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 I
need 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.
Owen Glendower's hill or mount at Sycharth, unlike the one bearing
his name on the banks of the Dee, is not an artificial hill, but
the work of nature, save and except that to a certain extent it has
been modified by the hand of man. It is somewhat conical and
consists of two steps or gradations, where two fosses scooped out
of the hill go round it, one above the other, the lower one
embracing considerably the most space. Both these fosses are about
six feet deep, and at one time doubtless were bricked, as stout
large, red bricks are yet to be seen, here and there, in their
sides. The top of the mount is just twenty-five feet across. When
I visited it it was covered with grass, but had once been subjected
to the plough as various furrows indicated. The monticle stands
not far from the western extremity of the valley, nearly midway
between two hills which confront each other north and south, the
one to the south being the hill which I had descended, and the
other a beautiful wooded height which is called in the parlance of
the country Llwyn Sycharth or the grove of Sycharth, from which
comes the little gush of water which I had crossed, and which now
turns the wheel of the factory and once turned that of Owen
Glendower's mill, and filled his two moats, part of the water by
some mechanical means having been forced up the eminence. On the
top of this hill or monticle in a timber house dwelt the great
Welshman Owen Glendower, with his wife, a comely, kindly woman, and
his progeny, consisting of stout boys and blooming girls, and
there, though wonderfully cramped for want of room, he feasted
bards who requited his hospitality with alliterative odes very
difficult to compose, and which at the present day only a few book-
worms understand.
