CLEAR WATERS 



its little trace of him, some fragment of story or 

 legend to tell. But they were for the most part quite 

 disconnected. 



To cut short my story, the voice of the Dee sounded, 

 or seemed to sound, the name of its hero so insistently 

 in my ears, the romantic beauty of the vale seemed 

 to harmonise so perfectly with the romance of the 

 great chieftain's elusive personality, that after about 

 ten years the impulse to rescue him from something 

 like obscurity had grown too strong. In short, as I 

 took down my rod one evening by Glyndwr's mount, 

 I determined to write his life, if sufficient material 

 could be found for it, and if any publisher could be 

 induced to see eye to eye with me. Two or three 

 eminent firms, who were inclined to look kindly on 

 any reasonable suggestion of mine, laughed the notion 

 of Owen out of court at once. I was then advised to 

 approach one of those houses where many editors of a 

 less distinguished type lurk in various little rooms 

 while the roar of printing machinery turns out popular 

 stuff by the acre. It reminded me of a shoe factory. 

 I was shown into one of these bare little rooms de- 

 dicated, as I was told, to the ' historical department.' 

 Here a strange-looking wight with a blue chin and 

 attired like an American politician seemed but meagrely 

 equipped with a small table and a bedroom chair. It 

 was not in the least like such editors' rooms as I was 

 already familiar with. When I broached the subject 

 the departmental editor sagely stroked his blue chin 

 and tapped the top of a prematurely bald head with 

 a puzzled air. ' Yes,' said he very sententiously, and 

 I give his precise words, * I think I have come across 



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