byddai 'r Cefn Ucha,
Yn gig ac yn fara,
A Cheiriog fawr yma'n fir aml bob tro,
Rhy ryfedd fae iddyn'
Barhau hanner blwyddyn,
I wyr bob yn gan-nyn ar ginio."

"A good penill that, sir," said John Jones. "Pity that the halls of
great people no longer flow with rivers of beer, nor have mountains of
bread and beef for all comers."

"No pity at all," said I; "things are better as they are. Those
mountains of bread and beef, and those rivers of ale merely encouraged
vassalage, fawning and idleness; better to pay for one's dinner proudly
and independently at one's inn, than to go and cringe for it at a great
man's table."

We crossed the bridge, walked a little way up the hill which was
beautifully wooded, and then retraced our steps to the little inn, where
I found my wife and daughter waiting for us, and very hungry. We sat
down, John Jones with us, and proceeded to despatch our bread-and-butter
and ale. The bread-and-bu