Sycharth - The Kindly Welcome - Happy Couple - Sycharth - Recalling the Dead - Ode to Sycharth.
I WAS now at the northern extremity of the valley near a great house past which the road led in the direction of the north-east.
Seeing a man employed in breaking stones I inquired the way to Sychnant.
"You must turn to the left," said he, "before you come to yon great house, follow the path which you will find behind it, and you will soon be in Sychnant.""And to whom does the great house belong?""To whom? why, to Sir Watkin."
"Does he reside there?"
"Not often. He has plenty of other houses, but he sometimes comes there to hunt.""What is the place's name?"
"Llan Gedwin."
I turned to the left, as the labourer had directed me. The path led upward behind the great house round a hill thickly planted with trees. Following it I at length found myself on a broad road on the top extending east and west, and having on the north and south beautiful wooded hills. I followed the road which presently began to descend. On reaching level ground I overtook a man in a waggoner's frock, of whom I inquired the way to Sycharth. He pointed westward down the vale to what appeared to be a collection of houses, near a singular-looking monticle, and said, "That is Sycharth."We walked together till we came to a road which branched off on the right to a little bridge.
"That is your way," said he, and pointing to a large building beyond the bridge, towering up above a number of cottages, he said, "that is the factory of Sycharth;" he then left me, following the high road, whilst I proceeded towards the bridge, which I crossed, and coming to the cottages entered one on the right hand of a remarkably neat appearance.
In a comfortable kitchen by a hearth on which blazed a cheerful billet sat a man and woman. Both arose when I entered: the man was tall, about fifty years of age, and athletically built; he was dressed in a white coat, corduroy breeches, shoes, and grey worsted stockings. The woman seemed many years older than the man; she was tall also, and strongly built, and dressed in the ancient female costume, namely, a kind of round, half Spanish hat, long blue woollen kirtle or gown, a crimson petticoat, and white apron, and broad, stout shoes with buckles.
"Welcome, stranger," said the man, after looking me a moment or two full in the face.
"Croesaw, dyn dieithr - welcome, foreign man," said the woman, surveying me with a look of great curiosity.
"Won't you sit down?" said the man, handing me a chair.
I sat down, and the man and woman resumed their seats.
"I suppose you come on business connected with the factory?" said the man.
"No," said I, "my business is connected with Owen Glendower.""With Owen Glendower?" said the man, staring.
"Yes," said I, "I came to see his place.""You will not see much of his house now," said the man - "it is down; only a few bricks remain.""But I shall see the place where his house stood," said I, "which is all I expected to see.""Yes, you can see that."
"What does the dyn dieithr say?" said the woman in Welsh with an inquiring look.
"That he is come to see the place of Owen Glendower.""Ah!" said the woman with a smile.
"Is that good lady your wife?" said I.
"She is."
"She looks much older than yourself."
"And no wonder. She is twenty-one years older.""How old are you?"
"Fifty-three."
"Dear me," said I, "what a difference in your ages. How came you to marry?""She was a widow and I had lost my wife. We were lone in the world, so we thought we would marry.""Do you live happily together?"
"Very."
"Then you did quite right to marry. What is your name?""David Robert."
"And that of your wife?"
"Gwen Robert."
"Does she speak English?"
"She speaks some, but not much."
"Is the place where Owen lived far from here?""It is not. It is the round hill a little way above the factory.""Is the path to it easy to find?"
"I will go with you," said the man. "I work at the factory, but Ineed not go there for an hour at least."
He put on his hat and bidding me follow him went out. He led me over a gush of water which passing under the factory turns the wheel; thence over a field or two towards a house at the foot of the mountain where he said the steward of Sir Watkin lived, of whom it would be as well to apply for permission to ascend the hill, as it was Sir Watkin's ground. The steward was not at home; his wife was, however, and she, when we told her we wished to go to the top of Owain Glendower's Hill, gave us permission with a smile. We thanked her and proceeded to mount the hill or monticle once the residence of the great Welsh chieftain, whom his own deeds and the pen of Shakespear have rendered immortal.
