FineArts at a discount. Hungry Moses, whose appetite was his ruin. New tricks and jokes on Ready Rosser. Parson Inco once more.
Twm left Ystrad Feen in no enviable state of mind. He was in a similar temper to that of a child when deprived of a favourite toy, and as he urged his horse with speed in the direction of Llandovery, he determined never to place faith in woman again,—a resolution which underwent some slight modification before he reached the “Cat and Fiddle,” a diminutive-looking ale-house, where for the present he decided to take up his quarters.
Notwithstanding his chagrin, he could not help smiling at this whimsical sign, then newly painted,—a droll-faced creature of the feline race, drawn, as an enthusiast in melody, erect on her hind feet, her eyes turned up in ecstacy, while her open mouth seemed to be mewing music, or tow-rowing harmony at a fine rate, in concord with the fiddle that she handled with the most artist-like taste, and professional gravity. If the sign was to his taste, a sort of homely snuggery in the form of a small parlour, and a good-humoured-looking fat landlady, were no less so.
Dinah Dew, the widowed mistress of the Cat and Fiddle informed him that she owed her sign to the skill of a poor tramping painter, who had run into her debt, to the enormous amount of five shillings and sevenpence half-penny, for board, washing, lodging, and drinking: and the poor fellow being pennilessand without work, “I let him free,” said she, “for the sign, and gave him a shilling and a brown loaf over.”
This liberal patronage of the fine arts, (for the sign included music, poetry, and painting,) gave Twm a favourable opinion of his hostess. She apologized to him for the absence of her hostler, and said he was a poor ragged fellow with a pregnant wife, and two children; by trade a mat and basket maker; also a waiter at two other taverns; and an occasional husbandry servant with several farmers, who employed him in their busy times. “The fellow is well enough,” said the little round woman, “but for his cormorant appetite; and eat what he may, he never looks better for it. Indeed your horse would scarcely be safe with him, but that this is not the most hungry time of year.”
“I knew such another once,” thought Twm, his mind reverting to the hungry house of Morris Greeg; as he went forward on his walk over the fields. The said “hostler” soon overtook him, to ask his commands about his horse. Twm looked with compassion on the ragged Guy Fawkes figure before him, and conceived that he might earn a fair livelihood by merely walking over the farmer’s grounds, as all the kites and crows must inevitably flap their departing wings at his approach. Twm looked into a keen pair of ferret eyes, that glistened above a high-bridged parrot nose, and found no difficulty in identifying the miserable Moses of past days.
Twm’s spirit of joking was rampant within him, notwithstanding the morning’s vexations, and he determined upon having a little fun, in refreshing Moses’s memory regarding a few incidents which were best forgotten. Assuming an attitude of tremendous importance, and overwhelming authority, he commenced:
“You are the very fellow I have been long seeking. You ran away from the comfortable and very plentiful house of Morris Greeg, in Cardiganshire; after having in concert with a young scamp, named Twm Shon Catty, eaten all his pork and mutton.” Moses started andlooked blue as indigo. “I’ll have thee put in stocks, and taken back to the house of that generous and most injured man,” cried Twm, in the tone of a jack-in-office.
Compassionating the perplexity of the poor devil, he caught his hand and cried, “Don’t you know me?—Twm, your former fellow-starveling.” “Well, well! who could have thought it!” cried the astonished Moses; “dear, dear, what a many good dinners you must have had to make you look so well.”
Twm assured him, he should have dinners too, if he behaved himself, but charged him to be silent as to their former acquaintance. Moses so bounced and bounded up, in token of his rapture, that Twm feared the wind would bear away the poor creature like a paper kite from him.
Poor fellow! anticipating warmth and comfort from such a proceeding, he married a very fat widow of a butcher, who was accomplished in her husband’s calling. Moses had often sought the pleasant shelter of her slaughter-house, and amusingly admired the dexterous and delicate manner in which she cut the throats, and flayed the hides off the subjects that she operated on; inasmuch that he conceived the creatures themselves ought to be delighted at being so skilfully finished. After he had wooed and won the widow, oftentimes, when she was almost broken-hearted at her failing to sell certain joints towards the close of the market-day, Moses would be in raptures, as he feelingly observed, they would eat the unsold portion themselves. Somehow their trade gradually declined, till latterly it ceased altogether, and the widow was no longer a butcher, owing, as she protested, to her husband’s being a “huge feeder,” and the mysterious disappearance of various joints that she suspected him of devouring in secret.
Where were now the lover’s despair and tears, his dedication to a life of solitude, nay, his refusal even of life? True, for some days, Twm stalked about in the neighbourhood of the “Cat and Fiddle” as if hisearthly mission had been brought to a sudden termination; as if, like Othello, his occupation was gone, and there was no likelihood of any other suitable employment turning up. Alas for the consistency of the lover!—days we repeat, and not weeks nor months, much less years, of seclusion of this kind. He soon illustrated the Shaksperian adage, “Men have died, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.” But by him everything was to be done by strokes of impulse. To banish his cares, he plunged at once into intemperance; and from merely tolerating a little cheerful company, he entered the society of the greatest topers and madcaps to be found, till he emulated and outdid the highest, and became the very prince of wags and practical jokers.
He was of course recognized as the conqueror of the tremendous Dio the Devil, and the acknowledged preserver of the lady of Ystrad Feen, which, with his relation of many freaks and vagaries in England, together with the assured fact that he had been once to London, and spent a year there, gained him no inconsiderable share of celebrity.
The good-humoured Justice Prothero, he found as merry, and as much a friend as ever. “Fear not for the fair widow, boy!” would he exclaim, slapping him heartily on the back; “she’ll have thee yet, in spite of the long-nosed Prices and their pedigrees.”
To divert him from his frequent fits of melancholy, and dangerous freaks of folly among his newly-made companions at Llandovery, Prothero would keep him a week at a time under his friendly roof, and make trifling bets, to amuse him, by which freaks he secured some enjoyment for himself also.
Ready Rosser again became his antagonist in these rustic feats and stratagems. The first wager that Prothero laid, was of twenty shillings, that Twm would not by his cunning decoy a sheep out of the safe keeping of this worthy, as he was to fetch one home for butchering on the morrow; but if he succeeded, the mutton and the money would bothbecome his own; otherwise he would forfeit that sum and resign the woolly victim to its owner. To all this our hero agreed, and prepared accordingly.
Ready Rosser was as loud in bidding defiance to our hero, now as he had been on a former occasion, where the result had scarcely justified his extravagant bragging. He shouldered his sheep, vowing before his grinning fellow-servants, who grouped round to crack their jests on him, that the devil himself should not deprive him of his burden. As he proceeded along a part of the high road, up a slight ascent, he discovered with surprise, a good leathern shoe lying in the mud. A shoe of leather, be it known, in a country where wooden clogs are generally worn, is no despicable prize. Rosser looked at the object before him with a longing eye; but reflecting that one shoe, however good, was useless unmatched with a fellow, spared himself the trouble of stooping, for troublesome it would have been with such a weight on his shoulders, and passed on without lifting it. On walking a little farther, and going round a bend in the road, great was his surprise on finding another shoe, a fellow to the former, lying in the sledge mark, which like the rut of a wheel, indented the mud with hollow stripes. In the height of his joy he laid down the sheep, with its legs tied, beside the shoe, and ran back for the other; when Twm Shon Catty, watching his opportunity, sprang over the hedge, and seized his prize, which he bore off securely; won his bet, and ate his mutton undisturbed.
The termination of this sheep wager did not add to Ready Rosser’s reputation, and that worthy was nearly beside himself with rage, on finding himself again beaten. His master, Squire Prothero, although the most good-humoured of country gentlemen, was rather angry with Rosser, whose shrewdness always became questionable when opposed to Twm’s. It was admitted, in excuse, that the most cunning at times may be accidentally over-reached by his inferior in wit. On this plea the merry magistrate was conciliated, and induced intoanother wager, precisely like the former, when a similar sum, against our hero, and in favour of his servant, was laid and accepted. The man of shrewdness, as before, determined to use the utmost vigilance and caution to preserve his charge and redeem his reputation. He grasped his load, which was a fine fat ewe, most manfully, and swore violent oaths in answer to his master’s exhortation to chariness, that human ingenuity should never trick him again; but
“Great protestations do make that doubted,Which we would else right willingly believe.”
“Great protestations do make that doubted,Which we would else right willingly believe.”
In his way to Llangattock, he had to pass through a wood, which he had scarcely entered, when the bleating of a sheep attracted his attention, and he came to a dead stand, as he intently listened to what he conceived a well-known voice. “Baa—baa!” again saluted his ear. A sudden conviction rushed across his mind, that this was the very sheep he had before lost, which he imagined might have been concealed by Twm in the recess of the woody dingle.
What a glorious chance, thought he, of recovering his lost credit with his master, and depriving his antagonist of his laurels! He instantly deposited his burden beneath a tree; and eagerly forcing his way through the copse and bushes, he followed the bleating a considerable way down the wood, when to his great dismay it ceased altogether. A thought now struck him, though rather too late, that the bleating proceeded from no sheep, but a more subtle ram, in the presence of Twm Shon Catty; he hurried back in a grievous fright, and found his surmises but too true—the second sheep, and his high reputation for shrewdness, had both taken flight together.
Moses’s face and figure began to improve, for he received the greater proportion of the winnings both of money and mutton, and he secretly thanked the good fortune which had brought him into Twm’s service.
Squire Prothero, not yet being tired of our hero’s witty genius and cunning cleverness, offered to opposeto his cunning, the collective vigilance of his husbandmen and maidens; laying a bet with him that he should not steal a white ox, with which a black one was to be yoked to the plough. The plough to be held by Rosser and driven by another servant; while two girls, driving each a harrow, should also be on their guard, to prevent his aim if possible.
There could be no doubt that Twm would accept this wager as he had done the others, and accordingly he very obligingly undertook to convey away the white ox, as he had formerly done the bull Bishop; and to eat the gentleman’s beef, provided it turned out sufficiently tender; protesting with a half yawn, and the perfect ease of a modern Corinthian, that he was absolutely tired of mutton, which he had too long persisted in eating, against the judgment and advice of his physician.
The morning at length dawned, when the test of Twm’s sagacity, the most severe to which it had yet been exposed, was to be applied. The plough was guided and the cattle driven, while two bare-footed maidens giggled and laughed till the rocks echoed, as they whipped the horses and ran by their sides, till the harrows bounced against the stones, and sometimes turned over; their mirth was excited by the idea of Twm’s folly in accepting such a bet, and thinking to steal the white ox from under their noses, the impossibility of which was so evident.
The two servants at the plough also cracked and enjoyed their clumsy jokes at the thought of our hero’s temerity, at the same time keeping a wary eye in every direction, armed against surprisals, and exulting in the thought that for once, at least, the dexterous Twm would be baffled in his aim. Time went on; the day waned away towards the evening, and as their fatigue increased, their vigilance gradually lessened.
Such was the state of matters when Moses, who seemed to be loitering about without any particular purpose in view, encountered them, and, laughing loudly at the cautious and careful way in which they continued toguard their prize, assured them that Twm had given up the idea of outwitting such a wary and clever party, and was at that moment drinking his wine with their master, whom he allowed to win the wager.
“Allowing, indeed!” quoth a sharp-tongued lass, as she stopped her harrow to listen, “pretty allowing, when he could not help himself!” “Aye,” cried the other girl, “so the fox allowed the goose to escape, when she took to flight and escaped his clutches!”
Rosser and the plough-boy exulted in their anticipated reward of a skin-full of strong beer. Thus the whole party was excited to a high pitch of triumphant mirth. Moses was, of course, a decoy, and his report had really the effect of throwing them off their guard, which another circumstance contributed to aid. The rural party had rested, sitting on their ploughs and harrows, at one end of the field, while they listened to their informant; and now were about to resume their labours, when a hare started from the adjoining thicket, crossing the ground towards the opposite hedge.
Suddenly the halloo arose; away ran the ploughman and girls, over hedges and ditches, and away ran the yelping sheep-dog, amid the clamour of shouting and barking; but the wondering oxen stood still, and their grave looks of astonishment gradually changed to a more animated expression of alarm on the arrival of Twm Shon Catty.
Having loosed his captive hare to decoy the clowns, he availed himself of their absence to dress the black ox in a white morning gown,—that is to say, a sheet, which became him much, and contrasted with his complexion amazingly; and the white ox he attired in a suit of mourning, formed of the burial pall which he had borrowed from the clerk of Llandingad church for that express purpose; and, having unloosened his fair friend from the yoke, they suddenly disappeared through a gap in the hedge.
Although busily engaged in the gentlemanly pastime of the chase, the husbandry worthies now andthen glanced towards the plough, but seeing, as they thought, the white ox safe, returned to it at a leisurely pace, till quickened, as they neared it, by the singular sight before them; and their petty vexation at losing the hare was now swallowed up by the terrible circumstance of their loss of their especial charge. A suitable lamentation followed, of course, which was succeeded by fear and trembling, from a conviction that Twm Shon Catty dealt with the devil; and that the hare which they had chased was no other than the foe of man in disguise. This reasonable and self-evident assumption quite satisfied their merry master, who deemed himself quite compensated for his loss by the hearty laugh he enjoyed.
Twm and his singular charge entered Llandovery in triumph, the white ox being gaily decorated with ribbons, and the half-starved, but trustworthy, Moses seated on its back. Loud were the huzzas and laughter by which he was received by the juvenile part of the population of Llandovery; not one of whom enjoyed the sight more than the good-humoured Prothero, who cheerfully paid the bet, and from a tavern window had full view of the scene, which he declared excited his laughter till his heart and sides ached with the agreeable convulsion.
Twm did not confine himself to love of beef and mutton. He had higher aspirations which evinced a very ardent passion for horse-flesh; and pursued it with all the fiery zest of a first-love, when impeded by difficulties the most insurmountable.
The lady of Ystrad Feen, still sitting on his heart like a night-mare, and pinching it with pain rendered him, however amusing to others, miserable enough within himself. Lassitude, chagrin, and bitterness, often betrayed themselves in his countenance and manners, and were only transiently removed by the hilarity of the company with which he mixed, or the freaks which he played, in his ill-combined humours of mirth and sorrow. Reckless of consequences, he now entered into the follies less innocent than hithertodetailed; led to them, however, more by a spirit of youthful wildness than by any really criminal intention.
In one of his many walks he found himself one day at Machynlleth, in Montgomeryshire, and who should he see but his old enemy Inco Evans of Tregaron, riding into the town on a fine grey horse? “Ho, ho!” quoth he, “my dear friend still alive! Now is that horse to be mine or his?” said he to himself, as he produced a copper coin; “now heads for Inco, and tails for Twm,” added he, as he tossed the penny high up in the air. On its fall to the ground he found that fortune had declared against the parson.
With the utmost coolness he made himself known to the amiable Inco, whose features underwent various contortions at the recognition; nor did they settle to serenity when Twm with provoking laughter told him that he must journey homeward on foot, as it was a settled thing fixed by fate, that he was to have the gallant grey himself. Inco started and stared; but, without answering a word, he hurried to the innkeeper and the hostler, charging them to lock the stable, and assist him to secure a daring delinquent whom he had discovered in the street. On reaching the stable, the grey, like the grey mist of morning, had dissolved from view, and our hero was equally invisible in the ancient town of Machynlleth.
This last transaction sat uneasily on Twm’s conscience. He thought that it hardly came within the legitimate bounds of a joke, although the free and unlicensed spirit of the times permitted a long tether in this respect; he therefore promised himself some mirth in returning the grey horse to Inco, if he could be found in a Welshpool fair, which was probable, as the accumulating clerical magistrate was a great trafficker in farm stock of all kinds. Thither proceeded the gallant Twm, on a fine Monday morning, in the following week; but the purpose of his better thoughts was unluckily thwarted.
On entering this little wool-combing town, a certain countenance burst upon his recollection; the owner of the face made known to him as a stranger, and made overtures for the purchase of the steed. It struck our hero that there would be some fun in selling it to this personage—no other than young Marmaduke Graspacre—as it could not but cause a whimsical altercation with Inco Evans. Accordingly a bargain was struck, and Twm received the amount in hard cash.
Both parties were highly pleased with their transaction, and Twm praised the grey steed still more warmly now that he had pocketed the money. He spoke quite enthusiastically of the animal’s points, remarking that its merits were far away in excess of what he had represented them to be. “I protest to you in honesty and truth,” he exclaimed with much earnestness, “you have a greater bargain than you imagine. As I was not anxious to sell him, I have omitted to inform you of half his good qualities; he is capable of performing such wonderful feats as you never heard of.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed the elated Marmaduke, staring alternately at his horse and at our hero. “In fact, I assure you,” cries Twm, with the most sober face imaginable; “and if you don’t believe me, I’ll convince you in a moment, if you will allow me to mount him.” “Oh, certainly, with many thanks,” quoth the delighted heir of Graspacre Hall. Twm very leisurely mounted, and after a variety of postures and curvetings, gradually got out of the fair into the high-road; suddenly giving spur and rein to the “gallant steed,” he astonished Marmaduke by his disappearance.
The “green” one had to confess with bitterness of heart, that the jockey had certainly kept his word, as he showed him such a trick as he never before saw, or heard of. But when he received a note informing him that the horse-dealer was his old “friend” Twm, his wrath was boundless.
The fame of Twm’s cunning and adroitness spreadthrough the whole country round, and his wide-spread reputation brought him many country people to consult him respecting their difficulties.
One morning, while sitting in his favourite corner at the Cat and Fiddle, a person called, who described himself as a small farmer in the neighbourhood, his name Morgan Thomas; and having heard so much of his cleverness, he came to ask his advice on an affair of great weight. He had been annoyed, he said, by the continual trespassing of a certain squire’s pigeons on his ground, which had made such a havoc amid his wheat yearly, that the loss was grievous to him; he had computed his damages, and applied for the amount, for the last four years; reckoning that the forty pigeons would devour at least a bushel of wheat each annually. The squire only laughed at his claims and complaints, telling him he might pound them and be d—d, if he liked when he would pay the alleged damages and not till then.
“Now, to pound them, I should like vastly,” quoth Morgan Thomas, “but without the squire’s polite invitation to be d—ned, at the same time. But,” added the poor farmer, “pounding pigeons, I look upon as impossible; yet as you have done feats no less wonderful, if you will pound those mischievous pigeons for me, I will engage to give you half the amount of my claims.” “Agreed?” cried Twm, and grasped his hand, in token that he undertook the task.
He sent a quantity of hot grains from the brewing, to the farmer, next morning, which he afterwards scattered about the farm-yard. The pigeons came, as usual; and eagerly devouring the grain, each and all soon appeared as top-heavy as the veriest tress-pot in Carmarthenshire; and, like the said fraternity incapable of returning home, they fell in stupor on the ground. Our hero, assisted by the farmer, picked them up, tied their legs, and put the whole party in the pound. The squire, who was no other than Prothero, the laughing magistrate, ever pleased with a jest, especially when cracked by our hero, immediately paid the farmer’s demand;and Twm generously refused the proffered remuneration for his very effective assistance.
Our hero never used the money acquired by his art for his own requirements, and we must not forget to say here that the cash our hero received for the parson’s horse, was cast into the parish poor-box.
Twm’spoetical address to his “lady love.” “A gipsy’s life is a joyous life.” Dinas and a singular natural cave. Faithless woman.
Twm’s thoughts were not often forgetful of Ystrad Feen, and its inhabitants: the lady “of the ilk” seldom indulged in silent reverie, without making the absent Twm the principal figure in her day-dream. She had not known a day’s peace since his absence, and was daily waving between a resolution to send for him back, to bestow on him her hand, and a deference for her father and proud relatives, who insisted that if she ever married again, it should only be to a title and fortune; by which they themselves might share in the honour.
Information was brought to her of his wild excesses, which gave her the greatest concern, as she conceived herself in part the authoress of his misfortunes. Twm, at the same time, felt that his tedious absence from the fair widow was no longer to be endured; and as he knew her to be watched by her father’s spies, he determined on paying her a visit in disguise. Previous to putting his design into execution, he composed and sent her the following poem, in which he dwells on, and exaggerates, his own misfortunes, in a strain calculated to move her tenderness in his favour.
CYWYDD Y GOVID.[264]Theoutcast’s forced ally is mineAnd Govid is his name;It is a ruthless savage mate,And like a foe that’s pale with hate,To crush me is his aim:His cruel shafts are fiercely hurl’d,He forced me friendless on the world.If forward, seeking good I wend,My eager steps outstrip the fiend;If backward I retreat from ill,My cruel foe arrests me still:I seek the flood to end despair,Relentless Govid meets me there,And tells of endless pangs of pride,The wages of the suicide.Fell Govid’s mighty in the land,His children are a horrid band,Who joy in hapless man’s distress,Lo, one in debt—one nakedness:—And need against me doth combine;(Fierce Govid’s loveless concubine;)And care, that knows not how to yearn,Is Govid’s consort, keen and stern:And thus this family of ill,E’er bruise my heart and curb my will.Though lost to me the tranquil day,My vanquisher I hope to slay;The fierce enormous giant fiendNo more the heart of Twm shall rend,If thou, my lady-love! but smile,Thou gentle fair, devoid of guile—Thou darling object of my choice,Oh bless me with assentive voice,And soon shall Govid lay his length,A curse! struck down by Rapture’s strength.
CYWYDD Y GOVID.[264]
Theoutcast’s forced ally is mineAnd Govid is his name;It is a ruthless savage mate,And like a foe that’s pale with hate,To crush me is his aim:His cruel shafts are fiercely hurl’d,He forced me friendless on the world.
If forward, seeking good I wend,My eager steps outstrip the fiend;If backward I retreat from ill,My cruel foe arrests me still:
I seek the flood to end despair,Relentless Govid meets me there,And tells of endless pangs of pride,The wages of the suicide.
Fell Govid’s mighty in the land,His children are a horrid band,Who joy in hapless man’s distress,Lo, one in debt—one nakedness:—And need against me doth combine;(Fierce Govid’s loveless concubine;)And care, that knows not how to yearn,Is Govid’s consort, keen and stern:And thus this family of ill,E’er bruise my heart and curb my will.
Though lost to me the tranquil day,My vanquisher I hope to slay;The fierce enormous giant fiendNo more the heart of Twm shall rend,If thou, my lady-love! but smile,Thou gentle fair, devoid of guile—Thou darling object of my choice,Oh bless me with assentive voice,And soon shall Govid lay his length,A curse! struck down by Rapture’s strength.
The Lady of Ystrad Feen did not read the pathetic poem without being deeply affected, and tears ran down her fair cheeks as she sobbingly perused it for the fourthtime. She still bowed her head in grief, when her maid entered her chamber, and in a tone of complaint informed her mistress that there was a very important and troublesome gipsy in the kitchen, who, after having told the fortunes of all the servants in the house, insisted on seeing her also.
“I am not in a mood to relish such foolery now, so send her about her business,” answered the lady, in a tone more sorrowful than angry. “It is quite useless,” replied the girl, “to attempt to send her away; big Evan the gardener tried to take her by the shoulders, and turn her out by force, but she whirled round, grasped him by his arms, tripped up his heels, and laid him in a moment on the floor. There she sits in the kitchen, and vows she will not budge from thence for either man or woman, till she sees the Lady of Ystrad Feen, whom she loves, she says, dearer than her life, and would not for millions harm a hair of her head.”
Although too deeply absorbed in sorrow to have curiosity much excited, she went down stairs, and approached the sybil, who had now taken her station in the hall, asking her, “What do you want, my good woman?”—“To tell you,” answered she, “not your fortune, but what may be your fortune if you choose.” “Let me hear then,” said the Lady Joan, with a faint incredulous smile, walking before her, at the same time, into a little back parlour. Before she could seat herself, the apparent gipsy caught her right hand wrist, and looking round, whispered in her ear,—
“To heal your torn bosom, and ease every smart,Oh take—he’s before you—the youth of thy heart.”
“To heal your torn bosom, and ease every smart,Oh take—he’s before you—the youth of thy heart.”
The colour fled from the fair widow’s cheeks, and in a moment she sank into a swoon in her lover’s arms. Soon recovering, she desired her maid to deny her to every body that called, “as,” added she, with a smile, “I have particular business with the gipsy.”
A scene of tears and tenderness ensued; when Twm,with the utmost fervour, urged his suit. She replied that her father had insisted on, and received her promise that she should wed no being but who either bore a title or stood within a prospect of one.
“You did well,” replied our hero, with the most easy confidence, “and your promise, so far from militating against me, would really be in my favour, for am I not the son of a baronet? his nature child, ’tis true, but still his son; and you would break no promise to your father in marrying me; but if you did, so much the better broke than kept. I have friends at this moment who are doing their utmost to move my father, Sir John Wynn, of Gwydir, to own me publicly, for his right worthy son; and if he does not, the loss is his, not mine, for I shall certainly disown him else for a father, and claim parentage of some greater man.”
In this interview, Twm pleaded his affection with such persuasive vigour and tender persistence, that the old “lady of his dream” resisted the promptings of her own heart no longer, and promised to be his in spite of every obstacle. The joy of our hero knew no bounds, nor did the lady very strenuously resist his rapturous embraces; but seemed to find her heart relieved by the resolution she had come to, that now for ever put an end to the conflicting doubts as to her future course, which had so long torn her heart, and banished her peace.
It was now time for the pretended gipsy to depart, as the sun was descending rapidly, and Twm was chary of the fair widow’s reputation. He would not have the faintest breath of slander associated with her name and so he unwillingly left. She directed him to wait for her, and her confidential friend Miss Meredith, at the entrance to the ancient cave on the top of Dinas, which was the name of the conical hill exactly fronting the mansion of Ystrad Feen. He accordingly took his departure; and winding round the base of Dinas, he crossed the riverTowey, which, being then in summer, was there little more than a brook.
After walking over a couple of fields, and a piece of rough common, he had to cross the Towey once more, when he commenced his ascent at the only part of this very steep hill where it was possible to climb.
During his former stay at Ystrad Feen, this wildly-romantic height had been his favourite haunt, as the cave in its side was the greatest wonder. It was in fact a mighty mound, that bore all the appearance of having been, at the period of its formation, convulsed by an earthquake, and in the height of nature’s tremendous heavings, suddenly arrested and becalmed, even while the huge crags were in the act of tumbling down its steep sides.
A narrow valley encircled its base, and the mountains around of equal height with itself, separated only by this deep and scanty dell, seemed as if rent from it, during the convulsions of the earth, and Dinas left alone, an interesting monument of the memorable event. The surface of the acclivity was so speckled with huge loose stones, that it was dangerous to hold by them in ascending, as the slightest impetus would roll them downward.
Once in poetical mood, when accompanied by his mistress, while tenderly and lovingly protecting her during their ascent at this very spot, he had said, that no doubt an earthquake had turned the bosom of the hill inside out, so that no secret could be therein concealed: archly insinuating that he trusted the time would soon come, when, without so violent a process, her own fair bosom would be equally open to him, while it rejected the stony barriers that then stood between him and her heart.
But let us proceed with our description, while Twm awaits the arrival, according to promise, of the Lady of Ystrad Feen.
The approach to this curious place was as romantic as the cave itself. It was through a narrow aperture, formed of two immense slate rocks that face each other,with the space between them narrower at the bottom than the top, so that the passage could be entered only side-ways, with the figure inclined forward, according to the slant of the rocks, a thin person being barely able to make his way in, while a man of some rotundity might also succeed, rising on his toes, forcing himself upwards. Between these rocks of entrance a massive stone block was wedged at the top, so that it formed a rude resemblance to an arch.
Aftersidelingso far through a comparatively long passage, it was a great surprise that it led to so small a cave; for it was scarcely large enough to shelter three persons huddled close together. What it wanted in breadth, it possessed in height, as it ran up like a chimney, to the attitude of forty-five feet, and was opened at the top to the very summit of the mount, forming a skylight to theroombelow. Although the little cave was void of a solid roof, a very rural one was formed by the large tufts of heather and fern, which sprung through the crevices of the rocks; the whole being surmounted by the pendant branch of a dwarf oak, that with many other trees stood like a crown on the elevated head of Dinas.
However singular the interior of this cave might appear to our hero, he had great pleasure in examining the grand combination that graced its exterior. There he saw, with never-satisfied delight and wonder, objects of the most romantic character, curiously united, near the junction of the three counties. The rocky Dinas, with its many inaccessible sides, besides the loose crags before mentioned, was partially covered with aged dwarfish trees, all bending in the same direction; many with their heads broken by tempests, but still throwing out branches, while others, stark, sere, and shrouded in green moss, were things to which seasons brought no change.
From the mouth of the cave a beautiful view was obtained of the well-wooded mountain of Maesmaddegan, while the junction of the rivers Towey andDorthea[269]enlivened the gloom caused by the deep gulf which separated Dinas.
Twm was, however, careless for this once of the extremely attractive character of the scenery around him. One of the most interesting pages in the Book of Nature lay open before him, but it remained unperused, unnoticed at his feet. His eager eye was fixed steadily on the spot where it would catch the earliest glimpse of his approaching mistress. Out of all patience at her long delay, he now began to wonder at the cause of it; when at length, to his great dismay, he sawonefemale hurrying on, and her not the one, although the faithful Miss Meredith.
Having reached the side of the river, which separated her from the base of Dinas, and finding that he was watching her, she placed a paper on the rock, and a stone upon it, then kissing her hand sportively, turned about and hastened homeward with the utmost precipitation. In his eagerness to overtake her, Twm attempted to run down the declivity, but soon lost his footing, sliding and rolling down several yards, by which he was for a few moments rather stunned. Losing all hope of overtaking his mistress’s confidante, he applied to the paper on the rock, which he found to be a note hastily scrawled with a pencil, containing merely these words:—
“My father has unexpectedly arrived, with several of his friends—can’t see you at Llandovery on the Fair day. Yours ever.” “By the Dood!” muttered Twm to himself, “if this is a coquette’s trick which she put on me, it shall avail her nothing;—mine she is, by promise, and mine she shall be, in spite of the devil, and all her Brecknockshire friends to boot!” Determined to bring his affairs to a speedy crisis, he changed his clothes, and soon made his way to Llandovery.
Twmassumes various disguises, and accomplishes many clever things at Llandovery fair. A strange scene in a court of justice. Twm flies and is pursued.
Twm set off to Llandovery fair with a fluttering heart and hopeful anticipations of seeing his mistress, and planned another little drama, in which he intended the grey horse should have an important part.
Much to their credit, the neighbouring gentry had recently opened a subscription for rebuilding between thirty and forty poor people’s houses, which had unfortunately been burnt down; and our hero resolved that every farthing henceforward gained by the grey horse, or otherwise, clandestinely, should be appropriated to this laudable purpose. It was no small satisfaction to him to find that, while it mortified the purse-proud vanity of the haughty squires to see so large a sum attached to his name, it had the good effect of increasing their contributions, resolved not to be outdone, in money matters at least, by so obscure a personage as Twm.
It was necessary for him to disguise himself thoroughly, for he intended, in the first place, to offer the horse for sale. He decided to dress as a country booby; and after he had finished, his most intimate friend would have been puzzled to recognize him. Twm Shon Catty, (we beg his pardon,) Mr. Thomas Jones was effectually concealed in the rough garb of a Welsh country ploughman. His feet got thrust into a very heavy pair of clogs, or wooden-soled shoes, which being stiff and large, maintained such a haughty independence of the inmates, as to need being tied on by a hay-band. His legs were enveloped in a pair of wheat-stalk leggings, or bands of twisted straw, winding round and round, and covering them from the knee to the ankle.
A raw hairy cow-hide formed the material of hisinexpressibles, which were loose, like trowsers cut at the knee; and his jerkin was of a brick-dust red, with black stripes, like the faded garb of the Carmarthenshire women. A load of red locks, straight as a bunch of carrots, hung dangling behind, but in front rather matted and entangled, quite innocent of the slightest acquaintance with that useful article, a comb; the whole surmounted with a soldier’s cast-off Monmouth cap, so highly varnished with grease, as to appear waterproof.
Without any apology for a waistcoat, he wore a blue flannel shirt, striped with white, opened from the chin to the waistband, to contain his enormous cargo of bread and cheese and leeks, which, as he was continually drawing upon his store, stood a chance of all becoming wholly inside passengers. Added to this, his booby gait and stupid vacant stare was such that he might have passed muster anywhere for what he pretended to be.
He took up his post on the outskirts of the town, preferring that position to elbowing his way through the busy crowd in the middle of the fair. He did not appear anxious for a customer, and munched his bread and cheese and onions with quiet perseverance. Many persons, in passing by, gazed with wonder at this piece of cloddish rusticity, and asked if the horse was for sale; but receiving such drivelling and dolt-like answers, that it became a matter of wonder who could have trusted their property to such an oaf.
When Twm had stood some time, patiently bearing the ridicule of many bystanders, who cracked jokes at his expense, a gentlemen, well-mounted on a chestnut-coloured hunter, entered the town, and cast an eager eye at the grey horse. Twm recognized him at a glance as a Breconshire magistrate, named Powell, one of the many rejected admirers of the lady of Ystrad Feen. Riding up to our hero, he asked if the horse was for sale. Twm answered in broken English, imitating the dialect of the lower class, “I don’t no but itiss, if I cann get somebody that is not wice, look you, somebody that was fools to buy him.”
“But why,” asked the gentleman, “don’t you take him into the horse-fair?”
“Why inteed to goodness,” answered Twm, “I was shame to take him there; for look you, he has a fault on him, and I do not find in my heart and my conscience to take honest people in with a horse that has a fault on him, for all master did send me here to sell him.”
“Well, and what is this mighty fault?” asked the stranger, smiling.
“Why inteed to goodness and mercy,” replied Twm, “it was a fault that do spoil him—it was a fault that—”
“But what is the fault?” asked the Breconshire magistrate impatiently: “give it a name, man.”
“Why inteed to goodness,” replied the scrupulous horse-dealer, “I will tell you like an honest christian man, without more worts about it; I will make my sacrament and bible oaths”—“I don’t ask your oath,” cried Powell, almost out of humour, “merely tell me in word, what ails the horse?”
“Inteed and upon my soul and conscience to boot, I can’t say what do ail him.” “You can’t?” cried Powell in an angry tone, and looking as surprised and wrath as might be expected from a proud Breconian; “Confound me if I do,” replied Twm, “but I will tell you why he was no good to master; it wass thiss—Master iss a parson, a gentleman parson, not a poor curate, one mister Inco Evans, rector of Tregaron, and the white hairs do come off the grey horse here, and stick upon his best black coat and preeches; and that was his fault.”
This was a curious reason for disposing of so good-a-looking animal as that Twm held by the bridle, and one that did not deter Powell from buying him without further parley, and paying for him there and then. He disappeared with his prize, wondering at the stupid dolt from whom his purchase had been made.
Twm retired now to a small public-house, where having asked for a bed-room, he contrived, after making a total change in his garb, to slip out again unperceived, not wishing, for various reasons, to appear before his mistressin propria personæ. He now wore a grey sober suit, shining black buckles, stockings of the wool of a black sheep, and a knitted Welsh wig, of the same, that fitted him like a skullcap, and concealed every lock of his hair. Thus arrayed, he presented the appearance of a grave puritanical farmer, from the remote district of Cardiganshire.
After gazing awhile at the motley crowd that constitutes a fair, in a Welsh country town, he noticed a well-known crone, who had the reputation of being exceedingly covetous. Lean, yellow, and decrepid, her ferret-eyes glanced eagerly about for a customer, as she held beneath her arm a large roil of stout striped flannel. Twm, unobserved, took his stand behind her, and dexterously stitching her bale to his coat, he, with a sudden jerk, transferred it from the old woman’s grasp to his own. Her wonder and dismay was unutterable.
Elbowed and tossed about by the bustling crowd who were passing to and fro, she knew not who to vent her spleen upon; but, in utter despair, set up a tremendous howl, as a requiem for her beloved departed. Instead of seeking the assistance of a light pair of heels, Twm scarcely moved a yard, but drew from his pocket a little black tobacco-pipe, and puffed a cloud with admirable coolness, while his right arm lovingly embraced the bale of flannel.
Roused by the old beldame’s outrageous expressions of grief and fury, he asked in a very pathetic tone, the cause of her sorrow, which she related with many curses, sobs, and furious exclamations. Shocked at her impiety, and want of resignation, Twm took upon him to rebuke her, and edified her much, by a discourse on the virtue of patience; assuring her she ought to thank heaven that she was not a neglectedbeing. In conclusion, he remarked, that fairs and markets in these degenerate days were so sadly infested with rogues and vagabonds, that an honest person was completely encompassed by dangers.
“Now for my part,” continued he, “I never enter such places without previously sewing my goods to my clothes, which you ought also to have done, in this manner.”—showing at the same time, the roll beneath his arm, which he thought the old crone’s eyes had glanced on, with something like a light of suspicion, that instantly vanished, on this notable display and explanation.
Our hero’s appetite only grew by what it fed upon, and the taste of fun he had as yet been able to snatch only made him wish for more. He did not wait long for an opportunity; it was his habit to be so; he either met “opportunity” half-way or entirely created his chance, making circumstances, in a measure, contribute to his especial purposes.
Casting a sharp glance around, he saw making towards him, a man of the cadaverous aspect, one who was an entire stranger to substantial creature comforts, or, if not, one who “shamed his pasture” considerably.
On closer scrutiny, Twm saw it was his old friend Moses, whose hungry stomach had kept him hopelessly poor. Moses advanced and tried to bargain for a few yards of his flannel; but on reckoning his money found he could not come up to the price, as he said he had to buy a three legged iron pot, in addition to a winter petticoat for his wife: “and,” observed the man of tatters, with a grin of miserable mirth, “it will be better for her to go without flannel than our whole family to want a porridge pot.”
Twm liked Moses, but not his logic; which implied a want of courtesy and due deference to his better half, whose indisputable right to warm petticoats claimed precedence to all the pots, pans, and every earthly consideration.
“Here take this bale, take it all, for I have lostmy yard and scissors, and pay me when you grow rich;—confound your thanks! away with you, bestow it safe, then return here; perhaps I may get thee an iron pot at as cheap a rate as the flannel.”
Moses did not want twice bidding to induce him to avail himself of his good fortune, but entering into the spirit of the scene at once, appeared to understand our hero’s joking propensities, although he had no suspicion that it was the veritable Twm himself. Off Moses ran with his enormous present, and immediately returned; when our hero accompanied him to the shop of an old curmudgeon of an ironmonger, whose face, hardly distinguishable behind his habitual screen of snuff and spectacles, seemed of the same material as his own hardware.
The man of rags was quite in luck, and as instructed, followed his benefactor into the shop in silence. Twm examined the culinary ware, with all the caution of an old farm-wife, asking the prices of various articles, and turned up the whites of his eyes in the most approved puritanic fashion, expressive of astonishment at such excessive charges. Old hammerhead repelled the insinuation, and swore that cheaper or better pots were never seen in the kitchen of a king. “Then you must mean the king of the beggars,” quoth Twm, “for you have nothing here but damaged ware.”
“Damaged devil! what do you mean?” roared the enraged ironmonger. “I mean,” replied Twm Shon Catty, with provoking equanimity, “that there is scarcely a pot here without a hole in it; now this which I hold in my hand for instance, has one.” “Where! where!” asked the fiery old shop keeper, holding it up between his eyes and the light: “if there is a hole in this pot, I’ll eat it: where is the hole that you speak of?” “Here!” bawls the inexorable hoaxer, pulling it over his ears, and holding it there, while Moses took the wink from his patron, and walked off with a most choice article, which he had selected from the whole lot.
Here was a predicament for a respectable old tradesman! Our hero fairly held his sides with laughter as the old curmudgeon sprawled about, vainly endeavouring to free himself from the pot, in which his terrible shouts for help were entirely lost. Having tied his hands behind his back, Twm left him howling and sweating beneath his huge extinguisher, and made as he took his departure, this consolatory speech—“Had there not been a hole in it how could that large stupid knob of yours have entered such a helmet?”
Twm left the enraged ironmonger to get out of his dilemma as best he could, having very little sympathy with him in his distress. When once more in the street, he found that the people were all moving in one direction, and Twm discovered shortly that there was some unusual attraction at the Town Hall. As the assemblage increased, the way, like a choaked mill-dam, became more and more impeded, until the whole restless mass was consolidated, and stood still perforce.
Our hero had forced his way till near the entrance of the hall, where he ventured to ask what cause had drawn together such a crowd; but he got no immediate answer, as many came there, like himself, drawn by the powerful influence of curiosity.
At length he heard his own name buzzed about; one said that Twm Shon Catty whose humorous tricks were the themes of every tongue, was discovered to be a great thief: and that he who had fought against highwaymen, had at last become one himself, and committed all the robberies which had taken place in that country for years past. One said that he could never be taken; and a third contradicted that assertion, declaring that he was then fettered in the hall, and waiting to be conveyed to Carmarthen gaol. One assigned him to the gallows as his due, while another tenderly replied that hanging was too good for him. Opposing the sentiments and opinions of all these, more than one declared that the hemp was neitherspun nor grown that would hang Twm; and pity it should, as he was a friend of the poor, and an enemy to none but the stupid, the cruel, and the oppressive.
The disputed argument was disposed of summarily by the appearance of an important functionary, resplendent in the gorgeous dress which he wore in virtue of his exalted office. This individual, who was the town crier, obtaining silence, informed the assembled multitude that the magistrates who were now sitting, required that any “person or persons” who might have been defrauded in the fair, should now come forward, so as to form a clue towards the identity of the robber, which it was generally believed was no other than the notorious Twm Shon Catty. The crier retired, and in a few minutes re-appeared, and read the court’s proclamation, offering a reward of twenty pounds to any person who would apprehend the said Twm Shon Catty; which was answered with loud hisses by the majority of the crowd, and effectually drowned the applause of the rest.
This was a most flattering ovation for Twm, and his spirits rose accordingly; while, at the same time, he felt himself aggrieved by this public proclamation concerning him by the authorities, who, he considered, had, in this instance, somewhat exceeded their vocation. He resolved to “beard the lion in his den,” or in other words, to enter the hall and give the lie to any base-minded cur who should dare to associate his name with common robbers and felons.
Softly, Twm, softly, my boy! On second thoughts he came to the conclusion that that would not be quite prudent—he would make his way into the Hall of Justice, and preserving his disguise, see how matters were progressing, and try if he could not secure a little personal entertainment for himself.
Daring Twm! thy genius adapted itself to circumstances; many people would be doubtless astonished that our hero should venture on such cause, but when enthusiasm, and the pride of achievement, even in a worthless cause, actuates the passion-fraught breast,supplanting the place of reasoning calculation, the wonder vanishes. The desperate outlaw, whose temerity is applauded, feels the gust of heroism in as warm a degree as the generous patriot whose claim to renown is better founded and graced with national approbation. Twm soon found himself in the hall; for it was his own native energies stood him in better stead than the fabled cap of Fortunatus: he wished, and obtained; hated, and was revenged; desired to tread a difficulty under foot, and gained his purpose; while the generality of men would be analyzing every shadow of obstruction that impeded their aim.
He took his stand in a conspicuous place near the bench, the “awful judgment-seat,” which was at this time filled by three magistrates including his laughter-loving friend Prothero, whose ruddy happy round face deprived law itself of half its terrors. Before him, he found his oldfriendEvans of Tregaron, who had been sputtering a confused account of our hero’s gracelessness from his childhood, to the last trick he had played him, by stealing his grey horse at Machynlleth. How he had cheated the heir of Graspacre-Hall of the horse at Welshpool; and how the same horse was traced into the possession of a simple fellow in straw boots and cow-hide breeches, who that very day had sold it to his friend Mr. Powell; which sale, he contended, could not stand good, as the stolen horse was his property to all intents and purposes, which he could prove by credible witnesses.
This recapitulation of Twm’s tricks tickled the gravity of Prothero amazingly; and at every pause which Evans made in his narration, he was answered by the loud “ho, ho, ho!” of that merry magistrate.
Mr. Powell then told his story, and, in conclusion, said he was in the commission of the peace in the town of Brecon. “Ho, ho, ho!” roared Prothero, “here we are, three magistrates, ho, ho, ho! three magistrates, and all fooled by Twm Shon Catty.—Clever fellow, ho, ho, ho! wild dog, ho, ho, ho!—means no great harm—never keeps what he steals—gives all to the poorfellows that want—ho, ho, ho! Never mind, gentlemen, the fun of the thing repays the loss, which can be shared between you. Let Mr. Evans take the horse, on paying Mr. Powell what he gave young cow-breeches, ho, ho, ho! better than lose all.”
Mr. Powell immediately acceded to the arrangement, but the unaccommodating Evans insisted on having the horse without the payment, and made some tart remarks on conniving at a rascal’s tricks and villanies. “For my part, I’d shoot him dead like a dog!” cried the reverend preacher of peace and concord; drawing at the same time, a pair of pistols from his pocket, and replacing them, in a fiery fit of passion. “Ho, ho, ho!” roared Prothero, “but you’d catch him first, brother, ho, ho, ho!—too cunning for you, for me, and all of us—might be here this moment, laughing in his sleeve at us, for what we know, ho, ho, ho!”
Twm thought it was now time to be taking a more active part in the scene, so taking out a small book, while appearing to be deeply absorbed in its perusal, he gave a deep groan as if much moved by what he read, and the mourning sound at once attracted notice.
Prothero, alive to everything allied to comicality, burst out into a loud ho, ho, ho! Evans arrayed his naturally gloomy brows in a magisterial frown, and Powell smiled, with an expression of wonder. “What are you reading, friend?” asked Prothero, chuckling as he surveyed the black Welsh wig. “The wisdom of Solomon,” quoth the man of solemnity, drawing the muscles of his face most ludicrously long; “but mark you, worshipful gentlemen, I mean not the Solomon of the scriptures, but our own Cambrian Solomon—that is to say, Catwg the Wise, the excellent and erudite abbot of Llancarvan, and teacher of the Bard Taliesin.”
“That’s all right enough. Catwg was doubtless a clever man, but why do you bring him here?” enquired Prothero, with a broad smile on his face. “Wherever I go, I have resolved to make his wisdom known, andto reprove all deviators from it, in the sage’s own words,” quoth Twm. “Poor man, poor man, he’s crazy, his brain turned, perhaps by too much study,” observed Prothero. “An impudent fellow!” cried Evans; “but you are strangely lenient here in Carmarthenshire; were I the king, I would have such fellows put in Bedlam.”
Twm looked at the clerical magistrate, then read from the book, “If a crown were worn by every fool, we should all of us be kings.” “Gentlemen, he calls us all fools!” cried Evans. Twm, without raising his eyes from the book, read on, “were there horns on the head of every fool, a good sum might be gained by showing a bald man.” “Gentlemen, he makes us all cuckolds!” cried Evans, in his usual sputter; “however it may fit you, gentlemen, I can safely say, that no disgrace as a horn belongs to my brow.”
Twm read on:—“If the shame of every one were written on his forehead, the materials for masks would be surprisingly dear.” “Ho, ho, ho!” roared Prothero, till the hall echoed with his loud laughter, which the Cardiganshire magistrate seemed to take as a personal affront, and sulkily observed, that this was no place for foolery, but for gravity, wisdom, and truth.
Twm read on:—“If no tongue were to speak other than truth and wisdom, the number of mutes would be astonishingly great.” The consequential Inco, mumbled something about his own mode of doing business at Cardigan, and declared that he would commit such a fellow to gaol for three months, at least, for disturbing a court of justice. Twm cut him short with another passage from Catwg:—“Were the talkative to perceive the folly of his chattering, he would save his breath to cool his broth.”
Here Powell of Brecon entered a little into the spirit of the scene, by quoting also from the well-known aphorisms of Catwg, applying the passage to Twm himself;—“If the buffoon were to see the vanity of his feat, he would leave it off for shame.” This feeble hit excited the applause of the good-humouredProthero, who clapped the speaker heartily on the back, and, amid his eternal ho, ho, ho! exclaimed, “Well said, brother, well said; better silence him with wit than by authority; well done, well done.”
Twm was not slow in taking up the gauntlet which the Breconshire magistrate had thrown at his feet, and so turning pointedly to him, he read;—“If the lover were to see his weakness, terror would drive him to a premature end.” A general laugh at the expense of Powell, instantly followed. To him that passage was considered peculiarly applicable, as the unsuccessful woer of the gay widow of Ystrad Feen. It was a tender string to touch so roughly. Losing his ease and temper at the same instant, he cast a most ungracious frown at the utterer of proverbs, and said in an undertone of threatening energy, “Whoever you may be, it were not wise of you to repeat such conduct towards me again.” “Again?” said Twm, pretending to misunderstand him, “Oh, certainly, I’ll give you the passage again, or any other, to you; ‘If the lover—’” here Powell’s face blazed with anger, as he clenched his fist, and cried, “You had better not.”
Twm began again,—“If the lover—of war, were to see his cruelty, he would fear that every atom in the sunbeam might stab him as a sword.” The dexterous evasion, with the point given to the words “of war,” had its full effect in restoring the good humour, so suddenly disturbed; but that beautiful passage from the aphorisms of the old Welsh abbot failed to elicit the applause which its moral merits deserve.
At this moment the attention of all present was attracted by the noisy entrance of the ex-proprietress of the flannel, who almost deafened them by the vehemence of her complaints; which, however, were too incoherently expressed to be immediately understood.
“Oh! my roll of flannel, my fine, my excellent flannel! all of my own spinning too,—eight and twenty good yards, and a yard and a half wide—my woodenshoe too, that I lost in the crowd—and my poor corns trod off by the villains—my dear sweet flannel, all of my own carding and spinning—nobody but the devil himself, or his first cousin Twm Shon Catty, could have taken it in such a manner—it was whisked from me as if a whirlwind had swept it away.”
At length she paused for want of breath, and Twm approached her with the air of a comforter, and read from his book,—“Were a woman as quick with her feet as with her tongue, she would catch the lightning to kindle her fire in the morning.” It is probable that she did not perfectly hear this passage, as on perceiving Twm, she gave a shout of joy, and then as incoherently as before, appealed to the magistrate; “This honest man, your worship, knows it all. I told him, the moment I lost my flannel—this worthy man, your worship—a good man, a man who reads books, your worship, he can witness.”
This vehement outburst of eloquence was brought to a sudden termination, and the old woman’s wordy complaint effectually strangled by the laughter and applause which greeted the appearance of a more ridiculous applicant for justice and his right.
Supported by two constables, who rather dragged forward, than led him, came Twm’s friend the hardwareman, crowned with the identical iron pot before named, which the officers, as a matter of official formality, or to indulge their own facetiousness, refused to remove, till in the presence of a magistrate. When his laughter had a little subsided, Prothero ordered the pot to be removed, and his hands untied. The hardwareman then told his lamentable tale in a few words; in conclusion, he declared, that having overheard certain words between the robber and his accomplice, he had learned that the thief was no other than Twm Shon Catty. His eye now caught on the figure of our hero, and with a yell as astounding as if the eternal enemy of man stood before him, he cried, “There he is! there he is! As heaven shall save me, there stands the man, or devil, who crowned me withthe iron pot, while his accomplice ran off with the other.”
“And who robbed me of my flannel!” roared the old woman, who now changed her opinion, as her earliest suspicions became thus suddenly confirmed.
“And who stole my grey horse!” bawled Evans of Tregaron.
“And who sold it to me when disguised in straw boots and cow-hide breeches!” cried Powell of Brecon, who had now closely examined his features.
Things looked desperate as far as Twm was concerned, as an attack was now made upon him by three or four of his most determined enemies; but Twm eluding their eager attempts to grasp him, sprang upon the table before the bench, and drawing a couple of pistols from his coat pockets, held one in each hand, and kept them all at bay, protesting he would shoot the first who would advance an inch towards him. Loud was his laughter when they all started back: but Prothero, now sat silently on the bench, alarmed for his safety, which he had thought to secure by giving him warning of his danger, in the feint of his proclaimed reward for his apprehension.
As he stood in this manner, with extended arms, watchful eyes, and grasping the pointed pistols with a finger to each trigger, Powell of Brecon exclaimed, “Thou art a clever fellow, by Jove, Twm! very clever for a Cardy; but wert thou with us, the quick-witted sons of Brecon, thou wouldst soon find thyself overmatched. I dare thee to enter Brecon, to trust to thy cunning—come there, and welcome, and thou shalt stand harmless of me, in the affair of the grey horse.” Twm smiled, and nodded, in token of having accepted his challenge.
Rather daunted by the failure of their first attempt to seize Twm, his assailants had held back awed by his resolute and defiant attitude, but recovering their courage on reflecting upon the odds against him, they now, headed by Evans of Tregaron, got behind him, and clung to his right arm, but with oneviolent effort Twm shook them away, as the mighty bull throws off the yelping curs that dare to attack him. Then, with a single leap, he sprang from the table into the crowded court, where a lane was formed for him, and rushed out of the door unimpeded, and pursued by his accusers. They soon lost sight of him among the moving multitude, some of whom dispersed from fear of accidents, while others followed him as spectators.
To the great astonishment of his pursuers they next caught a view of him mounted on that grand subject of contention, the grey horse. He took the route of Ystrad Feen, followed by several constables in the employ of Evans of Tregaron, and many disinterested persons from the fair. Loud were the shouts of the numerous riders; loud the tramp of galloping horses; and wild the disorder and terror created, as Twm at different intervals turned on his pursuers, and fired his pistols. This caused a powerful retrograde movement among them, by which the foremost horses fell back to those behind them, unhorsing some who lay groaning and crying with fright on the ground, and frightening others altogether from the pursuit.
It was on this occasion that a bard of that day wrote the stanza which appears on the title page, thus translated by the late Iolo Morganwg:—
“In Ystrad Feen a doleful soundPervades the hollow hills around;The very stones with terror melt,Such fear of Twn Shon Catty felt.”
“In Ystrad Feen a doleful soundPervades the hollow hills around;The very stones with terror melt,Such fear of Twn Shon Catty felt.”
Fortune still favoured Twm, who reaching the foot of Dinas somewhat in advance of his motley train of pursuers, dismounted, sprung from stone to stone, that formed the ford of the Tower, and climbed the steep side of that majestic mount, with the utmost ease. Like a prudent sea-captain, Twm was chased in his small boat by a fleet of rovers, till he reaches his own war-ship, and springs up her fort-like side,and treads his deck in the ecstasy of surmounted peril, conscious strength, and superiority.
Thus Twm now attained the summit of a prominent knoll, and waved his hand triumphantly, in defiance of his foes below. Evans of Tregaron, with his crew of catchpoles, made an attempt to climb also; Twm permitted them to advance about twenty yards above the river, when he ended the warfare, by rolling down several huge stones, that swept them in a mass into the bed of the river Towey, sadly bruised, but more frightened, from whence they were extricated by the amazed and terrified spectators.
Evans of Tregaron met with an accident, which during the remainder of his life reminded him of his hasty chase after Twm Shon Catty. In starting aside to avoid the dreadful leaping crags that threatened to crush him, his pistols went off in his pockets, and carried away, besides his coat skirts and the rear of his black breaches, a large portion of postern flesh, that deprived him forever after of that agreeable cushion which nature had provided.
Amusing to the population of Tregaron was the singular sight of their crest-fallen magistrate and his hated gang, brought home in woeful plight, as inside passenger of a dung-cart, which had been hired for the purpose; and more than all, that his discomfiture should have been caused by their long-lost countryman Twm Shon Catty.
Our hero was clearly in an unassailable position, and his enemies were not so stupid as to be entirely blind to that important fact. So, like a princely chieftain of the days of old, enthroned upon his native tower of strength, marking in his soul’s high pride the awkward predicament of his baffled foes, perceiving them all depart; leaving him the undisputed lord of his alpine territory, the glorious height of Dinas.
After witnessing, with his limbs stretched upon his mountain couch, the glorious beauty of the settingsun, he entered the cave, tore from its top a sufficiency of fern and heather to form his bed, threw on it his fatigued, over-exerted frame, and slept soundly until morning.