"Here she is, sir," said the landlady, "but she has no English.""All the better," said I. "So you come from a place called Sychnant?" said I to the cook in Welsh.
"In truth, sir, I do;" said the cook.
"Did you ever hear of a gwr boneddig called Owen Glendower?""Often, sir, often; he lived in our place.""He lived in a place called Sycharth?" said I.
"Well, sir; and we of the place call it Sycharth as often as Sychnant; nay, oftener.""Is his house standing?"
"It is not; but the hill on which it stood is still standing.""Is it a high hill?"
"It is not; it is a small, light hill."
"A light hill!" said I to myself. "Old Iolo Goch, Owen Glendower's bard, said the chieftain dwelt in a house on a light hill.
"'There dwells the chief we all extol In timber house on lightsome knoll.'
"Is there a little river near it," said I to the cook, "a ffrwd?""There is; it runs just under the hill."
"Is there a mill upon the ffrwd?"
"There is not; that is, now - but there was in the old time; a factory of woollen stands now where the mill once stood.""'A mill a rushing brook upon And pigeon tower fram'd of stone.'
"So says Iolo Goch," said I to myself, "in his description of Sycharth; I am on the right road."I asked the cook to whom the property of Sycharth belonged and was told of course to Sir Watkin, who appears to be the Marquis of Denbighshire. After a few more questions I thanked her and told her she might go. I then finished my breakfast, paid my bill, and after telling the landlady that I should return at night, started for Llangedwin and Sycharth.
A broad and excellent road led along the valley in the direction in which I was proceeding.
The valley was beautiful and dotted with various farm-houses, and the land appeared to be in as high a state of cultivation as the soil of my own Norfolk, that county so deservedly celebrated for its agriculture. The eastern side is bounded by lofty hills, and towards the north the vale is crossed by three rugged elevations, the middlemost of which, called, as an old man told me, Bryn Dinas, terminates to the west in an exceedingly high and picturesque crag.
After an hour's walking I overtook two people, a man and a woman laden with baskets which hung around them on every side. The man was a young fellow of about eight-and-twenty, with a round face, fair flaxen hair, and rings in his ears; the female was a blooming buxom lass of about eighteen. After giving them the sele of the day I asked them if they were English.
"Aye, aye, master," said the man; "we are English.""Where do you come from?" said I.
"From Wrexham," said the man.
"I thought Wrexham was in Wales," said "If it be," said the man, "the people are not Welsh; a man is not a horse because he happens to be born in a stable.""Is that young woman your wife?" said I.
"Yes;" said he, "after a fashion" - and then he leered at the lass, and she leered at him.
"Do you attend any place of worship?" said I.
"A great many, master!"
"What place do you chiefly attend?" said I.
"The Chequers, master!"
"Do they preach the best sermons there?" said I.
"No, master! but they sell the best ale there.""Do you worship ale?" said I.
"Yes, master, I worships ale."
"Anything else?" said I.
"Yes, master! I and my mort worships something besides good ale;don't we, Sue?" and then he leered at the mort, who leered at him, and both made odd motions backwards and forwards, causing the baskets which hung round them to creak and rustle, and uttering loud shouts of laughter, which roused the echoes of the neighbouring hills.
"Genuine descendants, no doubt," said I to myself as I walked briskly on, "of certain of the old heathen Saxons who followed Rag into Wales and settled down about the house which he built.
Really, if these two are a fair specimen of the Wrexham population, my friend the Scotch policeman was not much out when he said that the people of Wrexham were the worst people in Wales."
