Twmis robbed by a highwayman. His meditations. Again is despoiled by a gipsy and a ballad-singer at Aberayon. He adopts the musical profession at Cardigan Fair.
Twm took a circuitous route over the mountains towards Lampeter, and, when he felt himself secure from pursuit, his first thought was to change his feminine attire for his own, as more convenient for riding, which was soon accomplished, and the suits changed places in the bundle. In his ignorance of the world, he scarce knew whither to direct his course after reaching Lampeter, where he arrived between one and two o’clock in the morning. He recollected that this was a central place, from which different roads led to Aberystwith, Llandovery, Carmarthen, Aberayon, and Cardigan; but found a difficulty in deciding which way to take.
It suddenly occurred to him that there was a fair at Cardigan the next day, and he determined to go there and sell the parson’s horse. The whole town being wrapped in slumbers, he was now at a stand, not knowing the road which led through Aberayon to Cardigan; but, rousing a cottager, he soon gained the necessary information, and proceeded on.
As he approached Aberayon, for the first time in his life, the distant roaring of the sea struck upon his ear, still increasing as he neared the ocean side. Wonder, awe, and even terror, were the successive sensations that agitated our hero. The saddening sobs of the mighty waters as they retreated from the shore, and the fearful fury of their rallying and re-assaulting the repulsing beach, with their successive wailing retreats, to gather the powers of the advancing tide, came on his soul like an accusing spirit that seemed to reproach him for his late misdeeds.
Severe self-accusing reflection on the atrocity of his last act, succeeded the triumphs of enmity that had first given a gust to its perpetration. Consciousness of guilt and terror of punishment at once assailed him, for he was yet young in crime. On the impulse of the moment, he determined to leave the parson’s nag behind him, and then return his cash and coat as early as possible.
While these bitter agitations were racking his breast, the clatter of a galloping horse increased his terrors, and he discerned both horse and rider making briskly towards him. Strange as it may appear, notwithstanding the opposite quarter from where the danger proceeded, in the wildness of his apprehensions he conceived it could be no other than Squire Graspacre, Parson Evans, and their party. He was actually glad when made to understand that the horseman was a highwayman. His unwelcome assailant quickly approached him and presenting his pistol, with a loud oath, to oblige “Dio the Devil” with all his cash and valuables, or prepare for immediate death.
The name of this terrific freebooter, who had,among many other descriptions of persons, robbed half the farmers in the country, and was supposed to have committed more than one murder, had its full effect upon Twm. He instantly resigned the parson’s purse, assuring him it was all he possessed and begged that he would allow him to retain a single angel; these terms, the robber, in a manner, acceded to, doubling his quest by giving two; but in return insisted on having his horse and great coat, which Twm gave up. Dio (whose name, by the way, is a familiar diminutive of David,) then with sarcastic politeness wished him good morning, and a pleasant journey! and galloped off in the direction of Lampeter, having the rein of the parson’s horse over his left arm.
No sooner had the highwaymen disappeared, than Twm was struck with a full conviction of the folly of the fears he had entertained, which by depressing his mind, he thought, led to confusedly yielding his property too easily: vowing to himself, after some reflection, that if possessed of a pair of pistols, no highwayman in the world should make him stand. His thoughts taking their course through this channel, wandered and diverged, till his mind rested on new, but perilous prospects.
“What a life,” thought he, “this Dio the Devil leads—a gentleman of the road—the terror of wealthy scoundrels, who are themselves the scourge of the hapless poor, that are starved into crime—famed, feared, and mained at the general cost, while many an honest fool toils like the gulled drudge-horse, crawls through the world half-starved, and is despised for meanness!” The weight and magnitude of his reflections were such as for a few moments to reduce him to absolute silence, when recovering himself, he continued, “What does it matter to me what others do? I shall please myself, and I don’t like hard work, nor do I care for coarse fare, and still less for great folk’s abuse and buffets; and if I had a pistol, why, I shouldn’t mind if—”
At this moment a countryman was about to passhim on the road, in whose hand he recognized his bundle, containing his feminine attire, which in his terror he had dropped, and it rolled from the side of the road, it seems, into the ditch, previous to the halt of the highwayman. Twm immediately claimed his property, but the fellow seemed disinclined to attend to him, until vehemently insisting on his right, he evinced an inclination to battle with him; when satisfied with this very convincing sort of logic, the clown made restitution.
His little affray with the would-be-dishonest countryman, had not obliterated the thought of our hero with respect to highwaymen, and their independent style of existence, and with his mind still occupied, with the gentlemen of the road, he came to a small public-house near Aberayon, but which was so inconveniently crowded that he could scarce find a seat.
With the exception of two or three fishermen and other seafarers, these were people who made a temporary halt on their way to Cardigan fair; low booth-keepers, fruit and gingerbread sellers, and suchlike. Twm called for beer and refreshment, and while eating, observed the habits of these strange people with much curiosity. He had contrived to squeeze himself into a window-seat between two females who sat apart and civilly made room for him, and pressed his acceptance of the place.
Twm was delighted with his new position, and he was not a little surprised with the contrast which the kindness and affability of his fair companions offered to the rude gestures and uncouth speech of the remainder of the party. He did not think worse of them when he discovered that one was a gipsy fortune-teller, and the other a ballad-singer. He could not do less, he thought, than ask them to partake of his cup, and they found themselves bound in honour, in their great devotion to his health, to return it empty each time he handed it to them full.
Such gallantry on the one hand, and confidence and affability on the other, begot a sudden friendshipbetween them; the gipsy insisting upon telling his fortune gratis, and the ballad-singer on the acceptance of two or three favourite songs; while Twm reciprocating in the warmest style, their affectionate attentions, ordered indefinite supplies of “nut-brown,” on which he and his fair ones regaled to their hearts’ content.
While Twm was busily employed in looking over the bundle of ballads, among which he met many old friends, which he had frequently sung, one of the friendly nymphs was beckoned to, by a man at the opposite end of the kitchen, with whom they went out, and the gipsy soon followed them.
Our hero having selected the songs that pleased him, waited impatiently the return of the damsels. No sign of their re-appearance being visible, and all the fair people having left one by one, until Twm found himself quite alone, he inquired of the landlord if he knew where the young women had gone to. He said he did not, but that the whole party having paid him were gone off, and he had no further business with them.
Twm thought the ballad-singer a singular good-natured young woman, as she had left her bundles of melody with him, doubtless as a present, and merely taken herself away thus modestly, instead of ostentatiously proclaiming her gift, and receiving his thanks. His opinion was slightly changed, when wishful to pay the landlord, he found he had not a halfpenny in his pocket. His vexation and confusion were evident to mine host, who declared that his face was turned as white as the wall. Having searched every pocket over and over, at length the doleful tale came out that he had lost his money, and could not tell how.
“Why, as to that,” said the landlord, with bitter coolness, “if it is any satisfaction to knowhowyou lost your money, I can tell you; it was by sitting between two thieves—a gipsy and a ballad-singer and what could you expect else from mixing withsuch cattle?” Poor Twm remained silent, in a miserable mood, with his elbows resting on the table, and with his temples in the palms of his hands, for a full half hour; when the landlord disturbed his meditations by asking payment for his fare; good-naturedly adding, “If you have no money, I don’t wish to be hard with you, you can merely leave your jacket with me instead.” “My jacket!” quoth he indignantly; “why that is ten times the value of what I owe you.” “That’s just as people think; but those are my terms, and you should be glad that I’ll take it in place of good hard cash,” was the reply of the uncompromising old fellow. The fishermen in the mean time passed on him their rough and scurvy jokes, one observing, “You can sing ballads without a jacket, so I advise you to go to the fair at Cardigan, where you may perhaps meet your old friends.”
Twm was too despondent to be much effected by these feeble attempts at wit, but he determined to accept the suggestion of the last speaker, and make his first appearance as a public vocalist in Cardigan, so without more ado he took off his jacket and gave it to the host, muttering a curse on his cruelty, and commenced his journey. The dress of Cadwgan’s wife was again put on, not only as a fit disguise for his minstrel vocation, but a more perfect guard against the weather than his own, since deprived of his upper-garment; and thus equipped he once more took to the road, his late experience having completely sobered him, and left him depressed in spirits, as he glanced at the scene in which he had been thoroughly victimized.
Twm’sappearance as a “fair” ballad singer at Cardigan. A sudden alarm. Poor Parson Inco. Twm’s hasty flight.
“The longest lane has a turning,” and the weariest journey has an end, and at length Twm found himself in Cardigan, and prepared himself at once to commence his whimsical vocation. Although naturally bold, and more full of confidence than beseemed the modesty of youth, it was not without considerable efforts in struggling with some remains of diffidence that he at length ventured to sing in the public street; but he had fortified himself with a draught of strong beer, and his voice, in his own opinion, being almost unequalled in the country, he thought it foolish to hesitate. He fixed himself in rather an obscure part of the fair; but his musical voice and humorous execution of a comic song soon drew a crowd about him, and put his ballads in speedy request.
Adapting the usual gait and manner of street-vocalists, holding his hand to his mouth to secure increased power, he introduced each song with a whimsical description of its matter, in a strain of drollery that set the grinning rustics in high glee; “Here, my merry men and maidens,” quoth he, “is a pretty song about a young damsel, who was taken in by a false lover, that courted her for what he could get, and having wheedled her out of her heart and money, ran away and left her to wear the willow.”
THE SLIGHTED MAID’S LAMENT.[149]In comfort and in credit,By the side of Pen-y-voleI lived:—all knew and said it,None could my will control;Until a worthless loverDid try my heart to move:Ah, soon my joys were over!I listened to his love.From far he travelled to me,Full many and many a night,I thought he came to woo me—My heart was all delight:My cash he thought of gaining,It was not me he sought,E’er mourning and complainingFor clothes—and clothes I bought.A pair of shoes I placed himBetween his soles and ground,With stockings then I graced him,With hat his head I crown’d;Red garters then I bought him,At fair the best I saw,To bind his hose, od rod him!Instead of bands of straw.I bought him leather breechesStrong as a barley sack,And laid out half my richesTo clothe the beggar’s back;I gave him money willing,(Vexation now upbraids!)With which the thankless villainSoon treated other maids.When thus he had bereft meOf cash, and ah, my heart!The cruel rover left me,It grieved me then to part;Those clothes will rend in tatters,They cannot last him long:A curse attends such matters,False lovers curse is strong!His coat will rend in creases,His stockings break in holes,His breeches go to pieces,His shoes part from their soles;His hair, like garden carrot,Full soon will want a hat;How soon, indeed I care not,—The devil care for that!
THE SLIGHTED MAID’S LAMENT.[149]
In comfort and in credit,By the side of Pen-y-voleI lived:—all knew and said it,None could my will control;Until a worthless loverDid try my heart to move:Ah, soon my joys were over!I listened to his love.
From far he travelled to me,Full many and many a night,I thought he came to woo me—My heart was all delight:My cash he thought of gaining,It was not me he sought,E’er mourning and complainingFor clothes—and clothes I bought.
A pair of shoes I placed himBetween his soles and ground,With stockings then I graced him,With hat his head I crown’d;Red garters then I bought him,At fair the best I saw,To bind his hose, od rod him!Instead of bands of straw.
I bought him leather breechesStrong as a barley sack,And laid out half my richesTo clothe the beggar’s back;I gave him money willing,(Vexation now upbraids!)With which the thankless villainSoon treated other maids.
When thus he had bereft meOf cash, and ah, my heart!The cruel rover left me,It grieved me then to part;Those clothes will rend in tatters,They cannot last him long:A curse attends such matters,False lovers curse is strong!
His coat will rend in creases,His stockings break in holes,His breeches go to pieces,His shoes part from their soles;His hair, like garden carrot,Full soon will want a hat;How soon, indeed I care not,—The devil care for that!
His listeners appreciated his first song so much that all his copies were soon disposed of; so he selected another, before singing which he said: “Now this, my friends, is about a Welsh boy, who was so foolish as to leave old Cymry and go to London, from which place, I warrant you, he would have been glad enough to return, as they have neither leeks, cheese, nor flummery, nor anything else there fit for a Christian people.”
Whena wild rural Welsh boy I ran o’er the hills,And sprang o’er the hedges, the gates, brooks, and rills,The high oak I climb’d for the nest of the kite,And plung’d in the river with ardent delight!Ah, who then so cheerful, so happy as me,As I skipp’d through the woodlands and meads of Brandee?How oft have I wander’d through swamp, hedge, or brake,While fearful of nought but the never-seen snake,And gather’d brown nuts from the copses around,While ev’ry bush echoed with harmony’s sound!Oh, gladness then thrill’d me! I bounded as freeAs a hart o’er the lawn through the meads of Brandee.Whenever I wander’d to some neighb’ring farm,How kindly was tendered the new milk so warm,O’er her best loaf as butter-or-honey she’d spread,The farm wife so friendly would stroke my white head,And sure that she shortly again would see meWhenever my rambles led forth from Brandee.How oft have I run with my strawberry wreathTo rosy young Gwenny of fair Llwyn-y-neath,And help’d her to drive the white sheep to the pen!Oh! still I think how joyously sung little Gwen!The old folks, oft chuckling, vow’d sweet-hearts were we,Then Llwyn-y-neath maiden and boy of Brandee.At the fair of Devynnock, o’ertaken by night,Returning, I’ve dreaded the corpse-candle light,The wandering spirit, the hobgoblin fell,Of which cottage hen-wives so fearfully tell:I’ve ran, with my eyes shut, ghosts dreading to see,Prayed, whistled, or sang as I flew to Brandee.Pleasure and innocence hand in hand went,My deeds ever blameless, my heart e’er content,Unknown to ambition, and free from all care,A stranger to sorrow, remorse, or despair;Oh bless’d were those days! long departed from me,Far, far’s my loved Cambria! far, far is Brandee!
Whena wild rural Welsh boy I ran o’er the hills,And sprang o’er the hedges, the gates, brooks, and rills,The high oak I climb’d for the nest of the kite,And plung’d in the river with ardent delight!Ah, who then so cheerful, so happy as me,As I skipp’d through the woodlands and meads of Brandee?
How oft have I wander’d through swamp, hedge, or brake,While fearful of nought but the never-seen snake,And gather’d brown nuts from the copses around,While ev’ry bush echoed with harmony’s sound!Oh, gladness then thrill’d me! I bounded as freeAs a hart o’er the lawn through the meads of Brandee.
Whenever I wander’d to some neighb’ring farm,How kindly was tendered the new milk so warm,O’er her best loaf as butter-or-honey she’d spread,The farm wife so friendly would stroke my white head,And sure that she shortly again would see meWhenever my rambles led forth from Brandee.
How oft have I run with my strawberry wreathTo rosy young Gwenny of fair Llwyn-y-neath,And help’d her to drive the white sheep to the pen!Oh! still I think how joyously sung little Gwen!The old folks, oft chuckling, vow’d sweet-hearts were we,Then Llwyn-y-neath maiden and boy of Brandee.
At the fair of Devynnock, o’ertaken by night,Returning, I’ve dreaded the corpse-candle light,The wandering spirit, the hobgoblin fell,Of which cottage hen-wives so fearfully tell:I’ve ran, with my eyes shut, ghosts dreading to see,Prayed, whistled, or sang as I flew to Brandee.
Pleasure and innocence hand in hand went,My deeds ever blameless, my heart e’er content,Unknown to ambition, and free from all care,A stranger to sorrow, remorse, or despair;Oh bless’d were those days! long departed from me,Far, far’s my loved Cambria! far, far is Brandee!
This did not take so well as the first, but Twm, now thoroughly interested in his new vocation, commenced a fresh ditty, which he announced as a sequel to the last.
ROSY GWEN.Rosy Gwen, Rosy Gwen,Beloved of maids, beloved of men:Aye, dearly loved of grave and gay,In youth’s early day—ah, what cheer’d me then?’Twas her voice so sweet,Her person neat,Her form so sleek,Her spirit meek,And the cherry-merry cheek of Rosy Gwen.Gentle girl, gentle girl,Coral lipp’d, with teeth of pearl,On either cheek a vivid rose,And raven tresses graced thy brows!Ah, thou wert my love and playmate then!Happy lass of smiles,Unvers’d in wiles,Of guileless breast—Of minds the best.Oh my merry-cheek’d young Rosy Gwen!Years have flown, years have flown,And Gwenny thour’t a woman grown,While Time, that bears for most a sting,Has fann’d thy beauties with his wing;Yet brighter thou canst not be than whenO’er the mountain steepThou drov’st thy sheep,And sang in gleeA child with me,Oh my cheery-merry-cheek’d young Rosy Gwen.
ROSY GWEN.
Rosy Gwen, Rosy Gwen,Beloved of maids, beloved of men:Aye, dearly loved of grave and gay,In youth’s early day—ah, what cheer’d me then?’Twas her voice so sweet,Her person neat,Her form so sleek,Her spirit meek,And the cherry-merry cheek of Rosy Gwen.
Gentle girl, gentle girl,Coral lipp’d, with teeth of pearl,On either cheek a vivid rose,And raven tresses graced thy brows!Ah, thou wert my love and playmate then!Happy lass of smiles,Unvers’d in wiles,Of guileless breast—Of minds the best.Oh my merry-cheek’d young Rosy Gwen!
Years have flown, years have flown,And Gwenny thour’t a woman grown,While Time, that bears for most a sting,Has fann’d thy beauties with his wing;Yet brighter thou canst not be than whenO’er the mountain steepThou drov’st thy sheep,And sang in gleeA child with me,Oh my cheery-merry-cheek’d young Rosy Gwen.
As the last was but tolerated, the singer soon found that a merry strain was most congenial to their fancies. He therefore gave them the old and popular duet of“Hob y deri dando,” rendered more comical by his singing alternately shrill and gruff, for male and female’s parts.
HOB Y DERI DANDO.[153]Ivor. The summer storm is on the mountain,Hob y deri dando, my sweet maid!Gweno. And foul the stream, though bright the fountain,Hob y deri dando for the shade.Ivor. Let my mantle love protect thee,Gentle Gweno dear;Gweno. Ivor kind will ne’er neglect meFaithful far and near;Both. Through life the hue of first love true,Will never never fade.Ivor. Thus may the frowns of life pass over,Happy then our lot,Gweno. And the smile of peace be bright as everIn our humble cot!Both. Through life the hue of first love trueWill never never fade!Ivor. The rain is past, the clouds are gone too,Hob y deri dando, far they spread;Gweno. The lark is up, and bright the sun too,Hob y deri dando, on the mead!
HOB Y DERI DANDO.[153]
Ivor. The summer storm is on the mountain,Hob y deri dando, my sweet maid!
Gweno. And foul the stream, though bright the fountain,Hob y deri dando for the shade.
Ivor. Let my mantle love protect thee,Gentle Gweno dear;
Gweno. Ivor kind will ne’er neglect meFaithful far and near;
Both. Through life the hue of first love true,Will never never fade.
Ivor. Thus may the frowns of life pass over,Happy then our lot,
Gweno. And the smile of peace be bright as everIn our humble cot!
Both. Through life the hue of first love trueWill never never fade!
Ivor. The rain is past, the clouds are gone too,Hob y deri dando, far they spread;
Gweno. The lark is up, and bright the sun too,Hob y deri dando, on the mead!
He sang the last three tunes, and sold a dozen copies; but just as he was going to favour his audience withNos Galan, the malignant face of Parson Evans presented itself before him.
As our hero wore petticoats, many gallant swains offered their treats of cake and ale, some of which was accepted; and presuming on that circumstance, they amusingly put in their claims to further notice, and seemed inclined to quarrel, as for a sweetheart.
With this phalanx of protectors, beaus, and chaperons, Twm resolved to employ them in a new scheme of vengeance on the unpopular parson. “You seethat old fellow in black,” said he, directing their attention to him as he passed, “he is a bumbailiff, and the greatest villain in all the country I come from; and at this very moment, I’ll be bound for it, he is hunting out some poor fellow to put him in prison. He wanted to be a lover of mine, but only intended to ruinate me; but if he had loved me ever so much I would not have had him, if his old yellow skin was stuffed with diamonds. The villainous old catchpole! it was owing to refusing him for a sweetheart, that he grew as spiteful as a snake, and by telling a parcel of falsehoods he got me turned out of my place without a character, so that I am now brought to this—to sing ballads in the streets.”
Here, assuming a whimpering tone, Twm was compelled to smother a fit of laughter, which emotion was taken for sobbing, and consequently drew much on the sympathy of those now addressed! but suddenly withdrawing the apron that veiled the features, he exclaimed, with the vehemence of a young termagant, “I’d give the world to see that old fellow tossed in a blanket!” Mark Antony’s effort of eloquence to rouse the Roman citizens to avenge the death of Cæsar, was not more effective than our hero’s appeal.
Every one of those swains manifested the usual predilection for the smiles of a handsome young woman; being “full of distempering draughts” and ripe for a freak, their zeal became inflamed to a ferment; each felt himself the leading hero to avenge the wrongs of the fair ballad singer, in the manner suggested by himself.
One of the young men, a native of the town, and son to the innkeeper, immediately procured a blanket, when, watching their opportunity as the supposed bailiff passed along, one tripped up his heels, while the rest received him in the extended blanket, and proceeded to the work-like play of giving the Black Kite an airing; or as Ready Rosser, a cunning clod of the party, expressed it, playing the wind-instrument to the tune of the Bumbailiff’s courante. The athleticemployments of grasping the plough-handles, as they guided it through a stubborn soil, and the no less powerful exertions of wielding the axe, or hedge-bill, had their due effect in nerving the brawny arms of those youths of the farm and woodlands for this rough exercise.
Drawing the extended blanket as tight as a drumhead, with their united efforts, up they tossed, re-tossed, and received into what threatened to be his winding-sheet, the quivering and terribly-frightened body of the Rev. and very worshipful Inco Evans. Whatever it might be to the parson, (and we do not venture to assert that it was agreeable to him,) the spectator of this singular and unexpected entertainment could not but enjoy it for the comical revolutions of the right rev. gentleman were, to say the least of them, very mirth-inspiring. As he flew upward, all legs and wings, and descended in the same sprawling style, one compared him to a cat shot from a cannon; another to a staked toad tossed in the air; while the hapless victim of their frolic foamed at the mouth with rage, and uncouthly floundered in his attempt to grasp the blanket in his fall. If for a moment he seized its edge, and shouted his threats of vengeance, a terrific bump against the stony street loosened his hold, and up he bounced, again like the rebounding ball, struck on the flag-stone by the eager hand of a merry schoolboy.
Wearied by their arduous labours, and tempted by the shining handful of silver which the woe-begone parson eagerly offered as a conciliatory bribe, they at length desisted, each venting his jest on the crest-fallen Evans, “hoping it would be a warning not to prosecute again a poor friendless girl.” Inco answered not; but finding himself unable to walk, he was carried to the Inn, where he remained some days before he was able to remount his horse.
The knot of swains now separated, and ran in different directions to avoid being recognized as the perpetrators of the “freak;” but soon met again atan appointed place, where they had left our hero, between the empty carts of the ware vendors.
On their arrival at the place, they searched in vain for their enchantress, in whose service they had wrought so gallantly, but no traces of the fair one could they find. There was a general smelling of a trick put upon them, and consequent “curses on all jilting jades, and biting ballad-singers,” uttered by the unlucky clods.
A brilliant idea suddenly struck Ready Rosser. He had taken off his coat and left it in the careful custody of the injured damsel. Where was she? Could she have disappeared? All doubts were soon removed, for on ascertaining the precise spot where he had left her, he found her complete feminine attire, made into a bundle and fastened to a cart with a band of straw, left as a love-gift for him, while she kept his as a similar token of affection; having inscribed with chalk on the side of the cart.—“An exchange is no robbery;” a motto in which our rustic could not see, in its present application, any principles of justice whatever.
Escapeof Twm from Cardigan. Meets an old friend. The heiress of Maes-y-velin, a most tragical legendary ballad.
The addition to his wardrobe pleased Twm exactly, and he had no qualms of conscience to prevent him from using it, for he remembered how easily he had been despoiled of his own. Not being fastidious about a dressing-room, Twm retired to a stable, and soon came out fully clad in his male attire; of which a coat only was before wanting.
Bent on a precipitate retreat, as the urgency of his case demanded, he bolted down St. Mary’s Street, and soon found himself on the turnpike road, withthe good town of Cardigan some miles behind him. In little more than two hours he reached the small town of Dinas Emlyn, now called New-castle-in-Emlyn, on a romantic part of the Teivy, dividing the counties of Cardigan and Carmarthen, and occupying its banks on each side. Entering a small public-house, he regaled himself on the fine potent ale for which that place has been so long famous.
After addressing himself steadily for a good half hour to the pleasures of the table, he commenced a little private conversation with himself regarding his present and future prospects, and came to the conclusion that, on the whole, they were not worth much. Although the most serious cogitations on the subject might have availed little or nothing, chance very unexpectedly decided him, and relieved his apprehensions for the present.
He could hear, in the adjoining room, a pig-drover, whose potations had not only loosened his tongue, but invested it with unusual power, boasting of his roaring trade at Cardigan fair, and he determined to take the same route, wherever it might lead, and on inquiry, found he was going to Llandovery.
The inebriated dealer in cattle, glad of company, stretched out his hand at once and welcomed him as a fellow traveller. About ten o’clock that night they arrived together at Lampeter, which Twm now visited for the second time. The geography of the country being but little known to him, he felt some alarm on finding himself so contiguous to his own native place.
Twm and the pig-drover were getting thoroughly jolly and comfortable over a pot of foaming ale, when Twm caught sight of an old friend. It was worthy Rhys the curate, who had spied him from the little parlour where he had been sitting before his arrival, and now cordially welcomed him to partake of his supper, which was then preparing.
Shaking hands with the elated pig-jobber, from whom he had heard all the mysteries of his calling, and bidding him good night and wishing him successin his future dealings, Twm joyously accepted the curate’s invitation to partake of his evening repast. Supper dispatched, Mr. Rhys informed him that he had left Tregaron for ever, disgusted with the treatment he had met with from old Evans, and was on his way to Llandovery to take possession of the curacy of Llandingad, to which he had been just appointed by the vicar, the reverend Rhys Prichard.
In return, Twm recited his late adventures, colouring them in such a manner as to create a favourable impression on the curate, who laughed heartily at many points of his story, and finished by saying that he had also determined to visit Llandovery in quest of his fortune, which, somehow or another, he thought he should find there.
“Well,” said he, “your fortunes are altogether romantic, and fortitude such as yours is a virtue that becomes us all. Whatever I can do to get you into employment, when you are there, rest assured shall not be wanting.” With this understanding Twm’s hopes were buoyed up to the highest pitch, and to his sanguine mind, became already certainties, which presented themselves in dreams of various felicitous shapes.
They were both early astir the following morning, and were soon on the road, the curate leading his horse by the bridle, that (generous and considerate soul) he might be on a level with Twm. They had nearly reached the top of Pen-y-garreg hill, over which the road leads from Lampeter to Llandovery, while a bright prospect of the newly-risen sun attracted their mutual attention, when the clergyman thus addressed his companion:
“We are now on the spot to be yet immortalized, perhaps, by the legendary muse, for a deed of blood perpetrated here in our own times; when the banks of the impetuous Teivy, now before us, became the scene of a lamentable tragedy. The towers in the distance, are all that now remain of the family mansion ofMaes-y-velin, the fair seat of the ancient family of theVaughans, once of considerable note in this part of the principality. Ten years ago, a young lady and her three brothers, the last of that race, were its possessors. The lady named Ellen, was exceedingly beautiful, and beloved by the son of the venerable Rhys Prichard, the present vicar of Llandovery, whose curate I am now become.
“On the very place where we now stand, the young man tied his handkerchief to the end of a rod, that he held as a flag-staff, which was immediately seen by the heiress of Maes-y-velin; and when she could succeed in getting her brothers out of the way, the signal of love was answered by hoisting her own handkerchief to a branch of a tree above the house, on which, both ran down from their respective hills, till they stood face to face on either side of the Teivy, when the fond lover, whenever the stream was unfordable, dashed into the river, crossed over, and caught the fair one in his arms. Perhaps you would like to hear the tragical story at further length; if so, I have employed my leisure time lately in versifying it, and will now read it to you.”
Twm signifying his willing assent, they took their seats on the side of the hill, when Rhys drew a manuscript from his pocket and read to his attentive auditor
THE HEIRESS OF MAES-Y-VELINandThe Flower of Llandovery.Whatis amiss with the maiden fair,What is the sweet one ailing?—Why pale her cheek, and her spirits lowAnd why up the hill doth she daily go,The heiress of Maes-y-velin?Why are the brows of her brothers dark?Nor mother nor sire hath Ellen;—Her brothers whisper—her steps they watch—The heart of her mystery eager to catch,The maiden of Maes-y-velin.The parents of Ellen her merits knew,And frown’d on her brothers’ vices:Her brothers are disinherited,And Ellen is heiress in either’s stead;Thereat all the land rejoices.Her brothers one day went out to hunt,And alone at home left Ellen;She watch’d them away, then flew to her bower,And cried “Oh now for Llandovery’s Flower!Right welcome to Maes-y-velin.”She hoisted her silken kerchief red,To the highest branch of her bower,To Pen-garreg hill then strained her eyes,And the flag of her hope was seen to rise,’Twas thine, oh Llandovery’s Flower!Long had he watch’d—the faithful youth!His wish each day unavailing.At length he sees with wild delight,His true love’s signal, the lady bright,The heiress of Maes-y-velin.The signal that was chosen between the twain,When absent her stern proud kindred;And then would they rush from either hill,The lovers true, with a right good-will,Till the waters of Teivy sunder’d.Now as ers’t they rush’d, and as ers’t they paused,When arrived on the banks of Teivy,They gazed at each other across the stream,And gestured affection’s high glow supreme,Till the two hearts grew less heavy.In plung’d the youth with most anxious speed,The flower of fair Llandovery,The maiden trembling with wild alarms—She brightens—she sinks in her true lover’s arms,Deem’d lost her past recovery.Oh nature hath many warm generous glows—But they say love’s joys are fleeting;Most dear to her mother her new-born son,And sweet is the fame that’s fairly won,To the blind restor’d, oh the summer’s sunLess sweet than the lovers meeting!Sweet to the donor the generous deed,That serves merit’s child, unweeting;Healing is sweet when gashed by the sword;To the wounded heart, the benevolent word:Oh sweet is the breeze to the sick restored;But sweeter true lover’s greeting.Each flower that flaunts in vanity’s cap,And sets youthful hearts a gadding,Has its charms, its zest,—but the whole above,Is the magical thrill of sweet woman’s love,That drives heart and brain a madding.And fondly loved this youthful pair,The heiress of Maes-y-velin,And he to whom they called Llandovery’s Flower;Oh frequent their meeting and parting hour,Their moments of joy and wailing.Once when they met on Teivy’s banks,Canopied o’er by the wild wood,Mid fragrance of flowers that graced the shade,The youth sung his song, of true lovers betrayed,An ominous song—that drew tears from the maid,For her heart was as simple as childhood.“‘Oh come to the banks of the Teivy with me,To the deep woodland glade, ’neath the shady green tree,Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,In the face of the day and the bright eye of light,That God and his angels may witness our troth,That God and his angels may favour us both.“‘I’ll go the green-wood,’ the lady replied,‘Fore God and his angels be fairly affied,Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,In the face of the day and the bright eye of light;That God and his angels may witness our troth,That God and his angels may favour us both.“So sung a young chief to his lady love,At the base of her tower—she answered above—Vile vassals espied them, and flew to their lord,The lady’s true lover soon fell ’neath his sword;She hurled herself headlong, fulfilling her troth,And Death was the priest that united them both.”PART II.Overthe hill of Pen-garreg roadIs seen that leads from Llandovery,Maes-y-velin’s green hill is opposite,The mansion below—oft on either height,The lovers are making discovery.—But envious eyes were on the watch,And the genius of evil hover’d;The brothers who wish’d their sister unmatch’d,For any approach of a lover watch’d,At length their flags discover’d.They hatch’d a scheme to enmesh the youth,And see him at length on the mountain;His flag they answer—he runs down the hill—Now forth rush the wretches resolved to kill,And waste his youth heart’s warm fountain.Like prey-beasts they hide on the Teivy’s banks,In the covert of thick-leaved bushes;The youth he dashes across the river,And ardent to seek his fond receiver,He seeks her form in the rushes—He deems she plays him at hide and seek,Her heart he knew was gayful—“Oh come from thy covert, my Ellen dear?Oh come forth and meet thy lover here!”He cries in soft accents playful.No Ellen appears—rustling steps he hears—Perhaps some perfidious stranger;—He quits the rushes, and steals to a copse,But there not an instant for breathing stops,Peril’s presentiment suddenly drops,And he flies for his life from danger.He knew not his foes, up the hill he goes,With the speed of the hart that’s hunted:The brothers pursue, till fatigued they grewTo Maes-y-velin his course they knew,And eager revenge is blunted—They saw him enter—“the foe is snared!”Exclaimed the elder brother;“To kill him surely be firmly prepared,Accursed be the arm by which he is spared!Let’s stab him, or drown, or smother.”“Let’s do him dead, and no matter how,And our sister’s fortune is ours;No brats of her’s shall supplant our hope:Prepare we a dagger, a sack, and rope,For brief are the stripling’s hours.”Now rush’d the youth through the mansion door,And fell at the feet of Ellen;Ere he could speak the brothers appear,The maiden shrieks with terrific fear,The heiress of Maes-y-velin.She fell in a swoon, the brothers soonGag and proceed to bind him,His hands they fasten’d behind his back,And over his head they drew a sack,They jump on his body—his rib bones crack,Till a corpse on the ground they find him.Oh God! ’twas a barbarous, bloody deed;’Twas piteous to hear him groaning;A demon’s heart might relent to hearThe sobs of death, and convulsions drear—Oh Christ! is no merciful angel near,Call’d down by this woeful moaning!—Oh murderous fiends! the eye of GodHath flamed on this tearless murder!They grasp at his throat to check his breath—With knees on his breast—oh merciful death!Thou sav’st him from anguish further.And dead in the sack his body they bore,And sunk in a pool of the Teivy;After many days when the corpse was found,No tongue could tell whether smother’d or drown’d,Or crush’d by men’s buffets heavy.Thus fell in its bloom the blameless youth;Insanity seized on Ellen,The lovely maniac! with bosom bare,And eyes of wildness, and streaming hair,Roved frantic o’er Maes-y-velin.She said he was thrown in the Teivy’s stream,The flower of fair Llandovery;She cross’d o’er the hills to his father’s town,And he bless’d the maid like a child of his own;But Ellen was past recovery.Rhys Prichard wept long o’er his murder’d sonAnd buried the hapless Ellen;He curs’d her brothers—the land of their birth—He curs’d their mansion, its hall and hearth,And the curse is on Maes-y-velin.Strong was the curse on the savage race,The murderers and their kindred;Their bosoms possess’d by the furies of hell,Oft vented the scream, the curse, and the yell;All men stood aloof and wonder’d.They quarrell’d and stood forth in mortal strife,Each one oppos’d to the other:They never, oh never! are doom’d to agree,While sharing poor Ellen’s property,To murder their elder brother.And yet the murderers still are foes,Furious and unrelenting;Each coveting all his sister’s share;At length one falls in the other’s snare,Ere yet of his crimes repenting.Now lived the survivor, a man forbid,For murder his brow had branded—Shunn’d by all men, none bade him God speed,But solitude work’d wild remorse for his deed,In madness he seiz’d on a poisonous weed,And in a suicide’s grave he landed.Maes-y-velin became a deserted spot,The roof of the mansion tumbled;The lawns and the gardens o’er-ran with weeds,And reptiles, vile emblems of hellish deeds,Bred there, and the strong walls crumbled.—They crumbled to dust, and fell to the earth,And strangers bought Maes-y-velin;Vain, it is said, their attempts to rebuild,Vain was their labour in garden or field.Snakes, toads, baneful weeds alone they yield.Not a stone to another adhering.The possessors fled, and oft others came,But all their aims unavailing;The peasants protest that at midnight hour,The spirit of Ellen is seen in her bower.While on Pen-gorreg stands Llandovery’s Flower,And shrieks burst from Maes-y-velin.
THE HEIRESS OF MAES-Y-VELINandThe Flower of Llandovery.
Whatis amiss with the maiden fair,What is the sweet one ailing?—Why pale her cheek, and her spirits lowAnd why up the hill doth she daily go,The heiress of Maes-y-velin?
Why are the brows of her brothers dark?Nor mother nor sire hath Ellen;—Her brothers whisper—her steps they watch—The heart of her mystery eager to catch,The maiden of Maes-y-velin.
The parents of Ellen her merits knew,And frown’d on her brothers’ vices:Her brothers are disinherited,And Ellen is heiress in either’s stead;Thereat all the land rejoices.
Her brothers one day went out to hunt,And alone at home left Ellen;She watch’d them away, then flew to her bower,And cried “Oh now for Llandovery’s Flower!Right welcome to Maes-y-velin.”
She hoisted her silken kerchief red,To the highest branch of her bower,To Pen-garreg hill then strained her eyes,And the flag of her hope was seen to rise,’Twas thine, oh Llandovery’s Flower!
Long had he watch’d—the faithful youth!His wish each day unavailing.At length he sees with wild delight,His true love’s signal, the lady bright,The heiress of Maes-y-velin.
The signal that was chosen between the twain,When absent her stern proud kindred;And then would they rush from either hill,The lovers true, with a right good-will,Till the waters of Teivy sunder’d.
Now as ers’t they rush’d, and as ers’t they paused,When arrived on the banks of Teivy,They gazed at each other across the stream,And gestured affection’s high glow supreme,Till the two hearts grew less heavy.
In plung’d the youth with most anxious speed,The flower of fair Llandovery,The maiden trembling with wild alarms—She brightens—she sinks in her true lover’s arms,Deem’d lost her past recovery.
Oh nature hath many warm generous glows—But they say love’s joys are fleeting;Most dear to her mother her new-born son,And sweet is the fame that’s fairly won,To the blind restor’d, oh the summer’s sunLess sweet than the lovers meeting!
Sweet to the donor the generous deed,That serves merit’s child, unweeting;Healing is sweet when gashed by the sword;To the wounded heart, the benevolent word:Oh sweet is the breeze to the sick restored;But sweeter true lover’s greeting.
Each flower that flaunts in vanity’s cap,And sets youthful hearts a gadding,Has its charms, its zest,—but the whole above,Is the magical thrill of sweet woman’s love,That drives heart and brain a madding.
And fondly loved this youthful pair,The heiress of Maes-y-velin,And he to whom they called Llandovery’s Flower;Oh frequent their meeting and parting hour,Their moments of joy and wailing.
Once when they met on Teivy’s banks,Canopied o’er by the wild wood,Mid fragrance of flowers that graced the shade,The youth sung his song, of true lovers betrayed,An ominous song—that drew tears from the maid,For her heart was as simple as childhood.
“‘Oh come to the banks of the Teivy with me,To the deep woodland glade, ’neath the shady green tree,Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,In the face of the day and the bright eye of light,That God and his angels may witness our troth,That God and his angels may favour us both.
“‘I’ll go the green-wood,’ the lady replied,‘Fore God and his angels be fairly affied,Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,In the face of the day and the bright eye of light;That God and his angels may witness our troth,That God and his angels may favour us both.
“So sung a young chief to his lady love,At the base of her tower—she answered above—Vile vassals espied them, and flew to their lord,The lady’s true lover soon fell ’neath his sword;She hurled herself headlong, fulfilling her troth,And Death was the priest that united them both.”
PART II.
Overthe hill of Pen-garreg roadIs seen that leads from Llandovery,Maes-y-velin’s green hill is opposite,The mansion below—oft on either height,The lovers are making discovery.—
But envious eyes were on the watch,And the genius of evil hover’d;The brothers who wish’d their sister unmatch’d,For any approach of a lover watch’d,At length their flags discover’d.
They hatch’d a scheme to enmesh the youth,And see him at length on the mountain;His flag they answer—he runs down the hill—Now forth rush the wretches resolved to kill,And waste his youth heart’s warm fountain.
Like prey-beasts they hide on the Teivy’s banks,In the covert of thick-leaved bushes;The youth he dashes across the river,And ardent to seek his fond receiver,He seeks her form in the rushes—
He deems she plays him at hide and seek,Her heart he knew was gayful—“Oh come from thy covert, my Ellen dear?Oh come forth and meet thy lover here!”He cries in soft accents playful.
No Ellen appears—rustling steps he hears—Perhaps some perfidious stranger;—He quits the rushes, and steals to a copse,But there not an instant for breathing stops,Peril’s presentiment suddenly drops,And he flies for his life from danger.
He knew not his foes, up the hill he goes,With the speed of the hart that’s hunted:The brothers pursue, till fatigued they grewTo Maes-y-velin his course they knew,And eager revenge is blunted—
They saw him enter—“the foe is snared!”Exclaimed the elder brother;“To kill him surely be firmly prepared,Accursed be the arm by which he is spared!Let’s stab him, or drown, or smother.”
“Let’s do him dead, and no matter how,And our sister’s fortune is ours;No brats of her’s shall supplant our hope:Prepare we a dagger, a sack, and rope,For brief are the stripling’s hours.”
Now rush’d the youth through the mansion door,And fell at the feet of Ellen;Ere he could speak the brothers appear,The maiden shrieks with terrific fear,The heiress of Maes-y-velin.
She fell in a swoon, the brothers soonGag and proceed to bind him,His hands they fasten’d behind his back,And over his head they drew a sack,They jump on his body—his rib bones crack,Till a corpse on the ground they find him.
Oh God! ’twas a barbarous, bloody deed;’Twas piteous to hear him groaning;A demon’s heart might relent to hearThe sobs of death, and convulsions drear—Oh Christ! is no merciful angel near,Call’d down by this woeful moaning!—
Oh murderous fiends! the eye of GodHath flamed on this tearless murder!They grasp at his throat to check his breath—With knees on his breast—oh merciful death!Thou sav’st him from anguish further.
And dead in the sack his body they bore,And sunk in a pool of the Teivy;After many days when the corpse was found,No tongue could tell whether smother’d or drown’d,Or crush’d by men’s buffets heavy.
Thus fell in its bloom the blameless youth;Insanity seized on Ellen,The lovely maniac! with bosom bare,And eyes of wildness, and streaming hair,Roved frantic o’er Maes-y-velin.
She said he was thrown in the Teivy’s stream,The flower of fair Llandovery;She cross’d o’er the hills to his father’s town,And he bless’d the maid like a child of his own;But Ellen was past recovery.
Rhys Prichard wept long o’er his murder’d sonAnd buried the hapless Ellen;He curs’d her brothers—the land of their birth—He curs’d their mansion, its hall and hearth,And the curse is on Maes-y-velin.
Strong was the curse on the savage race,The murderers and their kindred;Their bosoms possess’d by the furies of hell,Oft vented the scream, the curse, and the yell;All men stood aloof and wonder’d.
They quarrell’d and stood forth in mortal strife,Each one oppos’d to the other:They never, oh never! are doom’d to agree,While sharing poor Ellen’s property,To murder their elder brother.
And yet the murderers still are foes,Furious and unrelenting;Each coveting all his sister’s share;At length one falls in the other’s snare,Ere yet of his crimes repenting.
Now lived the survivor, a man forbid,For murder his brow had branded—Shunn’d by all men, none bade him God speed,But solitude work’d wild remorse for his deed,In madness he seiz’d on a poisonous weed,And in a suicide’s grave he landed.
Maes-y-velin became a deserted spot,The roof of the mansion tumbled;The lawns and the gardens o’er-ran with weeds,And reptiles, vile emblems of hellish deeds,Bred there, and the strong walls crumbled.—
They crumbled to dust, and fell to the earth,And strangers bought Maes-y-velin;Vain, it is said, their attempts to rebuild,Vain was their labour in garden or field.Snakes, toads, baneful weeds alone they yield.Not a stone to another adhering.
The possessors fled, and oft others came,But all their aims unavailing;The peasants protest that at midnight hour,The spirit of Ellen is seen in her bower.While on Pen-gorreg stands Llandovery’s Flower,And shrieks burst from Maes-y-velin.
Twm had listened with the most earnest attention to the terrible account, and rivetted his eyes on Maes-y-velin, the two hills, the banks of the Teivy, and scenes now subordinate to the modern grandeur of the new college of Lampeter; and still remaining silent, seemed, by the force of his imagination, to bring before his eyes the whole action of this domestic tragedy. Rhys assured him that all the particulars of the murder, as narrated in the ballad, were well authenticated, both by the evidence of the unhappy young lady herself, and that of a countryman who beheld the murderers bearing the body by night, and who distinctly saw, as the moon shone upon them while in the act of casting their burden into the river, the shining spurs of the murdered youth, projecting from the end of the sack which contained his body. But in so disorderly a state was the country at the time, from the civil wars between the king and the parliament, that no cognizance was taken of the atrocious circumstance.[165]After these remarks, they got up from their grassy resting-place, and re-commenced their walk to Llandovery.
Asermonon mountains and country labourers. Twm retaliates upon Dio the devil, with whom he returns in triumph to Llandovery. The lady of Ystrad Feen, and Twm’s gallant service in her behalf.
As they advanced on their journey, which was amongst a most mountainous country, Twm expressed his wonder at seeing the turf-cutters and haymakers following their avocations almost side by side in this wild district. “Well,” cried he, “I know that much has been said, sung and written, in praise of mountain scenery; and where ’tis truly romantic as well as wild, I am a great lover of it myself; but this is not to my liking—it is too dead in its deserted appearance for me. Here no sound salutes the ear but the lonely cry of a few melancholy kites, hungry enough to prey upon one another; and no object strikes the eye but the flat, tame desert, and a few wretched cottages thinly scattered over this desolate region, whose inhabitants are miserably employed in scooping peat from the marsh for their fires, or cutting their bald thin crop of hay from the unenclosed mountain—the gwair rhos cwtta, or moor hay, which dispensing with the incumbrance of a cart or sledge, the women carry home in their aprons, as the winter maintenance of a half-starved cow. To me, there is nothing that associates more with squalid poverty than turf fires: the crackling faggot and the Christmas log, have their rustic characteristics; coal has its proud and solid warmth; the clay-and-culm fires of Cardigan and Pembrokeshire, formed of balls, and fantastically arranged by the industrious hands of fair maidens, are bright and durable, revealing the gay faces of the cheerful semi-circular group—and above all, the smokeless cleanly stone coal; but turf, smoky, ill-savoured, ash-creating, dusty turf—recalls the marsh and moor, rain-loaded skies, and fern-thatched cottages,whose battered roofs swept by the blast, discover the rotten rafters grinning like the bare ribs of poverty; worse than all, the joyless faces of the toil-bowed children of the desert. The old stanza is quite to my mind when it says—
“How gay seems the valley with rich waving wheat,Fair hands and fair houses, with shelters so neat;While the whole feather’d choir to delight us conspires,There’s nought on the mountain but turf and turf fires.”
“How gay seems the valley with rich waving wheat,Fair hands and fair houses, with shelters so neat;While the whole feather’d choir to delight us conspires,There’s nought on the mountain but turf and turf fires.”
“And besides that,” added Twm, “I can give you a few rhyming lines of my own, bearing in the same direction. Here they are,
Three things—to my mind each with loveliness teems;A vale between mountains that’s threaded by streams;A neat white-wall’d cottage, ’mid gardens and trees;And a young married pair that appreciate these.”
Three things—to my mind each with loveliness teems;A vale between mountains that’s threaded by streams;A neat white-wall’d cottage, ’mid gardens and trees;And a young married pair that appreciate these.”
“Well,” replied Rhys, “do not let us find too much fault with these scenes, for the recollection of what our mountain land has been, would induce me to kiss the sod of its dullest region, when I remember how it became the refuge of our war-worsted fore-fathers in the days of old, as the star of liberty seemed to vanish for ever from our sphere.” The curate grew warm with his subject, and his eyes kindled with enthusiasm as he proceeded. “I could as soon twit my beloved mother with the furrows which Time has ploughed on her honoured brows, as censure the homeliest part of our dear mountains, hallowed of old by the tread of freemen, when the despot foreigner usurped the valleys.
“Freedom, amid a cloudy clime,Erects her mountain throne sublime,While natives of the vales and plainsAre gall’d with yokes and slavish chains—Then shrink we ne’er, unnerved as bann’dIn the cloudy clime of the Mountain Land.Turban’d in her folds of mistOur Mountain Land the sky has kiss’d,While on her brow the native wreathOf yellow furze and purple heathThe rural reign her vales command,And the freeman’s sword of the Mountain Land.”
“Freedom, amid a cloudy clime,Erects her mountain throne sublime,While natives of the vales and plainsAre gall’d with yokes and slavish chains—Then shrink we ne’er, unnerved as bann’dIn the cloudy clime of the Mountain Land.
Turban’d in her folds of mistOur Mountain Land the sky has kiss’d,While on her brow the native wreathOf yellow furze and purple heathThe rural reign her vales command,And the freeman’s sword of the Mountain Land.”
Twm accepted the remarks of Rhys as rebukes, for his own depreciatory observations on his native country, and was about to clear himself from all suspicion of lack of nationality; when the latter, looking up at the sun, declared the day so far advanced that he must instantly mount his horse and ride with speed, so as to meet the vicar of Llandovery at the place appointed; on which, directing Twm on the route he was to take, he rode off and left him to pursue his way at leisure.
Thus left alone, Twm prepared for a lengthened walk, and pursued his way in thoughtful silence for many miles, but was at length brought to a stand by the discovery that the way he trod had ceased to be either a road or beaten path; and that he was actually pacing the trackless mountain, with the disagreeable conviction that he had gone wrong, without a clue to recover the right way.
Taking a careful and critical view of the surrounding country, he came to the conclusion that there must be a road throughbwlch, or gap, which he perceived dividing the mountains at some distance. He entered it, and hastened on with the utmost alacrity, till he came to a cottage on the road side, opposite to which was an immense rick of turf, that at a distance looked like a long black barn. He called at the cottage, and asked if he was right in his route to Llandovery, “Right!” squeaked a thin old man who met him at the door, “God bless you young man, you could not be more wrong, as your back is to Llandovery, and you are making straight for Trecastle.”
Twm’s face indicated his deep chagrin, as he listened to the response, and the old man seeing him vexed, asked him to walk in and rest himself, an invitation that he gladly accepted. “What, I suppose you thought to be at Llandovery to hear the great preaching there to-day?” said the man’s wife, a littlefat woman who was carding wool by the fire. “No,” replied Twm, “I never heard of any preaching that is to be there.” “That’s very odd,” rejoined the old man, “as the whole country has been crowding there to hear the good Rhys Prichard, the great vicar of Llandovery.” “I have heard he is very popular,” said Twm.
“Popular!” screamed the weazon-faced old man, as if indignant at the coldness of our hero’s eulogy, “he is the shining light of our times, and hardly less than a prophet; wisely has he called his divine book theWelshman’s Candle, for it blazes with exceeding brightness, and men find their way by it from the darkness of perdition. When it is known that his health permits him to preach, the country hereabouts is up in swarms, to the distance of two score miles and more. Then, the farmer forsakes his cornfield, the chapman his shop, and every tradesman and artizan quits his calling, to listen to the music of his discourse. Infirmity alone has kept me from going to hear him to-day; but my wife is no better than an infidel, and would rather listen to a profane fiddler, or a vagrant harper, than the finest preacher that ever breathed out a pious discourse.”
This was too much for any woman to listen quietly to, without saying a word or two in reply, and his spouse assured Twm that he was a miserable dreamer, whose brains had been turned by the ravings of fanatical preachers; that some months ago he ran three miles, howling, thinking he was pursued by the foul fiend, when it turned out to be only his own shadow; and that when a patch of the mountain furze was set on a blaze to fertilize the land, nothing could convince him that the world was not on fire, and the day of judgment come, till he caught an ague by hiding himself up to the chin in the river for twelve hours.
“Facts are stubborn things,” and as these were most unpleasant ones to be served up at his cost, for the entertainment of a stranger, the old man’s reply was angry and indignant, and the war of words seemed likely to degenerate into one of actual blows, whenthe violent galloping of a horse drew their attention, and in an instant a steed and rider passed the door; but suddenly checking his speed he returned, and calling at the cottage door, asking in a tone of authority if a lady had passed that way towards Llandovery within the last half hour.
The old man, trembling as he spoke, protested that no lady had passed for many hours; on which the bluff horseman told him as he valued his life, that neither he nor his wife should appear on the outside of the cottage door till he gave them leave. The old man assured him of his entire obedience, when the fellow quietly crossed the road, and effectually concealed himself and horse behind the opposite turf-stack.
This scene had received all attention from Twm, who had recognized in the despotic horseman, his late dearly-remembered friend, Dio the devil. He suspected Dio’s intentions and prepared forthwith to take part in some approaching business in which his presence had not been reckoned upon. He asked the timorous old cottager if he possessed such a thing as a long-handled hedge bill-hook, to which the poor dotard, his teeth chattering the while, replied in the negative. On searching the cottage, with the assistance of his mistress, to his great vexation he could find no weapon, but a blunt old hatchet, and a rusty reaping hook.
While they were yet seeking, Twm’s ear, sharpened to the utmost by the excitement and impending danger, heard another horse approaching, his heart caught fire at the sound, and with almost fierce vehemence he called to the people of the cottage, “Give me some weapon in the name of God! to defend you and myself from having our throats cut;” but it only increased their terror and confusion.
As he still spoke, there stopped opposite the cottage, a lady on a beautiful white horse, and the horseman darted forward from behind the turf-rick, and producing pistols demanded her money. The lady protested, in the most piteous and earnest tone, that she had accidentally left her purse behind and must be indebted toa friend at Llandovery, should she fail to meet her husband there, for some small change.
A momentary thrill, mysteriously strange and unaccountable, overcame our hero, as he caught a view of the lady’s face, and recognized one that he felt certain he had seen before; and when, or where, he could not recollect; and the enquiring thought was checked in its birth by the consideration of her present danger. “I’ll not be disappointed for nothing,” cried the ruffian, “Dio the devil is not to be fooled, and my pretty lady of Ystrad Feen, I have depended on a good booty from you to-day, so that unless in two minutes you strip, and give me every article in which you are clothed, a pistol bullet shall pass through your fair and delicate body.”
The fair horseman begged for consideration, and promised a liberal reward for any mercy shown to her. But the scoundrel laughed scornfully in her face, and cocked his pistol, on which she uttered a loud scream and fainted, when he immediately approached to dismount, strip, and rifle her.
Our hero whose blood was boiling with honest indignation, now started up from behind the lady’s horse, and struck the highwayman an astounding blow on the temples, with a stout hedge-stake grasped with both hands, and repeated that delicate treatment till it brought the desperado senseless to the ground. After the first terrible blow, confused as he was, he instinctively presented his pistol at random, but Twm struck him heavily on the extended arm, which caused it to fall like a withered oak branch smote by the thunderbolt.
In a few minutes the lady began to recover under the kind and attentive treatment of the old woman, who bathed her face with water. How Twm was rewarded by the deeply grateful expression on her countenance! Truly he had delivered her from peril, but into what a difficulty had he brought himself! He was in love; over head and ears. The fair one appeared to be still in dread of other dangers, but Twm, in the gentlest manner, assured her of her entire safety, and that he would have the happiness of conducting and protectingher to Llandovery, where he intended to bring the highwayman dead or alive, and deliver him, with an account of the whole affair, to the magistrate.
Poor Twm! The lady praising his courage, informed him that she was the wife of Sir George Devereaux, and that her husband would not allow his services to pass without pecuniary reward. Poor Twm! in love with another man’s wife, and that man with an aristocratic handle to his name. “For my own part,” continued she, “as I assured the merciless highwayman, I am at present without my purse, having left it accidentally at the house of a poor sick person, whom I relieved, and stayed with many hours this morning, by which delay I have missed hearing the sermon preached to-day by the Rev. Rhys Prichard.”
Twm declared he did not in the least feel himself entitled to any reward; sufficient for him was the approval of so beautiful and amiable a lady; but that he had another gratification in the action he had performed, as it was his fortune to have punished the man who had once stopped him on the highway and robbed him of his little all. Our hero felt quite sure he had seen the lady before, and in endeavouring to remember where, he fell into a silent reverie; from which, however, he was suddenly roused by the loud groaning of his wounded captive.
The fears of the old man had driven him beneath the rickety old bedstead, and no threat nor offer of reward could induce him to leave his retreat, where he lay exclaiming, “Oh Lord! oh dear! I shall surely have my throat cut.” The lady of Ystrad Feen, however, alighted and lent an active hand in binding the thief, still insensible, with old halters contributed by the fat woman of the cottage, who also gave all possible assistance; so that with their united aid Twm soon got him across his own horse, like a sack of barley, and secured him by tying him neck and heels under the horse’s belly. Our elated hero leaped into the saddle, and rode side by side with the lady of YstradFeen, and conversing freely with her, no longer embarrassed with his former bashfulness, till they reached Llandovery.
The good people of the town were just leaving Llandingad church, and were considerably astonished with what they saw, and Twm and his fair companion were soon surrounded by a large and curious crowd. Sir George Devereaux, a ruddy and hearty fox-hunting Baronet, came up and assisted his lady to alight, Mr. Rhys the curate approached Twm, and each in a few minutes was in possession of the whole story. The baronet eagerly grasped our hero by the hand, and assured him of his protection and favour to the utmost of his power; declaring at the same time that no possible reward could equal his deserts or repay his services.
All were delighted to hear of the defeat and capture of Dio the Devil, as, with very few exceptions, the farmers of that district had suffered from the highwayman’s depredations, and a subscription was immediately raised, to reward the captor; so that our hero was soon in possession of a sum of no less than ten pounds, in addition to five more that the county awarded.
Twm and Mr. Rhys received an invitation to dinner for the following day, at Ystrad Feen, where Sir George promised them good entertainment, and added that they would decide in what manner our hero’s gallant service could be best repaid. As for Dio the Devil, when the constables advanced to unloose him, it was discovered that he was dead. “Dead as a fox within the jaws of Juno!” exclaimed Sir George, as the lifeless robber fell heavily on the ground, amid the crowd of spectators.
Twmremains at Ystrad Feen. The vicar of Llandovery. A famous run with the hounds. An enthusiastic hunter’s leap.
Twm took up his abode, for the time, at a tavern recommended by Mr. Rhys, where, being decidedly the hero of the day, he was surrounded by a large company, all anxious to minister to the bodily wants of so brave a fellow, and wishful to hear the details of his desperate encounter with the famous robber, from the lips of Twm himself. Cautioned by the worthy curate, however, his potations were rather limited; and urging his fatigue as an excuse for retiring, he soon left his admirers, and slept on a bed of roses.
At an early hour Mr. Rhys awoke Twm, and told him that they were invited to breakfast with the Rev. Rhys Prichard, who had expressed a desire to see the brave young man that had captured the highway robber. This invitation was the more acceptable to Twm, as he was exceedingly anxious to see so celebrated a character as the vicar of Llandovery; though no less for his pious than his poetical celebrity, and more especially the association of his name with his own family calamity, in the death of his son Samuel, poetically called the “Flower of Llandovery,” at the murderous hands of the young men of Maes-y-velin, as before related.
Twm was desirous to change his country suit for something better, and commenced negotiations with Mr. Rhys, for the purchase of one of the latest clerical cut from him. The worthy curate, however, cut him short, and generously presented him with one a little the worse for wear, that as the mass of mankind were apt to judge by external appearances, an appropriategarb would aid even a man of merit in making a favourable impression.
The house of the vicar of Llandovery was among the best in the town; a well built strong mansion, distinguished from all others by a neat small cupola on the top, for a bell, to call the boys to school. Twm and Rhys waited in the breakfast parlour about half an hour, filling up the time by noticing and remarking on the well-waxed oaken floor and furniture, that, with the prints of some of the English martyrs, with which the room was hung, gave it something of a gloomy appearance; and in skimming over some dusty old volumes of divinity, till the clock struck six.
The worthy vicar received his visitors with a few brief but courteous sentences, in which he quietly yet earnestly expressed his gratification at their presence. Breakfast was preceded by prayers; after which came in bowls of milk and hot cakes, with cold meat, butter and cheese, and ale. Twm looked at his venerable host with awed reverence. This eminent character was of a tall, stately figure; his hair white as wool, his face pale, and rather long, with a countenance beaming with sedate benignity. He regarded Twm for some time with silent attention, and afterwards made a few enquiries respecting his recent feat, which when answered, he indulged in some pious ejaculations on the fortunate event.
Their host compared the physical capacity and appearance of Twm to the well developed and robust figure of Dio the Devil, and referred to the scriptural records of the combat between David and Goliah; strictly charging the fortunate youth to take no credit to himself for the achievement, as he was but an humble instrument in a mighty hand, and for a special purpose unknown to the actors of the scenes themselves.
All justice having been done to the good things before them, grace was said, and Twm received some excellent advice from the celebrated divine, whoplaced twenty shillings and a copy of his “Welshman’s Candle” in the hand of Twm; and after shaking him warmly by the hand, he saw the pair to the door and bade them farewell.
In an hour or so afterwards, Rhys and Twm prepared for departure to Ystrad Feen, the latter mounting the noble hunter which Dio the Devil had so lately bestrode in all his arrogant pride. The road was entirely over the mountains, through diversified scenery of much interest. At times it ran above the edge of a deep ravine; at others, hills overtopped them, in peaks of various, fantastic forms; till a length succeeded the tame and flat moorland, abounding with wild ducks and various aquatic and mountain fowl. These scenes were soon left behind, and others of a different character succeeded, tamed to softer beauty by the indefatigable hand of industrious man.
Passing through a small ravine at the base of a well-wooded hill, they emerged suddenly upon a view which embraces the rural chapel of Boiley, the ornamented estate of Ystrad Feen, the hill of Dinas, and a glimpse of the river Towey. The ancient mansion of Ystrad Feen they found most romantically situated, terminating a sloping descent from the mountain, with a roaring alpine brook falling headlong through its rocky bed, at the back; while the high conical hill of Dinas stood, an object of singular beauty, in front; and the background was occupied by an almost endless perspective of forest, vale and mountain.
They entered the farm-yard, which occupied one side of the house, in which stood several large elms and oaks, and, here and there, a huge hollow yew, that associated well with the antique appearance of the house.
They were expected, for the baronet and his lady were awaiting their arrival, and hastened, as they appeared, to give them hearty welcome. It wanted about a couple of hours to dinner time, which interim Sir George wished to fill up by introducing them to his fox-hounds and pigs, while his lady urgedthe superior attractions of the lawn and flower-garden, to the terror of the sporting baronet, who seemed to consider her taste not only questionable, but absolutely depraved. Sir George shook his comical head in a comical manner, inferring a protest against their choice, when the young men decided on seeing the garden first, and the kennel and pig-stye after; a preference that seemed to involve an absolute inversion of the order of things, apparently, to his thinking.
What a contrast there was between the lady of Ystrad Feen and her lord and master! Twm’s attention was almost entirely taken up with the sweet and unaffected grace of the lady; but we must be impartial and take some notice of her husband. Sir George was a spare and somewhat tall figure, the erectness of which was frequently disturbed by what at first appeared some constitutional fidgetiness—a habit of perpetually drawing up, and letting down, his right shoulder; while he conversed in jerking short sentences, never standing still an instant when speaking. These peculiarities, at first sight, gave him the appearance of a man afflicted with St. Vitus’s dance; and affected the observer with the repulsive sensations endured by those who, from delicacy towards the afflicted, aim to conceal their notice of a personal blemish or deformity.
But this strange habit had its source in a fox-hunting accident that occurred in a chase wherein Sir George, in the heat and ardour of the pursuit, leapt down a terrific precipice in which the fox had sought cover. His noble hunter, named Dare-devil, was killed by the achievement of this feat, his own neck nearly broken, and his shoulder so dislocated and otherwise injured, that no surgical skill could cure him of the nervous affection which caused the continual restlessness alluded to.
Sir George, however, gloried in his dearly-bought triumph, and boasted like a veteran detailing the particulars of a famous battle in which he had figured;winding up his narrative with—“glorious and remarkable hunt—the world never saw the like—and I was solus in at the death—in a hell-hole that none but myself dared approach.”
His face was no less curious than his figure. He was rather small featured, with very light blue eyes; indeed so exceedingly light that they were often described as literally white; and when he gazed, with the wildness of imperfect consciousness, caused by indulgence in the potent cup, might give no inapt idea of Pygmalion’s marble statue, on its first wild stare when imbued with inward light and life; although his merry neighbour, Squire Prothero, summed their description up, less classically, as the nearest approach to a boiled salmon’s eyes, or the lack-lustre dullness of a couple of baked gooseberries. His face was fair, and much freckled in the upper part; while a shock head of closely-curling red hair, and white, or rather sandy eyebrows, concludes the description of this strange piece of eccentric manhood.
The walk through the garden was by no means to his taste. He did not understand flowers, and could not restrain his expression of impatience, protesting that there was nothing worth seeing there. “Besides,” added he, with the gravity of a philosopher who aimed to eradicate a vulgar error, and instil a superior principle, “flowers are bad—a great evil—showy nuisance—bank of violets often a snare to the hounds—like beauty to the boy, to lure him from the paths of duty;—but come and see my kennel—finest dogs in the world—no false charms there—they say truth’s hid in a well—all a mistake—she’s hid in the snouts of my fox-hounds;—strong as bulls, and swift as hell—a cannon ball’s a fool to them—deadly as the doctor wherever they rush—but what’s your name, my young Cæsar of the Welsh mountains, hey?”
Twm was too busy with the lady of Ystrad Feen to listen to the rattling tongue of Sir George, and Mr. Rhys hastened to give the story of Twm’s parentage, dwelling with much emphasis on the cruelneglect of his father, Sir John Wynn of Gwydir; and, in conclusion, he said his friend’s name, derived from his humble mother as well as from his stately father, was Thomas ap John a Catty, familiarized into Twm Shon Catty; but that which he intended to adopt, and desired to be known by, was Thomas Jones.
The promenade had, in the fox-hunter’s opinion, been unreasonably prolonged, and he hailed with delight their approach to his sanctum sanctorum, the dog-kennel, where he anticipated the delight of his visitors, when—how shall we express the intensity of his disappointment!—a voice struck on his ear, like the croak of the bird of ill-omen with the intelligence of “dinner waits!”
Fain would he have horse-whipped the intruding messenger, and expatiated with his friends on the absurdity of eating dinners, when the sublimer pastime of entering a kennel of fox-hounds was offered to them. But before he found words to his purpose he had the mortification to see his auditors accompany his lady wife into the house, where, musing on their questionable taste, he followed them.
We need not dwell on the delicacy of the viands, the rarity of the wines, the jocularity of Squire Prothero, the laughing magistrate, who dropped in and joined them after dinner; the beauty and fascination of Miss Meredith, the lady’s companion, who almost made a conquest of the heart of poor Rhys—and, above all, the captivating sweetness of our heroine, the young hostess! and other interesting details. But we must find space to say that a short hunt was got up, contrary to usual custom, in the evening, to save the baronet from dying of chagrin for his failure of exhibiting his animal treasures to his guests before dinner.
A young fox being started, our hero acquitted himself so amazingly to the satisfaction of his host by the most daring feats of leaping and yelling out, in the fox-hunter’s strain, “yoy, yoy, hark forward, wind him Juno!” and many other such expressions, that Sir George inthe ecstacy of his feelings almost wept in the contemplation of such a promising genius, vowing that a year’s tuition under his first whipper-in would make him a truly great man, and a fit companion of princes. Grasping his hand with the tenacity of a blacksmith’s vice, he vowed that from that moment he had engrossed his name upon his heart, high on the list of his most choice friends.
Sir George was not one who limited his friendship to profession only; and, having learned from Twm his position in life, he became desirous to aid him permanently, and put him on the road to fortune, knowing right well that if he had only a glimpse of it, that he was wide awake enough never again to lose sight of it. He lost many nights’ rest in striving to settle this knotty point, and at last determined that he should live with him on the footing of a friend; indeed so necessary had he become to him in his hunts, that he at length declared it was impossible to part with him.
Thus, as an inmate of Ystrad Feen, Twm spent some of the happiest days of his life, for the best part of this, and the following year. Alternately hunting with the baronet and reading with his lady, who called him her hero, and made him an absolute show lion among her friends, Twm could not but feel this, as a remarkable contrast to the wretched life passed at the house of Morris Greeg.
Twm also enjoyed many happy hours with his staunch friend Rhys, at the houses of the surrounding rural potentates, where, on account of his brave reputation, and for his ready wit, so unsparingly lavished by him wherever he went, he speedily became a favourite. We shall close this somewhat long chapter with the relation of one of these adventures which gave universal satisfaction to his friends, and became the subject of remark and wonderment for many a year.
Llandovery was just at this time honoured by a visit from a London buck, who, thoroughly convinced of the utter darkness and benighted state of that retired district, had charitably come to reside amongst themiserable inhabitants thereof, that they might know and understand what civilization meant, as evinced in his own proper and illustrious person. He took a very ungracious way of teaching the important fact, for he did nothing but boast of the immense superiority of everything appertaining to his glorious self, and depreciate that which belonged to others.
Mr. Tomkins (that was his euphonious title) insisted that his gun, his fishing tackle, his boots, the cut of his coat, and everything that was his, was better than those belonging to any body else. But if there was one object above all others that engrossed his volubility, it was the praise of his horse; daily did he ring the changes on his wonderful animal, his feats, his beauty, blood, and pedigree, at every house where he visited.