{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_40419/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_40419","id":"gutenberg_40419","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40419","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: British Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Jones, Thomas, approximately 1530-approximately 1620 -- Fiction"],"text":"Transcribed from the 1828 John Cox edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n                                   THE\n                         ADVENTURES AND VAGARIES\n                                    OF\n                             TWM SH\u00d4N CATTI,\n\n\n                              DESCRIPTIVE OF\n\n                              LIFE IN WALES:\n\n                         Interspersed with Poems.\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n                       BY T. J. LLEWELYN PRICHARD.\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n   Mae llevain mawr a gwaeddi\n   Yn Ystrad F\u00een eleni\n   A cherrig nadd yn toddi \u2019n blwm\n   Rhag ovn Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti.\n\n   In Ystrad F\u00een this year, appalling\n   The tumult loud, the weeping, wailing,\n      That thrills with fear and pity;\n   The lightning scathes the mountain\u2019s head,\n   The massy stones dissolve like lead,\n   All nature shudders at the tread\n      And shout of Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti.\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n                               ABERYSTWYTH:\n                   PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR, BY JOHN COX.\n\n                                   1828\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. I.\n\n\nThe popularity of Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti\u2019s name in Wales.  The resemblance of his\ncharacter to that of Robin Hood and others.  An exposition of the\nspurious account of our hero in the \u201cINNKEEPER\u2019S ALBUM,\u201d and in the drama\nfounded thereon.  The honor of his birth claimed by different towns.  A\ntrue account of his birth and parentage.\n\nTHE preface to the once popular farce of \u201cKilling no Murder\u201d informs us,\nthat many a fry of infant Methodists are terrified and frightened to bed\nby the cry of \u201cthe Bishop is coming!\u201d\u2014That the right reverend prelates of\nthe realm should become bugbears and buggaboos to frighten the children\nof Dissenters, is curious enough, and evinces a considerable degree of\ningenious malignity in bringing Episcopacy into contempt, if true.  Be\nthat as it may in England, in Wales it is not so; for the demon of terror\nand monster of the nursery there, to check the shrill cry of infancy, and\nenforce silent obedience to the nurse or mother, is Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti.  But\n\u201cbabes and sucklings\u201d are not the only ones on whom that name has\ncontinued to act as a spell; nor are fear and wonder its only attributes,\nfor the knavish exploits and comic feats of the celebrated freebooter Twm\nSh\u00f4n Catti, are, like those of Robin Hood in England, the themes of many\na rural rhyme, and the subject of many a village tale; where, seated\nround the ample hearth of the farm house, or the more limited one of the\nlowly cottage, an attentive audience is ever found, where his\nmirth-exciting tricks are told and listened to with vast satisfaction,\nunsated by the frequency of repetition: for the \u201clowly train\u201d are\ngenerally strangers to that fastidiousness which turns, disgusted, from\nthe twice-told tale.\n\nAlthough neither the legends, poetry, nor history of the principality,\nseems to interest, or accord with the queasy taste of our English\nbrethren, the name of Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti, curiously enough, not only made its\nway among them, but had the unexpected honor of being woven into a tale,\nand exhibited on the stage as a Welsh national dramatic spectacle, under\nthe title, and the imposing _second_ title, of Twm _John_ Catti, or the\nWelsh Rob Roy.  The nationality of the Welsh residents in London, who\nalways bear their country along with them wherever they go or stay, was\nimmediately roused, notwithstanding the great offence of substituting\n\u201cJohn\u201d for \u201cSh\u00f4n,\u201d which called at once on their curiosity and love of\ncountry to peruse the \u201cInnkeeper\u2019s Album,\u201d in which this tale first\nappeared, and to visit the Cobourg Theatre, where overflowing houses\nnightly attended the representation of the \u201cWelsh Rob Roy.\u201d  Now this\nsecond title, which confounded the poor Cambrians, was a grand expedient\nof the author\u2019s, to excite the attention of the Londoners, who naturally\nassociated it with the hero of the celebrated Scotch novel; the bait was\nimmediately swallowed, and that tale, an awkward and most weak attempt to\nimitate the \u201cGreat Unknown,\u201d and by far the worst article in the book,\nactually _sold_ a volume, in other respects well deserving the attention\nof the public.  \u201cIt is good to have a friend at court,\u201d is an adage no\nless familiar than true; and Mr. Deacon\u2019s success in this instance\nclearly illustrates this new maxim\u2014\u201cit is good to have a friend among the\ncritics,\u201d by most of whom his book has been either praised, or allowed\nquietly to pass muster, adorned with the insignia of unquestionable\nmerit.\n\nGreat was the surprise of the sons of the Cymry to find the robber Twm\nShon Catti, who partially resembled Bamfylde Moore Carew, Robin Hood, and\nthe humorous but vulgar footpad, Turpin, elevated to the degree of a\nhigh-hearted, injured chieftain;\u2014the stealer of calves, old women\u2019s\nflannels, and three-legged pots, a noble character, uttering heroic\nspeeches, and ultimately dying for his _Ellen_ {3a} a hero\u2019s death!\n\n\u201cThis may do for London, but in Wales, where \u2018_Y gwir yn erbyn y byd_\u2019\n{3b} is our motto, we know better!\u201d muttered many a testy Cambrian, while\nhe felt doubly indignant at the author\u2019s and actors\u2019 errors in\nmis-writing and mis-pronouncing their popular outlaw\u2019s \u201csponsorial or\nbaptismal appellation,\u201d {4} as Doctor Pangloss would say: and another\nsource of umbrage to them was, that an English author\u2019s sacrilegiously\ndignifying a robber with the qualities of a hero, conveyed the villainous\ninference that Wales was barren of _real_ heroes\u2014an insinuation that no\nWelshman could tamely endure or forgive.  In an instant recurred the\nhonored names of Rodri Mawr, Owen Gwyneth, Caswallon ab Beli, Owen\nGlyndwr, Rhys ab Thomas, and a vast chain of Cambrian worthies, not\nforgetting the royal race of Tudor, that gave an Elizabeth to the English\nthrone; on which the mimic scene before them, and the high vauntings of\nHuntley in the character of Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti, sunk into the insignificance\nof a Punch and puppet show, in comparison with the mighty men who then\npassed before the mental eye.\n\nIf the misrepresentation of historical characters, re-moulded and\namplified, to suit the fascinating details of romance, be a fault\ngenerally, it is particularly offensive in the present case, where the\nbeing treated of, is so well known to almost every peasant throughout the\nprincipality; so that a real account of our hero, if not exactly useful,\nmay at least prove amusing, in this age of inquiry, to stand by the side\nof the fictitious tale; and if this detail is found also to partake\noccasionally of the embellishments of fancy, it will at least be\ncharacteristic.  Little, it is true, of his life is known, and that\nlittle collected principally from the varying and uncertain source of\noral tradition.  Some anecdotes and remarks respecting him have of late\nyears been committed to record, in the writings of Theophilus Jones, the\nBreconshire historian, and in the \u201cHynafion Cymreig,\u201d (Cambrian Popular\nAntiquities,) which Dr. Meyrick has quoted in his \u201cHistory of\nCardiganshire;\u201d but his rover\u2019s exploits and vagaries I met with\nprincipally in a homely Welsh pamphlet of eight pages, printed on\ntea-paper, and sold at the moderate price of two-pence.\n\nTwm Sh\u00f4n Catti was the natural son of Sir John Wynne, of Gwydir, bart.\nauthor of that quaint and singular work, the \u201cHistory of the Gwydir\nFamily,\u201d by a woman whose name was Catherine.  Of her condition little\nhas hitherto been made known; but as surnames were not then generally\nadopted in Wales, her son became distinguished only by the appellation of\nTwm Sh\u00f4n Catti; literally, Thomas John Catherine, though it implied\n\u201cThomas the son of John and Catherine.\u201d {5}\n\nLike the immortal Homer, different towns have put forth their claims to\nthe enviable distinction of having given our hero birth; among which\nCardigan, Llandovery, and Carmarthen, are said to have displayed\nconsiderable warmth in asserting their respective pretensions.  A native\nof the latter far-famed borough town, whose carbuncled face and rubicund\nnose\u2014indelible stamps of bacchanalian royalty\u2014proclaimed him the\nundisputed prince of topers, roundly affirmed that no town but\nCarmarthen\u2014ever famed for its stout ale, large dampers, {6} and\nblustering heroes of the pipe and pot\u2014could possibly have produced such a\njolly dog.  It is with regret that we perceive such potent authority\nopposed by the united opinions of our Cambrian bards and antiquaries, who\nplace his birth in the year 1590, at Tregaron\u2014that primitive, yet no\nlonger obscure, Cardiganshire town, but long celebrated throughout the\nprincipality for its pony fair; and above all, as the established\nbirth-place of Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti.  He first saw the light, it seems, at a\nhouse of his mother\u2019s, situate on a hill south-east of Tregaron, called\nLlidiard-y-Fynnon, (Fountain Gate,) from its situation beside an\nexcellent well, that previous to the discovery of other springs, nearer\nto their habitations, supplied the good people of Tregaron with water.\nThat distinguished spot is now, however, more generally known by the more\nelevated name of Pl\u00e2s Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti, (the mansion of Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti,)\nthe ruins of which are still pointed out by the neighbouring people to\nany curious traveller who may wish to enrich the pages of his virgin tour\nby their important communications.\n\nAnd now, having given our hero\u2019s birth and parentage with the fidelity of\na true historian, who has a most virtuous scorn of the spurious\nembellishments of fiction, a more excursive pen shall flourish on our\nfuture chapters.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. II.\n\n\nA glance at Twm\u2019s grandfather.  Squire Graspacre.  Sir John Wynne.  The\nadventure that foreran our hero\u2019s birth.\n\nCATTI, the mother of Twm, lived in the most unsophisticated manner at\nLlidiard-y-Fynnon, with an ill-favored, hump-backed sister, who was the\ngeneral drudge and domestic manager, and who at other times assisted at\nher usual daily avocations.  Their mother had long been dead, and their\nfather, the horned cattle, a small farm and all its appurtenances, had\nbeen lost to them about two years.  This little farm was their father\u2019s\nfreehold property, but provokingly situate in the middle of the vast\npossessions of Squire Graspacre, an English gentleman-farmer, who\ncondescendingly fixed himself in the principality with the laudable idea\nof civilizing the Welsh.  The most feasible mode of accomplishing so\ngrand an undertaking, that appeared to him, was, to dispossess them of\ntheir property, and to take as much as possible of their country into his\nown paternal care.  The rude Welsh, to be sure, he found so blind to\ntheir own interests, as to prefer living on their farms to either selling\nor giving them away, to profit by his superior management.  His\nmaster-genius now became apparent to every body; for after ruining the\nowners and appropriating to himself half the country, the other half also\nbecame his own with ease, as the poor little freeholders found it better\nto accept a small sum for their property, than to have all wasted in\nlitigation, and perhaps ultimately to end their days in prison.  Twm\u2019s\nmaternal grandfather was the last of those who daringly withstood the\ndesires of the squire, but at last, after having triumphantly gained his\ncause, being unable to pay the costs, he was arrested by his own\nattorney, and died a prisoner in Cardigan county gaol, as the neighbours\nsaid, of a broken heart.  The philanthropic improving squire, then, of\ncourse, gained his end.  The old farm-house, alienated from the land,\nbecame the residence of the old farmer\u2019s two daughters; not exactly a\ngift, indeed, as they paid the annual rent of two guineas, which was\ngenerally considered about one too much.\n\nIt was soon after this admirable settlement of his affairs, that the\nsquire had a grand visitor to entertain at Graspacre Hall, who was no\nless a personage than Sir John Wynne, of Gwydir, in North Wales, whose\nsister our deep-scheming squire had lately married, with the politic view\nof identifying himself with the Cambrian principality, and becoming one\nof the great landed proprietors in the country.  One day, after a long\nride with his noble guest, over his far-spreading hills and vales, it was\npoor Catti\u2019s lot to be observed by these lordly sons of affluence.  She\nwas spinning wool at the cottage door, a work which she seldom performed\nwithout the accompaniment of a song; and at that time was giving\nutterance to a mournful ditty, as the recent death of her father had\nnaturally attuned her mind to melancholy, and cast a cloud over her usual\ncheerfulness.\n\nThe great men stopped their horses: \u201ca fine girl, Sir John,\u201d cried the\nsquire.\n\n\u201cVery!\u201d observed the baronet; \u201cI wonder if she is come-at-able?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow can you wonder at any such thing, my dear Sir John?\u201d quoth the\nimprovement-loving squire: \u201cthe girl\u2019s as poor as a rat, and has lately\nlost her father.  It would really be a charity, my dear Sir John, if you\nwere to call and comfort her.  Improvement, Sir John, is my motto, and I\nfancy this poor girl\u2019s state is very capable of _improvement_.\u201d\n\nThe latter part of this _amiable_ suggestion, given with a significant\nleer, was perfectly well understood.  The amorous baronet amply availed\nhimself of the _honorable_ squire\u2019s hint, and called several successive\nevenings at Llidiard-y-Fynnon; but some doubts may be entertained of the\n_improvements_ he introduced there.  The sequel of the adventure soon\ngrew notorious, and the maiden Catti became the mother of our redoubted\nhero, thence, with an allusion to his father, named Twm Shon Catti.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. III.\n\n\nEarly indications of Twm\u2019s antiquarian propensities.  His mother becomes\nthe very paragon of schoolmistresses.  The originality of her system.\nTwm becomes her pupil.\n\nAS the period of early infancy rarely contains incidents worthy of the\nrecording pen of history, we shall bring our hero at once to his fourth\nyear.  The biographers of great men have generally evinced a predilection\nto present their readers with certain early indications of the peculiar\ngenius that has distinguished their heroes in after life; and far from us\nbe the presumption of deviating from such a popular and legitimate rule,\nby any radical attempt at innovation or improvement.  Pope\u2019s lispings in\nnumbers, West\u2019s quaker daubings in childhood, with many such instances,\nnot to mention Peter Pindar\u2019s waggery on Sir Joseph Banks\u2019s spreading\nspiders on his bread and butter, are cases in point, which are familiar\nto every reader; and it will not appear strange to those already\nacquainted with his fame, that we have to add to these eminent names that\nof our long-neglected hero.  It is true he became neither a poet, a\npainter, nor a natural historian, but, according to the unbiassed\nopinions of geniuses of the same caste with himself, who could not be\nsuspected of either egotism or partiality, a superior character to\neither\u2014an eminent antiquary\u2014to which may be added, though perhaps it\nought to take the lead\u2014a no less eminent thief.  Such is the prejudice of\nthese degenerate times that the latter designation has grown unpopular;\nbut according to _Bardolph\u2019s_ hint, it might be profitably exchanged, on\nthe score of respectability, to \u201cconveyancer:\u201d\u2014\n\n    \u201cSteal! a fico for the phrase!\n    The wise call it convey.\u201d\n\nIt is to be hoped that none of our readers will be infidels enough to\ndoubt the fact, when they are assured, on the indubitable testimony of\nhis mother, that our hero\u2019s earliest propensity was to grub up old trash\nand trumpery from the gutters of Tregaron\u2014\u201cfilth,\u201d as his parent wisely\nobserved, \u201cwhich had better have been left alone;\u201d and we may safely\nappeal to any candid mind, and boldly ask whether this trait did not in\nthe most decided manner bespeak the future antiquary.  Not a puddle could\nbe found but its depth and contents were duly examined by the\nindefatigable Twm; and the curious urchin was always distinguishable from\nthe rest of his playmates by certain crusts of mud that adorned his tiny\nwoollen garb from top to bottom.  As in these little fancies he spent the\ngreater part of his time, it became a wonder to his mother that he seldom\nran home for food; but it was soon discovered that he had a mode peculiar\nto himself of raising contributions on the little public of which he was\na member, by forcing them to part with a portion of their bread and\nbutter\u2014a praiseworthy act, and trebly commendable, as in the first place\nit shewed his filial piety, in saving his mother the expence of his\nvictuals; in the next, it taught courtesy to the churlish, who in time\nanticipated his demand by voluntary offerings; and thirdly, it engendered\nthe principle of honesty in their tender minds, by marking the propriety\nof paying for their curiosity in gaping over the treasures of his puddles\nand gutters.  This, it will also be observed, was another feature that\nannounced his future character, which, it will be seen, \u201cgrew with his\ngrowth, and strengthened with his strength.\u201d\n\nHere we must return again to our hero\u2019s mother.  On learning the event of\nhis amour, Sir John Wynne bought of the squire, and gave to Catti as her\nown for ever, her paternal cottage of Llidiard-y-Fynnon.  This fortunate\ncircumstance gave her no small importance in her neighbourhood.  As the\nhouse was large, and not overstocked with inhabitants, it occurred to the\ngood people of Tregaron, that a day-school might be established within\nits walls; and having with their own consent found a school-room, by the\nsame indisputable right they fixed on Catti for its mistress, and\ninstituted her governess, to rule their tender progeny.  Catti, with a\nhuge grin of approbation at her unexpected promotion, immediately\nratified their election, and declared both her house and self ready for\nthe reception of pupils at the moderate terms of a penny a week.  Her\nill-favored sister clouded her brow, and elevated her hump on the\noccasion, and asked very indignantly, who was going to clean the house\nevery day after such a grubby fry.  Catti made no reply, but in the pride\nof her heart hummed a gay song, scratched the mud off her boy\u2019s clothes\nwith an old birch broom, which being hardened by sweeping the house,\nanswered the purpose better than a brush, and had some old coffers\nconverted into benches for the service of her scholars.  She then, with\nsingular alacrity, proceeded to cut from the hedge, with her own fair\nhand, one of the most engaging looking birch rods that ever was wielded\nby rural governess.  This premature display of the sceptre of severity\nwas far from fortunate, and nearly ruined the undertaking at the outset.\nThe tender mothers of Tregaron were startled at so unexpected a\nproceeding, and pathetically declared they had rather that their dear\nbabes should be brought up like the calves and pigs, in the most bestial\nignorance, than have knowledge beaten into them at the nether end with a\nbirch rod.  Catti immediately quieted their fears, by protesting that she\nentertained the utmost abhorrence of the flagellation system, and that\nthe bunch of birch was cut and bound together for a very different\npurpose, namely, to be suspended as a sign over her door.  After a debate\nof some hours among the amiable matrons, however, it was decided that the\nbirch should not be exalted even as an external symbol, over the door of\nthe school, as the very sight of it might strike a terror into the little\nlubberly loves, and frighten them into fits.  As Catti was all compliance\nwith their requisitions, every thing was set to rights; and without more\nado children were sent from every house where the affluence of the\ninmates enabled them to give their offspring the first rudiments of\neducation.  The mother of Twm became the very pink and paragon of\nschoolmistresses.  \u2019Tis true, the noise and uproar in her school was so\ngreat, that the curate\u2019s wife, who rode an ill-tamed horse, was thrown\nheadlong into the well, when passing the academy, from the animal taking\nfright; but that was no fault of Catti\u2019s; people should break in their\nhorses properly, and curates\u2019 wives should learn to ride and keep their\nseats better.  Besides, the alledged uproar was the greatest evidence in\nher favor, as it proved the tenderness of her heart in not correcting her\nscholars\u2014a quality more valued by their maternal parents than any other\nthat could possibly be substituted; and in their appreciation of this\nprime desideratum, they omitted to enquire too minutely into her other\nqualifications for a governess.  Fastidious parents, to be sure, might\nhave insisted that she could read, at least; while others more lenient,\nwould have suggested the necessity of being able to spell, or at any\nrate, to know her letters: but poor Catti could not have passed such a\nrigid ordeal in either instance, had she been put to it.  Yet that very\ndeficiency which might have troubled a weaker mind, was to her a great\nsource of satisfaction, as she always hugged herself warmly in the\ngratifying recollection that no person could accuse her, in the words of\nFestus to Paul, \u201cToo much learning has made thee mad:\u201d and with\nunexampled liberality she determined that the rising generation entrusted\nto her care, should participate to the utmost in these her negative\nfelicitous attainments.\n\nMany of Catti\u2019s pupils had been taken by their wise and considerate\nmothers out of the curate\u2019s school, fearful that his severity would break\ntheir hearts; and having there learnt their letters and a little\nspelling, they kept possession at least of what they had acquired, by\nteaching other children, which flattered their childish vanity, while it\nserved their mistress, who, like a sage general that stands aloof from\nthe broil of battle, takes to himself the credit of success, while the\nreal operators are forgotten.  Thus, in time, with the powerful support\nof the matrons of Tregaron, who took the lead of their spouses, and\ndirected the taste and opinions of the clod-hopping community, Catti\u2019s\nschool became an alarming rival to the curate\u2019s.\n\nTeachers, like all other scientific persons, must have their own systems;\nand as our heroine\u2019s was very original, though perhaps not entirely\npeculiar to herself, with a view of communicating a benefit to others\nless enlightened, who follow her avocations, we shall treat the reader,\nonce for all, with a solitary specimen of her method.\n\n\u201cCome here, little Gwenny Cadwgan,\u201d said Catti one day, \u201cCome here, my\nlittle pretty buttercup, and say your lesson, if you can, but if you\ncan\u2019t never mind, I won\u2019t beat or scold you.\u201d  Gwenny came forward,\nbobbed a curtsey, and, while her mistress broomed the mud from little\nTwm\u2019s breeches, and combed his head on the back of the bellows, began her\nlesson.\n\n_Gwenny_.\u2014a, b, hab.\n\n_Catti_.\u2014There\u2019s a good maaid!\n\n_Gwenny_.\u2014e, b, heb.\n\n_Catti_.\u2014There\u2019s a good maaid!\n\n_Gwenny_.\u2014o, b, hob.\n\n_Catti_.\u2014There\u2019s a good maaid!\n\n_Gwenny_.\u2014i, b,\u2014I can\u2019t tell.\n\n_Catti_.\u2014Skipe it, child, skipe it\u2014(meaning \u201cskip it.\u201d)\n\n_Gwenny_.\u2014u, b, cub.\n\n_Catti_.\u2014There\u2019s a good maaid!  Twm, you little wicked dog, don\u2019t kick\nthe child.  Go on, Gwenny vach.\n\n_Twm_.\u2014(who had been struggling for some time to get from under his\nmother\u2019s combs,) I want to go a fishing.\n\n_Catti_.\u2014Lord love the darling child!  You\u2019ll fall into the river and be\ndrowned.\n\n_Twm_.\u2014Oh! no, mother; I always fish in the gutters.\n\n_Dio Bengoch_.\u2014I want to go home for some bread and butter.\n\n\u201cAnd I! and I! and I!\u201d squalls every other urchin in the school; and out\nthey would run in a drove, on perceiving the independent exit of master\nTwm, without waiting for the permission of his parent and governess.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. IV.\n\n\nThe bad effects of scholarship among servants.  The opinions of a fine\nlady on the subject.  A horse milliner.  Jack o S\u00eer G\u00e2r, a very original\ncharacter.  His manufacture and merchandize.  His tender interview with\nCatti.  A suspicion of her coquettings.\n\nPERHAPS our modern governesses who possess the vain accomplishment of\nreading and writing, may feel disposed to undervalue the acquirements of\nour rural Welsh governess.  But let them not triumph; and be it\nrecollected that tastes differ, and that many of our living patricians,\nas well as wealthy plebians, who are considered the great, the mighty,\nand the respectable of the land, deprecate with becoming vehemence the\nprevailing mania for educating the poor.  We have heard ladies, and great\nones too, attired in silks and velvets, pall and purple, and \u201cthat fared\nsumptuously every day,\u201d declare most positively they never knew a servant\ngood for anything, that could read and write.  No sooner were they\ncapable of wielding a goose quill, than the impudent hussies presumed to\nhave a will of their own, and in their opinions mounted a step nearer to\nthe altitude of their mistresses.  And on men, they said, education had a\nworse effect, as thereby they became the idle readers of books, and\nnewspapers, which made them saucy to their superiors, and sometimes the\nmost villainous cut-throat radicals.  Now it will be readily admitted, we\nshould think, that there was but little danger of Catti\u2019s scholars ever\nbecoming such pernicious characters; and therefore, let not illiberal\nenvy withhold from her the well-merited meed of applause.  Alas for the\ngood old days\u2014we see no such schoolmistresses now-a-days! those days of\nthe golden age of simplicity are gone for ever.  Days approved of by the\ngreat, and therefore good; when the humbler sons of industry looked up to\nthem as gods, and they returned the compliment by looking down on their\nworshippers as good and well-taught dogs, that earned their bones and\nscraps.\u2014Days when country squires handled a pitchfork better than a\npen\u2014when good boys learnt their catechism and read their bible against\ntheir will, and forgot it as soon as possible after leaving school.\u2014Days\nwhen \u201csimplicity and harmlessness\u201d were the names that dignified boorish\nignorance and passive stupidity\u2014when a sycophantic subserviency paved the\nway to wealth and honors\u2014when the gross vice of manly independence was\nunknown, and no class acknowledged among men, but the high and low, or\nthe rich and poor.\u2014Days that\u2014(to finish this retrospective eulogy,) that,\nalas! are no more.\n\nAlthough our hero\u2019s mother could not be called a woman of letters, she\ncertainly possessed qualities more original than generally fell to the\nlot of persons in her station.  At carding wool or spinning it, knitting\nstockings or mittins, the most envious admitted her superiority to every\nwoman in Tregaron.  She moreover had gained no small consideration in\nanother character, which her jealous neighbours satirically denominated a\nhedge milliner, whose province it was to make hedging gloves and coarse\nfrocks for ploughmen, to darn the heels of their stout woollen stockings,\nand also to make and mend horses\u2019 collars; the latter branch of her\noccupation, which required a delicate hand to cut the slender sewing\nthongs from the raw bull hides, caused her to be called a horse milliner,\nwhich after all, was not much more applicable than if she had been\ndescribed as a bull tailor.  This malignant waggery, however, was unable\nto disturb the tranquil soul of Catti; she loved horses, and in her\njuvenile days had often whiled away her mornings and evenings in the\nrural pastimes driving of them, both in the plough and barrow, while\ncarolling some rural ditty, till the rocks and mountains echoed with the\ncadence of her harmony.\n\nIt will not be a matter of much wonder that with all these\naccomplishments Catti should be importuned in the way of courtship,\nnotwithstanding the injury her fame had suffered from the adventure with\nSir John Wynne.  But the schoolmistress, elated with the success of her\nacademy, turned a deaf ear to all the praises and protestations of the\nswains, until, as the village sages say, the right man came.  Like all\nher amiable sex, she professed the utmost abhorrence of mercenary motives\nin marriage, though many insinuated that she learnt the value of property\nfrom never having possessed any.  It was observed that she treated with\nindifference, if not aversion, those unprofitable lovers who had nothing\nbut their goodly persons to recommend them.  Certain inuendoes were even\nthrown out respecting a suspicion of her coquettings with one of the most\nugly, miserly, and repulsive of clowns;\u2014one who was not only a clown, but\na red-haired one;\u2014not only red haired, but knock-kneed;\u2014not only\nknock-kneed, but squint-eyed;\u2014not only squint-eyed, but a woman-hater;\nand worse than all, a foreigner!\u2014being a native of a distant part of the\nadjoining county of Carmarthen, and known only by the nick-name of Jack o\nS\u00eer G\u00e2r, or Carmarthenshire Jack.  This amiable and interesting personage\ncertainly possessed all those graces here enumerated, with many others,\nwhich were attached to peculiarities of character that rendered him so\nfar like our great national hero Owen Glendower, that he \u201cwas not in the\nroll of common men.\u201d  He was at this time the chief husbandman and\nbailiff at the squire\u2019s, an office which, as he had others under his\ncommand, did not aid his personal recommendations to much popularity in\nthe squire\u2019s kitchen.  Perhaps no being that ever breathed had so fair an\nexcuse for becoming a misanthrope.  His coarse and repulsive exterior,\nwith his churlish manners, and one unchangeable suit of old patched\nill-looking clothes, combined to make him an object of distaste to the\ngirls, to whom, and the young men, he became a general butt of ridicule\nyet only among themselves, for they were fully aware, that it would be a\nless dangerous experiment to catch a mad bull by the horns, than to rouse\nthe choler of Jack o S\u00eer G\u00e2r.  The standing jest against him was, his\nqualifications as a trencherman, and his reputation as a \u201chuge feeder\u201d\nwas certainly unrivalled.  As there was not a single pastime under the\nhead of amusement, that the ingenuity of man has ever devised for the\nentertainment of his fellows, save eating, that possessed a charm for\nhim, it might be expected that this solitary recreation would be indulged\nin the proportion that he excluded all others.  He not only performed all\nthe functions of the gross glutton, but as the actors say, \u201clooked the\ncharacter\u201d to perfection.\n\nThe reader, measuring him by other men, would make a very erroneous guess\non the most prominent feature of his face, if he fixed on the nasal\nprotuberance\u2014no such thing\u2014his nose was flat and small, but his large\nprojecting upper teeth, like \u201crocks of peril jutting o\u2019er the sea,\u201d were\never bared for action, white as those of his only companion, the mastiff,\nand nobly independent of a sheathing lip.\n\n    Others more comely features might wear,\n    But Jack was famed for his white teeth bare.\n\nAs the squire\u2019s lady was not the most liberal in supplying the servants\u2019\ntable, those wags, male or female, who were in the habit of committing\nthe silent satire of mimickry against Jack, were soon taught a severe\nlesson at the expence of their bowels.  It was discovered that, whenever\nenraged at their treatment, instead of spending his breath in vain\nreproaches, or taking to the more violent proceeding of fisty-cuffs, Jack\nrevenged himself by eating most outrageously, so that the scoffers,\ndeprived of their shares, often found their stomachs minus.  His power of\nmastication increased with his anger; and the flaming energy that was\nmentally inciting him to give an enemy a fierce facer, or a destructive\ncross-buttock, was diverted from his knuckles to his teeth; and in every\nmouthful which he ground in his relentless mill, he felt the glowing\nsatisfaction of having annihilated a foe.  Woe to those who were his next\nneighbours at table, and sat too close to his elbows at those hours of\nexcitement; sly punches in the ribs, as if by accident, were among the\nslightest consequences; and those who were thus taught manners, to keep\nat a respectful distance, declared that the fear they entertained was\nonly of his knife.  That, it is true, was saying too much; Jack had no\nsuch bloody propensities, although the glare of his unequal eyes was\nenough, when much annoyed, to frighten them into such conclusions.\nAlthough a most unseemly clown, his worst enemies would confess that,\nunprovoked, he was a very harmless man.  Squire Graspacre knew his value\nas a faithful and industrious servant, and therefore disregarded the\nconstant tattle about his repulsive peculiarities.\n\nBefore methodism spread its puritanic gloom over Wales, and identified\nitself almost with the Welsh character, mirth and minstrelsy, dance and\nsong, emulative games and rural pastimes, were the order of the day; and,\nas the country people worked hard all the week, it must be confessed that\nthese sports often infringed upon the sanctity of the sabbath.  Sundays\nwere often entirely spent in dancing, wrestling, and kicking the\nfoot-ball.  The latter violent exercise, at this time prevalent in\nCardiganshire, was performed in large parties of village against village,\nand parish against parish, when the country brought together its mass of\npopulation either to partake in the glories of the game, or to enjoy the\nsuccess of their friends, as spectators.  On these occasions Carmarthen\nJack loved to be present, but only as a spectator, as he was never known\nto take a part in any game.  While others were panting with the rough\nexercise, swearing at disappointments, hallooing their triumph, or\nwincing over a broken shin, Jack would be found seated on some rising\ntump that overlooked the field, busily employed with a scooping knife,\nhollowing out the bowls of spoons and ladles, or shaping out soles for\nwooden shoes, which at every moment that he could call his own, he\nmanufactured out of the logs of birch, or more frequently alder, with\nwhich he amply provided himself during the week, and stored under his bed\nto dry.  At fairs also, Carmarthen Jack would be equally punctual, and\nafter having done his master\u2019s business of buying or selling a horse or\nso, would be seen with a load of the merchandize of his own manufacture,\nwooden spoons, ladles, and clog soles, in abundance, which drew about him\nall the rural housekeepers far and near.  \u201cNo milliner could suit her\ncustomers with gloves\u201d in greater variety than Jack with spoons to please\nhis purchasers.  He had spoons for man, woman, and child, fashioned for\nevery sort of mouth, from the tiny infant\u2019s to the shark-jaws of the\nhungry ploughman, which, like his own, presented a gap from ear to ear.\nHe had spoons for use, and spoons for ornament, the latter, meant to keep\ncompany with the showy polished pewter, were made of box or yew, highly\npolished and curiously carved with divers characters, principally suns,\nmoons, stars, hearts transfixt with the dart of cupid, and sometimes a\nhen and chickens, which hieroglyphics of his own for fear of their being\nmistaken for a cat and mice, with other such misconstructions, Jack\nalways explained at the time of bargaining, without any extra charge.\nNothing could more emphatically prove the excellency of Jack\u2019s wares,\nthan the circumstance of his being personally unpopular among the women,\nand yet his wares in the highest esteem.  The frowns of the fair, which\nthrew a gloom on the sunshine of his days, may be traced to a source not\nat all dishonorable to him.  The girls at the squire\u2019s had played him so\nmany tricks, that once, in the height of aggravation, Jack declared war\nagainst the whole sex, devoting to the infernal gods every creature that\nwore a petticoat, and vowing, from that day forward, that not one of the\nproscribed race should ever enter his room, which was romantically\nsituated over the stable, with its glassless window commanding a full\nview of both the pigsty and dunghill.  The consequence of this terrific\nvow caused him, at first, some trouble, as, to keep it he was obliged\nthenceforward to be his own chambermaid, lawndress, and sempstress,\noffices that accorded ill with his previous habits.  The laudable\nfirmness of his nature, however, soon overcame these petty difficulties;\nand so far was he from backsliding from his previous determination, that\nhe vowed to throw through the window the first woman who entered his\nchamber, which the satirical hussies called his den\u2014a threat which\neffectually secured him from further intrusion.  Sometimes, indeed, when\nhe would be sitting at the door of the cowhouse, or the stable, listening\nto the rural sounds of cackling geese and grunting pigs, while darning\nhis hose or patching his leather breeches, or treading his shirt in the\nbrook by way of washing it, these eternal plagues of his, the girls,\nwould be seen and heard behind the covert of a wall or hedge, smothering\ntheir tittering, which at last would burst out, in spite of suppression,\ninto a loud horse laugh, when one and all, they would take to their\nheels, while Jack amused himself by valiantly pelting their rear, in\ntheir precipitate retreat, with clods of earth, small stones, or anything\nthat came in his way.  Jack o S\u00eer G\u00e2r, however, in time gained the\nreputation of being rich, by the success of his wooden-ware merchandize,\nand consequently one of the fair ones who had once been his tormentor,\nbecame suddenly enamoured of him, and incessantly endeavoured to gain his\ngood will; but being one day thrown headlong out of the window into the\ndunghill below, as a gentle hint that she was not wanted, her milk of\ntenderness was turned into gall, and she became revengeful as a tigress.\nThe first act of her resentment was to spread about the insidious report\nthat Jack o S\u00eer G\u00e2r was a woman-hater\u2014an insinuation that at first rather\npreyed on his mind, as he dreaded the effect such an unmerited stigma\nwould have upon his private trade.  But innocence is ever predestined to\nan ultimate triumph; and an event soon happened that proved the falsehood\nof those prevalent tales to his discredit, and convinced his greatest\nfoes that he possessed a heart, if not overflowing with human charity, at\nleast penetrable to the blandishments of beauty, and quick with\nsensibility to female merit.\n\nOn one auspicious market-day, Carmarthen Jack appeared in the street of\nTregaron where the market is held, loaded with his usual merchandize,\nwhich he spread on the ground, and sat beside them; but not meeting with\na ready sale, and disdaining even momentary idleness, began with\nearnestness to cut and scoop away at a piece of alder, gradually forming\nit into a huge ladle, to correspond with the largest size three-legged\niron pot.  On this eventful morning Catti had occasion to perambulate the\nfair, to purchase a new ladle, her cross-grained sister having broken the\nold one, by thumping with it on the back of an overgrown hog, whose\nforaging propensities led it to investigate the recesses of the\nschool-room.  The reputation of Jack\u2019s ware, and the general supposition\nthat he had saved money, soon reached the ears of our prudent\nschoolmistress; and the pardonable ambition of wishing to conquer the\nstern heart of one who despised her whole sex was supposed to be the\nsecret object of her present walk; and evil tongues were not wanting, to\ninsinuate that she broke the ladle herself, which was only cracked\nbefore, for an excuse to introduce herself to Jack o S\u00eer G\u00e2r, by buying\nanother.  Be that as it may, she sought and found him in the fair, and\nfell in love with him and his ladle at the same instant.  After an effort\nto conquer her native bashfulness, and to look as lovely as possible, she\naccosted him with such uncommon civility as utterly astounded the poor\nclownish misanthropic bachelor.  She examined the ladle in his hand, and\nthough not half finished, declared it the handsomest ever her eyes\nbeheld, and paid for it without seeking the least abatement in the price.\nJack gaped at her, with open mouth and staring eyes, and thought her a\nvery interesting woman, though his first impression was, that she was\nmad, as he had asked double the real selling price, on purpose to abate\none half, according to a custom immemorial in Welsh dealings.  She next\npurchased half a dozen common birch-wood spoons, and as many ornamental\nones made of box, to adorn her shelf, and, as before, paid him his own\nprice.  Jack thought her very lovely, and when she made another purchase\nof a pair of clog soles, quite irresistible!\u2014her ready money opened his\nheart like the best manufactured key, and he was almost ready to offer\nthem as a present, but for a fear of wounding her delicacy.  As she found\nhe had no further variety, she ordered half a dozen more common spoons,\nand Jack, with all the amiability that he could possibly throw into his\nhard features, presented her with one of his most finished articles of\nbox.  She received it with that peculiar smile with which a lady accepts\na welcome love-token, and replied in the softest tone imaginable, \u201cindeed\nI will keep it for your sake John bach!\u201d\u2014Jack had nothing to do but\nwonder\u2014he never had been called John in his life before; at any other\ntime he would have thought she mocked him\u2014and the endearing term of\n\u201cbach\u201d too, was equally new to his ears, which seemed to grow longer as\nthey tingled with the grateful sound.  This interesting scene was closed\nby Catti\u2019s asking him to her house to partake of a dinner of flummery and\nmilk, which he accepted with the best grace imaginable, and trudged off\nwith his wares on his back and dangling from his arms and button holes;\nand thus gallanting her in the most amatory style, he walked by her side\nto Llidiard y Ffynnon.  Unaccustomed to kindness in either word or deed,\npoor Jack o S\u00eer G\u00e2r met her condescensions and advances with a sheepish\nsort of gratitude.  A cordial invitation on the part of Catti to repeat\nhis visit as soon, and as often, as possible, affected him almost to\ntears; and as a proof of his unbounded confidence, he left in her care\nhis whole stock of ready-made spoons and ladles, and almost blubbered\nwhen he shook her hand at parting.\n\nAs a proof of the beneficial effect of kindness on a churlish nature, and\nthe contrary, of ridicule and persecution, we need but contrast this\nrugged man\u2019s previous character and conduct with what followed, after the\ntenderness of Catti had melted the frost of misanthropy which formed a\ncrusty coat round his heart.  The adventure of the day produced a most\nextraordinary revolution in his habits.  None of the servants at the\nhall, male or female, could conceive what it portended, when Jack\ncondescended to ask one of his fellow husbandmen to trim his hair; and\nwhile the fellow clipped his rough red locks with his sheep-sheers, he\nwas surprized at his questions about the price of a new pair of leathern\nbreeches, and a red neck-cloth.  Greater still was the astonishment of\nthe whole house when, in a few days after, he appeared in those very\nbuckish articles of dress, and while he thought nobody saw him,\nendeavouring to cut a dancing caper on the green, which they mistook for\nan imitation of a frisky bullock.  His walking as well as dancing steps,\nwere now watched; and when it was found that the former led to the house\nof Catti, the nods, winks, horse-laughs, and innuendoes, mentioned in the\ncommencement of this chapter, took place, and gave food for scandal to\nthe whole gossiping circle of the town of Tregaron and its vicinity for\nmany miles around.\n\nFlummery and milk, named here as the food on which these lovers regaled\nthemselves, has been considered in Wales a very popular national mess,\ncommon, but still a favorite among high and low, and might be seen on the\nboard of the lord lieutenant of the county, as well as on that of the\nhumblest cottager.  The lofty of the land whose pampered stomachs have\nturned with loathing from more dainty food in sultry seasons, have\nwelcomed the simplicity of milk and flummery, as the advocate of native\ncharms would greet the smilings of a rustic beauty, when the meretricious\nfair of fashion would be passed by, neglected.  The English reader will\nnot be offended if I dilate a little in praise of my favorite food, while\nI explain to him its nature; and if he is a bloated son of affluence,\noverflowing with bile and spleen, he will thank us, after adopting our\nrecommendation of feeding on it often during his rustication among our\nmountains.  Medical men also recommend it as very effective in promoting\nan increase of good clear healthy blood.  Flummery is made of the inner\nhulls of ground oats, when sifted from the meal, some of which still\nadheres to it, by soaking it in water till it acquires a slight taste of\nacidity, when it is strained through a hair sieve and boiled till it\nbecomes a perfect jelly.  When poured from that picturesque prince of\nculinary vessels, the large three-legged iron pot, into a vast brown\nearthen dish, it presents a smooth smiling aspect of the most winning\nequanimity, till destroyed by the numerous invading spoons of the\ncompany, that plunge a portion of it, scalding hot, into their bowls of\ncool milk.  Thus much of its descriptive history is given, to illustrate\nthe following ode in its immortal praise, with which we shall now close\nthis long chapter.\n\n                              MILK AND FLUMMERY.\n\n    Let luxury\u2019s imbecile train,\n       Of appetites fastidious,\n    Each sauced provocative obtain,\n       The draught or viand perfidious;\n    But oh! give me that simple food,\n       So dear to the sons of Cymru,\n    With health, with nourishment imbued,\n       The sweet new milk and flummery.\n\n    Let pudding-headed English folks\n       With boast of roast beef fag us;\n    Let Scottish Burns crack rural jokes,\n       And vaunt kail-brose and haggis;\n    But Cymru\u2019s sons! of mount and plain,\n       From Brecknock to Montgomery,\n    Let us the honest praise maintain,\n       Of sweet new milk and flummery.\n\n    On sultry days when appetites\n       Wane dull, and low, and queasy,\n    When loathing stomachs nought delights,\n       To gulp thee flumm\u2019ry! \u2019s easy:\n    Dear oaten jelly, pride of Wales!\n       Rude child of the vales of Cymru;\n    On thee the ruddy swain regales,\n       And blesses milk and flummery.\n\n    \u2019Tis sweet to stroll on Cambrian heights,\n       O\u2019erlooking vales and rivers,\n    Where bird-song sweet, with breeze unites,\n       Each, sunshine rapture givers!\n    To crown their gust the light repast\u2014\n       So cool\u2014can never come awry,\n    Oh sweet! to break the mid-day fast\n       On sweet new milk and flummery.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. V.\n\n\nAn essay on courting in bed.  Our hero removed to the curate\u2019s school.\n\nTHE scene so lightly touched upon in the last chapter, between our\nschoolmistress and her beau, called forth the mischievous talents of\nlittle Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti, who, while they sat side by side at the goodly oak\ntable, fastened them together by the coat and gown with a peeled thorn\nspike, which, before the introduction of pins, was used by the fair sex\nto join together their various articles of attire.  When his mother rose\nsuddenly to help her spoon-merchant with more spoon meat, she rather\nsurprized him by carrying away, with his heart, the greater part of the\ntattered skirt of his old coat, so that Jack might have said, with Tag\nthe author,\n\n    \u201cThe lovely maid on whom I doat,\n    Has made a spencer of my coat.\u201d\n\nThe wicked urchin who caused this unsanctioned union, set up a loud\nlaugh, and Catti\u2019s grumpy sister Juggy, for the first time in her life,\nastonished them with a grin on the occasion.  Twm received a severe\nrebuke from his parent, and the hapless Jack, with the view of\npropitiating an evil spirit that might prove troublesome to him\nhereafter, made him a present of a new spoon, which, because it was\nmerely a common one, he ungratefully threw into the blazing turf fire,\nwhich glowed on the hearth in a higher pile and wider dimensions than\nusual, and demanded one of his best box-wood ware.  Jack would have given\nit to him immediately, but for the intervention of his mother, who\nforbade the indulgence.  No sooner, however, was he gone than Twm watched\nhis opportunity and purloined as many of the better sort as he could\nconveniently take away unperceived, and sold them at the cheap rate of\nstolen goods, to an old woman named, or rather nick-named, Rachel Ketch,\nfrom some supposed resemblance in her character to that of the finisher\nof the law, so surnamed, although some persons roundly asserted that she\nwas in fact a relict one of those celebrated law officers, one John Ketch\nesquire, of Stretch-neck Place, Sessions Court, Carmarthen.  As no\nfurther consequence followed this act of unprovoked delinquency, it was\nscarcely worth mentioning, except that it stands as the first of the kind\non record; and when discovered, Twm\u2019s over affectionate mother did not\npunish him for it,\u2014an omission much censured by rigid people, who\nconstrued this petty act into the slight root from which sprung the huge\ntree of his after enormities;\n\n    \u201cBut maudlin mothers, all, have tender hearts,\n    Too kind to root an early shoot of vice\n    By wholesome chastisement.  The little darlings!\n    Who could punish them, whate\u2019er their faults?\u201d\n\nWe come now to an era in this history when our hero entered another scene\nof life, in that of a new-school, which event was ushered in by unlooked\nfor circumstances that must be first narrated.\n\nIt may not be unknown to our readers that there has existed a custom, in\nsome parts of Wales, time out of mind, of courting in bed; this\ncomfortable mode of forwarding a marriage connexion prevailed very\ngenerally at Tregaron, to the great scandal and virtuous indignation of\nthe lady of Squire Graspacre.  It was amazing to witness with what energy\nthis good gentlewoman set about reforming the people, by the forcible\nabolishment of what she was pleased to call, this odious, dangerous,\nblasphemous, and ungodly custom.  Her patronage was for ever lost to any\nman or woman, youth or maid, of the town or country, who was most\ndistantly related to, or connected with any person who connived at bed\ncourtship.  There was not a cottager who called at the great house for a\npitcher of whey, skim milk, or buttermilk, as a return for labour in\nharvest time, but she closely examined on this head; and woe to the\nwretch who had the temerity to assert that there was no harm in the\ncustom; or that that the wooers merely laid down in their clothes, and\nthus conversed at their ease on their future plans or prospects; or who\ndenied that such a situation was more calculated for amorous caresses and\nendearments than sitting in the chimney corner.  Mrs. Graspacre was\ncertainly, most outrageously virtuous\u2014a very termagant of decorous\npropriety! if any person dared, in her presence, to advocate this\nproscribed and utterly condemned mode, disdaining to argue the point, she\nwould settle the matter in a summary manner, peculiarly her own, by\nprotesting she would have any woman burnt alive who would submit to be\ncourted in bed.  To such a fiery argument no reply could possibly be\nmade; and in time she found her account in this silencing sort of logic\nwhich gave her her own entire unimpeded way in every thing, which\nwonderfully restored her equanimity, and saved both time and temper to\nthe parties concerned, who otherwise might have spent their precious\nhours, and more precious patience, in idle and irritable discussions on\nthe subject.\n\nIn the course of two years there were no less than four young men, and\ntwice as many damsels turned away from her service for courting in the\nhay-loft; and on those occasions the poor girls never escaped personal\nviolence from the indignant and persevering Mrs. Graspacre.  In her\nflaming zeal for decorum, the tongs, the poker, the pitchfork, or the\nhay-rake, became an instrument of chastisement; a double advantage was\ndiscovered in the terror thus created, the dignity of her sex being in\nthe first place asserted and supported, and in the next, the offenders\npreferred running away without payment of wages, to standing the chance\nof having their heads or arms broken with a poker, or their bodies\npierced by the terrible prongs of a pitchfork.\n\nAll the lowly dependants of Mrs. Graspacre found it their interest to\nbecome her spies, who soon vied with each other in giving the earliest\nintimation of any amorous pair who committed this most diabolical\noffence; and those who were least forward in bringing intelligence on\nthis score, immediately sunk in her esteem, and were mulct of their\nallowance of skim milk and blue whey.  But in time the old hen-wives of\nthe neighbourhood discovered the virtue of sycophancy, and the efficacy\nof a little seasonable cant; and when they were not warranted by real\noccurrences, they contrived to conciliate their patroness by drawing upon\ntheir own fertile inventions; or at other times hinted their suspicions\nof certain offending parties, always taking especial care to echo her\nlanguage and blazon their abhorrence of all those imps of the devil who\nmade love beneath a rug and blanket.\n\nNot satisfied with these auxiliaries in the cause of virtue, the zealous\nMrs. Graspacre enlisted on her side a very powerful champion, in the\nperson of the reverend Mr. Evan Evans, the curate of Tregaron.  Great was\nher mortification to find her attempts on the rector fail of success, as\nhe declared it dangerous to interfere with the peculiarities and long\nestablished customs of the people; especially as he conceived it was\nrarely that any bad consequence ensued from the mode in question: but\nwhen the evil really occurred, if a faithless swain delayed making due\nreparation, a gaol, exile from his native place, or a compelled marriage,\nheld the young men in terrorum.  \u201cBesides,\u201d quoth the worthy old rector,\nwith a hearty laugh, \u201cthat was the very way in which I courted my own\nwife, and many persons who are no enemies of virtue, consider it the best\nmode in the world, and were I young again, ha, ha, ha! egad I think I\nshould pursue the same fashion.\u201d  \u201cAnd I too!\u201d cries Mr. Graspacre, \u201cas I\nhave no objection in the world to the custom.\u201d  Had the foe of man\nappeared at that moment, as popularly identified,\u2014in sooty nakedness,\nwith bloodshot eyes, and arrayed with hoofs and horns,\u2014the stare of\nhorror which distinguished the amiable countenance of Mrs. Graspacre,\ncould not be more strongly marked.  \u201c_You_, Mr. Graspacre! _you_!  I\u2019m\nastonished, but\u201d\u2014(with a severe glance at the rector) \u201cwhen the shepherd\ngoes astray, no wonder that the silly sheep follow his example;\u201d with\nthat she bounced out of the room, and slammed the door in a high fit of\nindignation, aggravated by the calm looks of the rector, and the\nprovoking tittering of her own liege lord.\n\nThe rector\u2019s honest dissent from her scheme of reformation, Mrs.\nGraspacre considered as a direct declaration of hostilities, and\ntherefore, by her peculiar creed of morality, she felt herself bound to\nvilify his name, and most piously longed for his death, that the cause of\nvirtue might be supported by the talents of her favorite curate, who was\nnow, she said, on a poor stipend, which he increased by keeping a school\nin the church.\n\nThe reverend Evan Evans, the curate, played with his cards well; he was a\nharsh-featured man, lowering brows and a complete ploughman\u2019s gait;\ninsolent to his poor parishioners, and a very awkward cringer to the\ngreat.  But flattery, direct or covert, does much, and in time completely\nwon him the favor of the great lady.  She encouraged his patience by\nassuring him that the vicar, in his declined state of health, could not\npossibly live long; and his death, happen when it might, must appear, to\nall unprejudiced christians, as a judgement, for advocating, or not\nprosecuting, that execrable custom, courting in bed.  As the living had\nlong been promised to him, the hopes and expectations of Mr. Evan Evans\nwere very sanguine; and as he was no less ambitious than sycophantic and\nimperious, he looked forward with confidence to the period when he should\ngive up school-keeping, and strut forth in a fire-shovel hat, as vicar of\nthe parish, and a magistrate in the county.  Notwithstanding that the\nliving was promised him by the lady, he was aware that she was not always\nparamount, and therefore lost no opportunity of insinuating himself into\nthe squire\u2019s favor.  With the most ludicrous efforts to humanize those\nharsh features of his, and to twist them into frequent grins, he would\nlaugh loudly to the injury of his lungs, at his most vapid jokes; praise\nthe beauty of his snub-nosed children, and his pointers; tell him where\nthe prettiest lasses in the parish were to be found; with many such\n_honorable_ civilities, that Squire Graspacre at length discovered him to\nbe a very useful sort of person.  When Sir John Wynne of Gwydir paid his\nbefore-mentioned visit, his sister introduced and recommended our curate,\nas a right worthy divine who deserved preferment; and the baronet\npromised to remember her recommendation, if anything turned out, within\nhis power, to benefit him.  Much time had elapsed, and nothing followed\nthis agreeable promise; but Mister Evans persevered in his sycophancy,\nand if the labour and dirty work be properly estimated, he certainly\nearned a good living\u2014in his majesty\u2019s plantations! to which he ought to\nhave been inducted at the expence of government.\n\nHe soon saw the weak side of his lady patroness, and ever anxious to\nstrengthen his influence by promoting her views, he gave great\nencouragement to those boys in his school, who brought him the most\npiquant tales of their grown up brothers and sisters.  Much scandal was\nat this time afloat respecting the loves of Carmarthen Jack and Catti of\nLlidiard-y-Fynnon; and right anxious was he to learn in what manner it\nwas carried on; but as this interesting pair met only at those hours when\nbats and owls were on the wing, and no human witnesses abroad, his wishes\nwere difficult of attainment.  At length his wily brain hit upon a\nnotable expedient, that offered fairly to increase his good footing with\nthe squire\u2019s lady.\n\nLittle Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti, being the natural child of Sir John Wynne, was of\ncourse the illegitimate nephew of the great lady; a relationship which\nshe, however, disdained to acknowledge: but the cunning curate took the\nliberty of observing one day, it was a great pity that the slightest drop\nof the noble blood of the Wynnes, however perverted and polluted, should\nbe suffered to run to waste and be neglected.  Proceeding in his drift,\nhe insinuated that if the boy Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti were removed to his school,\nhe should not only be instructed and improved, but that he, the curate,\nmight thereby learn from the youngster something of his mother\u2019s\nproceedings; and especially, whether she entertained her lover in the\nlegal, or the proscribed manner.  This was striking on the very string\nthat made music to her busy, meddling, troublesome soul;\u2014she of course\nwarmly approved of his idea, and put it into immediate execution.  Thus,\nthe very next day, in her own and her brother\u2019s name, little Twm Sh\u00f4n\nCatti was ordered for the future to be sent to the curate\u2019s school, which\nof course, was complied with accordingly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. VI.\n\n\nTwm improves in the curate\u2019s school.  His wit saves him from a flogging.\n\nTHE great success of Catti\u2019s school excited the ill will of Parson Evans,\nalthough he had far more scholars than he could possibly attend to.  His\nindignation at his wife\u2019s fall from her horse into the well, while\npassing his humble rival\u2019s seminary, together with the humiliating\nconsideration that many of the most juvenile deserted _his_ rule, to\nsubmit to _her\u2019s_, wounded this consequential personage to the quick.\nWith an awkward attempt at a smile, he feigned to consider the seceders\nas a good riddance, and that it was not worth his while to teach babies\nto walk as well as to instruct them in their letters; this in fact, ought\nto have been the case, but it was not; for Evans, \u201clike the turk, could\nbear no rival near the throne.\u201d  This new arrangement respecting Twm,\nthey thought could not but be vexatious to Catti, and therefore Mistress\nEvans felt herself avenged for the tittering that she heard in her\nschool, on her fall into the well as before mentioned.  But far different\nwas the case, from what they anticipated, for Catti no sooner heard the\norder, than in the simple sincerity of her heart, she exclaimed, \u201cThank\nGod! the boy will learn something from the parson, but I could teach him\nnothing.\u201d\n\nLittle Twm was now in his seventh year, and as refractory a pupil as ever\nwas spoiled by a dawdling mother.  Kept aloof from his dear duck-ponds\nand puddles, and compelled to explore the mysteries of the horn-book,\nthis first change in his life was acutely felt.  Self-willed and\nstubborn, he conceived the utmost abhorrence of horn-books, cross\ncurates, and birch-rods; he wept and sulked, struck the boys who mocked\nhim, stayed away from school, and was flogged so often, that at length he\nfound it much easier to learn his book, than endure the consequence of\nneglecting it.  Once arrived to this happy mood, and being one day\npraised by his master, a new spirit possessed the boy; emulation was\nkindled, and he resolved to revenge himself on those youths who formerly\nhad made him their butt of ridicule, by getting the start of them in\nlearning.  The horn-book was shortly thrown by; the reading-made-easy and\nspelling book soon shared a similar fate; and the pride of his young\nheart sparkled in his eyes when his great lady aunt, on hearing a good\naccount of him from his master, presented him with a bible, on the inside\nof the cover of which was the following couplet,\u2014\n\n    \u201cTake this Holy Bible book,\n    God give thee grace therein to look.\u201d\n\nThese lines were not only written by her own fair hand, but actually of\nher own composition; and as poor Catti shewed the book to all her friends\nand neighbours as a proud proof of the good footing on which her son\nstood at Graspacre Hall, the great lady\u2019s lines procured her the general\nfame of being a great poetess.\n\nNotwithstanding his rapid advancement in book learning, Parson Evans was\nfar from being satisfied with his pupil, nor was his main end answered in\nhaving brought him to his school.  Twm loved his mother, and felt no\ngreat affection for his master, nor gratitude for the floggings which had\nenforced so much learning into his head; and never could the generous boy\nbe brought to tell any tales to her disadvantage.  The curate\u2019s severity\nincreased, and no longer praised or encouraged, Twm became not only\nindifferent to his tasks, but wanton and unjust severity had the effect\nof blunting his feelings and making him stubborn and revengeful; and at\nlength he arrived at such an extremity of youthful recklessness as to\nstudy tricks for the annoyance of his master and fellow scholars.\n\nIn the eleventh year of his age some decisive shoots of character made\ntheir appearance; a taste for sharp sayings, and skilful trickery in\noutwitting his opponents, appear to have been his striking peculiarities,\nas well as boldness and resolution on the play ground, where none could\nsurpass him in robustuous or violent exercises.  Wat the mole-catcher,\nhis constant instructor when out of school, among other accomplishments\nhad taught him to play at cudgels, and not a boy in the school could\nstand before him at the quarter staff.  His pre-eminence in this ancient\nand national art was often exemplified by the loud cries and broken heads\nof his defeated schoolfellows.  A catastrophe of that kind one day, even\nin school time, brought the enraged master out, who severely asked Twm\nwhat he meant by such conduct; \u201cWhy sir,\u201d cried the little rogue, \u201cyou\nalways say that you never can beat anything into that boy\u2019s head, so I\ntried what I could do with the cudgel, that\u2019s all!\u201d  A few days after,\nhis master sent him from the school to his house, for a book which he\nwanted.  Twm found the mistress and maid were out, the first at the hall,\nand the last had made a present of her little leisure to her sweetheart,\nWat the mole-catcher.  On entering the parlour he saw there a fine bunch\nof grapes, which his great lady aunt had sent his master; as this was a\nfruit hitherto unknown to him, he deliberately tasted two or three, to\ndiscover whether they were eatable.  Having diminished the bunch by a\nrepetition of this experiment, he found a difficulty in quitting while\nany remained, so resolved to finish it, and lay the blame on the cat, if\ncharged with the theft; as to dividing the spoil, and leaving a portion\nfor the owner, the scheme was impracticable, so he decided to abide by\nhis master\u2019s maxim, \u201cthat it was not decent for two to eat from the same\ndish.\u201d  So lifting up the remains of the luscious bunch with affected\nceremony, he exclaimed in a lofty tone, mimicking his master, \u201cI publish\nthe banns of marriage between my mouth and this bunch of grapes; if any\none knows just cause or impediment why they should not be joined\ntogether, let him now declare it, or hereafter forever hold his peace!\u201d\nand as no dissentient voice intervened, he abruptly cried \u201csilence gives\nconsent,\u201d and hastily consummated the delicious union.  No sooner had he\ngulped the grapes than his master made his appearance\u2014suspecting the\ncause of his delay, he had followed after, and witnessing the imposing\nritual, he stood, rod in hand, surrounded by his scholars, whom he had\ncalled; when all was in readiness he exclaimed, \u201cI publish the banns of\nmarriage between my rod and your breech; if any one knows just cause or\nimpediment why they may not be lawfully joined together in hot wedlock,\nlet him now declare it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI forbid the banns!\u201d roared Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti; \u201cFor what reason?\u201d cries the\nawful pedant, flourishing his rod in eager preparation; \u201cBecause,\u201d cries\nthe waggish urchin, \u201cthe parties are not yet agreed.\u201d  Although Evans was\ngenerally too crabbed and selfish to enjoy and estimate a witty reply in\nany one except his superiors, who seldom possessed a legitimate claim to\nhis applause, it is but justice to him to record, that this unexpected\nand ingenious answer procured Twm a remission of his flogging, when on\nthe very brink of execution.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. VII.\n\n\nThe squire favors Welsh customs and female costumes.  Offended with his\nlady.  Protects the system of bed courtship.  An eulogy on the ale of\nNewcastle Emlyn.  Toping rats.\n\nAT this time a warm altercation one day took place between the squire and\nhis lady, that terminated in consequences little expected by either.\nNotwithstanding the prejudice which Squire Graspacre\u2019s harsh conduct had\ngiven birth to, on his first settlement in Cardiganshire, he had about\nhim certain saving points, that not only reconciled them to his rule, but\nreally gained their esteem.  He was a plain, bold, sensible man, and\nalthough entertaining a most exalted opinion of English superiority,\ngenerally, in particular instances he had the liberality to confess that\nhe found many things in this nation of mountaineers, highly worthy of\nimitation among his more civilized countrymen.  Unlike any of the\nhalf-bred English gentlemen who literally infest Wales, and become\nnuisances and living grievances to the people\u2014building their pretensions\nto superiority and fashion, on a sneering self-sufficiency, and scorn of\ncustoms and peculiarities merely because they are Welsh\u2014he gave them all\ncredit for what was really estimable.\n\nHe had formerly expressed his disapprobation of a custom prevalent among\nWelsh farmers of leaving their corn long on the ground after being cut,\ninstead of housing it as soon as possible; but experience taught him that\nthey were right and himself in error; as, among the corn was a large\nquantity of weeds which required to be dried before it could with safety\nbe brought to the barn or rick, otherwise the grain was sweated and\nliterally poisoned with the rank juice.  He found the Cardiganshire mode\nof chopping the young mountain furze, and giving it as food for horses\nand cattle, worthy his attention, and after various trials, decided on\nits efficacy so far as to adopt it for the future; and actually set\nCarmarthen Jack to gather the seed of that mountain plant, which he\nforwarded to England to be set on his Devonshire farms.  The planting of\nflowers on the graves of deceased friends, he eulogized as a beautiful\nand endearing custom, forming an agreeable contrast to the clumsy English\ntombstones with barbarous lines, often setting truth, rhyme, and reason\nat defiance.  The Welsh harp he declared the prince of all musical\ninstruments, and Welsh weddings the best contrived and conducted in the\nworld, and proved his sincerity by giving something always at the\n_Biddings_ of the peasantry, and patronizing all those who entered that\nhappy state.  Above all things he admired the female costume in Wales,\nand protested, with much truth, that the poor people in England were not\nhalf so well, or so neatly, clothed.  His lofty lady, although a\nWelshwoman bred and born, entertained a very different set of ideas on\nthese subjects.  Whenever her husband related the anecdote of Polydore\nVirgil\u2019s extacy on his first landing in Britain, when he beheld the\nyellow-blossomed furze, which gave a golden glow to the swelling bosom of\nthe hills\u2014how he knelt on the ground beside a bush of it, fervently\nworshipping the God of Nature, that beautified the world with the\nproduction of such a plant; she would instantly reply, \u201cThe man was a\nfool! for _my part_ I see nothing in the nasty prickly things to admire,\nbut wish the fire would take them all from one end of the mountains to\nthe other.\u201d  \u201cAnd yet, my dear,\u201d would he answer, \u201cPolydore Virgil was a\nnative of no rude soil, but came from the land of the laurel, the\ncypress, and the vine, the orange, the lemon, and the citron, and many\nother splendid plants, the very names of which you perhaps never heard\nof; yet he had the liberality to admire what he justly deemed beautiful,\neven in a northern clime, and a comparatively harsh mountainous\ndistrict.\u201d  As to the harp, whenever he praised its melody, she declared\nit odious and unbearable, and gave preference to the fiddle, the\nbagpipes, or even the hurdy-gurdy; and the Welsh female costume she\nprotested still more loudly against, and asked him with a sneer if he did\nnot conceive it capable of improvement.  \u201cOh, certainly, my dear,\u201d would\nhe reply, \u201cfor instance, I would have the Glamorganshire girls wear\nshoes, and soles to their stockings; and convert their awkward wrappers\ninto neat gowns; the Cardiganshire fair ones should doff their clogs, and\nwear leathern shoes; and the Breconshire lass, with all others who\nfollowed the same abominable habit, should be hindered from wearing a\nhandkerchief around the head; but I know of no improvement that can be\nsuggested for the Pembrokeshire damsel, except _one_\u2014which, indeed, would\nbe equally applicable to all Welsh girls\u2014namely, to throw off their\nflannel shifts, and wear linen ones.\u201d\n\nNow this good gentlewoman, whose leading weakness it was to suspect her\nhusband\u2019s fidelity when away from home, kindled with rage at this remark.\n\u201cShifts, Mr. Graspacre,\u201d exclaimed the angered lady, \u201cwhat business have\nyou to concern yourself about such things?  You ought, at least, to know\nnothing about such matters, but I dare say know too much.\u201d  Anxious as a\nseaman to turn his bark from the direction of a dangerous rock, he mildly\nreplied, \u201cSurely, my dear, I may exercise my eyes, when the washed\nclothes are hanging on a line;\u201d and then adding in the same breath,\n\u201cindeed, if I were you, my dear, I would make some improvements, _such as\nyour good taste will suggest_, among our own maids; taking care, however,\nnot to destroy the stamp of nationality on their garbs at any rate.\u201d\nThis was a well-judged hit on his part, and had the effect of averting\nthe impending storm.\n\nIt should have been mentioned before, that the squire, soon after his\nmarriage, had made a tour of South Wales, and, as his lady expressed it,\ntaken a whim in his head of engaging a maid servant in every county\nthrough which he passed; so that in Graspacre Hall there were to be found\nmaiden representatives in their native costumes, of all the different\nshires of South Wales, except Radnor, in which, the squire said the\nbarbarous jargon of Herefordshire, and the paltry English cottons, had\nsupplanted the native tongue and dress of Wales.  There might you see the\nneat maiden of Pembrokeshire, in her dark cloth dress of one hue, either\na dark brown approximating to black, or a claret colour, made by the\nskill of a tailor, and very closely resembling the ladies\u2019 modern riding\nhabits,\u2014a perfect picture of comfort and neatness, in alliance with good\ntaste.  There would you see her extreme contrast, the Glamorganshire\nlass, in stockings cut off at the ankle, and without shoes; and, although\na handsome brunette with fine black eyes, dressed in a slammakin check\nwrapper of cotton and wool, utterly shapeless, and tied about the middle\nlike a wheat-sheaf, or a faggot of wood: possessing, however, the\npeculiar conveniences that it could be put on in an instant, without the\nloss of time in dressing tastefully, and that it would fit every body\nalike, as it is neither a gown nor a bedgown, but between both, and\nwithout a waist.\u2014There would you see the young woman of Breconshire, with\nher pretty blushing face half hidden in a handkerchief which envelopes\nher head, that at first you would fancy the figure before you to be a\ngrandmother at least.\u2014Her long linsey gown is pinned up behind, each\nextreme corner being joined together in the centre, and confined a few\ninches below her waste; she has her wooden-soled shoes for every day, and\nleathern ones for sunday, or for a dance, which, with her stockings, she\nvery economically takes off should a shower of rain overtake her on a\njourney; and when it ceases, washes her feet in the first brook she\nmeets, and puts them on again.  This fair one takes especial care that\nher drapery shall be short enough to discover a pretty ankle, and her\napron sufficiently scanty to disclose her gay red petticoat with black or\nwhite stripes, beneath, and at the sides.  Then comes the stout\nCarmarthenshire lass with her thick bedgown and petticoat of a flaring\nbrick-dust red, knitting stockings as she walks, and singing a loud song\nas she cards or spins.  Lastly, though not the least in importance,\nbehold the clogged and cloaked short-statured woman of Cardiganshire.\nShe scorns the sluttish garb and bare feet of the Glamorganshire maiden,\nand hates the abominable pride of the Pembrokeshire lass who is vain\nenough to wear leathern shoes instead of honest clogs; proving at the\nsame time that her own vanity is of a more pardonable stamp, while she\nboasts with truth, that her own dress cost twice as much as either of the\nothers.  The Cardiganshire women\u2019s dresses, in fact\u2014generally blue, with\nred stripes, and bound at the bottom with red or blue tape\u2014are entirely\nof wool, solidly woven and heavy, consequently more expensive than those\nmade of linsey or minco, or of the common intermixture of wool and\ncotton, and presenting an appearance of weighty warmth more desirable\nthan either a comely cut or tasty neatness.\n\nIt was one of the squire\u2019s fancies never to call these girls by their own\nproper names, but by that of their shires, as thus, \u201cCome here little\nPembroke, and buckle my shoe; and you Carmarthen, bring me a bason of\nbroth: Cardigan, call Glamorgan and Brecon, and tell them they must drive\na harrow apiece through the ploughed part of Rockfield.\u201d  On his return\nto dinner, a few days after the suggestion about the dresses of the\nmaids, he was astonished to find that Mrs. Graspacre had used this\nprivilege with a vengeance; having, with decided bad taste, put them all,\n_at their own expence_, to be deducted from their wages, into glaring\ncotton prints.  The girls were unhappy enough at this change, as well as\nat the expence to which they were put, and they never could enter the\ntown without experiencing the ridicule of their friends and neighbours;\nthe Cardiganshire maid, who considered such a change in the light of\ndisowning her country and like a renegade putting on the livery of the\nSaxon, in something of a termagant spirit, tendered her resignation to\nher master rather than comply with such an innovation.  This ungenerous\ninvasion of his harmless rules, roused his indignation; and after venting\na few \u201cdamns\u201d _a la John Bull_, against draggle-tail cotton rags, without\na word of expostulation with his rib, he desired the girls to bring all\ntheir trumpery to him, which they gladly did, and he made them instantly\ninto a bonfire in the farm yard.  He then in a firm under tone of subdued\nresentment, gave strict injunctions that no further liberties should be\ntaken with their national costume; to which his lady made the polite and\nsubmissive reply, that the girls might all walk abroad without any dress\nat all if he chose, and go to the devil his own way.\n\nAt this juncture little Pembroke came in with rosy smiles, and told her\nmaster that Carmarthen Jack wanted to speak to him very particularly, on\nwhich the squire laughed, and asked her on what _important_ matter.  \u201cWhy\nsir,\u201d said the rustic beauty, while arch smiles and blushes contended in\nher sweet oval face, \u201cParson Evans has found out that he has been\ncourting in bed, with Catti the schoolmistress, and he has run here\nbefore the Parson to say it is all a falsehood.\u201d  \u201cThere\u2019s an impious\nrascal for you!\u201d cries the lady of the house, \u201cto charge the clergyman\nwith falsehood; but I am sure \u2019tis true, for I long suspected it.\u201d  \u201cThe\nless you interfere in these matters, the more it will be to your credit\nMrs. Graspacre,\u201d said the squire in a quiet tone, but accompanied with an\nemphatic look.  \u201cI insist,\u201d cried the imperious dame, \u201cthat he be put in\nthe stocks, and she ducked in the river.\u201d  \u201cNeither shall be done,\u201d said\nhe, firmly, \u201cand from henceforward, no person shall be annoyed and\npersecuted on that score, but every one shall court as he or she\npleases.\u201d  \u201cWhat!\u201d cried the indignant lady, \u201cwould you fill the country\nwith bastards?\u201d  \u201cNo madam,\u201d was the reply, \u201cbut with as happy a set of\npeople as possible.\u201d\n\nEncouraged by the turn which affairs had taken, the Cardiganshire maid\nnow asked her master for her discharge; as her mistress she said, had\nthrown a slur on her brewing abilities, which had almost broken her\nheart: \u201cfor\u201d said she, with a ludicrous whimper, \u201cshe says my brewing is\nunfit for the drinking of christian people, and hardly worthy of the\nhogs!\u2014but\u201d\u2014cried the sturdy little wench, raising her voice to an\naccusatory pitch, and at the same time a tone of triumph, \u201cI come from\nNewcastle Emlyn, the country of good beer, the very home where the _Cwrw\nda_ of _H\u00ean Gymru_ is bred and born! and I would rather die than be told\nthat I can\u2019t brew.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed Cardy,\u201d said the squire, with a smile, \u201cthough your mistress may\nhave been too severe in her censure, I must say your two last brewings\nwere unequal to the first.\u201d  \u201cA good reason why sir; who can brew without\nmalt and hops? though I am told some of the town brewers are mighty\nindependent of those articles\u2014but their brewings won\u2019t do for us at\nNewcastle Emlyn! and your wheat sir, which has grown by being out in the\nwet harvest, so as to be unfit for bread, is but a poor make-shift for\nmalt\u2014it may do for the wish-wash paltry ale of Haverfordwest and\nFishguard, but our plough boys would turn up their noses at such stuff at\nNewcastle Emlyn!\u201d  \u201cDamn Newcastle Emlyn!\u201d cried the squire, provoked by\nher continual reference to her native place.  \u201cMaster! master!\u201d cried the\ngirl, as if rebuking him for the greatest impiety conceivable, \u201cdon\u2019t\ndamn Newcastle Emlyn, I had rather you should knock me down than damn\nNewcastle Emlyn! it is the country of decent people and good ale! the\ncountry where\u201d\u2014\n\n\u201cYou brewed good ale from the grown wheat the first time,\u201d said the\nsquire, not deeming it necessary to notice her observations.\n\n\u201cGood! was it?\u201d retorts the girl struggling between respect for her\nmaster and contempt for his taste, in the matter of malt drink; \u201cgood was\nit!  I tell you what master, you are a good master, and I have nothing to\nsay against mistress, for it would not be decent, but you never tasted\nbeer like ours at Newcastle Emlyn! the real hearty _cwrw da_! which I\ncould make you to-morrow, if you would give me good malt and hops, and\nlet it stand long enough untapped.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut let me ask you my good woman,\u201d said the squire, \u201cwhat is the reason\nthat your two last brewings were so far inferior to the first, when you\nhad the same materials to work on?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Twas better sir! ten times better! the first would have turned the\ndevil\u2019s stomach, had he known what was in it.\u201d  \u201cExplain yourself,\u201d said\nthe squire, surprized.  \u201cI will sir, if I was to be hanged for it,\u201d cried\nthe girl in a tone of confidence; \u201cit seems the rats love beer as well as\nany christian folks, and can get drunk and die in drink, as a warning to\nall sober-minded rats; but that is neither here nor there, and I hate to\ntell a rigmarole story; the long and short of it is, that when I came to\nwash out the barrels after the first brewing, I found three rats in one,\nand two in the other.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou found what?\u201d asked the squire and his lady at the same time.\n\n\u201cI found three rats sir, that had burst themselves with drinking beer,\nand afterwards fell in and were drowned\u2014they were then putrid, and it was\nthat, it seems, that made the ale so palatable; there were no dead\nanimals in the last brewing, but if I knew your taste before, I would\nhave killed a couple of cats, to please you.\u201d\n\nThis explanation excited a titter among the girls, and a loud laugh from\nthe squire, while the lady evinced the shock which her delicacy had\nsustained, by making wry faces, and snuffing violently at her smelling\nbottle, to avoid fainting.\n\nThe squire then good humoredly addressed the girl, \u201cnow Cardy, you are\nperfectly right in the praise you bestow on your own country ale, and I\npromise you shall have the best of malt and hops for your next attempt,\nwhen I expect it to be equal to the best _cwrw da_ of Newcastle\nEmlyn\u2014and, do you hear? we shall dispense with either rats or cats in it\nfor the future.\u201d\n\nThis amicable settlement of differences set every one in good humour,\nexcept the haughty mistress, who embittered with her double defeat,\nretired in gloom, while her husband went to give audience to Jack o S\u00eer\nG\u00e2r.  Cardy stayed behind a full quarter of an hour longer, to edify the\nservants while treating, in her cackling style, of the extraordinary\nmerits of the fat ale of Newcastle Emlyn.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. VII.\n\n\nA Welsh wedding, with all its preliminaries, and attendant circumstances.\nThe Bidding.  The Gwahoddwr.  The Ystavell.  Pwrs a Gwregys.  Pwython.\nIn which Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti and Wat the mole-catcher play conspicuous parts.\n\nCARMARTHEN Jack had not been long waiting for his master, before little\nPembroke, full of glee, ran to inform him that the embargo had been taken\nforever off bed courtship; and that he was now free, whether guilty or\nnot.  This happy news affected him so well that he met his master with\ncomparative ease; and after some struggles with his native bashfulness,\nan important secret came out\u2014that he was going to be married to Catti the\nschoolmistress; and wished to know whether he should be retained in the\nsquire\u2019s service after that event.  Now this was a circumstance exactly\nto the squire\u2019s taste; as a Welsh wedding pourtrayed many national\nfeatures in the character of the peasantry, that pleased him; and, as he\nwas generally a donor on these occasions, his vanity was flattered by\nbeing looked up to as their patron.  He of course acquiesced in his\nservant\u2019s request, and after a little jocular and rough rallying,\nproposed that the _Bidding_ should be immediately commenced.\n\nA _Bidding_ was another of the excellent customs peculiar to the Welsh,\nbut of late years confined exclusively to the lower classes, which the\nsquire so much admired, and considered worthy of imitation, he said,\nthroughout the world.  It signifies a general and particular invitation\nto all the friends of the bride and bridegroom elect, to meet them at the\nhouses of their respective parents, or any other place appointed.  Any\nstrangers who choose to attend are also made welcome.  It is an\nunderstood thing that every person who comes contributes a small sum\ntowards making a purse for the young pair to begin the world with.  They\nhave a claim on those persons whose weddings they had themselves\nattended; and at these times their parents and friends also make their\nclaims in their favor on all whom they may have at any time befriended in\na similar manner.  These donations are always registered, and considered\nas debts, to be repaid, on the occurrence of weddings only; but there are\nmany contributors, especially the masters and mistresses of the parties,\nthat of course require no repayment.  These returns, being made only by\nsmall instalments, and only at the weddings of their donors, are easily\naccomplished; and the benefit derived from this custom is very great,\nwhere the parties are respected. {56}  Another agreeable feature in the\nrural festivities on these occasions is the appointment of a _Gwahoddwr_,\nor Bidder, whose business it is to go from house to house, bearing a\nwhite wand decorated with ribbons, and his staff of office; while his\nhat, and sometimes the breast of his coat, is similarly adorned.  Thus\nattired, he enters each house with suitable \u201cpride of place,\u201d amidst the\nsmiles of the old people, and the giggling of the young ones; and taking\nhis stand in the centre of the house, and striking his wand on the floor\nto enforce silence, announces the wedding which is to take place,\nsometimes in rhyme, but more frequently in a set speech of prose.\n\nThe banns were immediately put in, and every preparation made for the\nwedding.  Wat the mole-catcher, as the greatest wag in the parish, was\nappointed by the squire to the enviable office of _Gwahoddwr_.  The\nfollowing homely lines are a literal translation of those which were\nwritten purposely for this occasion, by the reverend John David Rhys, a\nyoung poetical clergyman, at this time on a visit with Squire Graspacre.\n\n   List to the Bidder\u2014a health to all\n   Who dwell in this house, both great and small;\n   Prosperity\u2019s comforts ever attend\n   The Bride and the Bridegroom\u2019s generous friend!\n\n   His door, may it never need a latch;\n   His hearth a fire, his cottage a thatch;\n   His wife a card, or a spinning wheel;\n   His floor a table, nor on it a meal!\n\n   On Saturday next a wedding you\u2019ll see,\n   In fair Tregaron, as gay as can be,\n   Between John Rees, called Jack o S\u00eer G\u00e2r,\n   And Catherine Jones, his chosen fair.\n\n   Haste to the wedding, its joy to share!\n   Mirth and good humor shall meet ye there;\n   Come one, come all! there\u2019s a welcome true\n   To master and mistress and servants too!\n\n   Stools shall ye find to sit upon,\n   And tables, and goodly food thereon,\n   Butter and cheese, and flesh and fish\n   (If we can catch them!) all to your wish.\n\n   There many a lad shall a sweetheart find,\n   And many a lass meet a youth to her mind,\n   While nut-brown ale, both cheap and strong,\n   Shall warm the heart for the dance and song.\n\n   Oft at a wedding are matches made,\n   When dress\u2019d in their best come youth and maid,\n   And dance together, and whisper and kiss,\u2014\n   Who knows what weddings may rise from this?\n\n   Whoever may come to the Bidding, note,\u2014\n   There\u2019s thanks to the friend who brings three groat;\n   And ne\u2019er may they hobble on a crutch\n   Whoe\u2019er give the lovers twice as much!\n\n   Whatever is given, as much they\u2019ll restore\u2014\n   One shilling, or two, or three, or four;\n   Whenever in similar case \u2019tis claim\u2019d,\n   Else were defaulters ever shamed. {57}\n\n   So haste to the wedding, both great and small,\n   Master and mistress, and servants, and all!\n   Catti\u2019s at home, Jack\u2019s at sign of the Cat;\n   Now God save the king and the Bidder, Wat.\n\nDuring these preparations for his mother\u2019s wedding, little Twm Sh\u00f4n\nCatti, by the squire\u2019s orders given at the bridegroom\u2019s request, was\ngratified by a whole week\u2019s absence from school; and Wat the mole-catcher\ntook the happy youngster along with him, during his pleasant excursion,\nto every house where he had to perform the functions of the _Gwahoddwr_.\nHere the boy was in the height of his happiness, and soon bedecked\nhimself as a mock _Gwahoddwr_; having cut and peeled a willow wand, and\nattached to the end of it a bunch of rush flags and carpenter\u2019s shavings,\nin the place of ribbons, thus grotesquely accoutred, he sallied forth\nwith his protector, and winking to his companions who were lookers on,\nburlesqued every action and peculiarity of the mole-snarer.  It was on\nthis occasion that he sported the first effusions of his virgin muse, as\nit is said, to the following effect, although it has been suspected that\nthe delivery only was his own.  Like a little clown mimicking the adroit\nperformances of the harlequin, his speech each time followed the more\nimportant oration of Wat.\n\n    Who\u2019ll come to the wedding of Catti my mother?\n    Come mother, come daughter, son, father, and brother,\n    And bring all your cousins, and uncles, and aunts,\n    To revel and feast at our jolly courants,\n    Haste, haste to the Bidding ye stingy scrubs!\n    And out with your purses, and down with your dubs.\n\n    Come Gwenny and Griffith, and Roger and Sal,\n    Morgan, Meredith, and Peggy and Pal;\n    Come one, come all, with your best on your back,\n    To see mother married to spoon-making Jack;\n    He\u2019s a spoon for his pains! as ye all shall see soon.\n    But lucky in finding a bowl to his spoon.\n\n    Haste, haste, to the bidding! and friends, if ye please,\n    For lack of white money bring good yellow cheese,\n    And butter, but not in your pockets alack,\n    Bring bacon or mutton well dried on the rack;\n    So endeth my story; come, haste we friend Watty,\n    Now God save the king, and his friend Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti.\n\nTwm\u2019s delivery of these lines excited much mirth and laughter, and, added\nto those of the real _Gwahoddwr_, drew more than ordinary attention to\nthis Bidding.  Many of the children of the different houses had been\nTwm\u2019s school-fellows, and the pupils of his mother, which had the effect\nof influencing them, and became a sort of tie, to claim their presence at\nher Bidding.  As Jack\u2019s friends were in Carmarthenshire, another\n_Gwahoddwr_ was appointed by his master to go with him to call on his\nfriends at his own native place; and so liberal was the squire on this\noccasion, that he sent them both, mounted, on horses of his own.\n\nJack and his Bidder had no great success, as his friends reproached him\nfor his perverse intention of marrying a strange woman in a far land; and\ntherefore finding but little pleasure in the subject or manner of their\nlectures, he made a precipitate retreat.  Blushing for his countrymen,\nand ashamed to own his failure in his own land, he bribed Ianto Gwyn the\nharper, who was his Bidder, to silence; and brought with him to Tregaron,\nin a hired cart, the common contribution of a bridegroom\u2014namely, a\nbedstead, table, stools, and a dresser.  These, he feigned to have bought\nwith his Bidding-money, received at Carmarthen.  Friday is always\nallotted to bring home the _Ystavell_, or the woman\u2019s furniture;\nconsisting generally of an oaken coffer, or chest; a featherbed and\nblankets; all the crockery and pewter; wooden bowls, piggins, spoons, and\ntrenchers; with the general furniture of the shelf: but as Catti was\nalready provided with every thing of this kind, she had but little to add\nto her stock.\n\nThe landlord of a public house originally called \u201cthe Lion,\u201d but with a\nsign resembling a more ignoble animal, causing it to be ultimately known\nby no other designation than that of \u201cthe Cat,\u201d offered Jack his parlour\nto receive his Cardiganshire friends in.  Accordingly, on the Friday\nbefore the wedding, he was busily employed in receiving money, cheese,\nand butter, from them, while Catti was similarly engaged at her\nresidence, with _her_ partizans, which were not a few.  This custom in\nWelsh is called _Pwrs a Gwregys_, or purse and girdle; and is, doubtless,\nof very remote origin.\n\nAt length the long-looked for, the important Saturday arrived; a day\nalways fixed upon for the celebration of hymeneal ordinances, in Wales,\nfrom the sage persuasion that it is a _lucky day_, as well as for the\nconvenience of the Sabbath intervening between it and a working day\u2014a\nglorious season of sunshine to the children of labour.\n\nContrary to Jack\u2019s expectations, a considerable number of his\nCarmarthenshire friends, mounted on their ponies, made their appearance\nthis morning, and honorably paid their _Pwython_; that is to say,\nreturned the presents which he and his relatives or friends had made at\ndifferent weddings.  Jack\u2019s resentful and sudden disappearance, it seems\nhad a beneficial effect on the feelings of his friends and countrymen;\nand a jealousy of yielding the palm for liberality to a neighbouring\ncounty stirred a spirit of emulous contention among them, which ended in\na resolution that a party should attend the wedding, and bear with them\nthe _Pwython_ of the others, who had an aversion to travel such a very\ndistant journey.\n\nAfter depositing their offerings, and partaking of a little refreshment,\ntwelve of the bridegroom\u2019s friends, headed by Ianto Gwyn the harper,\nmounted their ponies and called at Catti\u2019s house, to demand the bride;\nand Wat the mole-catcher and _Gwahoddwr_, who added to these functions\nthe character of father to Catti, expecting their arrival, at length\nheard without appearing, the following lines, delivered by the merry\nharper, from the back of his poney.\n\n    Open windows, open doors,\n    And with flowers strew the floors.\n    Heap the hearth with blazing wood,\n    Load the spit with festal food.\n    The _chrochon_ {62} on its hook be placed,\n    And tap a barrel of the best!\n    For this is Catti\u2019s wedding day;\n    Now bring the fair one forth I pray.\n\nOn which Wat, with the door still closed, made this reply without\nappearing.\n\n    Who are ye all? ye noisy train!\n    Be ye thieves, or honest men?\n    Tell us quick what brings ye here,\n    Or this intrusion costs you dear.\n\nIanto Gwyn then rejoins,\n\n    Honest men are we, who seek\n    A dainty dame both fair and meek,\n    Very good, and very pretty,\n    And known to all by name of Catti;\n    We come to claim her for a bride;\n    Come father! let the fair be tied\n    To him who loves her ever well:\u2014\n\nWat, still within, answers,\n\n    So ye say, but time will tell;\n    My daughter\u2019s very well at home,\n    So ye may pack and backward roam.\n\nIanto Gwyn resolutely exclaims,\n\n    Your home no more she\u2019s doom\u2019d to share,\n    Like every marriageable fair\n    Her father\u2019s roof she quits, for one\n    Where she is mistress: woo\u2019d and won.\n\n    It now remains to see her wedded,\n    And homeward brought and safely bedded;\n    Unless you give her up we swear\n    The roof from off your house to tear,\n    Burst in the doors, and batter walls,\n    To rescue her whom wedlock calls.\n\nAnother of the bridegroom\u2019s party then called aloud in a tone of\nauthority,\n\n    Peace, in the king\u2019s name here! peace!\n    Let vaunts and taunting language cease;\n    We, the bridesmen, come to sue\n    The favor to all bridesmen due,\n    The daughter from the father\u2019s hand,\n    And entertainment kindly bland.\n\nNow the important ensnarer of moles, with the air of an ancient chieftain\nwho throws wide his castle gates for the hospitable reception of his\nretainers, opens the door, struts forth, and with a smiling face gives\nthe welcome, while, with his party, he assists them to alight.  After\ntaking a little more refreshment, consisting of newly-baked oaten cakes,\nwith butter and cheese, washed down with copious draughts of ale, they\nall remounted, and were joined by the rest of the bridegroom\u2019s party; the\nwhole rustic cavalcade making their way towards the church.  A motley\nassemblage, in truth it was, but withal picturesque, and agreeable to\ncontemplate, for every face was happy; save when now and then a cautious\ndamsel, mounted behind her father or brother, would exhibit a touch of\nthe dismals in the length of her features, on discovery that the _cwrw_\nhad any other effect than that of rendering her protector steady in his\nseat on the saddle.  Almost every sort of animal, large or small, lame or\nblind, good or bad, seemed to have been pressed into the service, and\nreduced to the levelling system, and without regard to either size or\nquality, doomed to carry double.  And thus they went on at a walking\npace, while the loud chat of many seemed drowned in the louder laughter\nand calling of others, till now and then rebuked by some of the elders;\nwho, however, to little purpose, vociferated the words\ndecency\u2014propriety\u2014sobriety\u2014sober purpose\u2014&c. &c. the tendency of which\nseemed but little understood.  Jack was doomed to bestride a wretched\nbegalled Rozinante which the dogs could scarce pass without anticipating\ntheir approaching feast, and looked like an equestrian knave of clubs ill\nmounted; and if not very merry himself, was certainly \u201cthe cause of mirth\nin others.\u201d  Elevated behind her temporary father on a fleet horse of the\nsquire\u2019s, poor Catti was doomed to present purgatory to contrast her\nenjoyment of future happiness, for, unprovided with a pillion, she sat on\nthe crupper, holding fast by Wat\u2019s coat.  The quiet pace which commenced\nthis little journey was soon changed into rough horsemanship, for the\nmad-cap mole-catcher turning his steed into the Cardigan road, gave him\nthe spur, and commenced an outrageous gallop; the wedding partly followed\nwith all the might of their little beasts, and like valiant villagers in\nchase of a highwayman, strove their utmost to rescue the bride.  Ianto\nGwyn the rural bard and harper, ever ready with an extempore, produced\none on this occasion.\n\n    Lost, stray\u2019d, or ran away\n    This moment from the king\u2019s highway,\n    A tall and sightly strapping woman,\n    A circumstance not very common;\n    \u2019Tis said a murderer of vermin\n    On her abduction did determine;\n    Whoe\u2019er will bear to gaol th\u2019 offender,\n    The lost one to her owner render,\n    Shall be as handsomely rewarded\n    As can be readily afforded.\n\nHaving considerably distanced his pursuers, he stopped at length, at\nCatti\u2019s request, who complained sadly of being sorely bumped upon the\nbuckle of the crupper.  Dexterously turning to a bye-road towards the\nchurch, he was soon perceived and followed by the party, and altogether\nthey soon arrived at their journey\u2019s end, and alighting, they entered the\nsacred fane with due decorum.  Evans the curate, to enhance his own\nservices and increase his importance, took care to damp their hilarity by\nkeeping them waiting full three quarters of an hour, before he made his\nappearance; and when he came, his looks and demeanor partook more of the\nrigid priest of Saturn, than of the heart-joining, bliss-dispensing\nHymen.  Although the conduct of every individual was perfectly decent, he\nvery sternly rebuked their smiles and happy looks, and actually\nthreatened not to perform the marriage ceremony, until, alarmed at the\nmenace, and indignant at his conduct, they all became perfectly joyless,\nand most orthodoxically gloomy.  The indissoluble knot was soon tied; and\nno longer dependant on the good offices of the magisterial churchman,\ntheir spirit of joyousness burst forth, while in the churchyard the\nmellow harp of Ianto Gwyn was playing the sprightly air of _Morwynion\nGl\u00e2n Meirionydd_, or the Fair Maidens of Merionethshire; while many of\nthe party joined in the words which belong to that beautiful and\nanimating tune.  Suddenly changing the air, the eccentric harper struck\nup \u201cMegen has lost her garter,\u201d which was succeeded by \u201cMentra Gwen,\u201d and\na string of such national melodies, equally gay and appropriate.  After\nthe marriage, they returned in much the same order, or rather disorder;\nwith the difference that the bride sat behind her husband, instead of her\nfather: the harper playing the whole time, and many sweet voices joining\nin the words of the airs.  They soon entered Catti\u2019s house, where her\nsister Juggy had provided a good dinner, of which all partook, cost free,\nexcept that every one had to pay for their own ale, the females of course\nbeing treated.  In the course of the evening, jigs, reels, and country\ndances, were successively gone through with much spirit.  Catti danced\nwith considerable agility; but Jack, pressed on all sides, and at length\ncompelled to make one, in a country dance, shewed every indication of\nthis being his virgin attempt at \u201cthe poetry of motion;\u201d and alternately\nstumping and blowing, while copious streams ran down his rugged forehead,\nas they every instant corrected his erratic course, and literally pushed\nhim down the dance, he vowed that this his first, should also be his last\nexhibition on the \u201cfantastic toe.\u201d  Young Twm, who had been playing at\nsweethearts, with little Gwenny Cadwgan on his knee, to the great mirth\nof his seniors, soon brought her out to try her foot in the dance with\nhim.  The poor little wench, blushing scarlet deep, made her first essay\nwith one equally young and inexperienced as herself; and the juvenile\npair were by many good naturedly instructed in the figure of the dance,\nand they contributed not a little to the general harmony.  Juggy, the\nsister of Catti, absolutely refused to sport her figure among the\ndancers, and treated Wat the mole-catcher with a hard favor in the face\nfor attempting to drag her in perforce.  At length, fatigued with\ndancing, and alarmed for the state of their inebriated friends and\ncompanions, many, especially the females, turned their serious thoughts\ntowards home.  It was now drawing towards the hour of retiring for the\nnight, when the usual trick was played of concealing the bride from the\nbridegroom.  Poor Jack, whom nature had not favored with a great share of\nfacetiousness, and who never mixed with such a company before, began to\nbe seriously alarmed.  Great was the mirth of the party, while, with a\nstrange expression of countenance, he sought her up and down in every\ncorner of the house.  At length he discovered a part of her red petticoat\nsticking out from under the bottom of the straw armchair, and soon drew\nher out from the place of concealment.  The parting hour was now arrived;\nthen came the general shaking of hands, and serious expressions of good\nwishes among the sober; while the tipsy folks vented their wit in jocular\nallusions to their conjugal felicity: some offering themselves for\ngodfathers and godmothers to their future offspring, while others far\ngone laid bets on the probability that the first child would be either a\nboy or a girl.  At this time considerable surprize was excited by the\nconduct of an individual who had been remarkably unsocial the whole\nevening, no person having heard him speak a word; and when asked a\nquestion, or in answer to a health being drank, he merely nodded in a\nhurried manner, and immediately drew hard at his pipe, and puffed forth\nvolumes of smoke, as if to envelope himself in a cloud of invisibility.\nEvery one was too much engaged with his own pleasures to give him much\nattention, and thus he remained till the moment of departure, when he was\nobserved to stagger as he rose from his seat; somebody then observed,\nthat it must have been the smoke and not the beer that affected his\nbrains, as he drank but little: a remark that imputed niggardly and\ncurmudgeon propensities to him.  Determined to give him something of a\nroast, a young farmer asked him, with a defying air, whether he had paid\nhis _Pwython_; \u201cNo!\u201d roared the hitherto silent man, \u201cbut here it is\u2014take\nit Catti my girl, and much good may it do you!\u201d on which he put five\nguineas into her hand.  With emotions of wonder and gratitude, while\ncatching an eager glance at his face, Catti involuntarily exclaimed \u201cthe\nsquire!\u201d when he darted out, mounted his horse, as did the rest of the\nparty, and disappeared.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. VIII.\n\n\nTwm\u2019s great improvement under his new master.  His attachment to Welsh\nliterature.  Wat\u2019s freak.  Twm is taken from school, and sent as a parish\napprentice to a farmer in the Cardiganshire mountains.\n\nDETERMINED to witness the humble festivities of the \u201clowly train,\u201d thus\nSquire Graspacre had been among them the whole evening, disguised like a\nrough mountaineer husbandman, and was heartily gratified, although his\napparent incivility of conduct had nearly subjected him to harsh\ntreatment from the jovial ale-fraught rustics, who of course, but little\nrelished his strange behaviour.  His deficiency in the Welsh language had\nbeen concealed by alternately feigning deafness and drunkenness, which,\nwith the aid of the pipe, left him free of further suspicion.  The\nmorning of Sunday after the wedding, which is called _Neithior_, being\ncome, the happy pair stayed at home, receiving their friends who called\nwith their good will, which was manifested by the payment of _Pwython_.\nThe day was drank out, but not as before, as in every other respect, save\nthe diminishing of ale, each seemed to recollect it was the Sabbath, and\ntossed off their cups in quietness.  It was not till late on Monday\nevening that the drink was exhausted, when Jack and Catti cast up the sum\nof their wedding donations, which they found amounted to twenty seven\npounds eight shillings and sixpence, besides fourteen whole, and\ntwenty-two half cheeses, the greater part of which they soon turned into\ncash.  In these days, when the value of money has been so much decreased,\nthe amount of the _Pwython_ and presents at a Welsh wedding has been\nknown to reach more than treble the sum here stated; especially when the\nfriends of the parties have been numerous, and headed by the patronage of\na wealthy and liberal master and mistress, who generally enlist their\nfriends and visitors under the hymeneal banners of a faithful servant,\nthe architects of whose humble fortunes they become, by laying,\nthemselves, the corner stone.\n\nAs, from this part of our history, the hero will rise in importance,\nthose who have hitherto stood forward, must proportionably draw back, to\ngive him place; especially Jack and Catti; the grand drama of whose lives\nhas been closed by a matrimonial union; whence, henceforth, they must\nsink into inconsiderable personages.\n\nIn consequence of the squire\u2019s liberality on the celebration of Catti\u2019s\nwedding, and a general report prevailing that he was well inclined\ntowards the Welsh, a protector of their customs, and no scorner of their\nlanguages or peculiarities, a general good will towards him was\nmanifested by the country people.  When he gave his opinion in favor of\nthe female national costume, they considered him, for an Englishman, a\nvery reasonable man.  When he eulogized the Welsh harp, and gave, in\naddition to various pieces of silver at different times, a guinea to\nIanto Gwyn for his performances at Jack and Catti\u2019s wedding, he gained a\nfew steps more into their good opinion.  But when he declared that bed\ncourtship should not be abolished, there was a burst of enthusiasm in his\nfavor in every breast, especially among the females.  During this new\nimpulse given to the reign of happiness, the great lady of the hall and\nher favorite curate hid their diminished heads; the former declaring that\nit was utterly impossible that the world could last many months, while\nsuch immorality and ungodliness was practised under the auspices of a\ndeclared patron.  Whether it was the influence of this alarm, or the\nbitterness of baffled malignity, that preyed on her mind, certain it is,\nshe was soon thrown on a sick bed, and considered seriously indisposed.\nThe squire, to his honor be it said, although unfortunately married to a\nvery disagreeable woman, allowed a sense of duty to supply the place of\naffection, when his attentions were so indispensably needed.  During her\nillness the worthy old rector who had been ill but a single week, died:\nand Squire Graspacre, against his own judgement and feelings, well\nknowing that such an arrangement would be agreeable to his wife, inducted\nthe curate, Evans, into the vacant living.  In a fortnight after,\nhowever, she died herself; a circumstance perhaps, that gave no real\nsorrow to any creature breathing.\n\nThe general report of a liberal English squire in Cardiganshire, who\npatronized and upheld the customs of the Welsh, penetrated to the very\nextremities of the principality; and became at last so strangely\nexaggerated, that, he was represented as the patron of the learned:\nconsequently many of the humbler sons of the church took long journeys to\nbe undeceived.  Of the many who called upon him with a view of seeking\nhis patronage of their literary undertakings, one especially took his\nfancy; a young clergyman named John David Rhys, before named as the\nauthor of the Bidder\u2019s song.  But poetry was not his forte; his energy\nand perseverance in the favorite study of Welshmen, British antiquities,\nand systemizing his native language, deserved encouragement and applause.\nHe was then composing a Welsh grammar, and had actually commenced a\ndictionary.  As he spoke English very well, the squire soon understood\nthe merit of his undertakings, and promised his patronage and good\noffices; in the mean time requesting him to remain on the footing of a\nfriend beneath his roof, till something could be done for him.  This\nexcellent person he now fixed upon to succeed Evans in the school and\ncuracy; stipulating, that for his fulfilment of the latter, he was to\nhave thirty pounds, and for the former ten pounds a year.  Fortunate for\nRhys would it have been had the old rector outlived the squire\u2019s lady, in\nwhich case it is more than probable he would have filled the living\ninstead of Evans, whom the squire never liked.  This change in the\nmastership of the school was a fortunate event for young Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti,\nwho had caught the mania for rhyming, among the wandering harpers and\n_bards_, as they called every rhymester who could manufacture verses in\neither of the four-and-twenty legitimate Welsh measures.  When he found\nhis new master a kind young man, an historian, antiquarian, and something\nof a poet, the \u201chomage of the heart\u201d was immediately paid him.  Twm\nthought him the wisest man in the world, when he heard him speak of the\nbattles fought by the Britons in ancient times, against the Romans,\nDanes, and Saxons.  This was to him a knowledge the most estimable, and\nhe longed to be enabled also, to talk about battles and to write\npatriotic songs.  Having now his information from a better source, he\nsoon learned to despise the jargon and misstatements of Ianto Gwyn, with\nwhom he argued strongly, and proved to him that Geoffrey of Monmouth was\na fabulist, and no historian; that it was not Joseph of Arimathea who\nchristianized Britain; and that the Britons were no descendants of Brute,\nnor of Trojan origin; with various other such knotty points.  The great\ndeference which he paid his master, his attention to every word which\nfell from his lips, with his close and successful application to his\nlessons, gained him the esteem and admiration of Rhys, with whom he\nbecame a great favorite.  This amiable young clergyman found much\nsatisfaction on discovering a youngster with taste sufficient to\nappreciate his favorite pursuits; and took pleasure in explaining to him\nevery subject of his enquires.  A thirst for information possessed the\nboy; and he rummaged the most dry and tedious works connected with Welsh\nantiquities, with an avidity that was astonishing even to his master.\n\nWell would it have been for Twm had he continued his diligence in this\nhonorable course, but in his breast the love of learning was shared by\nhis love of mischief, and his admiration of his master divided with his\npredilection for the comical vagaries of Wat the mole-catcher: and in the\nend, his acquaintance with that worthy proved anything to him but\nfortunate.  About eighteen months after Rhys\u2019s appointment to the school,\none evening in the Christmas holidays, Wat asked him if he would take a\nshare in a freak that would keep them up the greater part of the night.\nTwm immediately assented, without enquiring its nature; enough for him\nthat it was a scheme of merry mischief, in the prospect of which his\nheart ever bounded.  This idle whim of Wat\u2019s was nothing more than to\npull down the signs of all the public houses and shops, which being few,\nwas easily done, but the greater difficulty was to suspend them from, or\nattach them to, the tenements of others, in which they however succeeded.\nThis trick elicited some humour; and a satirical application was\ndiscernible in the new disposal of the boards.  When the light of day\ndiscovered their handy-work, great was the astonishment of the\nalehouse-keepers and others, to find their signs vanished, and gracing\nthe fronts of their neighbours\u2019 houses; and the anger of the reverend\nEvan Evans was boundless, on perceiving the \u201cFox and Goose\u201d over his\nrectory house door, with the words proceeding from the mouth of Reynard,\n\u201cI have thee now;\u201d and under the pictorial figures \u201cGood entertainment\nfor man and horse.\u201d  A crowd was in consequence collected about his door,\nand the provoking laughter of the people stung him to the bitterest\ndegree of resentment.  Squire Graspacre, from indolence or dislike to all\nbusiness except farming, declined being in the commission of the peace\nhimself, and put the parson in his stead.  Having now attained the summit\nof his ambition, as rector and justice of the peace, his overweening\npresumption and conceit become daily more conspicuous; and therefore this\nslur upon his consequence became intolerable.  The actors in this simple\nfreak became at length known, in consequence of the secret being\nintrusted, a very common case, to a _confidential friend_.\n\nAlthough the twenty shillings reward which the parson offered could not\ninduce the poorest to be base enough to become an informer, yet an idle\nspirit of tattling among the women brought it at length to the ears of\nMistress Evans, and her husband soon became possessed of the whole\nparticulars.  He instantly made his complaint to the squire against both\nTwm and Wat, who merely reprimanded, cautioned for the future, and\ndismissed them.\n\nThe circumstances under which young Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti was educated, now\nsuddenly occurred to him.  \u201cWhat the devil is to become of that\nmischievous young rascal?\u201d said he, one day, to Rhys the curate, whom he\nthen informed of the particulars of his birth, and of his deceased wife\u2019s\nwhim of having him well educated, in consequence of his being a slip of\nSir John Wynne\u2019s.  That connexion being entirely closed by the death of\nhis wife, he no longer felt himself bound or inclined to notice him.\nWhen Rhys gave so good an account of his proficiency, he was surprized to\nhear the squire exclaim \u201cI am sorry for it, for he has no prospect in the\nworld but labour or beggary.  As he has already had too good an education\nfor his circumstances, he must be instantly dismissed from school.  Since\nSir John does not think proper to protect his son, I don\u2019t see why I\nshould.\u201d  Twm and his master parted with mutual regret, for latterly they\nwere more like companions than master and scholar; and the generous Rhys\ncould not restrain a tear on beholding a youth of so much promise\ndestined to the uncertain wilderness of a hard and cold world, especially\nafter having evinced a superiority of taste and intellect, that under\nfavorable auspices, would have enabled him to shine and flourish in his\nday.  Twm remained awhile at his mother\u2019s, a big boy of fifteen, idling\naway his days without any view to the future.  Greatly concerned on his\naccount and her own inability to support him, Catti went one day to the\nsquire\u2019s, and implored him to do something for her son; and he at last\n_generously_ decided to send him as a parish apprentice to a farmer,\nwhose grounds were situate in the neighbouring mountains.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. IX.\n\n\nTwm\u2019s new master and mistress, with their daughters.  His pranks and\nbuffetings at Cwm du.  This humorous-beginning chapter ends tragically.\n\nTHE farmer to whom Twm had been assigned, was named Morris Grump, who\npossessed a considerable farm, freehold property, consisting of small\nfields occupying either side of a deep narrow mountain dingle, the centre\nof which was threaded by a large brook, that in winter aped the\nboisterousness of a river, and was, near the farm, crossed by a fallen\ntree, answering the purpose of a rustic bridge, worn flat by the feet of\npassengers.  This cultivated defile extended about three miles, and, with\nthe farm, was called _Cwm du_, {77} signifying the Black vale, or dingle,\nfrom the deep shade which the acclivious sides of the mountains threw\nover it, a great part of the day.  This lonely ravine was poorly wooded,\nbut many objects combined to array it with a hue of the romantic.\nInstead of thorn, or other coppice, the hedges were of furze, always\ngreen, and in summer with a rich yellow blossom, intermixed, here and\nthere, with the purple-flowered heath, which in Scotch literature has\nbeen immortalized as the mountain heather.  The trees were stunted, of\nstubby, dwarfish, yet fantastic growth, with the heads generally snapped\noff in the winter storms, and the branches spreading afar.  The large\nloose stones, that had parted from their parent rocks, and rolled to the\nbanks, and into the bed of the brook, were covered, or rather patched,\nwith a grey and yellow lichen, as were the bare hungry-looking ribs of\nthe mountains, which, unfleshed with soil, shewed, repulsively gaunt;\nstrongly contrasting with the small corn fields and green meadows below.\nThe brook, on a continual descent, was broken by many small, and some\nlarge, falls, down its rocky bed, chafing to a white foam against its\nvarious impediments, and roaring with the futile rage of a petty torrent.\n\nAt the upper end of _Cwm du_ stood the farm house, so called, of Morris\nGrump, with its barn, ricks, and the group of outhouses usually\nappertaining to such a place.  At the further extremity, the dingle\nterminated in a vast flat patch of black mountain marsh, where all the\npeople of the neighbouring country repaired to cut their turf for firing.\nAll else, on either side the valley of _Cwm du_, was mountain\u2014a wild\nuncultured wilderness; the surface of which was diversified with pretty\nlakes or alpine pools, on which floated various aquatic fowl; flocks of\nsheep; long-maned untamed horses; furze and heath; quarries; caves;\ngulfs; intersecting brooks; and the horizon closed with the distant\nmountain peaks, one above another, strangely but most grandly clustered.\n\nIn this secluded place, with a wife, six grown-up daughters, and one\nman-servant, Morris Grump lived, in the most penurious manner, scarcely\nallowing himself or family the common necessaries of live.  This was to\nTwm a most grievous change, where he was continually compelled to embrace\nhis antipathies, and disconnect himself from all the felicities most dear\nto him.  He loved books, rural festivities, rambling, and all those modes\nof passing his time which were most allied to idleness; but in this house\nnot a book was to be seen, nor the sound of mirth, harp, or song ever\nheard; nothing but work, hard work, seasoned with the shrill tones of\nscolding women, and the deep growls of the farmer.  The state of a slave,\nin a more agreeable climate, was enviable compared to poor Twm\u2019s.\n\nIt has been complained that the improvements in modern cookery have\ncaused the human race to devour more than twice the quantity of food\nrequisite or beneficial; Molly Grump, the mistress of this mountain\nmansion, had no idea of inflicting such an evil on her kind, and\ntherefore as an antidote to gluttony and intemperance, took care that her\nfood and drink should be neither too savory nor gustful.  Her habits\nwere, to bake a large quantity of bread at once, so that it might soon\nget hard and mouldy; steep an immense portion of the matter for flummery,\nuntil as sour as verjuice; mix water with the milk, buttermilk, and whey;\nand make the cheeses for home consumption hard enough to answer the\npurpose of cannon balls, in case the felicities of _Cwm du_ should ever\ntempt our foreign enemies to invade it.\n\nOur hero, however, had a bold heart, and if a little better fed, would\nhave endured all, and with that indifference and vein of whim which were\nnatural to him, turned Misery herself into a scarecrow of mirth rather\nthan terror.  His wretched scanty meals did much to tame him, and he ate\nhis breakfast of highly-watered milk porridge, with a hungry, and at the\nsame time loathing, stomach.  His dinner was either of very sour flummery\nand skim-milk watered, or for variety, broth, made of rusty bacon, or\nequally rusty dried beef or mutton; which being made in large quantities,\nwas generally warmed and served up three or four succeeding days: and\nwhen Twm and his fellow servant (a half idiot lout,) vainly hoped that\nthis species of drenching was over, they had the mortification to find a\nquantity of water added, to spin it out for another meal.  When spared\nfrom out-door work, Twm became a drudge for the women; after the work of\nthe day was over, and each resting in the chimney corner, there was\nalways a job for him, of some kind or other.  By the time he had been\nthere six months, it was pitiable to see him, in the depth of winter, in\nhis wooden clogs without stockings, and his happy laughing face rendered\npale and sorrowful.  Yet with all these drawbacks he preserved his turn\nfor mirth, and in the evening would recite either ghost-stories or\nwar-tales of old times, which he had heard from Ianto Gwyn or his master\nRhys, that astonished and amused his auditors, at least part of them, for\nMolly Grump told him \u2019twas more fitting he should mind his work than give\nhis time to telling lies and idling; and her eldest daughter Sh\u00e2n always\nechoed and imitated her mother, both in scolding and uttering wise\n_saws_.\n\nThe employment which they found for him in-doors, sometimes gave him an\nopportunity of repairing the deficiency of his stomach and warming his\nicy hands.  One day, having brought in some turf and furze which he had\nchopped for baking plank, or bakestone, bread, while Sh\u00e2n had turned her\nback a little, he snatched up the last cake taken from the fire, and\ndoubling it up, thrust it into his breast, and attempted to make a hasty\nretreat to devour it.  The great heat against his stomach, however, gave\nhim infinite pain, which, like the Spartan boy he had determined to\nendure rather than be detected; but not having been favored with so\nstoical an education, he at length gave way to nature, and roared most\nloudly as he ran out and across a field, while Sh\u00e2n and her two younger\nsisters followed in full chase, to rescue the bread which the former\nimmediately missed.  Twm soon gained the mountain, when the girls gave up\nthe pursuit, and he sat down and ate his bread undisturbed, hiding what\nremained beneath some stones, for a future meal, determined to abide the\nconsequence of his theft rather than that of starvation.  A severe\nthrashing from the farmer, some blows from his wife, much scolding from\nboth as well from the echo Sh\u00e2n, with deprivation from dinner, were the\nattendants of this feat; and instead of being permitted to sit with the\nrest, to partake of a meal, he was ordered to give some hay to the cows:\n\u201cand mind,\u201d cried Farmer Grump, \u201cthat you give more hay to the cow that\nyields you most milk, than to the cow that gives but little.\u201d  \u201cI will,\nbe sure of it!\u201d said Twm, pointedly and in a sulky tone; and immediately\ncarried his two arms full of hay and threw it under the water spout.\n\u201cThere!\u201d cried he, as the farmer came out and looked with astonishment,\n\u201c_that_ is the _cow_ which gives me most milk, for your cursed broth and\nporridge is almost wholly made from this never-failing udder.\u201d  This cost\nhim another beating, but it was the last, for the farmer received a hint\nthat it would not be safe to repeat the experiment, as Twm vowed to his\nfellow servant, that if again struck he would fell his assailant to the\nground, like an ox: while his resolute and altered look convinced him\nthat he meant to keep his word.\n\nIn the early part of the next summer, that dreadful malady, the small\npox, made its awful visitation to Morris Grump\u2019s house, and like a\nterrific fiend laid its talons alike on young and old, and remorselessly\nswept them off to the grave.  The two younger daughters were the first\ninfected; and in a few days after, two more were taken ill, and Morris\u2019s\nhouse presented the appearance of an hospital.  Morris\u2019s wife, as well as\nhimself, from the excessive anxiety natural to parents in such unhappy\ncircumstances for the preservation of her offspring, took, like thousands\nof others, the wrong course, and literally killed them with kindness;\nwhile the humbler inmates of the house, who had no share in her affection\nor concern, were as truly saved by absolute neglect.  Thus, while without\njudgement or advice, except of those who were as ignorant as herself, she\nsought every delicacy to indulge and pamper the appetites of her own\nafflicted ones, giving them spiced ale sugared, and even wine, in her\nterror of losing them, she suffered the poor apprentice Twm, who was also\ndeep in the small pox, to languish unattended, without enquiring after\nhim, or sending him the common necessaries of life, utterly indifferent\nwhether he lived or died.\n\nOn the first appearance of this disorder, the farmer\u2019s ploughman left him\nand went home, so that except Grump\u2019s own family, there were none in the\nhouse but Twm, who, if preserved from the small pox ran great danger of\nstarvation.  His bed was an old hop-sack half filled with oat-chaff, and\nhis covering an old tattered blanket and a musty rug, which had filled\nsimilar offices for the horses.  His bed-chamber being a portion of the\nhay-loft, poor Twm remained hours and days without food, groaning away\nhis time, and until blinded by his malady, amusing himself by counting\nthe number, and pondering on the formation, of the cobwebs that hung like\nsorrow\u2019s garlands from the mouldy beams and rafters, while the squeaking\nof the mice in the rotten thatch, served for music.  At other times,\nsomewhat nerved by the cravings of his stomach, his weak hands would\nrustle in some pease-straw that happened to be placed there, and now and\nthen, to his infinite joy, find an unbroken pea-shell that had escaped\nthe searching of the flail, which, in spite of the soreness of his hands\nand mouth, he would open, and with avidity devour its contents.\n\nAs in those days there were none who knew how to treat this disorder, in\ngeneral it was looked upon as the certain harbinger of death, when the\nterror and confusion which took place on its appearance, was deplorable\nin the extreme.  Two of the farmer\u2019s children, which had first been taken\nill, now died; and a third in a day after, when Morris himself was\ndiscovered to be infected.  Loud cries and lamentations became incessant\nday and night; and some of the neighbouring old cottage wives who offered\ntheir services came there to assist\u2014and this to some of them was a\nwelcome office, as on such occasions as watching the sick, or laying out\nthe dead; feasting is as prevalent as at weddings.\n\nAmong these old hen-wives and grannies, tales of superstition prevailed\nin abundance; some spoke of the corpse candles seen by them previous to\nthe deaths of the young women of the house; others dilated on the\nawfulness of a spectral burial, where shadows of the living supported the\nbier of the departed towards the churchyard.\n\nOne night, between twelve and one, while the three coffins and their\ncontents presented a woeful sight, lying side by side on the long oak\ntable, Morris, afflicted as he was, assisted his wife in supporting his\nfourth daughter, whose death they also deeply dreaded, as an old cottage\nwoman, while she basted a loin of mutton roasting before the fire, dwelt\nmuch on the certainty of supernatural appearances, illustrating her\nconvictions by instances of her own experience.  All at once, the current\nof her discourse was arrested by a shudder that overcame and struck her\ndumb, on hearing a rumbling and irregular noise, as of falling furniture,\nwhich also terrified the group about the fire.  The noise increased, and\nat last seemed as of somebody stumbling in his way in the dark; groans,\nmutterings, and approaching human steps succeeded:\u2014some shrieked, some\nrose and ran to remote corners, covering their heads with their aprons,\nwhile others sat breathless, as if nailed to the bench, and dissolved in\nstreams of perspiration, their eyes starting from their sockets\u2014when a\nfigure with the air and rush of a maniac darted in, tore the roasting\nmeat from the string, and disappeared with it, uttering in a dismal\nhollow tone \u201cO God, I am famished by these wretches!\u201d  The consciences of\nthe farmer and his wife were dreadfully wrung, as they now recollected\nthe poor apprentice boy Twm, whom they had left in the depth of the\nmalady which had deprived them of three of their children, to live or\ndie, as he might; nor would Morris allow anybody to rescue the meat, but\nsnatching a loaf from the shelf, he entreated Twm to come in and eat his\nfill at the fire: but the youngster had entered his hay-loft, and with\nthe ravenousness of a starved hound devoured his half raw prey in\ndarkness.  While yet the farmer, with tears of real penitence, was\ncalling out to him, a loud scream from his wife convinced him that his\nfourth child was also dead.  With wild agony that seemed to have\nhumanized his hard heart by the bitter arrows of affliction, Morris fell\non his knees, and with interrupting sobs, exclaimed \u201cI see the hand of\nGod in this, and a judgement, a heavy judgement has befallen us for our\ncruelty to the poor boy; but he will live! he! the lad whom we treated\nfouler than the beast! he will outlive this pest, while me and mine will\nperish!\u201d\n\nThe suffering of the unhappy man was pitiable and heart-rending to\nwitness; and on the very day of his children\u2019s burial, with loud cries of\nremorse and sorrow he expired.\n\nTwm recovered, according to the farmer\u2019s prophecy, which was further\nverified, inasmuch that the remainder of his children did not live to see\nthe end of the year; and his wife, losing her senses, was ever after a\nwretched moping idiot.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. X.\n\n\nTwm returns to his mother\u2019s at Tregaron.  His reception there, and\namongst his old friends and cronies.  Enters the service of Squire\nGraspacre, and lives in clover.  Becomes a great reader, hates servitude,\nand grows melancholy and romantic.\n\nAFTER setting out early in the morning, and walking hard all day over a\nrugged mountain road, the heart of Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti thrilled with delight,\nand the tears filled in his eyes when, late in the evening, his own\nnative place, the humble town of Tregaron appeared before him; and\nalthough his feet were so blistered that he could scarcely move, he\nattempted to make his limbs partake of the new vigour which sprung up in\nhis heart, and essayed to run, but failing in his aim, fell down\ncompletely mastered by exhaustion and fatigue.  Whether, like Brutus, he\nwas re-nerved by breathing awhile on the bosom of his mother earth, or\nthat the thoughts within, of home and its associations, gave him\nstrength, he rose much refreshed, but with considerable pain continued\nthe short untraced portion of his journey.\n\nEntering the town, at length, just as the darkness began to veil every\nobject, he came to his mother\u2019s door, which was open, and cast an\nenquiring look before he entered.  Catti had long dismissed her scholars,\nand sat in the chimney corner with her back towards the door, while her\nhusband occupied the other side, and sat silently busy in scooping out\nthe bowl of a new ladle.  Twm\u2019s merry, trick-loving soul was not to be\nsubdued by his troubles; having drawn his flat-rimmed old hat over his\neyes, he leaned over his mother\u2019s hatch, and in a feigned voice begged\nfor a piece of bread and cheese, saying that he was a poor boy, very\nhungry and tired, who was making his way home to Lampeter.  \u201cWe are poor\nfolk ourselves, and have nothing to give,\u201d said Carmarthen Jack, rather\ngruffly.  \u201cStop!\u201d cried Catti, \u201che\u2019s a poor child Jack, a bit of bread\nand cheese is not much, and somebody might take pity on my poor Twm, and\ngive as much, if he should ever need it.\u201d  The affectionate heart of Twm\ncould no longer contain itself, but opening the hatch he burst forward,\ndashing his hat on the ground, and falling on her neck, giving ardent\nutterance to merely the word \u201cmother;\u201d and after the tender pause of\nnature\u2019s own embrace, he cried, with streaming eyes, \u201cMy good kind\ncharitable mother! you shall never want bread and cheese, while your poor\nTwm has health and strength to earn it.\u201d  Warmly returning his embrace\nand kisses, Catti long clasped her boy, and was quite terrified to see\nhis pale lean cheek, and altered look.  Ashamed of the exposure of his\npitiless nature, Jack now came up, shook hands and condoled with him, but\nTwm _had seen the man_, _and loved him not_.  After being refreshed,\nCatti eagerly enquired of all that happened to him since he left home,\nand wept much as he detailed his narrow escape from starvation and the\nsmall pox.  By twelve o\u2019clock next day, his tale was known to every body\nat Tregaron.\n\nThe catastrophe at Morris Grump\u2019s, of course, was considered as a\njudgement from heaven for his miserly propensities; and Ianto Gwyn wrote\na pathetic ballad, to the great edification of the old women and\ntender-hearted damsels, giving _a true and particular_ account of the\nwhole affair; to which was attached a moral, on the cruelty of\nmal-treating parish apprentices, and stuffing them with mouldy bread and\nsour flummery.  This interesting ballad was daily sung by Wat the\nmole-catcher, to the English tune of Chevy Chase, which gained him the\ngood will of all those old crones, who had taken deep offence at his\nnumerous tricks.\n\nCarmarthen Jack, although so careful of his bread and cheese, was\ndetermined not to be outdone on this occasion, but brought the graphic\nart to perpetuate his stepson\u2019s tale; that is to say, he carved on a\nwooden bowl the figures of four beings, well attended, in bed, with the\nscythe of Death across their throats, while in the distance a meagre boy\nwas snatching a joint of meat from the fire; the idea, it is true, was\nbetter than the execution; but altogether it gained Jack very great\napplause.\n\nRight glad were all Twm\u2019s cronies to see him again at Tregaron; but\ndearer than all to him was the welcome of the curate Rhys, with whose\nbooks he was again permitted to make free, while he profited by his\ninstructions and conversation.  He had now been at home about three\nmonths, and recovered his health, strength, and spirits to perfection,\nwhen his mother fancied he had become an eye-sore to her husband, who she\nthought looked at him with the scowling brow of a step-father, which\nTwm\u2019s conduct, he might imagine, justified, as his behaviour towards Jack\nhad been very unconciliating, ever since the bread and cheese adventure.\nWith this impression, Catti once more waited on Squire Graspacre to\nsolicit that some place or employment should be found for her boy, as she\ncould not afford to keep him in idleness.  The tale of his sufferings at\n_Cwm du_, interested the squire in his favor; and he felt some reluctance\nto send him as a parish apprentice; particularly as Catti declared he\nwould rather die than be such again.  The worthy curate, Rhys, had also\nspoken a kind word in his pupil\u2019s favor; and Carmarthen Jack, gaping hand\nin hand, looked as if he would say much to get rid of his stepson, could\nhe hit on words to his purpose.  Amused by his simplicity and awkward\ngestures, the squire asked him, \u201cWell Jack, what would you advise me to\ndo with Catti\u2019s boy?\u201d  This plain question met as blunt an answer, \u201cMake\nhim your servant boy sir, if you please.\u201d  \u201cAnd so I will old hedgehog,\u201d\ncried the squire, slapping him on the shoulder, \u201cYour oratory has settled\nthe matter.\u201d  Accordingly, our hero next appears as the squire\u2019s man at\nGraspacre Hall; this was an agreeable change in life to him, where he\nlived, as they say, in clover; and by his good temper and turn for mirth,\nhe gained the good will and admiration of his fellow servants,\nparticularly the girls, with whom he became an especial favorite.  Behold\nhim now then, in the seventeenth year of his age, with the looks and\nhabits of twenty, gay, happy, and as mischievous as an ape; kissing and\nromping with the girls, caring for none of them but shewing attentions to\nall, while he jeered and mocked the cross-grained and disagreeable, and\nwhenever he could, raised a laugh at their peculiarities.  His\nemployments at the squire\u2019s were various, among which, waiting at table\nevery day, neatly dressed, and carrying his master\u2019s gun and attending\nhim during his shooting excursions, formed the principal.  To these,\nSquire Graspacre, who since the death of his wife was ever wench-hunting,\naimed to add the office of pimp.  Twm, however, had been swayed too long\nby the counsels of Rhys the curate, to lend himself to any such unworthy\nservices; and having by his conversations with him, and by the tenor of\nhis readings, imbibed a taste for romantic honor, he was not without a\nsecret hope, if not presentiment, that his great father might some day\nown him, and destine him to a very different sphere in life.  These ideas\nwere no sooner born than they daily expanded in his breast, and filled\nhis imagination so far as to induce him to seize every opportunity to\nimprove his mind, and qualify himself for the best chances of Fortune.\nWith the growth of these notions, rose in his mind a distaste for\nservitude, and an ardent longing to shine in a sphere allied to\nliterature and respectability.\n\nBy the time he had been a twelvemonth in his situation, from a merry\nhappy youth he became pensive, and sometimes deeply melancholy.  His\nbed-room was over the lawndry, a building detached from the house; in\nwhich he had shelves put up to hold his books, a small stock, but which\nhe continually increased by laying out every farthing which he received\nfrom visitors, or saved from his wages, in the purchase of more.  On\nretiring at night, his habits were to cover closely his window, to\nconceal the light of his candle, while he generally sat up more than half\nthe night luxuriating over his darling volumes; and as he was directed in\nhis choice of them by Rhys, who made him presents of many, he soon\nacquired no inconsiderable share of information: this blessing, however,\nbecame partially a curse to him, for, as he could not be persuaded to\ngive his attention to books of a religious tendency, the light that\ngleamed upon his mind had the effect of shewing him his destitution, and\nmaking him discontented with his lot in life.  Sometimes, he talked to\nhis late school-master on the subject of travelling to England to seek\nhis fortune, which wandering predilections that worthy man always\ndiscouraged, but events soon occurred to shew our hero in a new\ncharacter, in which most men appear at some period of their lives\u2014that of\na lover.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XI.\n\n\nTwm Sh\u00f4n Catti falls in love, and preserves his mistress from the\nsquire\u2019s clutches.  The adventures of Farmer Cadwgan\u2019s she ass.  Twm\nescapes from the squire\u2019s.\n\nTHE squire and his man Twm returning one evening from grousing on the\nhills, on their descent towards the valleys had to pass by a small farm\nhouse, inhabited by a tenant of the former, who whispered Twm, \u201cThis is\nthe keep, the close, that contains better game, and can afford livelier\nsport than any I have had to day.\u201d  Twm by his silence testified his\nignorance of his drift; but he resumed \u201cwhat you don\u2019t understand me?\nhaven\u2019t you seen this farmer\u2019s plump partridge of a daughter, the pretty\nGwenny Cadwgan, you young dog!  I am determined to have that bird down,\nsome way or other, and you must help me.\u201d  Before Twm could reply, the\nsquire alighted and entered the cottage, at the door of which the farmer\nand Gwenny Cadwgan, now grown a fine and blooming young woman, met and\nwelcomed their landlord.  Some oaten bread, butter and cheese, and a cup\nof homely ale was put before him; and while he ate, the pretty Gwenny\ncarried a portion to Twm, as he held the horses in the yard.  While he\nreceived the welcome food from the hand of the happy smiling girl, he\nperceived the blush with which she gave it, and felt in his breast\ncertain sensations no less new than agreeable; thus, while each made\nbrief allusions to their days of childhood, a tear started in the eyes of\nTwm, on seeing which the bright eyes of Gwenny were also suffused, till\nthe pearly drops over-ran her fresh ruddy cheeks.  Her father then\ncalling her in, she suddenly shook hands with, and left our hero, who in\nthat hour became a captive to her charms, while the innocent girl herself\nthen felt the first shootings of a passion that daily grew, in sympathy\nwith his own.\n\nThe squire having finished his hasty lunch, he remarked to his tenant\nCadwgan in a hurried manner, that he should have company, the next day to\nentertain at his house, and would thank him to let his lass come to the\nhall to assist in attending on them.  The farmer of course assented, in\nwords, for what small farmer would dare to deny his landlord such a\nfavor, though his heart might tremble with apprehension?\n\nAfter the squire\u2019s departure, Cadwgan became deeply distressed at the\npredicament in which he found himself; to deny his landlord, was probably\nto lose his farm; and to assent to his specious proposal, was to\nendanger, if not utterly ruin the innocence of his darling daughter; as,\nsince the death of Mistress Graspacre, more than one of the neighbouring\ndamsels had to rue their intimacy with the squire.  He passed a sleepless\nnight of bitter reflection, and saw daylight with an agonized spirit; but\nthe active mind imbued with honorable ideas, never fails in due season to\nwork its own relief.  When Twm appeared next morning on horseback before\nhis door, with a pillion behind, for the reception of Gwenny, Cadwgan\u2019s\nterrors had vanished, his indignation at the premeditated injuries\nintended him, was roused, and with braced nerves, and a firm heart, he\ndetermined to deny the squire, and abide the consequences, be what they\nmight.  But honest Nature was elsewhere at work in Cadwgan\u2019s favor, and\nunknown to him, had raised a friend to save him from those impending\nperils, to the preservation both of his farm and his more precious\ndaughter, in the person of young Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti.\n\nOn his journey home the last evening, while listening to his master\u2019s\ncommands, and hearing his plans to inveigle the innocent Gwenny, Twm was\nsilent and meditative, mentally engaged in seeking some mode to preserve\nher from his clutches; and at length heroically determined to save the\nobject of his admiration, even at the risk of losing his place and being\ncast again on the wide world.  He fed his fancy all night in dwelling on\nher beauty, and the merit of preserving her, while he ardently enjoyed in\nanticipation, the sacrifice he was about to make for her sake;\nconsidering he should feel himself amply repaid if favored by the sweet\ngirl with a smile of approbation.\n\nThe morning came, and the squire gave the dreaded order, \u201cTake the horse\nDragon, put a saddle and pillion on him, and bring the farmer\u2019s lass\nbehind you here; tell Cadwgan not to expect her back to-night, but she\nshall be brought home to-morrow.\u201d  Although Twm had been preparing\nhimself to give a doughty reply, and so commence the heroic character he\nhad modelled, yet when the moment came, his resolution failed him, and\nthe high-sounding words were not forthcoming; although the determination\nto disobey remained as strong as ever.  He rode off, through Tregaron,\nand up the hills, in a melancholy mood, and without any settled purpose,\nexcept that of straight-forward resistance to the orders he had received.\nAs he jogged on listlessly, he was suddenly roused from his reverie by\nthe braying of Cadwgan\u2019s ass, that was grazing in a green lane which he\nwas about to enter.  Such an animal being a rarity in that country, Twm,\nwith surprise, audibly muttered, \u201cWhat the devil is that?\u201d  An old woman\nat that moment opening the gate, which she civilly held for our hero to\npass into the lane which she was leaving, hearing his words, replied \u201cIt\nis only Cadwgan\u2019s _ass_.\u201d  Twm, whose thoughts ran entirely on the\nfarmer\u2019s fair daughter, mistaking what she said, rejoined \u201cCadwgan\u2019s\n_lass_, did you say?\u201d  \u201cYou are very ready with your mocks and pranks,\nMaster Twm,\u201d cried the old woman, slamming the gate against the buttocks\nof the horse, \u201cbut you know very well that I said Cadwgan\u2019s _ass_, and\nnot his _lass_, for I should be sorry to compare the good and pretty\nGwenny Cadwgan to such an ugly ill-voiced animal.\u201d  Twm laughed at his\nmistake, made his apology, and rode on with revived spirits, having now,\nfrom this very ludicrous circumstance, hatched the trick which he\nintended to play off on his master.\n\nThe farmer\u2019s mind being made up, as before observed, to refuse the\nattendance of his daughter at his landlord\u2019s, he was astonished to hear\nTwm say, \u201cMaster Cadwgan, it was squire Graspacre\u2019s order to me, that I\nshould saddle this horse, come to your house, and with your consent,\nbring your _ass_ to him, on the pillion behind me.\u201d  Cadwgan stared\ndoubtfully, and Twm resumed \u201cI hope you are too sensible to question or\nlook into the reasonableness of his whims, and will be so good as to\ncatch the strange animal, which I passed on the road, that we may tie him\nacross the pillion.\u201d  Cadwgan immediately concluded this to be a\nprovidential mistake of the young man\u2019s, that might have the most\ndesirable effect of relieving him from his apprehended troubles, and with\na ready presence of mind said, laughing, \u201cTo be sure it is no business of\nmine to look into the oddness of his fancies, and he shall have my ass by\nall means.\u201d  \u201cPut an L to ass, and \u2019twill be _lass_,\u201d said Twm seriously,\nand with emphasis, \u201cand such is the squire\u2019s demand: but,\u201d said the youth\nwith rising enthusiasm, \u201cI would risk my life to save your daughter from\nhis snares, and will feign that I thought he said _ass_ instead of\n_lass_, to be brought on the pillion.\u201d  Affected by this instance of\ngenerosity, the farmer, as well as his lovely daughter, burst into tears,\nthanking and blessing him; the former assuring him, that if in\nconsequence of this undertaking, he should be dismissed from his place,\n_his_ roof, hearth, and table should be at his service.\n\nWhile Cadwgan went out to catch the long-eared victim, Twm spent a\ndelicious half hour in the company of the fair Gwenny; and took that\nopportunity to protest the ardor of his affection for her, and vowed that\nwhen Fortune favored him with the means of getting a livelihood\nindependent of servitude, it would be the glory of his life to come and\nask her to be his own.  The maiden heard him with streaming eyes and\npassion-heaving breast, nor withdrew her cheek when her lover imprinted\non it affection\u2019s first kiss; which she considered a sacred compact, the\nseal of true love\u2019s faithful covenant, never to be broken by the\nintrusion of another.\n\nCadwgan at length returned, with his charge in a halter, grumbling and\nabusing the beast at every step, in consequence of having been led a\npretty dance in chase of her; for, as if conscious of her coming\ntroubles, the moment he approached, she scampered off through the lane,\nand right through the river, nor stopped until fairly fast in a bog, from\nwhence, with much trouble, the farmer roughly rescued her.  With the\nassistance of Twm and a neighbouring cottager, he now tied the animal\u2019s\nlegs and lifted her into the seat of the pillion, a situation that her\nstruggling and resistance indicated to be more elevated than comfortable.\nTwm, however, rode on slowly with his grotesque companion, without the\noccurrence of an accident till they arrived at Tregaron; when the whole\ntown, men, women, and children, came out to enjoy the strange sight,\namidst roars and shouts of laughter.  Whether the principal figure in the\ngroup felt her dignity hurt, or her modesty offended, by such an\nexhibition of her charms to the rude ribaldry of a mob, or whether\ninstigated by the rational motive of seeking ease by change of position,\nit may not be an easy matter to determine, but certain it is, that\nstraining every nerve to liberate her captive limbs, she at length\nsucceeded, bursting the cord by which she was fastened to the pillion,\nand tumbled in a heap to the ground, where, as if inspired by the genius\nof perseverance she again struggled hard and soon shook off every remnant\nof her hempen gyves; and in all the pride of high achievement and newly\nacquired freedom, ran with all her might through the town, brandishing\nher heels to right and left, whenever any person approached to impede her\ncareer, till through a long narrow lane she reached the mountains.  Here\nshe seemed to defy her numerous pursuers, but after a long chase which\nlasted till dusk, she was surrounded, secured, and placed in her former\nsituation behind our hero on the pillion.  At length he reached Graspacre\nHall, and made his approach at the back of the house.  His stepfather\nassisted both him and his companion to alight, leading the latter to the\nstable, while Twm went to inform his master of his arrival, and the cause\nof his long delay.  A sudden terror arrested his steps awhile, he felt\nhimself in a peculiar dilemma, out of which he would have been right glad\nto be delivered; but after his fit of apprehension had lasted a few\nminutes, he plucked up his courage and his breeches at the same time,\nexclaiming, \u201cWell! he can\u2019t kill me for it, a beating and a dismissal\nwill be the worst of it:\u201d and thus self-comforted he entered the house.\n\nThe squire at this time was seated at the head of the table, pushing\nabout the bottle among his friends, principally formed of the\nneighbouring gentry.  In the course of the day he had sent several times\nto know whether Twm had arrived.  When little Pembroke at length went in\nto announce his return, he desired he should be immediately sent in, and\nTwm approached him with a burning cheek and an agitated heart.  He\nquestioned the youngster in an under tone, asking _if he had brought\nher_, and where he had been so long; to which Twm replied \u201cYes sir, I\nhave brought her, and much trouble I had with her, for she didn\u2019t like to\ncome, thinking perhaps you meant her foul play; and once she escaped off\nthe pillion into the mountain.\u201d  \u201cThe devil she did!\u201d cried the squire,\n\u201cbut you caught her again?\u201d  \u201cOh yes sir, after losing much time, I have\nbrought her here at last, and she is now much tamer than at first.\u201d  \u201cA\ngood lad Twm, a good lad, remind me to give you a guinea for this day\u2019s\nwork; but what have you done with her? where is she?\u201d  \u201cWhy sir,\u201d cried\nTwm, \u201cI tied her up to the manger and locked the stable door, to prevent\nher escape.\u201d  \u201cShame Twm, shame, you ought not to have done that, for she\nwill think it was by my orders, and hate me perhaps for cruelty,\u201d quoth\nthe squire, thinking all the time that Cadwgan\u2019s _lass_, and not his ass,\nwas the subject of discussion.  \u201cNo sir,\u201d replies Twm, \u201cbut it is likely\nthough, that she will have an ill will towards me, as long as she lives,\nfor it.\u201d  \u201cWell well,\u201d said his master hastily, \u201ctake her from the stable\ninto the housekeeper\u2019s room, and tell Margery to comfort her and give her\na glass of wine.\u201d  This was too much for Twm, and the smothered laugh\nburst out in spite of his efforts; on which, his master, with a severe\nbrow, asked how he dared to laugh in his presence.  \u201cIndeed I could not\nhelp it,\u201d cried Twm, \u201cbut I don\u2019t think she ever drank a glass of wine in\nher life, and perhaps might not like it.\u201d  \u201cWhy that\u2019s true; then tell\nthe butler to give out a bottle of the sweet home-made wines for her\u2014let\nit be a bottle of the cowslip wine, and say that I am very sorry for the\ntrouble and vexation she has had.\u201d  \u201cYes sir,\u201d cried Twm, who made his\nbow, and retired to the servant\u2019s hall, where he made them acquainted\nwith the squire\u2019s freak of having Farmer Cadwgan\u2019s ass brought there on a\npillion behind him; and that it was his master\u2019s orders that she was to\nbe brought into the housekeeper\u2019s room, and a glass of wine given to her,\nand that Margery was to make her comfortable.\n\nThey were all aware of their master\u2019s occasional eccentricities, and that\nhe was as absolute in demanding obedience to his wildest whims as to the\nmost important matter in the world; and therefore, one and all, they\nassisted in bringing the ass from the stable, and with much trouble\nforcing her into the housekeeper\u2019s room, where Glamorgan Margery spread a\nsmall carpet for her to lie down on, and amidst the side-aching laughter\nof the servants, offering her a glass of wine, which no persuasions could\ninduce her to accept.\n\nThe squire had given orders that no person was to answer the bell the\nrest of the evening but Twm, and as it was now rang, in went our hero,\nwhen he was asked \u201cHow is she now?\u201d  \u201cRather fatigued sir; she doesn\u2019t\nlike wine, nor would she touch a drop of it.\u201d  \u201cWell well,\u201d said the\nsquire, \u201cif she likes ale better, let her have some, with a cold fowl,\nand something of the nicest in the house, though perhaps she would prefer\na cup of tea to anything.  After she has taken the refreshment she\nchoses, tell Margery to put her to bed, in the green chamber, then lock\nthe door and bring me the key.\u201d  Here Twm\u2019s risible faculties were again\noppressed to bursting, but a look from his master checked him.\n\nSquire Graspacre now secretly anticipated the completion of his scheme,\nanxiously waiting for the departure of his guests, who by their noisy\nhilarity had long given notice that a very little more devotion to the\nbottle would lay them all under the table.  The wily squire however\ndesisted, before he had passed the boundary of what topers call _half and\nhalf_, considering in the mean time, that his plan would best succeed by\nnot appearing before Gwenny Cadwgan till midnight, when all his household\nwould be asleep, and himself supposed to have retired to his room.\n\nAfter some trouble, which was heightened by forced suppression of\nlaughter, that, however, broke out in spite of them, the servants got the\ndonkey up stairs, having previously fed her with bread, oaten cakes, and\noats, on her rejection of ale, wine, fowl, and tea, which to their own\ngreat amusement they had successively offered in vain.  Having brought\nthe poor animal into the green room, the best chamber in the house, and\nkept only for particular guests, they placed her on the fine handsome\nbed; the legs being already tied, they fastened them also to the bed\nposts.  Twm heightened the drollery of the scene by cutting two holes in\na night cap, drawing through them the ass\u2019s ears, and slitting it at the\nedge, he drew the cap down towards the eyes.  Thus secured and accoutred,\nthey bade her good night, locked the door, and gave the key to their\nmaster.\n\nThe guests at length dispersing, they all rode off as well as their\nmuddled heads would let them, to their respective homes; the squire, as\nwas his custom, locked the door himself, and saw every light in the house\nout before he retired himself.  At length he gained his chamber, and all\nwas still in Graspacre Hall.  The amorous squire, chuckling at his luck\nas he thought of the fair lass in the green chamber, grew too impatient\nto wait till the proposed hour of midnight, and leaving his candle on his\nown table, took off his shoes, and softly approached the casket, that he\ndeemed contained his precious jewel.  Applying the key, he opened the\ndoor very gently, and cautiously approaching the side of the bed, said in\na whisper towards the pillow, \u201cDon\u2019t be alarmed Gwenny, my dear, \u2019tis I,\nthe squire; fear nothing my girl, this will be the making of your fortune\nmy dear; and if you are as kind and loving as I could wish you to be, you\nmay soon become the second Mrs. Graspacre.\u201d  Hearing no reply, he\nconsidered that according to the old adage, _silence gives consent_, and\nproceeded to bend his face down to kiss the fair one, when a severe\nbounce inflicted by a toss of his _incognita\u2019s_ snout, knocked him\nbackwards off the bed to the floor, and set his nose a-bleeding.  After\nrecovering himself a little, though labouring under the delusion that the\nblow had been struck by the hand of a fair maiden, he exclaimed in an\nunder tone, \u201cYou little vixen, how dare you treat me in this manner?\u201d\nProceeding more roughly again towards the bed, he was completely\nhorror-struck at the loud bray which the terrified ass sent forth; while\nthe poor animal, after a hard struggle, liberating her limbs, struck him\na severe blow on the forehead with her hoof, and getting off the bed,\nmade a terrible clatter with her shod feet over the boards of the room.\nThe unfortunate squire, although hitherto a loud decrier of superstition,\nnow felt a thrill of the utmost horror pervade him, while he deemed\nhimself ensnared by the enemy of man, as the punishment of his guilty\nintentions; and after a clamorous outcry fell senseless on the floor.\n\nThe servants, having but concealed the lights, expecting some\n_denouement_ of this sort, now rushed in, and saw their fallen master\nghastly pale, with streams of perspiration running over his forehead,\nwhile his wildly-staring eyes alternately looked at and turned from the\nmonster of alarm.  When he had sufficiently recovered to learn the real\nstand of the affair, from little Pembroke, who had been made Twm\u2019s\nconfidante in this matter\u2014how that wight had brought the farmer\u2019s ass\naccording to his orders behind him on the pillion, although he had been\nin some doubt whether he had said Cadwgan\u2019s _ass_, or Cadwgan\u2019s _lass_,\nthe squire\u2019s rage was boundless.  Exasperated at the trick put upon him\nby a mere youngster, and a menial, and scarcely less provoked at the\nexposure he had made of himself before his servants, down he rushed into\nthe hall, and snatched a heavy horse-whip, unlocked the door, and made\nhis way towards our hero\u2019s chamber over the lawndry; but when he reached\nthe bed-side, prepared to inflict the severest punishment that the thong\nof a whip was capable of, how great was his mortification to find the\nbird flown! his chagrin and resentment were anything but lessened, when\nhe took up a sheet of paper off the bed, on which in a large hand were\nwritten these pretty lines.\n\n   If from _lass_ you take the letter L,\n   Then lass is ass if I have learnt to spell;\n   Yet ass and lass methinks are coupled ill,\n   Though human asses follow lasses still;\n   An ass were I too\u2014one yclept a ninny\u2014\n   If now I stay\u2019d to claim my promised guinea.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XII.\n\n\nCarmarthen Jack\u2019s churlishness to Twm.  His mishap in consequence.\nSquire Graspacre reforms his conduct.  Sends for his son and daughters\nhome.  A delicate Devonshire lady, Twm\u2019s satire on the cook.  Gives the\nyoung squire a thrashing, and runs away.  Visits Rhys and Cadwgan.  About\nto be married to Gwenny.  A dreadful adventure on the hills that ruins\nall his prospects.\n\nTWM reached his mother\u2019s at Tregaron about one o\u2019clock in the morning,\nand alarmed her greatly by the account he gave of his flight from the\nsquire\u2019s, and the cause which led to it.  Jack made the best of the\naffair, in his own manner, by assuring his wife that her son had been the\nabsolute ruin of both himself and her, unless they did their utmost to\nconciliate the squire by turning Twm adrift, and refusing him a temporary\nshelter.  While Jack beneath the bedclothes was grunting these\nsuggestions of worldly wisdom, Catti, half-drest, was making up a bed for\nher son, who, the while, was sitting dejectedly in the chimney corner.\nHaving caught the drift of his father-in-law\u2019s mutterings, he rose\nabruptly, snatched up his hat, and while striding towards the door,\ncried, \u201cGood night mother.\u201d  Alarmed at his precipitate movement, and the\ntone with which he spoke, \u201cWhere are you going Twm?\u201d said Catti.  Turning\nround, while he held the door in his left hand, he replied, \u201cAny where\nmother\u2014the world is wide\u2014and I\u2019ll go headlong to the devil rather than\nstay here, when I am not welcome.\u201d  With that he closed the door, and was\nin a moment out of sight, notwithstanding the cries and entreaties of his\nmother, who ran after, and earnestly sought to bring him back.\n\nCatti, with a bitter consciousness, now found that her son had a\nstepfather, and she a husband, who was a rude and churlish tyrant.  The\nseverity of this reflection preyed heavily on her mind; nor could she be\npersuaded to go to bed again, but sitting at the fireless hearth she\nloudly wept and lamented her hard fate.  To give him his due, Jack was\nfar from being regardless of her sorrow, but shewed the tenderness of a\nhusband in comforting her, in the manner most natural to himself.  \u201cWhat\nsignifies crying for such an imp of the devil as that,\u201d said this kind\nstepfather, \u201cif he starves in the field by being out to-night, it will\nsave him from dying at the gallows, where he would be sure to come some\nday or other.\u201d  This tender-hearted speech had the unexpected effect of\nimmediately curing Catti\u2019s grief, which turned to a desperate fit of\nrage, and without a word to signify the transition wrought by his\noratory, she snatched up a stout broom-stick from the floor, and\nbe-laboured him with all her strength, as he lay beneath the bedclothes,\ntill he roared like a baited bull: had she taken a wager for thrashing a\ngiven quantity of corn in a certain number of minutes, she could not have\nlaid on her blows more briskly or vigorously.  When the strength of her\narms failed, the energy of her tongue commenced, and after rating him\nsoundly, she concluded her harangue with eloquent pithiness, hoping that\nshe had left him a shirtful of broken bones; after which exertion she\nthought proper to disappear.\n\nJack although he received some hard blows, by dodging under the\nbedclothes, escaped better than his help-mate intended he should; he soon\nrose, dressed himself, and went to his master\u2019s, sauntering sullenly\nabout the outhouses till daylight, when a servant informed him, after\nnarrating Twm\u2019s trick on his master, that he was to take Cadwgan\u2019s ass\nhome.\n\nSquire Graspacre, since the death of his wife, gave such free range to\nhis licentious pleasures, as placed him, especially at his years, in a\nmost unseemly light.  His only son had been two years at Oxford,\nreturning only occasionally during vacations; while his two daughters, on\nthe death of their mother, were sent to a boarding school at Exeter.\nThus in his own family he had no witnesses of his vices and follies.  He\nsoon found, however, that in Wales, his offences against religion and\nmorality were not to be committed with impunity.  The respect in which he\nwas formerly held by the country people gradually declined, while those\nwho had daughters became extremely shy, and sent their female inmates out\nof the way whenever he approached.  Never deficient in penetration, he\nwas not long in discovering this change in the bearings of his tenants\nand neighbours, which to a mind like his, proud, fond of domineering, and\nbeing looked up to as the superior\u2014the grand central luminary of his\nsphere, round which all others moved as silent and respectful\nsatellites\u2014was a very hell.  The minds of men, however, his knowledge of\nmankind told him, were not to be over-ruled, and with a wisdom rare as\neffective, he immediately resolved, as the only mode of re-establishing\nhis credit and happiness, to retrace his steps\u2014to which end he sent for\nhis daughters home, at a time when his son was about to return from\nOxford\u2014and thus, by the presence of his children, place a restrictive\nguard upon his future conduct.  With this change in his ideas, it will be\nno wonder that Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti was again taken into favor, and replaced in\nhis former situation.\n\nAt length the merry bells of Tregaron announced the arrival of the heir,\nand the young ladies of Graspacre Hall, which mansion soon became a scene\nof festivity.  The meeting of the squire with his daughters was ardently\naffectionate; but his son Marmaduke had nothing of cordiality in his\nnature.  His figure was tall and spare, with loose joints and ill-knit\nbones, while his countenance indicated both phlegm and a fidgetty,\nnervous peevishness.  A curious eye might also discover in it decisive\nmarks of late hours and dissipated habits.  Proud, rash, and\nself-sufficient, his dislike of Wales and Welshmen surpassed his father\u2019s\npartiality for them.  He condescended, however, to say, that until he\ncould get a clever English servant, in the place of the last, who ran\naway from him, he must put up with one of the Welsh savages.\nAccordingly, our hero was appointed to be his temporary valet, and\nordered to attend exclusively on the young squire.\n\nWith the ladies came their aunt, the squire\u2019s younger sister, a very\naffected fantastical spinster from Exeter; who gave every fashion its\nfull Devonshire latitude in her conformation to it, carrying the mode to\nan extreme that left London absurdity far in the back ground.  The Misses\nGraspacre were neither imitators nor very ardent admirers of their aunt,\nwhose silly affectation of excessive delicacy became their standing point\nof ridicule, which they put in practice on the very evening of their\narrival.  The hearty girls wanted something substantial for their supper,\nafter travelling their long journey; but their aunt intimated her desire\nto have something that would be light on he stomach: but great was her\ndismay on finding a duck and green pease brought to the table.  She\nresolved however, even on this fare, to shew her superior Devonshire\nbreeding; and while the young ladies lifted their pease from their plates\nto their mouths in half-dozens or more at a time, she, delicate soul, cut\nevery pea in four, and swallowed a quarter at a time!  This display of\nrefinement excited stares of wonder from the squire and some of his\nfriends, whom he had invited on the occasion, but in her nieces, nothing\nbut smothered laughter.\n\nAnother circumstance of note happened at this supper, which, as it\nrelates to our hero, must be here told.  It seems that during Twm\u2019s\ndisgrace, and consequent absence from the hall, the servants there\nindulged themselves and one another in making remarks on his conduct, and\nits probable consequence.  This discussion displayed their various\ndispositions; some spoke of him with charity, and dwelt upon his rare\nqualities of good nature and cheerfulness; while others took a malignant\npleasure in speaking of his satirical and mischievous propensities.\nAmong the latter was the cook.  Twm, on his return, heard of her\n_kindness_, and determined to take the first opportunity of shewing his\nsense of the obligations she had laid him under.  On the removal of the\nremains of the duck and its accompaniments, the company having just been\nhelped round with tart or pie, their attention was suddenly arrested by\nthe voice of Twm, in the passage, who loudly sung the following distich.\n\n    \u201cApple pie is very rich,\n       And so is venison pasty,\n    Our cook has got the itch,\n       And that is very nasty.\u201d\n\nYe gods! what sounds for ears polite!  The young ladies laughed\nimmoderately on perceiving the distress of their aunt, who shewed a\nwry-faced consciousness of having partaken of food prepared by unclean\nhands; her countenance underwent various contortions, which terminated in\nthe grand climax of a shriek and a fit.  The squire\u2019s anger was instantly\nkindled against Twm, probably from an unquenched spark of his former\nresentment, which he evinced by telling his son to \u201cgive that rascal a\ngood thrashing.\u201d  Proud of the commission, out ran Marmaduke, and finding\nTwm in the hall, ran up and struck him a blow in the face, but great was\nthe amazement of the servants to see the young man turn upon him like a\nlion, and with the most dexterous management of his fists overpowering\ntheir young master in an instant, whom he left groaning with pain, and\ncovered with bruises, and then made a precipitate retreat.\n\nWhile walking to Tregaron, it occurred to Twm, that for that night at\nleast, he might be favored with a lodging by his constant friend, Rhys\nthe curate.  Thither he went, and found the worthy man by his parlour\nfire, with a book in his hand, and papers before him, busily employed in\npreparing for the press a new edition of his Welsh Grammar.  He was\nreceived by him with his usual kindness; and when Twm had told him his\ntale, with the important addition that he must leave his native place for\never, and immediately, he shewed the goodness of his heart by assuring\nhim of a retreat for the present, and a little pecuniary aid on his\ndeparture.  He however gave him a friendly lecture on the impropriety of\nhis conduct; observing, that if he must be satirical, he ought to choose\nthe subjects for his lash from the infamous among the great and wealthy,\nand not the puny and defenceless, to attack whom, he said, evinced a\npaltry and most dastardly spirit; concluding with the pithy injunction,\n\u201cwhile you live, whatever your state while on earth, act the generous and\nmanly part; and never, never, either manually or with the lash of satire,\nwar with the weak.\u201d  These words were never forgotten by Twm, and however\nreprehensible his erratic courses in after life, they were much less so\nfrom his reception of this noble sentiment, which became his standing\nrule of conduct.  Had it been Twm\u2019s lot to have lived in a loftier sphere\nand in the days of chivalry, he would doubtless have had inscribed on his\nshield those words so deeply written on his memory \u201cWar not with the\nweak.\u201d  Our hero was heartily pleased with his preceptor, inasmuch, that\namidst all its observations and lectures he imputed to him but slight\nblame for his retaliation on young Graspacre; but when he vowed further\nvengeance, should he ever meet him alone in the mountains, remonstrated\nwith him on the risk he ran, urged the necessity of self-preservation,\nand advised him not to endanger himself needlessly.\n\nThe next morning Rhys assured Twm that he had reflected on the\npeculiarity of his case, and found it by no means so bad as he had\nimagined.  \u201cAs to leaving this place,\u201d said he \u201cI see no necessity;\nmerely keep out of the way awhile, and in due time make your submissions\nto the squire, and as he is by no means a hard man, I have no doubt but\nall will speedily be well again.\u201d  Twm in a manner adopted this idea,\nthough he ill stomached the thought of submission, or asking pardon for\nan act of manliness which he would on a similar case of aggravation\nrepeat.  Thus matters rested for the present; and in the dusk of evening\nhe crossed the hills towards Cadwgan\u2019s, and soon had the grateful\nsatisfaction of seeing once more his beauteous mistress, sitting by her\nfather before a cheerful fire.  Her mild kind face was unusually pale,\nbut brightened on his approach, and when he related his new mishap, and\nthat he thought of immediately quitting the country in consequence, her\ncheek assumed an ashy paleness, and she nearly fainted in her father\u2019s\narms.  Cadwgan dissuaded him from the thought of quitting his native\nplace for such a trifle, and advised him by all means to follow up the\nworthy curate\u2019s suggestion; and when the fair Gwenny repeated her\nfather\u2019s wishes as her own, Twm at once acquiesced, and resolved not to\nquit.\n\nCadwgan daily witnessed the affection of the young pair, and at length\nthus addressed the young man.  \u201cYou are a brave and generous lad; you\nlove my daughter\u2014\u201d  \u201cIn my heart and soul I do,\u201d said he,\nenthusiastically interrupting him; \u201cAnd I am sure my Gwenny is not behind\nhand with you in affection: are you my girl?\u201d  Poor Gwenny blushed\ndeeply, then shed tears, and sobbed heavily, in the midst of which, she\ngave her hand to her lover, which he pressed, shed tears upon, and kissed\nardently.  Cadwgan continued \u201cAnd therefore my boy, as nobody deserves\nher so well, you shall have her before the best in the county; and you\nknow how many sweethearts she has refused for you.\u201d  Twm grasped his hand\nin silence, and before an hour had expired since the commencement of this\ndiscourse, the wedding day became the subject of discussion, but which\ncould not be fixed until Twm had made his peace with the squire.  Thus\ntime passed on pleasantly, for some days, when our hero, who was\nconstitutionally formed for active life, felt the effect of being immured\nday and night within doors, and said he longed exceedingly for a day\u2019s\ncoursing on the neighbouring mountains.  Cadwgan remarked that as the\nsquire had shown no desire to seek or pursue him, as he had heard at\nTregaron, he conceived there would be no danger; and in accordance with\nhis opinion, he lent him his dog and gun, both great favorites, and never\nbefore entrusted to any one breathing.  He advised him to confine his\nexcursion to a certain remote hill called Twyn Du (_Black hill_) which\nbeing rugged of ascent and marshy, seldom invited the steps of the sons\nof pleasure in the character of sportsmen.\n\nThus with dog and gun, and accoutred with a shot-belt, our hero felt\nhimself another and superior being to what he had ever been before,\nespecially as Gwenny assured him that the sportsman\u2019s paraphernalia\nbecame him exceedingly.  Flattered with the joint encomiums of the father\nand daughter, and with a consciousness that they were not without good\nfoundation, in full health and high spirits, with an eye sparkling with\nhappiness, he shook Cadwgan\u2019s hand, kissed the lips of his fair mistress,\nand gallantly sallied forth; having gone a few yards, he turned his face\nback to assure them, as they looked anxiously after him, that he should\nsoon return, and well loaded with game.\n\nWhile the buoyancy of youth uplifted his gay heart, and dazzled his\nperception with bright dreams of the future, little thought he of the\nsorrows so soon to overtake him, or that the sombre hill of Twyn Du was\nto colour with its gloom the closing scene of his innocent hopes, and\nform the most important epoch of his life.\n\nTwm had been on Twyn Du about an hour and a half, and in that time had\nkilled several birds, when the report of his gun attracted others to the\nspot.  He could see several persons on the hill contiguous, and one well\nmounted, descending into the deep dingle, that, like a gulf, yawned\nbetween the two hills, and making his way up the steep side of Twyn Du.\nHe now felt a presentiment that this visit portended him no good, but\nscorning an ignominious flight, he carelessly paced the brow of the hill\ntill the sportsman approached, when, to his great amazement, who should\npresent himself before him but his inveterate foe, Marmaduke Graspacre.\nHe approached Twm with the fury of a demoniac, asking how he dared fire a\ngun on those grounds, and after a few harsh words of abuse, which our\nhero returned with interest, he took an aim at Cadwgan\u2019s pointer, and\ninstantly shot him on the spot.\n\nAware of the regard in which Cadwgan held his excellent dog, this outrage\ndrove Twm furious, and he was further aggravated by the young squire\u2019s\ndemanding his gun and laughing the while at his distress and rage.  The\nyouth was not formed of stuff so tame as to endure his insolent triumph;\nsnatching up his loaded gun with desperate rapidity, he in a moment\nlodged the contents in the head of the squire\u2019s fine hunter, on which his\nenemy sat taunting him.  No sooner had Marmaduke reached the ground,\ndisengaged himself from the fallen horse, and stood up, than Twm flew at\nhim, and disregarding his threats, with his dexterous fists inflicted the\nmost perfect chastisement; leaving him in a far worse predicament than\nafter their first encounter.\n\nBy this time the men who attended the young squire, hearing the report of\nthe guns, and fearing that their young master had fallen in with\npoachers, made the best of their way down across the dingle, and up the\nsides of Twyn Du.\n\nRoused by their shouts, he left his vanquished foe groaning on the ground\nby the side of the dead hunter, and darting down the opposite side he\nmade a safe retreat.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XIII.\n\n\nA hue and cry after Twm.  He conceals himself in a wood.  Ventures to\nCadwgan\u2019s house and is kindly received.  Sought there by Parson Evans.\nEscapes, disguised as a woman.  Affectionate parting with Cadwgan and his\ndaughter.\n\nNO sooner was Marmaduke Graspacre taken home, and the affair made known\nby him to his father, with some little exaggeration against the\nassailant, such as the trifling mis-statement that the blows inflicted on\nhim were by the butt end of the fowling-piece, instead of the fist, than\nthe squire\u2019s indignation was roused.  \u201cAs this is not his first offence,\nand my forbearance has encouraged his atrocious conduct, I am now\ndetermined to make an example of him,\u201d said he, and immediately sent a\nservant for Parson Evans, who, in his capacity of magistrate, was ordered\nto take cognizance of the affair, and send constables in all directions\nto arrest the culprit.  This was an office that well accorded with the\nfeelings of this malignant man, and well pleased was he to set the\nmyrmidons of justice abroad to hunt an unfortunate young man, whom he\nhated for the trifling offences of youth, that at a distant period, it\nseems, stung his consequence.  The hue and cry instantly was raised and\nspread abroad, and excited as great a commotion throughout the country,\nas if a convicted murderer was chased through the land.  All Twm\u2019s known\nhaunts were searched, especially his mother\u2019s and Farmer Cadwgan\u2019s; in\neach of which places there was heaviness and wailing for his misfortunes;\nand Parson Evans, who went there in person, took care to assure them,\nthat when caught, all the world could not save him from the gallows, as\nhe had attempted to murder the young squire of Graspacre Hall.  But with\nall the vigilance of his enemies, Twm\u2019s retreat remained undiscovered,\nand those who were friendly disposed towards him, began to wonder among\nthemselves what could have become of him.  Some thought that in a fit of\ndespondency he had drowned himself, and others that he had escaped into\nthe neighbouring counties of Pembroke, Carmarthen, or Brecon, or shipped\nhimself in some vessel at Aberaeron or Aberystwyth, and got off in\nsafety.  The constables, however, had visited each of these places, and\nat length, like heavy war-ships that vainly chaced a smart privateer,\nreturned without any further intelligence than that their journey had\nbeen in vain.\n\nWhile the search had been most hot, our hero had concealed himself in a\nsmall patch of marshy underwood, a spot on which the keen eye of\nsuspicion had never glanced, his pursuers having passed the edge of it\nseveral times, without a thought occurring of seeking him there.  In this\nretreat he fed himself on nuts and blackberries, and in the night roved\nabout for recreation, but returned to his green-wood shelter before\ndaylight.  This continued four days, when exceedingly tired of his\nsolitude, he one midnight ventured to Cadwgan\u2019s door, and both surprised\nand gratified the kind farmer and his kinder daughter, when they heard\nthe lost one\u2019s voice once more.  They rose and let him in immediately,\nmade a fire, gave every necessary refreshment, and then persuaded him to\ngo to bed.\n\nTwm remained hidden here a week, when suspicion fixed upon Cadwgan\u2019s\nhouse, although searched before, as the probable place of his\nconcealment.  One day, Gwenny, in a fright ran in to tell her father to\nconceal Twm immediately, as the constables, headed by Parson Evans were\ncoming.  Twm started up and said, \u201cBolt the door for ten minutes, and I\nshall be safe.\u201d  Gwenny said they could not be there in that time, as\nthey were then descending the opposite side of the Cwm, which was three\nlong fields off, and they approached slowly, with fox-like cunning, so as\nto excite no suspicion of their purpose.  With that, at Twm\u2019s request,\nthey both went up stairs with him, for a purpose he was there to explain\nto them, as neither of them could conceive in what manner he was going to\npreserve himself.  They all remained above, till the loud summons of\nauthority, in the raven voice of old Evans, brought Cadwgan down, when\nthe cleric magistrate told him, in no gentle terms, that there was a\nsuspicion attached to his house, as the place where the young villain,\nTwm Sh\u00f4n Catti was concealed.  The farmer replied, \u201cI must say this is\nvery hard usage, as I have nobody with me but my daughter and my eldest\nsister, who has come on a few week\u2019s visit.  But as you are come, you may\nsearch and welcome.\u201d  After a brief scrutiny below, they all went up\nstairs, where sat, busily employed at their needles, the fair Gwenny\nCadwgan and the ingenious Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti, excellently disguised in the\ndress of Cadwgan\u2019s late wife, which, having been the property of a tall\nwoman, fitted him very well; his face was slightly coloured with the\njuice of blackberries; beneath his chin was pinned a dowdyish cap, which,\nin the scant light of a small window, by the aid of a pair of spectacles\nhe appeared a complete old granny.  On the entrance of these amiable\nvisitors, he turned his full spectacled face on Parson Evans, muttering\nin the tone of an old woman, which he mimicked well \u201clack a day! lack a\nday! this is sad usage,\u201d then whispered Gwenny, who took his hint, and\nwhile they were searching, laid some hog\u2019s-lard on different part of the\nstairs, so that on their descent the precious party, with their rascally\nleader, fell headlong down from top to bottom, to the great amusement of\nthose above.  On being charged of this contrivance, each denied all\nknowledge of it, and the quick-witted Gwenny, accounted for the cause of\ntheir accident by saying they had been carrying butter and lard to the\nstore, up stairs, the whole morning.\n\nThey were no sooner gone than Twm assured Cadwgan, that he saw there was\nno safety for him, except in flight, which must take place that very\nnight.  His plan, he said, was matured, that he had no fear but he should\ndo well, and that his only regret was in parting with them.  He purposed,\nhe said, to make his way towards Carmarthenshire, or perhaps further, and\nseek employment among the farmers; or what was more agreeable to him, he\nmight, perhaps, get to some village, where he might set up a school: so\nthat after saving a sum of money, to begin life with, he might return,\nand make Gwenny his wife.  With tearful eyes Cadwgan expressed his\nadmiration of this plan, while poor Gwenny wept herself almost into fits,\nat the thought of his perils, and sudden departure.  \u201cAt any rate, my\nboy, thou shalt not go pennyless to wander the wide world,\u201d said Cadwgan,\nand put an old pocket book containing three guineas and near twenty\nshillings in silver, which Twm reluctantly took, promising its return\ndoubly, when fortune favored him.  \u201cI have two favors more to ask,\u201d said\nhe, \u201cthe first is, that you will make the best of my affair when you tell\nmy poor mother and the worthy Mr. Rhys of my flight, and my future plans\nin life; and my next request is, that you will give me this old woman\u2019s\ndress, with the red cloak belonging to it, as it will answer for a\ndisguise, should I be troubled before I get far enough off.\u201d  Cadwgan\nkindly acquiesced, though he smiled at the latter whimsical fancy.  At\nlength, thus attired, to avoid observation, with his own clothes in a\nbundle, he took an affectionate and affecting leave of them, and made a\nhasty departure from their friendly door.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XIV.\n\n\nTwm ventures to Tregaron in the night.  Frightens Wat the mole-catcher.\nIn danger of being betrayed by him.  Outwits Wat, Parson Evans, and his\nwife.  Escapes, with the Parson\u2019s horse, great coat, and money.\n\nIT was a dull heavy night, in which fog and darkness contended for\nprecedence, and the moon gleamed dimly as if about to retire altogether,\nwhen Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti shaped his course over the mountain, in the direction\nwhich led to Lampeter: he looked instinctively towards his dear native\ntown, which a fashionable tourist would perhaps have called the most\nwretched village in the universe; but to him it was full of sweet\nassociations, and recollections the most agreeable, the scene of his\nchildhood, the home of his mother;\n\n    Dear to all their natal spot,\n    Although twere Nature\u2019s foulest blot.\n\nHe stopped, and looked wistfully towards Tregaron; the lights were\nglistening in their various humble casements, and he fancied that among\nthem all, he could distinguish his mother\u2019s\u2014his kind fond mother, whom\nperhaps he was never to see again\u2014and now he recollected many instances\nof her tenderness, which had long slumbered in his recollection.  His\neyes filled with tears, and the softness of his heart was put at once\ninto mournful harmony, from thus accidentally touching its first string,\nthrilled by reminiscences of maternal tenderness.  He sat on a stone and\ngave his excited feelings full vent, till at length his heart-pangs\nsubsided to a calm and sensitive melancholy.  A sudden thought, no less\neccentric than daring, now took him, that thus disguised, he might safely\npass through Tregaron, and perhaps see his mother before his departure.\nThis idea was no sooner started than acted upon; and before an hour had\nexpired, he found himself once more in the long, and almost only street\nin Tregaron.  His mother\u2019s door was closed for the night, and he durst\nnot call to her, as Jack was not to be trusted.  He moved on, looking\nearnestly to every door, but saw no signs of people being up, any where;\nthe whole street seemed still as death, except that various snores here\nand there, reminded Twm of the sweet sleep enjoyed by others, though\ndenied to him.  He sauntered slowly along, meditating on the\ncircumstances that made him alone a watcher, till opposite to the cottage\nof his old companion and elder brother in mischief, Wat the mole-catcher.\nWat had long lived with a widowed mother, who had recently died, and now\nsojourned alone in her solitary hut; it was even reported that he had\nforsaken all his wicked merry ways, grown serious, and was consequently\nlikely to do well.  It occurred to Twm that he had often heard Wat deny\nthe existence of ghosts and hob-goblings, to the great horror of the\nelect, who considered such a declaration scarcely less impious than the\ndenial of his creed; and vaunt that nothing of that description could in\nthe least frighten him: and now, thought he, I\u2019ll put his courage to the\ntrial.  Peeping through the casement, he saw Wat in bed, at the further\nend of the cottage, and the fire burning through the peat heaped up to\npreserve it for the night, so that the white walls within were brightened\nby the gleams cast on them from the hearth.  Such a wonder as a lock, or\neven a bolt, Twm knew was rarely to be found in Tregaron, and therefore\nsoftly lifting the latch, he opened the door, entered, and walking\nquietly towards the hearth, sat on a three-legged stool, took up the old\nsnoutless bellows, and blew the fire with all his might.  Wat awoke in\nextreme terror, and seeing the figure of a tall woman in the chimney\ncorner, deeming it no other than his mother\u2019s spirit, his fright\nincreased, trembling and almost dissolved in perspiration, he at last\nburst out into a roar of \u201cLord have mercy on me! oh mother\u2019s dear spirit\npity me!\u201d  Twm laughed out and ran to his bed-side to stop his roaring\ncries, exclaiming, \u201cSilence man, \u2019tis I, Twm, your old friend Twm Sh\u00f4n\nCatti.\u201d\n\nConvinced, at length, of his identity, and having heard of our hero\u2019s\nstory, he said, \u201cTwere better you were at the bottom of a river Twm, than\nhere, for I have been compelled by Parson Evans to make oath that if you\ncame here I would immediately either send or run myself to inform him of\nyour arrival, and I can\u2019t break an oath, Twm, for any body.\u201d  \u201cI did not\nthink,\u201d said our hero, coolly, \u201cthat you, who have broken so many laws,\nwould scruple much, about breaking a forced oath; but old companionship\npleads weakly opposed to the reward that will be given for my\napprehension; and I thought, though the whole town might turn against me,\nthat you Wat, would have been my friend, for you have led me into many\ntroubles, and I never laid a jot of blame to your charge, but took all to\nmyself, and have often suffered on your account.\u201d\n\nWat, who by this time, had nearly dressed himself, was affected by this\nappeal, and said, \u201cNo Twm, I will never betray you, but if I was known in\nthe least to favor you, it would ruin all my hopes of success in life.  I\nam next week to be married to Bessy Gwevel-h\u00eer, Parson Evans\u2019s maid, that\nI have courted these ten years; and the Parson has promised to do great\nthings at the bidding: and more than that, I am to be parish clerk and\ngrave-digger, when old Morgan Meredith dies, and he can\u2019t live long, as I\nhave made him a present of a good churchyard cough by breaking a hole in\nthe thatch right over his bed, by which he has gained a great hoarseness,\nand nearly lost his voice; so that I expect to be called in to officiate\nfor him next Sunday.\u201d  \u201cI see you are still my friend,\u201d said Twm, who had\nbeen lost in a reverie during part of Wat\u2019s remarks, \u201cand I give you joy\nof your fair prospects, which I would not destroy on any account; you\nshall serve me, and at the same time keep your oath.  You know my talent\nat mimickry, and see how well this dress becomes me; aye, I become the\ndress equally as you shall see.  Had I not already disclosed myself, I\ncould have discoursed to you a whole hour at mid-day, fearless of a\ndiscovery, but let us see how this cloak becomes you Wat.\u201d  With that he\ntook off the cloak, and put it on Wat, and after a little jesting on the\nsubject, Twm suddenly exclaimed, \u201cOnly sit down here with the cloak on\nyour shoulders for ten minutes, while I step out, and with the assistance\nof my bundle I will astonish you with my transformation.\u201d\n\nAll this was uttered with the gay rapidity of an anticipated freak, and\nWat being taken by surprise, immediately acquiesced, without knowing what\nhe was about.  Twm ran immediately to the Rectory House, and making a\ngreat clatter, roused Parson Evans, who opened the window and asked what\nwas the matter; when, assuming Wat\u2019s voice, he said hastily \u201cMister\nEvans!  Mister Evans! make haste, Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti is now in my cottage,\ndressed in a cloak, and sitting at the fire.\u201d\n\nDelighted with this intelligence, Evans wakened the whole house,\nespecially two strapping fellows whom he called his bull-dogs, sometimes\nemploying them as husbandry servants, and at others, on account of their\nlarge size and muscular power, as constables.  Both these fellows were\nfirst sent to saddle his horse, in case he should have to take Twm to\nCardigan gaol, and then to attend him to Wat\u2019s cottage, where the trio\nsoon went.  Peeping through the casement, Evans discerned a tall figure\nwrapped in a cloak, as described.  \u201cThere he is sure enough,\u201d quoth he,\nin a whisper, \u201cnow get your cords ready for binding his hands, and stay\nhere till I call you in; be sure that you watch the door well.\u201d  With\nthat he lifted the latch and went in.  Wat, who in the interim of our\nhero\u2019s absence, had made up a good fire now stood up, and as he saw the\nclerical magistrate before him exclaimed, with a hearty laugh, \u201cWell done\nTwm, my boy!  I now give you credit; well, well, well, this is indeed\nstrange, a wonderful disguise? you look the old rascal to the life: if\nyou had not told me before-hand of your intended transformation, I could\nhave sworn you were old Evans himself; you look now just as he did when\nhe promised to make me parish clerk.\u201d  Evans remained dumb with\nastonishment till the last words, when he replied, \u201cParish devil! you\ninfernal scoundrel, have you roused me out of my bed at midnight to hoax\nand insult me? but you shall dearly repent your insolence.\u201d  Wat stared\nwith wonder, and replied, \u201cWell, well well!  I did never hear such a\nthing in my life, you have just the old villain\u2019s voice and swaggering\nway, I wish I may die, if you don\u2019t frighten me, and I could almost swear\nthe spiteful old Evans stood himself before me; hang him, I hate his very\nlooks, and I am only holding the candle to the devil, in hopes of the\nparish clerkship, by seeming so civil to him.\u201d  Evans thought him\ncertainly either mad or drunk; and without any further explanation he\ncalled the two men in, and ordered them to secure him.  The light at\nlength broke on Wat\u2019s mind; Twm\u2019s trick on him, and the real state of the\ncase appeared: and he struggled hard before the fellows could secure him.\nAt length he cleared up his confused and chagrined countenance, and said\nin an undaunted tone, \u201cWell, well, well, I see the worst, farewell to\nmole-catching, farewell to parish-clerkship, and Bessy Gwevel-h\u00eer; and\nyou, you evil-minded old scourge, may bid farewell to all hopes of having\nme to father your brat, of which your maid Bessy is big, I\u2019ll make the\ncountry ring with the stories of your rascalities, if you dare to send me\nto the round-house; but if you liberate me at once, I shall leave\nTregaron forever in the course of a few days, and go abroad to see the\nworld and seek my fortune.\u201d\n\nTo the great surprise of the men, and perhaps of Wat himself, Evans\nseemed awed by his threats, and after a little shew of parleying, gave\nhim that freedom of which he had no legal right to deprive him.  Leaving\nhim alone in his cottage, he shuffled home, accompanied by his worthy\nfollowers.\n\nWhile Wat\u2019s cottage became the theatre of the above-described scene, Twm\nSh\u00f4n Catti had a performance of his own elsewhere\u2014a dance if you will\u2014to\nwhich the same reverend gentleman was doomed to pay the piper.  Having\nwatched the party to Wat\u2019s door, Twm hastened to the parson\u2019s, calling\nloudly, in the assumed voice of one of the fellows who accompanied him,\n\u201cMistress Evans!  Mistress Evans! make haste, make haste, and send master\nhis pocket-book with his money, immediately; Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti is taken, and\nwe are going off with him to Cardigan gaol.\u201d  Mrs. Evans sleeping in a\nfront room, heard him instantly, and with unusual alacrity jumping out of\nbed, she soon threw down the pocket-book, which was caught by Twm, and\nasked him, \u201cDoesn\u2019t he want his weather-proof great coat also?\u201d  Our hero\nreplied \u201cYes, but dear me I did forget that,\u201d and immediately received\nthe great coat also, Mrs. Evans wishing them safe home from Cardigan,\nshut the window.  The saddled horse was already at the gate, and Twm,\nwell coated and cashed, instantly mounted and rode off, glorying in his\ntriumph over his old rancorous enemy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XV.\n\n\nTwm\u2019s remorse and terror on the perpetration of his first crime.\nDetermined to make restitution of the stolen property.  Stopped by a\nhighwayman and robbed.  His reflections.  Robbed again by a gypsy and\nballad-singer, at Aberayron.  Determined to sing ballads at Cardigan\nfair.\n\nTWM took a circuitous route over the mountains towards Lampeter, and when\nhe felt himself secure from pursuit, his first thought was to change his\nfeminine attire for his own, as more convenient for riding, which was\nsoon accomplished, and the suits changed places in the bundle.  In his\nignorance of the world, he scarce knew where to direct his course after\nreaching Lampeter, where he arrived between one and two o\u2019clock in the\nmorning.  He recollected that this was a central place, from which\ndifferent roads led to Aberystwyth, Llandovery, Carmarthen, Aberayron,\nand Cardigan; but found a difficulty in deciding which way to take.  It\nsuddenly occurred to him that there was to be a fair at Cardigan the next\nday, and he determined to go there to sell the parson\u2019s horse.  The whole\ntown being wrapped in slumbers, he was now at a stand, not knowing the\nroad which led through Aberayron to Cardigan, but rousing a cottager, he\nsoon gained the necessary information and proceeded on.\n\nThe distant roaring of the sea gave him notice of his approach to\nAberayron, and the awful sound struck an indescribable dread into his\nmind, that seemed unaccountable.  Severe self-accusing reflections on the\natrocity of his last act, succeeded the triumphs of enmity that had at\nfirst given a gust to its perpetration: consciousness of gilt and terror\nof punishment at once assailed him, for he was yet young in crime.  To\ngive immediate ease to the agony of his mind, he determined on\ndismounting and leaving the parson\u2019s horse behind, and to return him, by\nthe first opportunity, his coat and money.\n\nWhile these first, and consequently bitter, agitations of remorse and\nterror were racking his breast, the clatter of a distant galloping horse\nincreased his terrors; and the day beginning to break he discerned both\nhorse and rider, and making briskly towards him.  Strange as it may\nappear, notwithstanding the opposite quarter from whence the danger\nproceeded, in the wildness of his apprehensions he conceived it could be\nno other than Squire Graspacre, Parson Evans, and their party.  He was\nactually glad when made to understand that the horseman was a highwayman.\nWhen the desperado approached within a few yards, he stopped his horse,\nlevelled a pistol, and commanded him, with a tremendous oath, to\nsurrender his money to \u201cDio the devil!\u201d {129} or take his death at once.\n\nThe name of this terrific freebooter, who had among many other\ndescriptions of persons, robbed half the farmers in the country, and was\nsupposed to have committed more than one murder, had its full effect on\nTwm.  He instantly resigned the Parson\u2019s purse, assuring him it was all\nhe possessed, and begged that he would allow him to retain one guinea;\nthese terms the robber in a manner, acceded to, giving him two guineas,\nbut in return, insisting on having his horse and great coat, which Twm\ngave up.  Dio the devil, then insolently bade him good morning, rode off\ntowards Lampeter, holding the parson\u2019s horse by the bridle.\n\nNo sooner had the highwayman disappeared, than Twm was struck with a full\nconviction of the folly of the fears he had entertained, which, by\ndepressing his mind, he thought, led to confusedly yielding his property\ntoo easily: vowing to himself, after some reflection, that if possessed\nof a pair of pistols, no highwayman in the world should make him stand.\nHis thoughts taking their course through this channel, wandered and\ndiverged, till his mind rested on new, but perilous prospects.  \u201cWhat a\nlife,\u201d thought he, \u201cthis Dio the devil leads\u2014a gentleman of the road\u2014the\nterror of wealthy scoundrels, who are themselves the terror of the\nhapless poor that are starved into crime\u2014famed, feared, and maintained at\nthe general cost, while many an honest fool toils like the galled\ndrudge-horse, crawls through the world half starved, and is despised for\nhis meanness.\u201d  Thus he pondered and soliloquised, and after being silent\nfor a while, he continued \u201cLet others do as they please, but for me, I\nhave no taste for buffetings or drudgery, and had I but a good horse and\npistols\u2014\u201d  At this moment a countryman was about to pass him on the road,\nin whose hand he recognized his bundle, containing his feminine attire,\nwhich in his terror he had dropped, and it rolled from the side of the\nroad, it seems, into the ditch, previous to the halt of the highwayman.\nTwm immediately claimed his property, but the fellow seemed but little\ndisposed to attend to him, until vehemently insisting on his right, he\nevinced an inclination to battle with him; when satisfied with this very\nconvincing sort of logic, the clown made restitution.\n\nWith his mind full of pistols and highwaymen, he trudged on at a slow\nruminating pace, till he reached a humble public house at Aberayron.\nThis lowly tavern he found so full that he could scarcely get a seat.\nWith the exception of two or three fishermen and other sea-farers, these\nwere people who made a temporary halt on their way to Cardigan fair, low\nbooth-keepers, fruit and gingerbread sellers, and such like.  Twm called\nfor beer and refreshment, and while eating, observed the habits of these\nstrange people with much curiosity.  He had contrived to squeeze himself\ninto a window seat between two females who sat apart and civilly made\nroom for him, and pressed his acceptance of the place.  This act of\ngood-breeding won upon him amazingly, and he could not help contrasting\ntheir politeness with the rude indifference of the rest of the party; nor\nwas his opinion of them changed when one turned out to be a\nfortune-telling gypsy, and the other a ballad singer.  He could not do\nless he thought than ask them both to partake of his cup, and they felt\nthemselves bound in honor, in their great devotion to his health, to\nreturn it empty each time he handed it to them full.  Such gallantry on\none hand, and confidence and affability on the other, begot a sudden\nfriendship between them; the gypsy insisting upon telling his fortune\ngratis, and the ballad singer on his acceptance of two or three favorite\nsongs, while our hero, not to be behind-hand in disinterested kindness,\ninsisted that they would continue to partake of his cup.\n\nWhile Twm was busily employed in looking over the bundle of ballads,\namong which he met many old friends, which he had frequently sung, one of\nthe friendly nymphs was beckoned to, by a man at the opposite end of the\nkitchen, with whom she went out, and the gypsy soon followed them.\n\nOur hero having selected the songs that pleased him, waited impatiently\nfor the return of the damsels.  Having waited about an hour and a half,\nby which time all the fair people had dropped off, he discovered some\nsymptoms of surprise, and asked the landlord if he knew what had become\nof the young women.  He said he did not know, but that the whole party\nhad paid him and gone off, and that he had no further business with them.\nTwm thought the ballad singer a singular good natured young woman, as she\nhad left her bundle of melody with him, doubtless as a present, and\nmerely taken herself away thus modestly, instead of ostentatiously\nproclaiming her gift, and receiving his thanks.  Putting his hand into\nhis pocket to settle his account, he was confounded on finding his two\nguineas gone; his terror, agony, and confusion was manifested to the\nlandlord, by his sudden change of manner and appearance, who declared\nthat his face was turned as white as the wall.  Having searched every\npocket over and over, at length the doleful tale came out that he had\nlost his money, and could not tell how.  \u201cWhy as to that,\u201d said the\nlandlord with cool bitterness, \u201cif it is any satisfaction to know _how_\nyou lost your money, I can tell you; it was by sitting between two\nthieves\u2014a gypsy and a ballad singer, and what could you expect else from\nmixing with such cattle?\u201d  Poor Twm remained silent in a miserable mood,\nwith his elbows resting on the table, and his temples in the palms of his\nhands for a full half hour, when the landlord disturbed his meditations\nby asking payment for his fare; good-naturedly adding, \u201cIf you have no\nmoney, I don\u2019t wish to be hard with you, you can merely leave your jacket\nwith me instead.\u201d  \u201cMy jacket!\u201d quoth he indignantly, \u201cwhy, that is ten\ntimes the value of what I owe you.\u201d  \u201cMay be so, but if you can\u2019t pay you\nmust leave it, and be thankful that I condescend to take it instead of\ncash;\u201d replied the old gruffy.  The fishermen in the mean time passed on\nhim their rough jokes, one observing \u201cYou can sing ballads without a\njacket, so I advise you to go on to the fair at Cardigan, where you may\nperhaps meet your old friends.\u201d  This advice, given in ridicule, Twm at\nonce determined to take in earnest, and literally sing the ballads so as\nto turn them into money.  So without more ado he took off his jacket and\ngave it to his host, muttering a curse on his cruelty, and commenced his\njourney to Cardigan.  The dress of Cadwgan\u2019s wife was again put on, not\nonly as a fit disguise for his minstrel vocation, but as a more perfect\nguard against the weather than his own, since deprived of his upper\ngarment; and in this garb, very low in spirits, and with no cheering\nprospects before him, he trod the miry road towards the county town.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XVI.\n\n\nTwm, disguised as a woman, sings ballads at Cardigan fair.  Is alarmed on\nseeing an unexpected person.  Takes a sudden departure from thence.\n\nTWM at length reached the end of his dreary journey, the latter part of\nwhich was rendered more cheerful from having fallen into company with a\nparty of drovers, who gallantly treated the apparent fair one with bread\nand cheese and ale.  Thus he entered Cardigan in comparative good\nspirits, and prepared to commence his whimsical new vocation.  Although\nnaturally bold, and more full of confidence than beseemed the modesty of\nyouth, it was not without considerable efforts in struggling with some\nremains of diffidence that he at length ventured to sing in the public\nstreet; but the beer which he had drank was strong, and his voice he knew\nwas almost unequalled in the county of Cardigan; and with this persuasion\nhe thought it foolish to hesitate.  He fixed himself in rather an obscure\npart of the fair, but his musical voice and humorous execution of a comic\nsong soon drew a crowd about him, and put his ballads in speedy request.\n\nAccording to the general custom with street melodists, he introduced each\nsong with a whimsical argument of its matter, in a strain of drollery\nthat set the grinning rustics in high glee: \u201cHere my merry men and\nmaidens,\u201d quoth he, \u201cis a pretty song about a young damsel, who was taken\nin by a false lover, that courted her only for what he could get, and\nhaving wheedled her out of her heart and money, then ran away and left\nher to wear the willow.\u201d\n\n                       THE SLIGHTED MAID\u2019S LAMENT {134}\n\n                                      1\n\n    In comfort and in credit\n       By the side of Pen-y-vole\n    I liv\u2019d;\u2014all knew and said it,\n       None could my will controul;\n    Until a worthless lover\n       Did try my heart to move,\n    Ah soon my joys were over,\n       I listened to his love.\n\n                                      2\n\n    From far he travell\u2019d to me,\n       Full many and many a night,\n    I thought he came to woo me,\n       My heart was all delight:\n    My cash he thought of gaining,\n       It was not me he sought,\n    E\u2019er moaning and complaining\n       For clothes\u2014and clothes I bought.\n\n                                      3\n\n    A pair of shoes I placed him\n       Between his soles and ground,\n    With stockings then I graced him,\n       With hat his head I crown\u2019d;\n    Red garters then I bought him,\n       At fair the best I saw,\n    To bind his hose, od rot him!\n       Instead of bands of straw.\n\n                                      4\n\n    I bought him leather breeches\n       Strong as a barley sack,\n    And laid out half my riches\n       To clothe the beggar\u2019s back:\n    I gave him money willing,\n       (Vexation now ubraids!)\n    With which the thankless villain\n       Soon treated other maids.\n\n                                      5\n\n    When thus he had bereft me\n       Of cash, and ah! my heart,\n    The cruel rover left me\n       It grieved me then to part:\n    Those clothes will rend in tatters,\n       They cannot last him long,\n    A curse attend such matters,\n       False lover\u2019s curse is strong!\n\n                                      6\n\n    His coat will rend in creases,\n       His stockings break in holes,\n    His breeches go to pieces,\n       His shoes part from their soles:\n    His hair, like garden carrot,\n       Full soon will want a hat,\n    How soon, indeed I care not,\n       The devil care for that.\n\nThis pleased his auditors so well that he was soon left without a copy of\nit, on which, he began another, preluding it with the observation \u201cNow\nthis my friends is about a Welsh boy, who was so foolish as to leave old\nCymru and go to London, from which, I warrant you, he would have been\nglad enough to return, as they have neither leeks, flummery, nor anything\nelse there fit for a christian people.\u201d\n\n    When a wild rural Welsh boy I ran o\u2019er the hills,\n    And sprang o\u2019er the hedges, the gates, brooks, and rills.\n    The high oak I climb\u2019d for the nest of the kite,\n    And plung\u2019d in the river with lively delight!\n    Ah who then so cheerful, so happy as me,\n    At I skipp\u2019d through the woodlands and meads of Brindee.\n\n    How oft have I wander\u2019d through swamp, hedge, or brake,\n    Fearful of nought but the never-seen snake,\n    And gather\u2019d brown nuts from the copses around,\n    While ev\u2019ry bush echoed with harmony\u2019s sound;\n    Oh gladness then thrill\u2019d me! I bounded as free\n    As a hart o\u2019er the lawn through the meads of Brindee.\n\n    Whenever I wander\u2019d to some neighb\u2019ring farm,\n    How kindly was tender\u2019d the new milk so warm,\n    O\u2019er her best loaf as butter or honey she\u2019d spread,\n    The farm wife so friendly would stroke my white head,\n    And sue that she shortly again should see me\n    Whenever my rambles led forth from Brindee.\n\n    How of I have I run with my Strawberry wreath {136a}\n    To rosy young Gwenny of fair Llwyn-y-neath,\n    And help\u2019d her to drive the white sheep to the pen, {136b}\n    Oh! I still think how joyously sung little Gwen\n    The old folks oft chuckling, vow\u2019d sweet-hearts were we,\n    The Llwyn-y-neath maiden and boy of Brindee.\n\n    At the fair of Dyvonnock, o\u2019ertaken by night,\n    Returning, I\u2019ve dreaded the corpse-candle light,\n    The wandering spirit, the hobgobling fell,\n    Of which cottage hen-wives so fearfully tell:\n    I\u2019ve ran, with my eyes shut, ghosts dreading to see\n    Prayed, whistled, or sang as I flew to Brindee.\n\n    Pleasure and innocence hand in hand went,\n    My deeds ever blameless, my heart e\u2019er content,\n    Unknown to ambition, and free from all care,\n    A stranger to sorrow, remorse, or despair;\n    Oh bless\u2019d were those days! long departed from me,\n    Far far\u2019s my loved Cambria! far far is Brindee.\n\nThis was not so successful as the former, but Twm, nothing daunted, sung\nthe following which he called a sequel to the last.\n\n                                  ROSY GWEN.\n\n    Rosy Gwen, rosy Gwen,\n    Beloved of maids, beloved of men!\n    Aye, dearly loved of grave and gay,\n    Of sire, sage, and matron grey!\n    In youth\u2019s early day\u2014ah what cheer\u2019d me then!\n          \u2019Twas her voice so sweet,\n          Her person neat,\n          Her form so sleek,\n          Her spirit meek,\n    And the cherry-merry cheek of Rosy Gwen.\n\n    Gentle girl, gentle girl,\n    Coral lipp\u2019d, with teeth of pearl,\n    On either cheek a vivid rose.\n    And raven tresses graced thy brows!\n    Ah thou wert my love and my playmate then:\n          Happy lass of smiles,\n          Unversed in wiles\n          Of guileless breast\u2014\n          Of minds the best,\n    Oh my cherry-merry cheek\u2019d young Rosy Gwen!\n\n    Years have flown, years have flown,\n    And Gwenny thou\u2019rt a woman grown.\n    While Time, that bears for most a sting,\n    Has fann\u2019d thy beauties with his wing;\n    Yet brighter, thou canst not be, than when\n          O\u2019er the mountain steep\n          Thou drov\u2019st thy sheep\n          And sang in glee\n          A child with me.\n    Oh my cherry-merry cheek\u2019d young Rosy Gwen.\n\nHe gave them next a love canzonet, of two verses; the first slow and\nmournful, and the last with contrasting animation and cheerfulness.\n\n    Her cheek was a rose lowly crush\u2019d by the dew,\n    Now bleach\u2019d by despair to the lily\u2019s pale hue\n          For the death of young Morgan the brave;\n    Fame widely reported sea-mews scream\u2019d his knell.\n    As in a dread sea-fight with glory he fell,\n       And was buried beneath thy salt wave.\n\n    But false was the tale, for a victor was he,\n    Triumphant return\u2019d from the wild roaring sea,\n       Now to seek with his dear maid repose;\n    He flew to his Sina with extacy\u2019s zest,\n    Enraptured he press\u2019d the lorn maid to his breast.\n       And then kiss\u2019d off the dew from the rose.\n\nThe two last were but tolerated, and the singer soon found that a merry\nstrain was most congenial to their fancies.  He therefore gave them the\nold and popular duet of \u201cHob y deri dando,\u201d rendered more comical by his\nsinging alternately shrill and gruff, for male and female\u2019s parts.\n\n                            HOB Y DERI DANDO {138}\n\n    _Ivor_.  The summer storm is on the mountain,\n                Hob y deri dando, my sweet maid!\n\n    _Gweno_.  And foul the stream, though bright the fountain,\n                Hob y deri dando, for the shade.\n\n    _Ivor_.  Let my mantle love protect thee,\n                Gentle Gweno dear;\n\n    _Gweno_.  Ivor kind will ne\u2019er neglect me,\n                Faithful far and near:\n\n    _Both_.  Through life the hue of first love true,\n                Will never never fade.\n\n                                  * * * * *\n\n    _Ivor_.  The rain is past, the clouds are gone too,\n                Hob o\u2019r deri dando, far they spread;\n\n    _Gweno_.  The lark is up, and bright the sun too,\n                Hob o\u2019r deri dando, on the mead;\n\n    _Ivor_.  Thus may the frowns of life pass over,\n                Happy then our lot,\n\n    _Gweno_.  And the smile of peace be bright as ever\n                In our humble cot.\n\n    _Both_.  Through life the hue of first love true\n                Will never never fade.\n\nHaving sung the last thrice over, he sold about a dozen ballads; and was\nabout to treat his auditors with the old and national song of _N\u00f4s\nGalan_, or New Year\u2019s Eve, when, to his great surprise, the malignant\nvisage of Parson Evans presented itself before him.\n\nJudging of our hero\u2019s sex by his assumed attire, several young men in the\ncourse of the day, offered their treats of cake and ale, some of which\nwas accepted; and presuming on that circumstance, they amusingly put in\ntheir claims to further notice, and seemed inclined to quarrel, as for a\nsweetheart.\n\nThus possessed of beaux and champions, Twm resolved to employ them in a\nnew scheme of vengeance on the unpopular parson.  \u201cYou see that old\nfellow in black,\u201d said he, directing their attention to him as he passed,\n\u201che is a bum-bailiff, and the greatest villain in all the country I come\nfrom; and at this very moment I\u2019ll be bound for it, he is hunting out\nsome poor fellow to put him in prison.  He wanted to be a lover of mine,\nbut only intended to ruinate me; but if he loved me ever so much I would\nnot have had him if his skin was stuffed with diamonds.  The villainous\nold catchpole! it is to him that I owe all my misfortunes; refusing him\nfor a sweetheart, he grew as spiteful as a snake, and by telling a parcel\nof falsehoods he got me turned out of my place without a character, so\nthat I am now brought to this\u2014to sing ballads in the street.\u201d  Here,\nassuming a whimpering tone, Twm was compelled to smother a powerful fit\nof laughter, which emotion was taken for sobbing, and consequently drew\nmuch on the sympathy of those now addressed; but suddenly withdrawing the\napron that veiled his features, he exclaimed, with the vehemence of a\nyoung termagant, \u201cI\u2019d give the world to see that old fellow tossed in a\nblanket!\u201d  Mark Antony\u2019s effort of eloquence to rouse the Roman citizens\nto avenge the death of C\u00e6sar, was not more effective than our hero\u2019s\nappeal.\n\nWith a natural hatred to a bailiff, and as natural a predilection for the\nsmiles of a handsome young woman, being \u201cfull of distempering draughts\u201d\nand ripe for a freak, their zeal became inflamed to a ferment, each felt\nhimself the leading hero to avenge the wrongs of the fair ballad singer,\nin the manner suggested by herself.  One of the young men, a native of\nthe town and son to the innkeeper, immediately procured a blanket, when,\nwatching their opportunity as the supposed bailiff passed along, one\ntripped up his heels, while the rest received him in the extended\nblanket, and tossed him most vigorously in the air for about ten minutes.\nExhausted at length with their labours, and allured by the fair handful\nof silver displayed by their victim, they accepted his bribe and\ndesisted, each venting his jest on the crest-fallen Evans, \u201choping it\nwould be a warning not to persecute a poor friendless girl again.\u201d\n\nThe knot of swains now separated, and ran in different directions to\navoid being recognized as the perpetrators of the \u201cfreak,\u201d but soon met\nagain at an appointed place at the back of the town, where they had left\nour hero, between the empty carts of the ware venders.\n\nGreat was their dismay on discovering, after a long search in various\nparts of the fair, that the fair ballad-singer was no where to be found.\nHere was a general smelling of a trick put upon them, and consequent\n\u201ccurses on all jilting ballad-singers\u201d uttered by the unlucky clods.\n\nIt occurred to one bright youth named Johnny Wapstraw, that he had\nentrusted his best holiday coat to the custody of the injured damsel,\nthat he might toss the \u201ccatchpole\u201d with the greater vigour; but on\nascertaining the precise spot where he had left her, he found her\ncomplete feminine attire made into a bundle and fastened to a cart with a\nband of straw, left as a love-gift for him, while she kept his coat as a\nsimilar token of affection; having inscribed with chalk on the side of\nthe cart \u201cAn exchange is no robbery.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XVII.\n\n\nTwm escapes from Cardigan.  Meets Parson Rhys at Lampeter.  The tragical\ntale of the heiress of Maes-y-velin and the flower of Llandovery.\n\nHAVING thus possessed himself of a coat without the tediousness and\nexpence of giving measure to a tailor, and no more fastidious about a\ndressing room, retired to a stable, and soon came out fully dressed in\nhis male attire; of which, a coat only was before wanting.  Bent on a\nprecipitate retreat, as the urgency of his case demanded, he bolted down\nSt. Mary\u2019s Street, and soon found himself on the turnpike road, with the\ngood town of Cardigan some miles behind him.  In little more than two\nhours he reached the small town of Dinas Emlyn, now called\nNewcastle-in-Emlyn, on a romantic part of the Teivy dividing the counties\nof Cardigan and Carmarthen, and occupying its banks on either side.\nEntering a small public house, he regaled himself on the fine potent ale\nfor which that place has been so famous.  Being refreshed with a little\nrest and food, he now, for the first time, began to enquire of himself\nwhither he was going, and what his aims were to be; questions which he\nfound very difficult to be resolved.  Although the most serious\ncogitations on the subject might have availed little or nothing, chance\nvery unexpectedly decided him, and relieved his apprehensious for the\npresent.\n\nPerceiving a very loquacious beer-inspired pig-drover, who vaunted his\nsuccessful sale at Cardigan fair, preparing to depart, he suddenly\ndetermined to take the same route wherever it might lead, and on inquiry,\nfound he was going to Llandovery.\n\nGlad of company, the pig-drover received Twm\u2019s information that he was\nalso going to the same town with a hearty shake of the hand and a welcome\nto become his fellow traveller.  About ten o\u2019clock that night they\narrived together at Lampeter, which Twm now visited for the second time.\nThe geography of the country being but little known to him, he felt some\nalarm on finding himself so contiguous to his own native place.\n\nWhile drinking a quiet pint with his companion at a tavern, and thoughts\nof danger occupying his mind, a friendly face appeared in smiles before\nhim, and dissipated every feeling of unhappiness; it was the worthy Rhys\nthe curate, who had spied him from the little parlour where he had been\nsitting before his arrival, and now cordially welcomed him to partake of\nhis supper which was then preparing.\n\nOur hero bade a merry farewell to his friend the drover, who had\nendeavoured to initiate him into the mysteries of pig-dealing, the latter\ndeclaring his resolution to travel all night until he reached Llandovery.\nSupper ended, and having heard as many of Twm\u2019s adventures as he chose to\nrelate, newly modelled, to suit his peculiar ear, Mr. Rhys informed him\nthat he had also left Tregaron forever, disgusted with the treatment he\nhad met with from old Evans, and was on his way to Llandovery to take\npossession of the curacy of Llandingad, to which he had been just\nappointed by the vicar, the reverend Rhys Prichard.  The good-natured\nRhys could scarce forbear smiling, when Twm informed him of the\ncircumstance that had first led his thoughts to visit Llandovery also,\nand that he was determined to go there to seek his fortune, and felt a\nsort of presentiment that he should be successful: \u201cWell,\u201d said he, \u201cyour\nfortunes are altogether romantic, and fortitude such as yours is a virtue\nthat becomes us all.  Whatever I can do to get you into employment, when\nyou are there, rest assured shall not be wanting.\u201d  With this\nunderstanding Twm\u2019s hopes were buoyed up to the highest pitch, and, to\nhis sanguine mind, became already certainties, which presented themselves\nin dreams of various felicitous shapes.\n\nRhys rose with daylight, and rousing Twm, they both sallied forth, the\nformer leading his horse by the bridle, to be more on a par with his more\nhumble companion.  They had nearly reached the top of Pen-y-garreg hill,\nover which the road leads from Lampeter to Llandovery, while a bright\nprospect of the newly-risen sun attracted their mutual attention, when\nthe clergyman thus addressed his companion.  \u201cWe are now on a spot to be\nyet immortalized, perhaps, by the legendary muse, for a deed of blood\nperpetrated here in our own times; when the banks of the impetuous Teivy,\nnow before us, became the scene of a lamentable tragedy.  Yonder stands\nwhat remains of the once goodly mansion of MAES-Y-VELIN, the fair seat of\nthe ancient family of the Vaughans, once of considerable note in this\npart of the principality.  Ten years ago, a young lady and her three\nbrothers, the last of that race, were its possessors.  The lady, named\nEllen, was exceedingly beautiful, and beloved by the son of the venerable\nRhys Prichard, the present Vicar of Llandovery, whose curate I am now\nbecome.\n\n\u201cIt was customary with the young man whenever he reached this spot, to\ntie his hankerchief to the end of a rod, that he held as a flag-staff,\nwhich was immediately seen by the heiress of Maes-y-velin; and when she\ncould succeed in getting her brothers out of the way, the signal of love\nwas answered by hoisting her own kerchief to the branch of a tree above\nthe house, on which, both ran down from their respective hills, till they\nstood face to face on either side of the Teivy, when the fond lover soon\ndashed into the river, crossed over and caught the fair one in his arms.\nBut as these things sound better perhaps in verse, I shall submit to you\na specimen of my skill at Ballad writing, in one that I have written on\nthis occasion.\u201d  With that they took their seat on a huge stone on the\nside of the hill, when Rhys drew a manuscript from his pocket and read to\nhis attentive auditor.\n\n                       THE HEIRESS OF MAES-Y-FELIN,\n                                   AND\n                        The flower of Llandovery.\n\n    What is amiss with the maiden fair,\n       What is the sweet one ailing?\u2014\n    Why pale her cheek, and her spirits low,\n    And why up the hill doth she daily go,\n       The heiress of Maes-y-velin?\u2014\n\n    Why are the brows of her brothers dark?\n       Nor mother nor sire hath Ellen;\u2014\n    Her brothers whisper\u2014her steps they watch\u2014\n    The heart of her mystery eager to catch,\n       The maiden of Maes-y-velin.\n\n    The parents of Ellen her merits knew,\n       And frown\u2019d on her brothers\u2019 vices;\n    Her brothers are disinherited,\n    And Ellen is heiress in either\u2019s stead;\n       Thereat all the land rejoices.\n\n    Her brothers one day went out to hunt,\n       And alone at home left Ellen;\n    She watched them away, then flew to her bower,\n    And cried \u201coh now for Llandovery\u2019s Flower!\n       Right welcome to Maes-y-velin.\u201d\n\n    She hoisted her silken kerchief red\n       To the highest branch of her bower,\n    To Pen-garreg hill then strain\u2019d her eyes,\n    And the flag of her hope was seen to rise,\n       \u2019Twas thine, oh Llandovery\u2019s Flower!\n\n    Long had he watch\u2019d\u2014the faithful youth!\n       His wish each day unavailing,\n    At length, he sees with a wild delight,\n    His true love\u2019s signal, the lady bright,\n       The heiress of Maes-y-velin.\n\n    That signal was chosen between the twain,\n       When absent her stern proud kindred;\n    And then would they rush from either hill,\n    The lover\u2019s true with a right good will,\n       Till the waters of Teivy sunder\u2019d.\n\n    Now as erst they rush\u2019d, and as erst they paused,\n       When arrived on the banks of Teivy,\n    They gazed on each other across the stream,\n    And gestured affection\u2019s high glow supreme,\n       And gayer their hearts, long heavy.\n\n    In plung\u2019d the youth with most anxious speed,\n       The Flower of fair Llandovery,\n    The maiden is trembling with wild alarms\u2014\n    She brightens\u2014she sinks in her true-love\u2019s arms,\n       Deem\u2019d lost to her past recovery.\n\n    Oh Nature hath many warm generous glows\u2014\n       But they say love\u2019s joys are fleeting;\n    Most dear to the mother her new-born son,\n    And sweet is the fame that\u2019s fairly won,\n    To the blind restor\u2019d oh the summer\u2019s sun\u2019s\n       Less sweet than the lover\u2019s meeting.\n\n    Sweet to the donor the generous deed,\n       That serves merit\u2019s child, unweeting;\n    Healing is sweet to the gash\u2019d by the sword;\n    To the wounded heart, the benevolent word;\n    Oh sweet is the breeze to the sick restored!\n       But sweeter true lovers\u2019 greeting.\n\n    Each flower that flaunts in vanity\u2019s cap,\n       And sets youthful hearts a gadding,\n    Has its charms, its zest,\u2014but the whole above,\n    Is the magical thrill of sweet woman\u2019s love,\n       That drives heart and brain a madding.\n\n    And fondly they loved, this youthful pair,\n       The heiress of Maes-y-velin,\n    And he whom they called Llandovery\u2019s Flower;\n    Oh frequent their meeting and parting hour,\n       Their moments of joy and wailing.\n\n    Once when they met on the Teivy\u2019s banks,\n       Canopied o\u2019er by the wild wood,\n    Mid fragrance of flowers that graced the shade,\n    The youth sung this song, of true lovers betrayed,\n    An ominous song\u2014that drew tears from the maid,\n       For her heart was as simple as childhood.\n\n    \u201c\u2018Oh come to the banks of the Teivy with me,\n    To the deep woodland glade, \u2019neath the shady green tree,\n    Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,\n    In the face of the day and the bright eye of light,\n    That God and his angels may witness our troth,\n    That God and his angels may favor us both.\u2019\n\n    \u201c\u2018I\u2019ll go to the green-wood,\u2019 the lady replied,\n    \u2018Fore God and his angels be fairly affied,\n    Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,\n    In the face of the day and the bright eye of light;\n    That God and his angels may witness our troth,\n    That God and his angels may favor us both.\u2019\n\n    \u201cSo sung a young chief to his dear lady love,\n    At the base of her tower\u2014she answered above\u2014\n    Vile vassals espied them, and flew to their lord,\n    The lady\u2019s true lover soon fell \u2019neath his sword:\n    She threw herself headlong, fulfilling her troth,\n    And Death was the priest that united them both.\u201d\n\n                                   PART II.\n\n    Over the hill of Pen-garreg, the road\n       Is seen that leads from Llandovery,\n    Maes-y-velin\u2019s green hill is opposite,\n    The mansion below\u2014oft on either height\n       The lovers are making discovery.\u2014\n\n    But envious eyes were on the watch,\n       And the genius of evil hover\u2019d;\n    The brothers, who wish\u2019d their sister unmatch\u2019d,\n    For any approach of a lover watch\u2019d,\n       At length their two flags discover\u2019d.\n\n    They have hatch\u2019d a scheme to enmesh the youth,\n       And see him at length on the mountain;\n    His flag they answer\u2014he runs down the hill\u2014\n    Now forth rush the wretches resolved to kill,\n       And waste his young heart\u2019s warm fountain.\n\n    Like prey-beasts they hide on the Teivy\u2019s banks\n       In the covert of thick-leaved bushes;\n    The youth, he dashes across the river,\n    And ardent to meet his fond receiver\n       He seeks her fair form in the rushes.\u2014\n\n    He deems she plays him at hide and seek,\n       Her heart he knew was gayful\u2014\n    \u201cOh come from thy covert my Ellen dear!\n    Oh come forth and meet thy lover here!\u201d\n       He cries in soft accents playful.\n\n    No Ellen appears\u2014rustling steps he hears\u2014\n       Perhaps some perfidious stranger;\u2014\n    He stops in the rushes, and steals to a copse,\n    But there not an instant for breathing stops\n    Peril\u2019s presentiment suddenly drops,\n       And he flies for his life from danger.\n\n    He knew not his foes, up the hill he goes,\n       With the speed of a hart that\u2019s hunted;\n    The brothers pursue, till fatigued they grew,\n    To Maes-y-velin his course they knew,\n       And eager revenge is blunted.\u2014\n\n    They saw him enter\u2014\u201cthe foe is snared!\u201d\n       Exclaim\u2019d then the elder brother;\n    \u201cTo kill him surely be firmly prepared\n    Accurst be the arm by which he is spared!\n       Let\u2019s stab him, or drown, or smother.\u201d\n\n    \u201cLet\u2019s do him dead and no matter how,\n       And our sister\u2019s fortune is ours;\n    No brats of her\u2019s shall supplant our hope:\n    Prepare we a dagger, a sack, and rope,\n       For brief are the stripling\u2019s hours.\u201d\n\n    Now rush\u2019d the youth through the mansion door.\n       And fell at the feet of Ellen;\n    Ere he could speak the brothers appear,\n    The maiden shrieks with terrific fear,\n       The heiress of Maes-y-velin.\u2014\n\n    She fell in a swoon, the brothers soon\n       Gag his mouth and proceed to bind him,\n    His hands they fasten\u2019d behind his back,\n    And over his head they drew a sack,\n    They jump on his body\u2014his rib bones crack,\n       Till a corse on the ground they find him.\n\n    Oh God! \u2019twas a barbarous bloody deed;\n       \u2019Twas piteous to hear his groaning:\n    A demon\u2019s heart might relent to hear\n    The sobs of death and convulsions drear\u2014\n    Oh Christ! is no merciful angel near,\n       Call\u2019d down by this woeful moaning?\u2014\n\n    Oh murderous fiends! the eye of God\n       Hath flamed on this heartless murther!\n    They grasp at his throat to check his breath\u2014\n    With knees on his breast\u2014oh merciful death!\n       Thou sav\u2019st him from anguish further.\n\n    And dead in the sack his body they bore,\n       And sunk in a pool of Teivy;\n    After many days when the body was found,\n    No tongue could tell was he smother\u2019d or drown\u2019d,\n       Or crush\u2019d by men\u2019s buffets heavy.\n\n    Thus fell in his bloom the blameless youth;\u2014\n       Insanity seized on poor Ellen,\n    The lovely maniac! with bosom bare,\n    And eyes of wildness, and streaming hair,\n       Roved frantic o\u2019er Maes-y-velin.\n\n    She said he was thrown in the Teivy\u2019s stream,\n       The Flower of fair Llandovery;\n    She cross\u2019d o\u2019er the hills to his father\u2019s town,\n    And he bless\u2019d the maid like a child of his own;\n       But Ellen was past recovery.\n\n    Rhys Prichard wept long o\u2019er his murder\u2019d son,\n       And buried the hapless Ellen;\n    He cursed her brothers\u2014the land of their birth\n    He cursed their mansion, its hall and hearth,\n       And the curse is on Maes-y-velin.\n\n    Strong was the curse on the savage race,\n       The murderers and their kindred;\n    Their bosoms possess\u2019d by the furies of hell,\n    Oft vented the scream, the curse, and the yell:\u2014\n       All men stood aloof and wonder\u2019d.\n\n    They quarrell\u2019d and stood forth in mortal strife,\n       Each one opposed to the other;\n    They never, oh never! are doom\u2019d to agree,\n    While dividing poor Ellen\u2019s property\u2014\n       Two murder their elder brother.\n\n    And yet the murderers still are foes,\n       Furious and unrelenting;\n    Each coveting all his sister\u2019s share:\n    At length one falls in the other\u2019s snare,\n       Ere yet of his crimes repenting.\n\n    Now lived the survivor, a man forbid,\n       For murder his brow had branded\u2014\n    Shunn\u2019d by all men, none bade him God speed,\n    But solitude work\u2019d wild remorse for his deed,\n    In madness he seized on a poisonous weed,\n       And a suicide\u2019s grave was commanded.\n\n    Maes-y-velin became a deserted spot,\n       The roof of the mansion tumbled;\n    The lawns and the gardens o\u2019er-ran with weeds,\n    And reptiles, vile emblems of hellish deeds,\n       Bred there\u2014and the strong walls crumbled.\u2014\n\n    They crumbled to dust, and fell to the earth,\n       And strangers bought Maes-y-velin;\n    Vain, it is said, their attempts to rebuild,\n    Vain was their labour in garden or field,\n    Snakes, toads, baneful weeds alone they yield,\n       Not a stone to another adhering.\n\n    The possessors fled, and oft others came,\n       But all their aims unavailing;\n    The peasants protest that at midnight hour\n    The spirit of Ellen is seen in her bower,\n    While on Pen-garreg hill stands Llandovery\u2019s Flower,\n       And shrieks burst from Maes-y-velin.\n\nWhen Rhys had finished reading his ballad, Twm riveted his eyes on the\nruins of Maes-y-velin, the two hills, the banks of the Teivy, and scenes\nnow subordinate to the modern grandeur of the new college at Lampeter:\nand still remaining silent, seemed, by the force of his imagination, to\nbring before his eyes the whole action of this domestic tragedy.  Rhys\nassured him that all the particulars of the murder, as narrated in the\nballad, were well authenticated, both by the evidence of the unhappy\nyoung lady herself, and that of a countryman who beheld the murderers\nbearing the body by night, and who distinctly saw, as the moon shone upon\nthem while in the act of casting their burthen into the river, the\nshining spurs of the murdered youth, projecting from the end of the sack\nwhich contained his body.  But in so disordered a state was the country\nat the time, from the civil wars between the king and the parliament,\nthat no cognizance was taken of the atrocious circumstance.  The cursing\nof Maes-y-velin, and the perpetrators of the bloody deed, by the youth\u2019s\nfather, he said was no fiction; it was set forth in a pathetic and\nnervous poem, in his volume of Divine Carols, entitled \u201cCanwyll y Cymry,\nor the Welshman\u2019s Candle,\u201d one of the most popular books ever published\nin the Welsh language.  With this explanation they both rose from their\nstony seats, and pursued their way to Llandovery.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XIX.\n\n\nA discourse on mountains.  Turf-cutters, and Moor haymakers.  Twm rescues\nthe lady of Ystrad Ff\u00een, and captures a highwayman, whom he brings in\ntriumph to Llandovery.\n\nHAVING travelled together a few miles further into the mountain, Twm\nexpressed his wonder at seeing the turf-cutters and haymakers following\ntheir avocations almost side by side in this wild district.  \u201cWell,\u201d\ncried he, \u201cI know that much has been said, sung, and written, in praise\nof mountain scenery; and where \u2019tis truly romantic as well as wild, I am\na great lover of it myself; but this before us is my aversion.  Here no\nsound salutes the ear but the lonely cry of a few melancholy kites,\nhungry enough to prey upon one another; and no objects strike the eye but\nthe flat tame desert, and a few wretched cottages thinly scattered over\nthis desolate region, whose inhabitants are miserably employed in\nscooping peat from the marsh for their fires, or cutting their bald thin\ncrop of hay from the uninclosed mountain\u2014_the gwair rhos cwtta_, or moor\nhay, which, dispensing with the incumbrance of a cart or sledge, the\nwomen carry home in their aprons, as the winter maintenance of a\nhalf-starved cow.  Even the shepherds and their flocks are wise enough to\nkeep from this gloomy seat of starvation; but the dull plodding\nturf-cutters are numerous enough.  To me there is nothing that associates\nmore with squalid poverty than turf fires: the crackling faggot and the\nChristmas log, have their rustic characteristics; coal has its proud and\nsolid warmth; the clay-and-culm fires of Cardigan and Pembrokeshire,\nformed of balls, and fantastically arranged by the industrious hands of\nfair maidens, are bright and durable, revealing the gay faces of the\ncheerful semicircular group\u2014and above all, the smokeless cleanly stone\ncoal: but turf, smoky, ill-savored, ash creating, dusty turf\u2014recals the\nmarsh and moor, rain-loaded skies, and fern-thatched cottages, whose\nbattered roofs swept by the blast, discover the rotten rafters grinning\nlike the bare ribs of poverty; and worse than all, the joyless faces of\nthe toil-bowed children of the desert.  I heartily agree with the\nsentiment of the old Pennill {152a}\n\n    \u201cHow gay seems the valley with rich waving wheat,\n    Fair lands and fair houses, with shelters so neat;\n    While the whole feather\u2019d choir to delight us conspires,\n    There\u2019s nought on the mountain but turf and turf fires.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd let me add,\u201d cried Twm, with vivacity, \u201cas indicative of my own\ntaste on the subject, a Triban {152b} of my own composition.\u2014\n\n    Three things\u2014to my mind each with loveliness teems:\n    A vale between mountains that\u2019s threaded by streams;\n    A neat white-wall\u2019d cottage mid gardens and trees;\n    And a young married pair that appreciate these.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe mountains, like the plains and vallies,\u201d replied Rhys, \u201chave of\ncourse their rough and unsightly portions; but so very dear to me are the\nsensations connected with our _Mountain Land_, that I could kiss the sod\nof its dullest region, when I remember how it came the refuge of our\nwar-worsted forefathers in the days of old, as the waned star of liberty\nseemed to have vanished forever from our sphere.\u201d  Rhys\u2019s patriotic\nenthusiasm rose as he proceeded.  \u201cI could as soon twit my beloved mother\nwith the furrows which time has ploughed on her brows, as censure the\nhomeliest part of our dear mountains, hallowed of old by the tread of\nfreemen, when the despot foreigner usurped the vallies.\n\n          \u201cFreedom, amid a cloudy clime,\n          Erects her mountain throne sublime,\n          While natives of the vales and plains\n          Are gall\u2019d with yokes and slavish chains;\u2014\n          Then shrink we ne\u2019er, unnerved as bann\u2019d,\n    In the cloudy clime of the Mountain Land.\n\n          Turban\u2019d in her folds of mist\n          Our Mountain Land the sky hath kiss\u2019d\n          While on her brow the native wreath\n          Of yellow furze and purple heath;\n          The rural reign her vales command,\n    And the freemen\u2019s swords of the Mountain Land.\u201d\n\nTwm felt the observations of the curate as a rebuke for his flippancies,\nand was about to clear himself from all suspicion of lack of nationality;\nbut the latter at that moment looking up at the sun, declared the day so\nfar advanced that he must of necessity instantly mount his horse and ride\nwith speed, so as to meet the vicar of Llandovery at the place appointed;\non which, directing Twm in the route he was to take, he rode off and left\nhim to pursue his way at leisure.\n\nAfter thus parting with Mr. Rhys, Twm made his way alone, wrapped in\nthought, and looking neither to the right or left, for several miles, but\nwas at length brought to a stand by the discovery that the way he trod\nhad ceased to be either a road or beaten path; and that he was actually\npacing the trackless mountain, with the disagreeable conviction that he\nhad gone wrong, without a clue to recover the right way.\n\nObserving a _bwlch_, or gap, parting the mountains in the distance, where\nthey rose to a considerable elevation, he naturally concluded that the\nroad ran through it.  Acting on this opinion, he hurried on, and was much\ngratified to find his conjecture realized, as a good beaten road\npresented itself to him.  He entered it, and hastened on with the utmost\nalacrity, till he came to a cottage on the road side, opposite to which\nwas an immense rick of turf, that at a distance looked like a long black\nbarn.  He called at the cottage, and asked if he was right in his route\nto Llandovery, \u201cRight!\u201d squeaked a thin old man who met him at the door,\n\u201cGod bless you young man, you could not be more wrong, as your back is to\nLlandovery, and you are making straight for Trecastle.\u201d\n\nThis was mortifying intelligence; and the old man seeing Twm\u2019s chagrin,\nasked him to walk in and rest himself, an invitation that he gladly\naccepted.  \u201cWhat, I suppose you thought to be at Llandovery to hear the\ngreat preaching there to day?\u201d said the man\u2019s wife, a little fat woman\nwho was carding wool by the fire.  \u201cNo,\u201d replied Twm, \u201cI never heard of\nany preaching that was to be there.\u201d  \u201cThat\u2019s very odd,\u201d rejoined the old\nman, \u201cas the whole country has been crowding there, to hear the good Rhys\nPrichard, the great vicar of Llandovery.\u201d  \u201cI have heard he is very\npopular,\u201d said Twm.  \u201cPopular!\u201d screamed the weazon-faced old man, as if\nindignant of the coldness of our hero\u2019s eulogy, \u201che is the shining light\nof our times, and hardly less than a prophet; wisely has he called his\ndivine book the _Welshman\u2019s Candle_, for it blazes with exceeding\nbrightness, and men find their way by it from the darkness of perdition.\nWhen it is known that his health permits him to preach, the country\nhereabouts is up in swarms, to the distance of two score miles and more.\nThen, the farmer forsakes his corn-field, the chapman his shop, and every\ntradesman and artizan quits his calling, to listen to the music of his\ndiscourse.  Infirmity alone has kept me from going to hear him to-day;\nbut my wife is no better than an infidel, and would rather listen to a\nprofane fidler, or a vagrant harper, than to the finest preacher that\never breathed out a pious discourse.\u201d\n\nHere the little round woman retorted on her spouse, assuring Twm that he\nwas a miserable dreamer, whose brains had been turned by the ravings of\nfanatical preachers; that some months ago he ran three miles, howling,\nthinking he was pursued by the foul fiend, when it turned out to be only\nhis own shadow: and that when a patch of the mountain furze was set on a\nblaze to fertilize the land, nothing could convince him that the world\nwas not on fire, and the day of judgement come, till he caught an ague by\nhiding himself up to the chin in the river for twelve hours.\n\nAll this the old man very indignantly repelled, and vowed that his\ncourage was equal to that of any man breathing.\n\nAt this moment the violent galloping of a horse attracted their\nattention, and in an instant a horse and rider passed the door, but\nsuddenly checking his speed he returned, and calling at the cottage door,\nasking in a tone of authority if a lady had passed that way towards\nLlandovery within the last half hour.  The old man, trembling as he\nspoke, protested that no lady had passed for many hours; on which the\nbluff horseman told him as he valued his life, neither he or his wife\nshould appear on the outside of the cottage door, till he gave them\nleave.  The old man assured him of his entire obedience, when the fellow\nquietly crossed the road, and effectually concealed himself and horse\nbehind the opposite turf-rick.\n\nTwm, unseen himself, caught a full view of this burley horseman, and\ninstantly knew him.  He felt a conviction that in a few minutes a scene\nwas to be acted, in which he was determined to perform himself a\nconspicuous, if not a principal, part.  He asked the timorous old\ncottager if he possessed such a thing as a long-handled hedge bill-hook,\nto which the poor dotard, his teeth chattering the while, replied in the\nnegative.  On searching the cottage, with the assistance of his mistress,\nto its great vexation he could find no weapon, but a blunt old hatchet,\nand a rusty reaping-hook.\n\nThe canter of a light horse now struck his ear; his heart caught fire at\nthe sound, and with almost fierce vehemence he called to the people of\nthe cottage, \u201cGive me some weapon in the name of God: to defend you and\nmyself from having our throats cut;\u201d but it only increased their terror\nand confusion.\n\nIn an instant, a lady on a slight white horse was opposite to the\ncottage, when the horseman, darting forward from behind the turf-rick,\nand producing pistols, demanded her money.  The lady protested, in the\nmost piteous and earnest tone, that she had accidentally left her purse\nbehind, and must be indebted to a friend at Llandovery, should she fail\nto meet her husband there, for some small change.  \u201cI\u2019ll not be\ndisappointed for nothing,\u201d cried the ruffian, \u201cDio the devil is not to be\nfooled, and my pretty lady of Ystrad F\u00een, I have depended on a good booty\nfrom you to-day, so that unless in two minutes you strip, and give me\nevery article in which you are clothed, a pistol bullet shall pass\nthrough your delicate body.\u201d\n\nThe lady, with tears entreated him to be merciful, promising a future\nrecompence; but the scoundrel laughed scornfully in her face, and cocked\nhis pistol, on which she uttered a loud scream and fainted, when he\nimmediately approached to strip and rifle her.\n\nOur hero, whose blood was boiling with honest indignation, now started up\nfrom behind the lady\u2019s horse, and stood on a small bank raised to\nseparate the cottage yard from the road, struck the highwayman an\nastounding blow on the temples, with a stout hedge-stake grasped with\nboth hands, and repeated the violent action till it brought the desperado\nsenseless, and covered with blood, to the ground.  After the first\nterrible blow, confounded as he was, he instinctively presented his\npistol at random, but Twm struck him heavily on the extended arm, which\ncaused it to fall, and swing dead by his side, like a withered oak branch\nsmote by the thunderbolt.\n\nThe good woman of the cottage bathed the lady\u2019s temples and soon brought\nabout her recovery; and great was her surprize and satisfaction to\nwitness the result of our hero\u2019s courage and dexterity.  While tears of\ngratitude suffused her beautiful eyes, and ran down her bright ruddy\nface, Twm in the gentlest manner assured her of her entire safety, and\nthat he would have the happiness of conducting and protecting her to\nLlandovery, where he intended to bring the highwayman dead or alive, and\ndeliver him, with an account of the whole affair, to the magistrates.\n\nThe lady of Ystrad F\u00een, smiling as she spoke, uttered many expressions of\nher gratitude, and admiration of his courage, assuring him that her\nhusband, Sir George Devereux, would not allow him to go unrewarded for\nsuch a signal piece of service: \u201cbut for my own part,\u201d continued she, \u201cas\nI truly assured the merciless highwayman, I am at present without my\npurse, having left it accidentally at the house of a poor sick person,\nwhom I visited, relieved, and stayed with, many hours this morning, by\nwhich I have missed hearing the sermon preached to-day by the rev. Rhys\nPrichard.\u201d  Twm declared he did not in the least feel himself entitled to\nany reward, sufficient for him was the approval of so beautiful and\namiable a lady; but that he had another gratification in the action he\nhad performed, as it was his fortune to have punished the very man who\nhad once stopped him on the highway and robbed him of his little all.\n\nIt was in vain that Twm summoned the old man of the cottage to assist in\nplacing the robber on horseback, as he had hid himself beneath the bed,\nroaring all the while \u201cOh lord! oh dear!  I shall surely have my throat\ncut.\u201d  The lady of Ystrad F\u00een, however, alighted and lent an active hand\nin binding the thief, still insensible, with old halters contributed by\nthe fat woman of the cottage, who also gave all possible assistance; so\nthat with their united aid Twm soon got him across his own horse, like a\nsack of barley, and secured him by tying him neck and heels under the\nhorse\u2019s belly.  Our elated hero leaped into the saddle, and rode side by\nside with the lady of Ystrad F\u00een, and conversing freely with her,\nunincumbered with his former bashfulness, till they reached Llandovery.\n\nThey entered the town just as the sermon was over, and the dense swarm,\nas they issued from Llandingad church, stopped and gazed with\nastonishment at the sight presented to them.  At the same instant that\nSir George Devereux came up and assisted his lady to alight, Mr. Rhys the\ncurate approached Twm, and each in a few minutes was in possession of the\nwhole story.  The baronet eagerly grasped our hero by the hand, and\nassured him of his protection and favor to the utmost of his power;\ndeclaring at the same time that no possible reward could equal his\ndeserts or repay his services.\n\nAs soon as it was known among the farmers that the terrible Dio the\ndevil, who had robbed many of them at different times, was captured, a\nsubscription was immediately raised, to reward the captor; so that our\nhero was soon in possession of a sum little less than ten pounds, in\naddition to five more that the county awarded for the taking of a\nhighwayman.\n\nSir George and his lady invited our hero and Mr. Rhys to dine with them\nthe next day at Ystrad F\u00een, where the baronet said they would discuss in\nwhat manner he could repay the services of the brave deliverer of his\nlady.\n\nThe constables were now called to bring their hand-cuffs, and take\npossession of the robber, but in vain;\u2014for when he was uncorded and taken\nfrom the horse, it was discovered he was dead.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XX.\n\n\nTwm visits the vicar of Llandovery.  Visits also at Ystrad F\u00een.  Fortune\nsmiles on him.  Undertakes to bear a sum of money to London for Sir\nGeorge Devereux.\n\nTWM retired that evening to a tavern which he had been directed to by Mr.\nRhys; and many of the good people of Llandovery eagerly sought the\ncompany of the wonderful young man who had had the courage to attack and\nconquer a highwayman; evincing their kindness by insisting on their right\nto treat him with whatever liquor he might be inclined to drink, on\naccount of the benefit conferred by him on their community.  Cautioned by\nthe worthy curate, however, his potations were very limited; and urging\nhis fatigue as an excuse for retiring, he soon left his admirers, and\nslept that night on a bed of roses.\n\nRather early in the morning he was awoke by his friend Rhys, who said\nthat, by appointment, they were both to breakfast with the rev. Rhys\nPrichard, who had expressed a desire to see the brave young man that had\ncaptured the highway robber.  This invitation was the most acceptable to\nTwm, as he was exceedingly anxious to see so celebrated a character as\nthe vicar of Llandovery; though less for his pious than poetical\ncelebrity, and more especially the association of his name with his own\nfamily calamity, in the death of his son Samuel, poetically called the\n\u201cFlower of Llandovery,\u201d at the murderous hands of the young men of\nMaes-y-velin, as before related.\n\nAshamed of the rustic cut of his coat, Twm proposed to purchase a\nclerical one from his friend Rhys, who willingly made him a present of\nhis second best; observing that this was the day of his entrance into the\nworld, and as the mass of mankind were apt to judge of all by the\nexternal appearance, an appropriate garb would aid even a man of merit in\nmaking a favorable impression.\n\nThe house of the vicar of Llandovery was among the best in the town; a\nwell-built strong mansion, distinguished from all others by a neat small\ncupola on the top, within which was a bell, formerly used to call the\nboys to school, but now useless, since the reverend gentleman had long\ndiscontinued teaching.  Twm and Rhys waited in the breakfast parlour\nabout half an hour, filling up the time by noticing and remarking on the\nwell-waxed oaken floor and furniture, that, with the prints of some of\nthe English martyrs, with which the room was hung, gave it something of a\ngloomy appearance; and skimming over some dusty old volumes of divinity,\ntill the clock struck six.\n\nPunctual to the moment, in came the worthy vicar, who received the pair\ncourteously, but with very few words.  Breakfast was preceded by prayers;\nafter which came in bowls of milk and hot cakes, with cold meat, butter,\ncheese, and ale; of which, after grace, each was desired to take his\nchoice.  Twm looked at his venerable host with awed reverence.  This\neminent character was of a tall, stately figure; his hair white as wool,\nhis face pale, and rather long, with a countenance beaming with sedate\nbenignity.  He regarded Twm for some time with silent attention, and\nafterwards made a few enquiries respecting his recent feat, which, when\nanswered, he indulged in some pious ejaculations on the fortunate event.\n\nIn the comparison suggested by the slight figure of Twm opposed to the\nbluff rotundity of the robber, whose corpse he had seen the night before,\nhe referred to the scriptural records of the combat between David and\nGoliah; strictly charging the fortunate youth to take no credit to\nhimself for the achievement, as he was but an humble instrument in a\nmighty hand, and for a special purpose, unknown to the actors of the\nscenes themselves.\n\nAfter a long grace, and a profusion of good counsel to our hero, the\nvisitors rose to depart; but ere they left, the worthy churchman placed\ntwenty shillings and a copy of his \u201cWelshman\u2019s Candle\u201d in the hand of\nTwm, and after shaking him warmly by the hand, he saw the pair to the\ndoor and bade them farewell.\n\nAbout nine o\u2019clock Rhys mounted his nag, and Twm, the noble hunter, which\nhad become his property by the right of conquest, and rode towards the\nfair mansion of Ystrad F\u00een.  The road was entirely over the mountains,\nthrough diversified scenery of much interest.  At times the road ran\nabove the edge of a deep ravine of perilous declivity; at others, hills\novertopped them, in peaks of various fantastic forms; till at length\nsucceeded the tame flat moorland, abounding with wild ducks and various\naquatic and mountain fowl.  These scenes were soon left behind, and\nothers of a different character, succeeded, tamed to softer beauty by the\nindefatigable hand of industrious man.\n\nOn reaching the cultivated lands, they passed through a wood at the base\nof a hill, on leaving which, the rural chapel of Boiley, the ornamented\nestate of Ystrad F\u00een, the hill of Dinas, and a glimpse of the river\nTowey, were the clustered objects before them.  The ancient mansion of\nYstrad F\u00een, they found most romantically situate, terminating a sloping\ndescent from the mountain, with a roaring alpine brook falling headlong\nthrough its rocky bed, at the back; while the high conical hill of Dinas\nstood, an object of singular beauty, in front.\n\nThey entered the extensive farm-yard, which occupied one side of the\nhouse, in which stood several large elms and oaks, with, here and there,\na huge hollow yew, that associated well with the antique appearance of\nthe house.\n\nThe baronet and his lady, who had been waiting their arrival, gave each a\nfriendly welcome.  It wanted about a couple of hours to dinner time,\nwhich interim Sir George determined to employ on their immediate\nbusiness; to that end, accompanied by his lady, he introduced them into\nthe lawn and garden, where they conversed awhile on different subjects.\nAt length he began by declaring he had not yet learned the name of his\nlady\u2019s preserver; on which, Mr. Rhys told the whole story of his\nparentage, dwelling with much emphasis on the unprincipled and cruel\nneglect of his father, Sir John Wynne of Gwydir; and in conclusion, he\nsaid his friend and late pupil\u2019s name, derived from his mother, was\nThomas Jones: but that from his childhood he was familiarly called Twm\nSh\u00f4n Catti.\n\nOn the baronet\u2019s inquiry respecting his views and prospects in life, Twm,\nwith becoming frankness said, that prospects he had none, but he would be\nhappy to undertake any employment which was not of a menial description;\nadding, that as he had some little scholarship, he thought himself\nqualified to become a tutor of children in a genteel family, or to take a\npreparatory school in some town.  The baronet smiled, and replied, that\nhe had no children, or he would be most happy to engage him in the former\ncapacity.  \u201cBut,\u201d cried he, with a sudden turn of jocularity, \u201callow me\nto remark, young man, you surprize me much by your choice of an\noccupation; I should have thought that a spirited young fellow like you,\nwould be more in your element with a commission in the army.\u201d  Twm glowed\nat the mention of a soldier\u2019s life, and replied with ardour, \u201cYou have\nnamed, sir, the dearest sphere on earth in which I would desire to move;\nbut, friendless and unknown as I am, the very thought of such a thing\nwould be worse than vain.\u201d  \u201cI make no specific promise _now_ on that\nhead,\u201d returned Sir George, \u201cbut I shall not forget your predilection for\na career of arms, nor when communicating with those in power, shall I\never fail to promote your interests, to the utmost of my power: but I\nhave now a proposal to make to you, which you can either accept or reject\nas you may feel disposed.  Were it not for my consciousness that I speak\nto a youth of tried courage, animated by a brave enterprising spirit, I\nshould never think of naming it, but as it is, thus the affair stands.\nThe roads between Bristol and London are sadly infested by\nhighway-robbers; I want to send a considerable sum of money to the\nmetropolis; and I conceive that a lad of mettle and address like you\nmight bear it in safety, while absolute veterans in the ways of the world\nwould fail.  I would give you a sufficient sum to bear your expenses; and\non your return here, after accomplishing your undertaking, reward you\nhandsomely, and do my utmost to place you in a situation agreeable to\nyour wishes, where you may gain an honorable livelihood.\u201d\n\nTwm, in a moment, agreeably to the decision of his character, acceded to\nthe proposal, and declared he was ready to commence his journey to London\nnext morning.  While the baronet was about to reply, a servant came to\nthe garden gate, and announced dinner; to which the party paid immediate\nattention, and entered the hospitable dinner parlour of Ystrad F\u00een.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XXI.\n\n\nTwm made a shew lion among the great.  Benefits flow to him.  Commences\nhis journey.  The adventure of the pack-saddle.  Outwits a highwayman and\nrides off with his horse.\n\nRHYS slept the first night after his arrival, at Ystrad F\u00een; but his\navocations calling him to Llandovery, he took his leave next morning,\nafter an affectionate parting with his former pupil, wishing him all\npossible success in his journey to London.  Twm, at the particular and\npressing invitation of his host and fair hostess, continued there,\nenjoying their hospitalities, many days.  Indeed he became a kind of shew\nlion, and was daily exhibited by Lady Devereux to her friends, male and\nfemale, whom she invited by scores to see her hero, as she called him.\nThe importance thus attributed to him by others, our hero soon took to\nhimself; and as many of the simpering lady visitors declared him to be no\nless handsome than brave, he felt no difficulty in persuading himself\nthat there was more truth than flattery in the eulogies.\n\nPrevious to the day of his departure, the baronet evinced his liberality\nby presenting him with the sum of forty pounds; and gave him as much more\nin payment for the hunter taken from the freebooter; while his lady took\nfrom her neck a golden chain, and placed it on his, as a token, she said,\nof her gratitude for the preservation of her life, and of her sense of\nher preserver\u2019s merit.  Twm accepted these favors with a grace little to\nhave been expected from his previous habits of life; but he possessed an\ninnate pride and self consideration that soon burst through his native\nbashfulness, and his mind ever rose with his good fortunes, nay,\nsometimes even took the lead, so that he would boldly look Success in the\nface, and wonder that the sum of his congratulations was not greater.\n\nThe day of his departure at length arrived; and it was concerted that his\nbest mode of travelling would be, on a mean horse, with a pack-saddle,\nand disguised as a labouring country lad.  Thus mounted and accoutred,\nbehold him at length disappear through the yard gate of Ystrad F\u00een;\nhaving concealed in various parts of his dress the sum of money entrusted\nto his care, and made Lady Devereaux his banker till his return, leaving\nwith her the whole of his lately gained property.  Although ill contented\nwith the slow pace of the worn-out beast beneath him, he rode on with a\nheart full of glee, proud of the honors which he had gained, and glowing\nwith bright anticipations of the future.\n\nWe shall pass over the uninteresting portion of his journey; nor need we\ndwell on the sensations natural to a young high-spirited mountaineer on\nhis continual change of scene, and view of novel objects, till he had\nleft behind him all the towns and villages of his native principality,\nand at length the ancient city of Bristol itself.  He had even passed\nthrough Bath and Chippenham before a single adventure occurred worthy of\nrecord.  Riding late one evening, between the last named town and\nMalborough, he found it necessary to put up at a small public house on\nthe road side, distinguished by the sign of \u201cthe Hop-pole,\u201d the obscurity\nof which he considered favorable to his safety.  Having fed his beast and\neaten his supper, he went immediately to bed; and with a view of\npreserving his treasure in the best manner, slept without divesting\nhimself of his clothes.\n\nJust as day was about to break, he was roused from his slumbers by the\ntrampling of a horse, and the gruff voice of a traveller whom he heard\nalight and enter the house.  A strong impulse of curiosity determined him\nto rise from his bed, and, as the large treble-bedded room which he\noccupied was over the parlour to which the guest was introduced, to\nlisten, and learn whether anything portended danger to himself.  On the\nfirst application of his ear to the aperture between the boards, he\nfound, to his surprise and dismay, that he was the subject of\nconversation between the landlady and her guest, whom he also discovered\nto be no other than the very character of which he stood most\nparticularly in peril\u2014a highwayman.  He heard himself described to him by\nthe landlady, as an \u201cuncouth looby of a countryman from the Welsh\nmountains, miserably mounted on a piece of animated carrion, for which\nthe crows cawed as it limped along; and that no booty was to be expected\nfrom such a beggar.\u201d  \u201cYou are wrong, mistress, you are quite wrong,\u201d\ncried the stranger, \u201cfrom your account I expect much from him.  I have no\ndoubt but that he is a Welsh squire in disguise, as I have robbed more\nthan one such, dressed like a scarecrow, while making for London, and\nbearing with him the twelvemonth\u2019s rent of half a dozen of his\nneighbours, to pay to the landlord in town.  I shall be at this fellow as\nsoon he quits your roof; I have no doubt but he\u2019s a prize, and if he _is_\nyou of course come in for shares.\u201d  Having learnt thus much, Twm in some\ntrepidation retired to his bed, and began to consider how he should\ncontrive, in order to preserve the properly in his possession.  He rose\nagain, thinking to escape through the window, but found it too small to\nadmit his egress, and therefore gave up the idea.  As he looked out\nthrough the miserable casement, busily plotting to hatch a scheme of\ndeliverance, he could perceive no favorable object to aid his purpose,\nexcept a large pool on the road side, in which he thought of dropping his\ncash, if he could reach it and do the act unobserved, so that he might\nrecover it at his leisure.  As nothing better offered, he determined to\nadopt this plan immediately; and therefore, after making a studied\nclattering in putting on his shoes, he went down stairs, and called for a\njug of beer and toast for his breakfast.  The freebooter did not shew\nhimself, but the landlady and her daughter, who seemed to be in the habit\nof sitting up all night to receive and entertain such guests, scrutinized\nour hero very closely.  The worthy hostess asked him some apparently\ncareless questions respecting his business in travelling the country, to\nwhich he replied he was trying to overtake a brother pigman, who was\ndriving their joint charge towards London.\n\nA new idea of arrangement struck him while at breakfast, which quite\naltered his fore-constructed plan, and he began to act upon it as soon as\nconceived.  To give a more clownish character to his manners, the night\nbefore, he carried the old pack-saddle up stairs, brought it down in the\nmorning, and while at breakfast sat on it before the fire, instead of a\nstool.\n\nReflecting on the whimsicality of the circumstance, and the probable\nconstruction that would be put on the care thus evinced of so homely an\narticle, he deemed they would guess that his money was concealed in it, a\nfancy that it now suited him to humour.  Accordingly, bursting a hole in\nthe fore end of it, he called the landlady to receive her reckoning, and\nin her presence, pushing his fist into the straw cushion of the\npack-saddle, he drew out several pieces of gold, and asked her if she\ncould give him change: but she answered in the negative, on which, he\nagain thrust his hand into the pack-saddle, and brought out more gold\nwith silver intermixed; and with the latter settled his bill, and went to\nthe stable for his horse.  Securing all his money about his person, he\nmounted his rozinante; having cut away the girths from the pack-saddle,\nhe bade the landlady farewell, and rode with all his might towards the\npool, which was about a quarter of a mile forward on the road.  He soon\nheard the highwayman brushing forward in his rear, and heard him with\nmany oaths call loudly to stop, a summons that increased our hero\u2019s\nspeed, till, being opposite to the pond, his pursuer overtook him.  Twm\nrode to the edge of the water, and threw the pack-saddle with all his\nstrength towards the centre of the pool; but in bustling to regain a\nsteady seat as he made towards the road, he fell headlong from his horse.\nThe freebooter cursed him for a Welsh fool, and with a thundering voice\nordering him to hold his horse, or he would blow his brains out,\n(brandishing his pistol the while) that he might go into the water and\nrecover the booty.  Twm feigned great terror, and with ludicrous\nwhimpering took the bridle in his hand; but the moment the highwayman\nreached the water, he with one spring mounted his fine tall horse, and\nrode away with all his might.\n\nOur hero soon found that he had reckoned without his host, in fancying\nhis achievement now complete; for the knight of the road finding himself\nthus tricked, placed his fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle, on\nwhich, his horse in the full career of speed, immediately stopped quite\nstill.  Twm, in real terror, as he was within pistol shot, roared\n\u201cmurder!\u201d with all his might; when the horse, to his great amazement,\ntook his exclamation of terror for a counter order, and again started\ninto a gallop.  The freebooter repeated his whistle, and again his horse\nstood still as a milestone: Twm reiterated \u201cmurder!\u201d with all the power\nof his lungs; and the well-taught horse was instantly again on his\ngreatest effort of speed.  Thus the highwayman\u2019s whistle and Twm\u2019s\nroaring of \u201cmurder\u201d had their respective efforts on the noble animal,\ntill at length our hero got completely out of hearing of the baffled\nrobber.  As he rode on triumphantly, he sang the old Welsh Triban {172}.\u2014\n\n    \u201cNo cheat it is to cheat the cheater;\n    No treason to betray the traitor;\n    Nor is it theft, but just deceiving,\n    To thieve from him who lives by thieving.\u201d\n\nWith the good prize of a valuable horse, he entered the town of\nMarlborough; the merry peals of its bells were quite in unison with his\nfeelings, and as the tune changed to \u201cSee the conquering hero comes,\u201d it\nalmost seemed to him a personal greeting, which, with his natural good\nanimal spirits, elated him to the highest pitch.\n\nTelling his tale at the inn where he put up, it was soon known throughout\nthe town; many of the inhabitants of which, were loud in their\ncongratulations and applause to the young Welshman, who so cleverly\noutwitted the English highwayman.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XXI.\n\n\nTwm overtakes an old acquaintance.  Sad news from Tregaron.  Outwits\nanother highwayman, and rides off with his horse.\n\nTWM, though naturally elated with his good fortune, did not suffer it to\novercome his caution for the rest of the journey; and as he found himself\nno less than seventy-four miles from London, he calculated on many more\nattacks before he should reach it.  He was sent for next morning by the\nmayor of Marlborough, who had heard of his adventure, and required to\nbring the horse with him, which he had so adroitly won.  Many gentlemen\nhaving assembled at the entrance of the town-hall, our hero appeared in\nall the pride of a conqueror, mounted on his goodly steed; their hats\nwere doffed, and loud shouts of applause immediately given.  It was soon\nascertained by the mayor and the gentlemen present, that the horse was\nregularly bred to the road, and instructed by a highwayman, therefore,\nnot as first conjectured, the property of any person deprived of it by\none of these free-faring gentry: consequently, the mayor, with many\ncompliments on his cleverness, told our hero that the horse was his own\nby right of conquest; but that if he was inclined to part with it, he\nwould give fifty pounds for it.  Twm directly assented, and the money was\npaid to him the same morning.\n\nLearning there was to be a fair next day at Hungerford, a town ten miles\nfurther on, he resolved to walk there with a view of purchasing a\nsubstitute for his lost pony, as he judged his original mode of\ntravelling, although the least comfortable, the most secure that he could\nadopt.  About three miles out of Hungerford, he saw before him a\npig-drover with a large herd of porkers, that he alternately cursed in\nthe ancient British tongue, and cut up with a whip, while at intervals\nbetween these amusing recreations he loudly sang or roared certain scraps\nof Welsh songs.  Twm\u2019s ear was quick in recognizing the well-known voice,\nand he soon stood side by side with his old friend Wat the mole-catcher.\nAfter mutual expressions of wonder and congratulation, Twm eagerly asked\nhim how his mother was, as well as Farmer Cadwgan and his daughter\nGwenny.  Wat replied that his mother and her husband were well; but\ninstead of answering the latter part of his question, enquired his\nadventures since he left Tregaron.  Twm, with animated vanity, ran over\nthat brief portion of his history, occasionally heightening the colour of\nevents, according to the general practice of story-tellers from time\nimmemorial; dwelling particularly on his fortunate preservation of the\nlady of Ystrad F\u00een, and the benefits which accrued to him in consequence,\nfrom the liberality of Sir George Devereux, whose confidential agent he\nthen was, on business of the utmost importance, to London.\n\nAfter practising to his utmost to astonish Wat with the riches and vast\nconsideration of his \u201cfriend\u201d Sir George, Twm very conceitedly observed,\n\u201cWell Wat, were he ten times as rich and powerful, I should never envy\nhim anything he possessed, but one lovely piece of property.\u201d  \u201cAnd what\nmight that be?\u201d asked Wat.  \u201cWhy,\u201d replied the other, \u201ccould I once\nforget poor Gwenny Cadwgan, which I never can, I should envy him the\npossession of his charming young wife, the beautiful lady of Ystrad\nF\u00een\u2014the finest, the handsomest, and cleverest woman I ever saw! and\nalthough now married to a second husband, she is little more than\nthree-and-twenty years of age.  But I was asking of my old sweetheart\nGwenny, poor Gwenny Cadwgan.\u201d\u2014\u201cPoor Gwenny Cadwgan indeed!\u201d sighed Wat,\ninterrupting him.  The pathetic and mysterious manner in which the\nmole-catcher spoke this, alarmed our hero and produced an instant change\nin his manner; \u201cWhat of her Wat,\u201d cried he eagerly, \u201cis any thing the\nmatter? tell me quickly, for heaven\u2019s sake!\u201d  Wat answered in a tone of\ngreater feeling than any one would have believed him to possess, \u201cShe is\ndead, Twm\u2014dead, and in her cold grave, these four months past.  God\nforgive you, if you have sent her to it, but you alone have the blame of\nit at Tregaron.\u201d  This intelligence was a thunderbolt to our hero; his\nagony appeared insupportable, as he sat on the road side to indulge it,\ntill tears came to his relief, which at length flowed abundantly.  It was\nnot till after they were lodged for the night at Hungerford that Twm\nfound himself capable of questioning his friend further on this unhappy\nsubject, when he was informed that the fair Gwenny Cadwgan had declined\nin health from day to day, pining, it was said, with secret grief, the\ncause of which she refused to discover, even to her father; but it soon\ncame out, for Death hastened to her relief, and she died a mother: a\npremature mother, it is true, and her infant was buried in the same grave\nwith its ill-used broken-hearted, youthful parent.\n\nHitherto, mental suffering had never been a long guest with our hero; but\nnow, in proportion to his affection for the departed fair one, was his\nremorse, his self-accusing reflections for his neglect of the fond heart\nhe had won, and the ruin he had brought on one whom he had found so\nhappy.  He became ill, and incapable of pursuing his journey the next\nday, when Wat left him, expressing a hope that he would soon be able to\novertake him, that they might enter London together.\n\nHe remained three days at Hungerford before he was sufficiently recovered\nto pursue his journey; at the end of which time, being still at a loss\nfor a horse, on enquiring for an animal of a humble description, he was\ndirected to an old pedlar, who had failed to dispose of a wretched thing\nof his at the fair.  On going with him down a green lane where he had\nleft it grazing, he was not a little surprized to find the creature\noffered to him for sale to be no other than his own mountain pony, left\nin exchange with the highwayman, having on its back the identical\npack-saddle, in which he had formerly concealed his money.  Too depressed\nin spirits to enter into any detail on the subject, having merely learnt\nthat the pedlar had taken it in exchange for goods from a traveller, Twm\npurchased both pony and pack-saddle for the small sum of twelve\nshillings, and immediately set off on his journey.\n\nAlive to the importance of the trust reposed in him, and the danger he\nran of being robbed, these considerations had the effect of dissipating\nhis melancholy, and setting him somewhat on his mettle.  Well for him it\nwas, that he could so rouse his dormant energies, for by the time that he\nwas within ten miles of Reading, in Berkshire, anxiously hoping to reach\nit without disaster, the sudden discharge of a pistol, close to his ear,\nconvinced him he was in the centre of danger.  Instantly a horseman well\nmounted rode fiercely down a lane that entered the road, and ordered him\nto stop and deliver in one minute, or have his brains scattered on the\nhedge beside him.\n\nOur hero\u2019s presence of mind never forsook him, and now stood his friend\nin an especial manner.  Assuming an air of clownish simplicity, he\nreplied, \u201cLaud bless ye master, I ha gotten nothing to deliver, but an\nold testament, a crooked sixpence, and a broken fish-hook, and\u2014and\u2014\u201d\n\u201cAnd what, you prevaricating young scoundrel!\u201d roared the highwayman,\n\u201cwhy this purse,\u201d continued Twm, \u201cwhich uncle Timothy gave I to market\nfor him and pay his bills at Reading to-morrow;\u201d producing at the same\ntime, an old stocking, which he had stuffed with old nails and\ncockle-shells, in order to make a jingle.  The robber made a grasp at the\nsupposed well-stocked purse, which Twm dexterously evaded, and flung the\npurse over the hedge into the adjoining field, and riding on, while the\nformer instantly alighted, blustering out a fund of oaths and bullying\nthreats, as he made his way to the field to search for the coveted\ntreasure.\n\nAware that on his poor pony he could not but be soon overtaken, and\nperhaps shot, by the disappointed freebooter, Twm felt that a daring act\nrequiring the firmest resolution was to be instantly performed to ensure\nhis safety, and proceeded immediately to its achievement.  The knight of\nthe road, when he alighted, threw his bridle over a hedgestake; Twm\nabandoning his pony for the second time, watched the robber into the\nfield, crawled along the ditch till he reached his horse, which he\ninstantly seized by the bridle, mounted and rode off in a hot gallop,\ntill he got safe into the ancient town of Reading, as the clear-toned\nbells of St. Lawrence were chiming their last evening peal.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XXII.\n\n\nTwm becomes a pedestrian.  Adventures of Wat the mole-catcher.  The\nCardiganshire lasses.  Tragic relation.  Stalking Simon murdered.  Twm is\nstopped by a footpad, whom he out-generals and shoots.  Arrives in\nLondon.\n\nTWM was not so fortunate with this steed as the former, which, being\nwhite, and otherwise very remarkable, he had the precaution to have cried\nnext morning, when a wealthy attorney of Reading came forward and claimed\nit.  On hearing Twm\u2019s story, he very handsomely made him a present of ten\npounds, partly in consideration of the loss of his own beast, which he\nhad sustained by the adventure.\n\nBeing now within eight-and-thirty miles of London, he resolved to throw\noff his rustic disguise, and walk the rest of his journey.  Accordingly,\nhe bought a neat suit of clothes at Reading, in which he concealed his\nmoney and a pair of small pocket pistols; and thus provided, he resumed\nhis journey to the metropolis.  Having gone twelve miles further, which\nbrought him to Maidenhead, the first person that he met in the street was\nWat the mole-catcher, who had sold his pigs to great advantage to a\nLondon dealer; and was now sauntering about from tavern to tavern,\nspending money that was not his own.  Twm at first thought of\ncommissioning him to be the bearer of some cash to his mother, but soon\nfound sufficient reason for banishing such an idea.  On asking him when\nhe intended to return to Tregaron, the mole-catcher with strong emphasis\nexclaimed \u201cnever!\u201d adding that he had made the place too hot ever to hold\nhim again.  On being pressed to relate his adventures since our hero left\nhim at Tregaron, he ran them over in the following off hand strain.\n\u201cWhen you were a child, Twm, I was a merry happy lad; and you know, had\nthe reputation as the _funny fellow_ of Tregaron, a distinction that it\nwas my highest ambition to attain.  The comical tricks and humorous\nsayings of Wat the mole-catcher, made mirth at every farmer\u2019s hearth, and\ntheir tables were spread with food for me whenever I called.  As I grew\nolder, my pleasures and antipathies acquired a stronger cast; and there\nwere but few in our adjoining parishes who were subject either to\nexecration or ridicule, but dreaded my satire and exposure.  I formed\nattachments more than once among the daughters of the farmers whom I had\nfrequently entertained at the social evening hearth; but although my\njests were relished, my overtures were rejected.  In short, I found that\nwhile mirth, innocence, and harmless wit were my companions, parents\ngenerally disposed of their daughters to young men of characters directly\nopposed to mine\u2014the stupidly grave, and knavish.  My eyes were at length\nopened; and I found that the _funny man_ however amusing as an\nacquaintance, was by none as coveted as a relative, but considered as a\nmerry unthrift, a mere diverting vagabond at best.  Well, thought I, as I\nsaw the world in the nakedness of its opinion, this will never do, but\nsince gravity is the order of the day, I will be grave and roguish as the\nmost successful of my fellow men.  Having once come to this conclusion, I\nstudied knavery, that is to say, thrifty rascality, like a science.  You\nhad a specimen of my skill when you played me that pretty trick that lost\nme the parish clerkship, and the fair hand of Bessy Gwevel-h\u00eer.  As a\nfirst step I went immediately to my grandmother, who had often exhorted\nme to quit my sinful mirth and become serious, when I assured her of my\nconversion, in token of which, I threw myself on my knees, and entreated\nher blessing.  She afterwards took me to a puritanic chapel, and in that\nassembly, where I had often pinned the skirts and gown-tails of the elect\ntogether, the poor old doting soul in the pride of her heart exhibited\nher young convert to the gaze of the saints; but neglected to inform them\nthat I had robbed her that same evening, of half the contents of her\npocket, as she lay asleep.  I was not long in discovering that a sedate\naspect was a goodly mask for the most profitable villainy, and therefore\ndetermined to wear it for life.  Laughter, jest, and mirthful humour, and\nall those thriftless indications of the light and harmless heart, I\nabjured forever.  I now gave a respite to the rats and moles, and set up\nas a butcher at Tregaron; and for one sheep that I bought of the farmers,\nI stole three, and slaughtered them either by moonlight on the hills, or\nby candle in my own cottage.  Although I daily bettered my condition, I\nconsidered this but a slow and creeping course to thrift; and therefore,\nas conscience no longer stood in my way, I meditated some bolder way of\nleaping into property at once.  You know that wrinkled old she-usurer of\nTregaron, Rachel Ketch; in the bitterness of my heart, after losing all\nhope of a fair girl, whom I had long doated on, I went to the old Jezebel\nand sought her hand in marriage; aye, and would have taken her were she\nten times as loathsome, in the anxious hope of her speedy death and of\nsucceeding to her golden hoards.  I strove to recommend myself by\nassuring her I was the most finished scoundrel in existence; and that\nwhen gain was my object, theft, perjury, and even murder, however hideous\nto silly innocents, had no power to scare me from my pursuit.  This\navowal of my noble qualifications I thought would have won her heart\nforever, but I was mistaken.  The keen-eyed hag, who never was seen to\nsmile before, laughed outright at my proposal.  \u2018What, you want the old\nwoman\u2019s gold, master cut-throat of the muttons, do you? to cut her throat\nalso, and make away with her in a month after marriage, like a\ntroublesome old ewe!\u2019 screamed she, as her spiteful broken snags grinned\ndefiance, and her shrill tones broke out in laughs of mockery.  I never\nsaw mirth so damnable before!  I felt myself the butt of her ridicule,\nhumbled and degraded; and as my anger rose against the beldame, I\nresolved that since I could not wed her, to rob her would answer my\npurpose full as well.  An opportunity was not long wanting; the little\nboys who had formerly been my favorites, and who in their innocence\nfailed to recognize my altered character, I found it difficult to drive\nfrom me.  A neighbour\u2019s child one day asked me to lift him up to Rachel\nKetch\u2019s thatch, to take from it a wren\u2019s nest which he had long watched,\nand said he was sure that the young ones were on the eve of flying.  It\nwas a winning little urchin that made the request, and I could not refuse\nhim.  The moment that I had raised him to a standing posture on my\nshoulders, he eagerly thrust his little hand into the thatch, and cried,\n\u2018Dear dear, how cold!\u2019 when a snake which he had felt, that had destroyed\nthe young birds, and coiled itself round in the nest, darted out in his\nface, and the youngster shrieked and fainted in my arms.  I carried him\nhome, where he soon died of the fright, for it appeared he was not stung.\nI suspected there was a nest of those detestable reptiles in the old\nrotten straw thatch, and therefore poked it in all directions with a long\nhooked stick, and at last felt something attached to it; as I drew it\nforward and examined it, to my great astonishment I found it to be an old\nwoollen stocking, closely stuffed with various golden coins.  Here was a\ndiscovery!  I felt myself a made man forever!  The old woman was at this\ntime in Carmarthenshire, where she had gone to enforce her claims to\ncertain debts among her former neighbours; and therefore having no fear\nof detection, I pushed back the golden prize and went away, intending to\nreturn for it at night.  As I anxiously watched the hours and minutes\npass away, reflecting the while on my newly-acquired wealth, a raging\nsavage spirit of avarice so possessed me, that I determined to plunder\nold Rachel\u2019s cottage of all the money I could find.  Night came, and with\nbreathless haste I made an entrance through the thatch on the side\nfurthest from the street, and at midnight went away with a heavy booty,\nthe greater part of which, I buried beneath the floor of my own cottage,\ndetermined to seek the first opportunity of quitting Tregaron forever.\nFortune seemed to favor me beyond my hopes; Squire Graspacre having a\nnumerous herd of unusually fine hogs, engaged me to drive them to England\nand sell them at a good price; I have done so, and pocketted the cash,\nnot one farthing of which will the squire ever handle.  To relate all my\nrogueries since I became a grave man would take too much of your time, so\nhere ends my story.\u201d\n\nTwm\u2019s observations on this remarkable narrative were very brief.  \u201cI know\nmy own numerous faults too well to blame you highly for anything you have\ndone, except robbing the poor helpless old woman: that was a villainous\naffair Wat, and will not stand the test of my friend Rhys\u2019s noble\nprecept\u2014_War not with the weak_.  I have a mother, Wat, who is also an\nold woman, and who but a dastardly villain could ever think of robbing\nher.\u201d  \u201cVery true,\u201d replied Wat, \u201cbut she whom I plundered was a _rich_\nold woman; and to steal from her who had robbed hundreds by her\nover-reaching usury will never lie much on my conscience.  Perhaps in\ntime I may form a plan to recover the cash buried under my cottage floor;\nif not, I can make myself very happy with what I already have, in\naddition to the squire\u2019s pig-money; so that I shall be quite safe and\nunmolested in England, and while I have money, nobody will dare to\nquestion my respectability.\u201d\n\nAt this moment, a party of Cardiganshire lasses, who were making their\nannual journey to weed the gardens in the neighbourhood of London, passed\nopposite the tavern door, where our worthies were sitting; Twm recognized\ntwo Tregaron girls, and called to them by name, when they all went up\ntogether.  The two rural damsels were right glad to see their long lost\ncountryman; Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti, but their reception of Wat was very\ndifferent, as it amounted to terror and abhorrence.  They said he was\ncharged not only with the robbery of Rachel Ketch\u2019s cottage, but with\nmurder; that the constables were out to search for him in all quarters,\nand that Squire Graspacre had sent out a man to supersede Wat in the care\nof his pigs.\n\nHere Wat\u2019s spirit of bravado entirely deserted him, and evident terror\nwas depicted in his countenance, while his emotion was too great to make\nany remark on the information given by the girls.\n\nAfter Twm had treated all the maidens with bread and cheese and ale, and\ndismissed them on their journey, Wat, in great agony of mind, exclaimed,\n\u201cOh God, where shall I fly! all my supposed security I find but a dream,\nand misery alone awaits me.  When I told you the tale of my enormities, I\nkept back the relation of one crime, a dreadful one! which, lost as I am,\nI felt averse to acknowledge, and too heart-smote with the consciousness\nof its atrocity, to turn to it my most secret thought\u2014\u2019twas a deed of\nblood, the crime of murder.  You remember a tall, thin, skeleton-like\nman, generally dressed in an entire suit of grey, who lived in a cottage\non the mountain, in the neighbourhood of Tregaron, known by the nick-name\nof Stalking Simon the Moon-calf.  This man was known to be a spy employed\nand paid by all the neighbouring farmers.  His habits were, to sleep all\nday, and to spend the night on the hills, watching to identify the\nhedge-pluckers and sheep-stealers.  Many poor persons who depended on\ntheir nightly excursions, for fuel, while they deemed themselves\nunobserved of any human being, cutting down a tree, or drawing dry wood\nfrom an old hedge, would suddenly find themselves in the presence of\nStalking Simon.  So instantaneous was his appearance, as to startle his\nvictims with the idea of an apparition suddenly sprung up through the\nground, as his approach was never seen till close upon them.  \u2018\u2019Tis only\nme, neighbour,\u2019 would be the hypocrite\u2019s reply, \u2018searching for my stray\npony:\u2019 but when two persons had been executed, and three transported, on\nhis evidence, the nature of his employment became known, and he was\nexecrated by the whole country.  One moonlight night, as I was skinning a\nfine stolen wether, which I had suspended and spread out on an old\nstorm-beaten thorn, in a field adjoining the mountain, easy in mind, and\nso fearless of danger that I whistled in a half-hushed manner, as I\nfollowed my illicit occupation, a circumstance took place that wrought a\nviolent change in the tone of my mind.  My thoughts ran on the\nwhimsicality of the idea of selling a portion of this very mutton to the\nrightful owner, on the morrow, which was market day, and laughing\ninwardly at the thought; all at once, Stalking Simon, with a single\nstride, moved from behind a mossy elm, grey as his own suit, and stood\nbefore me.  My blood curdled with the sudden transition from mirth to\nterror; but when the stone-hearted wretch made the old Judas-like reply,\n\u2018It is only me neighbour, searching for my stray pony,\u2019 I knew the amount\nof my danger, and my terror changed to savage ferocity against the vile\ninformer who had ruined so many of my friends and neighbours.  In the\nfever of my hatred I darted on him, grasped his collar with one hand, and\nwith the other stabbed him to the heart.\u201d\n\nThus ended Wat\u2019s relation, when he again exclaimed \u201cOh God where shall I\nfly?  I cannot return, for that road leads straight to the gallows, and\nin London I should be in hourly danger of being seen by somebody from the\ncountry.  Since the perpetration of this deed of blood I have not known\nan hour\u2019s peace, save in the madness of the intoxicating cup.  Heaven is\nmy witness, I could be content with slavery, and smile beneath the\nman-driver\u2019s whip\u2014could strip myself and wander the world in nakedness,\nor herd with beasts, to regain my former peace and innocence!  Oh, I\ncould labour till my bones ached, and my exhausted body dropped to the\nearth with fatigue, to be once more free from the keen stings of a guilty\nconscience.\u201d\n\nWat was now a figure of the most heart-torn remorse; his reddened eyes\nwere tearless, and seemed burning in their sockets; while large drops of\nsweat rolled down his sun-burnt cheeks, and his whole countenance\nexhibited the most intense agony.  In such an hour as this, Twm was no\ncomforter, although he was much affected, but merely listened in silence.\nA grey-coated man now approaching the tavern, brought dreadful\nassociations to Wat\u2019s terrified conscience, and in the utmost trepidation\nhe darted out at the back door of the inn, and ran across the fields with\nthe speed of a pursued murderer.\n\nOur hero, now a pedestrian, hurried off on his journey, determined to\nmake up for the time lost at Maidenhead, by walking at a spirited pace;\nand without stopping a moment, he passed through Langley, Broom, and\nColnbrook, hoping to reach Hounslow at least that night.  He had\ntravelled unimpeded till within two miles of the last named town, when he\nmet a long-bearded man, who might have passed for the high priest of a\nJewish synagogue.  Twm stared at him with surprize, but passed on a few\nsteps, when he heard the other at his heels; and turning round, he found\nhim with a pistol aimed at his head, as he called out in the true slang\nof the road, \u201cYour money or your life.\u201d\n\nOur hero, having now met a few rencontres of this kind, had lost his\nterror of them; he answered in a submissive style, declaring that he had\nno money of his own to resign, but it was true he had a considerable sum\nof his master\u2019s: \u201cI don\u2019t see,\u201d quoth he, \u201cwhy I should lose or risk my\nlife for any master\u2019s service, though I should like it may appear that I\nmade some resistance before I resigned his property; and therefore if you\nfirst fire your pistol through the lapel of my coat, you shall have all;\u201d\nwhen the footpad immediately did as requested.  \u201cNow,\u201d quoth Twm again,\n\u201canother shot through the skirt on the other side.\u201d  \u201cVery true,\u201d replied\nthe thief, and fired his other pistol as directed.  \u201cAnd now, for a\nfinish,\u201d said Twm, \u201cbefore I give up to you this large sum, just fire a\nshot through my hat,\u201d laying it down on the ground as he spoke.  \u201cI have\nno more shot,\u201d cried the robber.  \u201cBut I have!\u201d exclaimed our hero,\ntriumphantly, producing a pistol, \u201cthe contents of this you must take\ninstead of the money I spoke of\u2014a just reward for a shallow knave, whose\nlength of beard is greater than of brains:\u201d at which words, perceiving\nthat the bearded thief aimed to escape, he fired his pistol and shot him\ndead.  Tearing his false beard off, he bore it away as a trophy, and\nhastened onward.\n\nBeing now, as he was previously informed, in the very republic of\nhighwaymen and foodpads, our hero, though greatly fatigued, resolved not\nto spend the night at Hounslow, but persevere in his route and go the\nadditional nine miles, which would bring him to the great metropolis, and\nhis journey\u2019s end, before he rested.  It was near one o\u2019clock, when at\nlength after many inquiries among the Watchmen, he found out the Bull and\nGate inn, Holborn; where with blistered feet and sadly fatigued body, he\njoyfully took his supper and ordered his bed.  Who but a pedestrian could\nenter into his feelings!\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XXIII.\n\n\nTwm\u2019s return to Wales.  The death of Sir George Devereux.  The loves of\nTwm Sh\u00f4n Catti and the lady of Ystrad F\u00een.  Their joys converted into\nsorrows.  Their parting.\n\nIT was soon known at Ystrad F\u00een that our hero had fulfilled his\ncommission by delivering the money with which he was intrusted, at the\nplace of its destination; and great anxiety was expressed by Sir George\nand his lady for his return to Wales.  The baronet, however, was not\ndestined to put his benevolent intentions in his favor into execution,\nfor, about two months after Twm\u2019s departure, on riding home an ill-broken\nhorse, which he had purchased at Brecon, he was thrown, and killed by the\nfall.  His widow, of course, appeared in weeds; but as the last like her\nformer union with the high pedigreed Thomas ap Rhys ap William Thomas\nGoch, the former proprietor of Ystrad F\u00een, was a marriage of interest\nplanned by her father, Sir John Price, of the Priory, Brecon, it was\nthought her grief on the occasion was not excessive: at least, such\nappeared to be the general opinion among the gallants of Brecon, many of\nwhom waited anxiously for the throwing off of her mourning, to declare\nthemselves candidates for her heart and hand.\n\nMonth after month passed away without Twm\u2019s return; and when a whole year\nhad run its course, the lady of Ystrad F\u00een, who had frequently expressed\nher alarms for his safety, at length concluded that he certainly was no\nlonger on the records of the living.  The young widow speaking of him one\nday to a female friend, described him as very beautiful of person, and\none who deserved the favors of fortune; the greatest of which, in her\nestimation, would be his acquirement of rank and station by marriage\u2014by\nan union with a liberal fair, who could overlook his humbleness of birth\nin consideration of his personal merit.  \u201cBut the generous young man,\u201d\nsaid she, while the tears started in her fine eyes, \u201cis doubtless dead.\nI feel for him as an amiable unfriended stranger who deserved a better\nfate than to die in obscurity, as Nature had formed him for distinction,\nif not renown.\u201d\n\nThe conversation then changed, when the widow\u2019s fair friend jocularly\nalluded to the probability of her again doffing her weeds for bridal\nrobes.  \u201cNever!\u201d exclaimed Lady Devereux, \u201ctwice have I been a wife and\nwidow, and can safely assert that, love never had a share in the disposal\nof my hand.  Twice have I been bartered to suit the capricious views and\nfamily pride of a father; but were it possible for me to utter \u2018love,\nhonor, and obey,\u2019 again, within sacred walls, it should be to one whom I\nlove indeed\u2014love, honor, and obey!\u2014and not to the contemporary of my\ngrandfather, or my father\u2019s schoolfellow.\u201d\n\nIt was about two months after this conversation took place, that our hero\nappeared, well mounted on a goodly steed, and entered the court yard of\nYstrad F\u00een.  In a moment, the circumstance was told to Lady Devereux, who\nalmost leaped from her seat, and hurried to meet him, as he reached the\nentrance of the hall.  Twm had heard of the decease of Sir George, and\nprepared himself with the tone and manner of a condoler, but found it\nquite unnecessary when he noticed the brisk advance and gay countenance\nof the handsome widow.  \u201cMy dear Mr. Jones, welcome, most welcome, back\nto Wales, and trebly welcome to me and the lonely walls of Ystrad F\u00een!\u201d\nwas her first salutation, as with her natural cordiality she stretched\nout her right hand, which our hero eagerly seized, ardently pressed, and\nheld to his lips.  She was not long in discovering the change for the\nbetter which had taken place in his address; his former ungainly\ndiffidence and indecision of manner being supplanted by easy confidence,\nsupported by high animal spirits.\n\nThe widow, in conversing with her friend Miss Meredith, declared herself\ndelighted with him, and our hero appeared no less pleased with the lady.\nAt her invitation, he became an inmate of the house, until, as she said,\nhe could put himself to rights.  The sum of money left to her care, was\ndelivered up to him with considerable additions, in return for his\nservices by the journey to London, and from her own private bounty.\n\nWhen the youth, beauty, and frank good nature of the lady are taken into\naccount, it will be no matter of surprize that our hero was soon very\ndeeply infatuated with the lady of Ystrad F\u00een; or that he should,\nagreeably to his matured character, very energetically protest himself\nher sincere admirer, friend, and even lover!  If the lady chided him, it\nwas with that gentleness that seemed to say, \u201cPray do so again.\u201d  If she\nturned aside her head to conceal her blushes, smiles ever accompanied\nthem, in coming and retreating; or if she frowned, it was so equivocally,\nthat for the life of him, our hero could not help considering each\ntransient bend of the brow as so many invitations to kiss them away,\nwhich the gallant Twm never failed to accept and obey.  These golden days\nwere too rich in delight to last long.  As the _good-natured and most\nvirtuous world_ discovered that they were very happy and pleased with\neach other, it breathed forth its malignant spirit, and doubted whether\nthey had a legitimate right to be so; of course deciding that they had\nnot, and consequently awarding to the lovers the pains and penalties of\npersecution and mutual banishment.  When they had become, for some time,\nundivided companions, and walked, rode, danced at Brecon balls, and\nresided under the same roof together, although under the strict guidance\nof moral propriety, as daily witnessed by the lady\u2019s female friends: it\nwill be no wonder that scandal at last became busy with the lady\u2019s fame.\nAn additional incentive for raising these evil reports was, that she had\nrejected the attentions of several of the rural nobles, who had\nendeavoured to recommend themselves to her good graces.  All at once,\nlike the inmates of a hornet\u2019s nest, the various members of her family,\nthe proud Prices of Breconshire, buzzed about her ears, and stung her\nwith their reproaches.  She bore all with determined patience, until\nassured that her fame had been vilified, and that she had been described\nas living a life of profligacy and dishonour.  Conscious of rectitude,\nhowever indiscreet she might have been, the haughtiness of her spirit now\nrose, as she indignantly repelled the infamous charges; in the end,\nrequesting her _dear friends and relatives_ to dismiss their tender fears\nfor her reputation, and keep to their own domains for the future, or at\nleast not trouble hers.\n\nNotwithstanding this rough reception of her generous advisers, and\nreporters of the world\u2019s slanders, others came, almost daily, buzzing\nstill the same tale, till at length tired and wore down in spirits, she\nconsented to send away her deliverer and friend, as she called him, from\nthe protection of her roof.  Our hero, however, could never be brought to\ndistinguish between her real kind feelings towards him, and the\nconstrained appearance which her altered conduct made in his sight.  Free\nas the air, as he felt himself, he could not understand why a great and\nwealthy lady could not at least be equally unshackled and independent.\nExplanations and excuses were entirely thrown away upon him, as he could\nnot, or would not, understand aught so opposed to his happiness and\npreconceived notions.  When at length it was made known to him that the\nseparation was inevitable, and the season of it arrived, he received the\nastounding intelligence like a severe blow of fortune, that struck him at\nonce both sorrowful and meditative.  Pride and resentment, from a sense\nof injury, at last supplanted every other feeling; and, starting up with\na frenzied effort, he ordered his horse to be got ready, and gave\ndirections for his things to be forwarded to Llandovery; after which he\nwrote a note, and sent it to the lady\u2019s room, requesting a momentary\ninterview with her alone, before he took his departure.  She came down\nwith a slow languid step, and met him in the parlour.  Her eyes were red\nwith weeping; and before she could utter a syllable, our hero\u2019s much\naltered looks affected her so much, that she burst out into heavy\nsobbing.  \u201cDo not think hardly\u2014do not feel unkindly towards me, Jones,\u201d\nwere her first words; \u201cI entreat you to give me the credit due to my\nsincerity, when I assure you that the sacrifice I made on consenting to\npart with you, was\u2014yes! although I have buried two husbands who loved me\ntenderly, it was the heaviest of my life.\u201d  Twm replied in a tone and\nmanner that evinced both his pride and sufferings: \u201cI have but few words,\nmadam, and they shall not long intrude upon your leisure.  I came here a\nstranger, and had some trifling claims, perhaps, on your attention.\u2014Those\nclaims have been more than satisfied\u2014noble has been your remuneration of\nmy humble services, your beneficence generous and princely.  A change\ntook place in your destiny; you honoured me beyond my merits, and bade me\nstand to the world in a new character.  You called me friend, your sole\ntrue friend in a faithless world.\u2014Nay, lady, your lover.  I loved, and\nlove you, with a pure but unconquerable flame.  Blame me not if I am\npresumptuous\u2014it was your own condescension, your own encouragement, that\nmade me so, and elevated me to a stand of equality with yourself.  You\ngave me hopes to be the future, the only husband of your choice.  You\nstretched forth your hand to aid my efforts, as I eagerly climbed towards\nthe darling object of my aim; but before I attained the summit, you,\nmadam, in a spirit of caprice or treachery, dashed me headlong downward,\nto perish in despair.  Your great and wealthy friends will praise you for\nthis, while mincing madams and insipid misses shall learn a noble lesson\nby your conduct, and emulating you, become in their day as arrant\ncoquettes and tramplers on manly hearts, as their more limited powers and\nvanity will permit.  But enough! you shall have your generous\ntriumph,\u2014and from this hour I tread the world without an aim, a wanderer\nin a wilderness, reckless of all that can either better or worsen my\nstate in life.  Advancement, estimation, the pride of generous and\napplauded deeds, I here abjure; nor from this hour would I raise my hand\nto save from annihilation the being I am\u2014for life is henceforth hateful\nto me.  Lady, farewell\u2014never will I cross your path; but you may hear of\nmy wayward steps,\u2014and if in me you are told of a wretched idiot, a being\nwhose mind had perished while his frame was strong, let it strike\nstrongly to your heart that it was yourself that wrought that mental\ndesolation.  Or if they name me as a lawless being, plunged headlong into\ndeeds of guilt and madness, remember it is you, you, madam! you are the\nauthoress of my crimes and sorrows, and may be, of an ignominious death\nto follow my career of guilt.  And now madam, farewell indeed!\u201d  On which\nhe darted out, mounted his horse, and rode off; while the unhappy lady of\nYstrad F\u00een, whose agitation choked the utterance of replies, caught a\nlast glimpse of him, and fell on the parlour floor in a swoon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XXIV.\n\n\nTwm\u2019s eccentricities.  His rural adventures with the two sheep, the white\nox, and the grey horse.  Teaches the farmer how to pound the squire\u2019s\ntrespassing pigeons.\n\nWHEN our hero arrived at Llandovery, his sorrows were augmented on\nlearning that his faithful friend Rhys the curate was no longer to be his\ncomforter, though much needed under his present mental depression; it was\nno small satisfaction to him, however, to be informed that he had been\ninducted into a good living in a distant part of the principality.  The\nlife he led at Llandovery, although lodging at an inn, was, for some\ndays, that of a solitary; _days_! alas for the consistency of the\nlover,\u2014days, we repeat, and not weeks or months, much less years, of\nseclusion from his kind.  He soon illustrated the Shakspearian adage,\n\u201cMen have died, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.\u201d  But by him\nevery thing was to done by strokes of boldness; to banish his cares, he\nplunged at once into intemperance; and from merely tolerating a little\ncheerful company, he entered the society of the greatest topers and\nmadcaps to be found, till he emulated and outdid the highest, and became\nthe very prince of wags and practical jokers.  He was, of course,\nrecognized as the capturer of the tremendous highwayman Dio the Devil,\nand the acknowledged preserver of the lady of Ystrad F\u00een, which, with his\nrelations of many freaks and vagaries in England, together with the\nassured fact that he had been once in London, and spent a year there,\ngained him no inconsiderable share of celebrity.  One day, while the\nlandlord of the Owen Glendower inn was trumpeting forth the humorous fame\nof his lodger, among a parlour full of country squires, who were dining\ntogether, after the business of Quarter Sessions was over; a merry\nmagistrate named Prothero said, that he was certain he had a servant, a\nshrewd fellow, whose wits never slumbered, whom he would back in a bet\nagainst the vaunted cleverness of Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti, in any feat of\ndexterity that could be named.  To come to the point, he said, he would\nlay a wager of five pounds that Twm could not steal a sheep from shrewd\nRoger, his ploughman, who the next morning should carry one to the\nvillage of Llangattock.  Twm was sent for; and being invited to sit among\nthese rural nobles, appeared as complete a high fellow as the best of\nthem.  Without the least hesitation, he accepted Mr. Prothero\u2019s wager,\nand deposited five pounds with the landlord, as the merry magistrate had\nalready done.  Early the next morning shrewd Roger rose, and shouldered\nhis sheep, vowing before his grinning fellow-servants, who grouped round\nto crack their jests on him, that the wild devil himself should not\ndeprive him of his burthen.  As he proceeded along a part of the high\nroad, up a slight ascent, he discovered with surprise, a good leathern\nshoe lying in the mud.  A shoe of leather, be it known, in a country\nwhere wooden clogs are generally worn, is no despicable prize.  The\nshrewd servant looked at the object before him with a longing eye; but\nreflecting that one shoe, however good, was useless unmatched with a\nfellow, spared himself the trouble of stooping, for troublesome it would\nhave been with such a weight on his shoulders, and passed on without\nlifting it.  On walking a little further, and pursuing a bend in the\nroad, great was his surprise on finding another shoe, a fellow to the\nformer, lying in the sledge-mark, which, like the rut of a wheel,\nindented the mud with hollow stripes.  In the height of his joy he laid\ndown the sheep, with its legs tied, beside the shoe, and ran back for the\nother; when Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti, watching his opportunity, sprang over the\nhedge, and seized his prize, which he bore off securely, won his bet, and\nate his mutton undisturbed.\n\nProthero, although the most good-humoured of country gentlemen, was\nrather angry with shrewd Roger, whose shrewdness became rather\nquestionable.  It was admitted, in excuse, that the most cunning, at\ntimes, may be accidentally overreached by his inferior in wit: on this\nplea the merry magistrate was conciliated, and induced to enter into\nanother wager, precisely like the former, when a similar sum, against our\nhero, and in favor of his servant was laid and accepted.  The man of\nshrewdness, as before, determined to use the utmost vigilance and caution\nto preserve his charge and redeem his reputation.  He grasped his load,\nwhich was a fine fat ewe, most manfully, and swore violent oaths in\nanswer to his master\u2019s exhortation to chariness, that human ingenuity\nshould never trick him again; but\n\n    \u201cGreat protestations do make that doubted,\n    Which we would else right willingly believe.\u201d\n\nIn his way to Llangattock, he had to pass partly through a wood, which he\nscarce entered when the bleating of a sheep attracted his attention, and\nhe came to a dead stand, as he intently listened to what he conceived a\nwell-known voice.  \u201cBaa!\u2014baa!\u201d again saluted his ear: a sudden conviction\nrushed across his mind that this was the very sheep he had before lost,\nwhich he imagined might have been concealed by Twm in the rocky recesses\nof that woody dingle.  What a glorious chance, thought he, of recovering\nhis lost credit with his master, and depriving his antagonist at the same\ntime, of his hidden prey, and the laurels achieved in the winning of it.\nHe instantly deposited his burthen beneath a tree; and eagerly forcing\nhis way through the copse and bushes, he followed the bleating a\nconsiderable way down the wood, when to his great dismay it ceased\naltogether.  A thought now struck him, though rather too late, that the\nbleating proceeded from no sheep, but a most subtle ram, in the person of\nTwm Sh\u00f4n Catti: he hurried back in a grievous fright, and found his\nsurmises but too true\u2014the second sheep, and his high reputation for\nshrewdness, had both taken flight together.\n\nOn being confronted with shrewd Roger, in his master\u2019s parlour, Twm\nrecognized in him an old acquaintance, and no other than the clever youth\nwith whom he had exchanged his feminine attire at Cardigan fair, and made\noff with his coat.  On being reminded of that affair, and told by Twm\nthat he was the fair ballad-singer with whom he was so deeply captivated,\nthe poor fellow was absorbed in wonderment.  He then related to his\nmaster the whole of that adventure, with the episode of the parson tossed\nin a blanket for a bum-bailiff, in such a manner as to excite the most\nimmoderate laughter on the part of the jest-loving Prothero, who\ngood-naturedly assured his man that he lost but little credit with the\nsheep, when it was considered that he stood opposed to an arch wag of so\nmuch celebrity.\n\nFortune was not so scurvy a stepmother to Twm as to confine him long to a\ndiet of mere mutton, but took occasion to vary it very agreeably with a\nchange of beef.\n\nDetermined to have more mirth with our hero, at the hazard of some loss,\nProthero offered to oppose to his cunning, the collective vigilance of\nhis husbandmen and maidens; laying a bet with him that he should not\nsteal a white ox, which, with a black one, was to be yoked to the plough.\nThe plough to be held by Roger and driven by another servant; while two\ngirls, driving each a harrow, should also be on their guard to prevent\nhis aim if possible.\n\nTwm accepted the bet, and obligingly undertook to convey away the white\nox, and eat the gentleman\u2019s beef, provided it turned out sufficiently\ntender; protesting, with a half yawn and the perfect ease of a modern\nCorinthian, that he was absolutely tired of mutton, which he had too long\npersisted in eating, against the judgement and advice of his physician.\n\nThe day arrived, the great, the important day, big with the fate of the\nwhite ox.  The plough was guided and the cattle driven, while the two\nbare-footed maidens giggled and laughed till the rocks echoed, as they\nwhipped the horses and ran by their sides, till the harrows bounced\nagainst the stones, and sometimes turned over; their mirth was excited by\nthe idea of Twm\u2019s folly in accepting such a bet, and thinking to steal\nthe white ox from under their noses, the impossibility of which was so\nevident.  The two servants at the plough also cracked and enjoyed their\njoke at the thoughts of our hero\u2019s temerity, at the same time keeping a\nwary eye in every direction, armed against surprisals, and exulting in\nthe thought that for once, at least, the dexterous Twm would be baffled\nin his aim.  Time passed on; the day waned away towards evening, and as\ntheir fatigue increased, their vigilance gradually lessened.\n\nA Llandovery-man, known to them all, passing through the green lane by\nthe field, now addressed these husbandmen, laughing at their caution, and\nassuring them that Twm had given up the idea of outwitting such a wary\nand clever party, and was at that moment drinking his wine with their\nmaster, whom he had allowed to win the wager.  \u201cAllowed, indeed!\u201d quoth a\nsharp-tongued lass, as she stopped her harrow to listen, \u201cpretty\nallowing, when he could not help himself.\u201d  \u201cAye,\u201d cried the other girl,\n\u201cso the fox allowed the goose to escape, when she took to flight and\nescaped his clutches.\u201d  Roger and the plough-boy exulted in their\nanticipated reward of a skin full of strong beer; thus the whole party\nwas excited to a high pitch of triumphant mirth.  The Llandovery-man was\nof course a decoy, and his report had really the effect of throwing them\noff their guard, which another circumstance contributed to aid.  The\nrural party had rested, sitting on their ploughs and harrows, at one end\nof the field, while they listened to their informant; and now were about\nto resume their labours, when a hare started from an adjoining thicket,\ncrossing the ground towards the opposite hedge.  Suddenly the halloo\narose, away ran the ploughmen and girls, and away ran the yapping\nsheep-dog, amid the clamour of shouting and barking; but still stood the\nwondering oxen, whose grave looks of astonishment gradually changed to a\nmore animated expression of alarm on the arrival of Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti.\nHaving loosed his captive hare to decoy the clowns, he availed himself of\ntheir absence to dress the black ox in a white morning gown,\u2014that is to\nsay, a sheet, which became him much, and contrasted with his complexion\namazingly; and the white ox he attired in a suit of mourning, formed of\nthe burial pall, which he had borrowed of the clerk of Llandingad church\nfor that express purpose, and having loosened his fair friend from the\nyoke, they suddenly disappeared through a gap in the hedge.  Although\nbusily engaged in the gentlemanly pastime of the chase, the husbandry\nworthies now and then glanced towards the plough, but seeing, as they\nthought, the white ox safe, returned to it at a leisurely pace, till\nquickened as they neared it by the singular sight before them: and their\npetty vexation at losing the hare was now swallowed up by the terrible\ncircumstance of the loss of their especial charge.  A suitable\nlamentation followed of course, which was succeeded by fear and\ntrembling, from a conviction that Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti dealt with the devil;\nand that the hare which they had chased was no other than the foe of man\nin disguise.  This reasonable and self-evident assumption quite satisfied\ntheir merry master, who deemed himself well compensated for his loss by\nthe hearty laugh he enjoyed.\n\nTwm entered Llandovery, leading his white ox in triumph; having tied\ntogether several silk handkerchiefs of various colours and thrown them\nacross its horns, while the head and neck were adorned with a gay\ngarland, formed of a profusion of wild flowers.  Loud were the huzzas and\nlaughter with which he was received by the juvenile part of the\npopulation of Llandovery; not one of whom enjoyed the sight more than the\ngood-humoured Prothero, who cheerfully paid the bet, and from a tavern\nwindow had a full view of the scene, which he declared excited his\nlaughter till his heart and sides ached with the agreeable convulsion.\n\nOur hero loved variety; without altogether alienating his affections from\nbeef and mutton, he evinced a very ardent passion for horse-flesh; and\npursued it with all the fiery zest of a first-love, when impeded by\ndifficulties the most insurmountable.  The lady of Ystrad F\u00een still\nsitting on his heart like a night-mare, and pinching it with pain,\nrendered him, however amusing to others, miserable enough within himself.\nLassitude, chagrin, and bitterness, often betrayed themselves in his\ncountenance and manners, and were only transiently removed by the\nhilarity of the company with which he mixed, or the freaks which he\nplayed in his ill-combined humours of mirth and sorrow.  Reckless of\nconsequences, he now entered into follies less innocent than hitherto\ndetailed, led to them more by a spirit of youthful wildness than any\nreally criminal intention.\n\nBeing one day at Machynlleth, Montgomeryshire, he saw his old enemy,\nEvans of Tregaron, riding into the town on a fine grey horse; he\ndetermined in an instant that he would deprive him of a property which he\ndeemed too good for such a churl; and as self-will was with him the sole\nruling power that claimed either his attention or obedience, the affair\nwas at once settled.  Off rode the dauntless Twm, on the parson\u2019s horse,\nto Welshpool fair, where he soon found a purchaser for it, and received\nthe amount in hard cash.  The new proprietor of the grey steed was well\npleased with his bargain, and Twm took a generous pleasure in making him\nstill happier, by descanting further on the noble creature\u2019s merits,\nwhich, certainly, was very generous, as he was not interested in vaunting\nits qualities.  \u201cI protest to you, in honesty and truth,\u201d said he with\nmuch earnestness, \u201cyou have a greater bargain than you imagine; as I was\nnot at all anxious to sell him, I have omitted to inform you of half his\ngood points: he is capable of performing such wonderful feats as you\nnever saw or heard of.\u201d  \u201cYou don\u2019t say so!\u201d exclaimed the elated\npurchaser, staring alternately at his horse and in the face of our hero.\n\u201cA fact I assure you,\u201d cries Twm, with the most sober face imaginable;\n\u201cand if you don\u2019t believe me, I\u2019ll convince you in a moment, if you will\nallow me to mount him.\u201d  \u201cOh certainly, with many thanks,\u201d quoth the\ndelighted Jemmy Green of past days.  Twm very leisurely mounted, and\nafter a variety of postures and curvetings, gradually got out of the fair\ninto the high road; suddenly giving spur and rein to the \u201cgallant steed,\u201d\nhe astonished his new friend by his disappearance.  The \u201cgreen one\u201d had\nto confess with bitterness of heart that the jockey had certainly kept\nhis word, as he shewed him such a trick as he never before saw or heard\nof.\n\nTwm had scarcely been seated at the Owen Glendower, on his return to\nLlandovery, when a person called upon him, who described himself as a\nsmall farmer living in the neighbourhood, his name Morgan Thomas, and\nhaving heard so much of his cleverness, he came to consult him on an\naffair of great weight.  He had been sadly annoyed, he said, by the\ncontinual trespassing of a certain squire\u2019s pigeons on his ground, which\nmade such a havoc amid his wheat, yearly, that the loss was grievous to\nhim: he had computed his damages, and applied for the amount, for the\nfour last years, reckoning that the forty pigeons would devour at least a\nbushel of wheat each, annually.  The squire only laughed at his claims\nand complaints, telling him he might pound them, and be d\u2014ned, if he\nliked, when he would pay the alledged damages, and not till then.  \u201cNow,\nto pound them I should like vastly,\u201d quoth Morgan Thomas, \u201cbut without\nthe squire\u2019s polite invitation to be d\u2014ned at the same time.  But,\u201d added\nthe poor farmer, \u201cpounding pigeons, I look upon as impossible; yet as you\nhave the fame of performing feats no less wonderful, if you will pound\nthose mischievous pigeons for me, I will engage to give you half the\namount of my claims.\u201d  \u201cAgreed!\u201d cried Twm, and grasped his hand, in\ntoken that he undertook the task.  He sent a quantity of rum to the\nfarmer\u2019s, next morning, and steeped in it a peck of wheat, which he\nafterwards scattered about the farm-yard.  The pigeons came, as usual,\nand eagerly devouring the grain, each and all soon appeared as top-heavy\nas the veriest toss-pot in Carmarthenshire; and, like the said\nfraternity, incapable of returning home, they fell in a stupor on the\nground.  Our hero, assisted by the farmer, picked them up, tied their\nlegs, and put the whole party in the pound.  The squire, who was no other\nthan Prothero the laughing magistrate, ever pleased with a jest,\nespecially when cracked by our hero, immediately paid the farmer\u2019s\ndemand; and Twm generously refused the proffered remuneration for his\nvery effective assistance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XXV.\n\n\nTwm composes and sends to his mistress his CYWYDD Y GOVID.  Visits her in\ndisguise, and obtains the solemn promise of her hand.  Description of the\nromantic hill of Dinas, and the excavation in it, since called Twm Sh\u00f4n\nCatti\u2019s cave.  Twm suspects himself jilted.\n\nWHILE our hero was thus pursuing his vagaries, the unhappy lady of Ystrad\nF\u00een, who had not known a day\u2019s peace since his absence, was daily\nwavering between a resolution to send for him back, to bestow on him her\nhand, and a deference for her father and proud relatives, who insisted\nthat if ever she married again, it should only be to a title and fortune;\nby which they should themselves share in the honor.  In the mean time\ninformation was brought to her, of his wild tricks and excesses, greatly\nexaggerated to his disadvantage, which gave that kind-hearted lady the\ngreatest concern, as she conceived herself in part the authoress of his\nmisfortunes.  Twm, at the same time, felt that his tedious absence from\nthe fair widow was no longer to be endured; and as he knew her conduct to\nbe daily watched by her father\u2019s spies, he determined on paying her a\nvisit in disguise.  Previous to putting his design into execution, he\ncomposed and sent her the following poem, in which he dwells on, and\nover-rates his own misfortunes, in a strain calculated to move her\ntenderness in his favor.\n\n                            CYWYDD Y GOVID. {208}\n\n    The outcast\u2019s forced ally is mine,\n       Affliction is his name;\n    It is a ruthless savage mate,\n    And like a foe that\u2019s pale with hate,\n       To crush me is his aim:\n    His cruel shafts are fiercely hurl\u2019d,\n    He forced me friendless on the world.\n\n    If forward, seeking good, I wend,\n    My eager steps out-strips the fiend;\n    If backward, I retreat from ill,\n    My cruel foe arrests me still;\n    I seek the flood, to end despair.\n    Relentless Govid meets me there,\n    And tells of endless pangs for pride,\n    The wages of the suicide.\n\n    Fell Govid\u2019s mighty in the land,\n    His children are a horrid band,\n    Who joy in hapless man\u2019s distress,\n    Lo, one is Debt\u2014one Nakedness;\u2014\n    And Need against me doth combine,\n    (Fierce Govid\u2019s loveless concubine);\n    And Care, that knows not how to yearn,\n    Is Govid\u2019s consort, keen and stern:\n    And thus this family of ill,\n    E\u2019er bruise my heart and bruise my will.\n\n    Though lost to me the tranquil day,\n    My vanquisher I hope to slay,\n    The fierce enormous giant fiend\n    No more the heart of Twm shall rend,\n    If thou, my lady-love! but smile,\n    Thou gentle fair, devoid of guile\u2014\n    Thou darling object of my choice,\n    Oh bless me with assentive voice,\n    And soon shall Govid lay his length,\n    A corse! struck down by Rapture\u2019s strength.\n\nLady Devereux had read this little poem over the third time, and\nrepeatedly wiped the tears from her beautiful blue eyes, when the maid\nentered her chamber, and in a tone of complaint informed her mistress\nthat there was a very importunate and troublesome gypsy in the kitchen,\nwho, after having told the fortunes of all the servants in the house, and\npartook of the usual hospitalities, insisted on seeing her, to tell also,\nshe said, the fortune of the lady of the house.  \u201cI am not in a mood to\nrelish such foolery now, so send her about her business,\u201d answered the\nlady, in a tone more sorrowful than angry.  \u201cIt is quite useless,\u201d\nreplied the girl, \u201cto attempt to send her away; big Evan the gardener\ntried to take her by the shoulders, and turn her out by force, but she\nwhirled round, grasped him by the arms, tripped up his heels, and laid\nhim in a moment on the floor.  There she sits in the kitchen, and vows\nshe will not budge from thence for either man or woman, till she sees the\nlady of Ystrad F\u00een, whom she loves, she says, dearer than her life, and\nwould not for millions harm a hair of her head.\u201d  Although too deeply\nabsorbed in sorrow to have her curiosity much excited, she went down\nstairs, and approaching the sibyl, who had now taken her station in the\nhall, asked, \u201cWhat do you want, my good woman?\u201d\u2014\u201cTo tell you,\u201d answered\nshe, \u201cnot your fortune, but what may be your fortune if you choose.\u201d\n\u201cLet me hear then,\u201d said the lady of Ystrad F\u00een, with a faint incredulous\nsmile, walking before her, at the same time, into a little back parlour.\nBefore she could seat herself, the apparent gypsy caught her right hand\nwrist, and looking round, whispered in her ear,\n\n    \u201cTo heal your torn bosom, and ease every smart,\n    Oh take\u2014he\u2019s before you\u2014the youth of your heart.\u201d\n\nThe colour fled the fair widow\u2019s cheeks, and in a moment she sank in a\nswoon in her lover\u2019s arms.  Soon recovering, she desired her maid to deny\nher to every body that called, \u201cas,\u201d added she with a smile, \u201cI have\nparticular business with the gypsy.\u201d  A scene of tears and tenderness\nensued; when Twm, with the utmost fervour, urged his suit with the young\nwidow.  She replied that her father had insisted on, and received her\npromise, that she would wed no being but who either bore a title, or\nstood within a relative to one.  \u201cYou did well,\u201d replied our hero, with\nthe most impudent and easy confidence, \u201cand your promise, so far from\nmilitating against me, is really in my favor; for am not I the son of a\nbaronet? his natural child, \u2019tis true, but still his son; and you would\nbreak no promise to your father in marrying me; but if you did, so much\nthe better, for a bad promise is better broke than kept.  I have friends\nat this moment, who are doing their utmost to move my father, Sir John\nWynne of Gwydir, to own me publicly for his right worthy son; and if he\ndoes not, the loss is his, for I shall certainly disown him else for a\nfather, and claim the parentage of some greater man.\u201d\n\nTwm\u2019s rattling assertions in this respect were more true than he was\nhimself aware; for his friend Prothero, the merry magistrate, learning\naccidentally, by a chance rencontre with Squire Graspacre, many\nparticulars of his birth, and the hardships of his neglected childhood,\ndetermined, if possible, to get him righted at last.\n\nTwm, as he had predetermined, used the present _tete-a-tete_ to some\npurpose, and soon succeeded in obtaining from the fair object of his\nhopes a decisive promise that she would be his forever.  The joy of our\nhero knew no bounds, nor did the lady very strenuously resist his\nrapturous embraces; but seemed to find her heart relieved by the\nresolution she had come to, that now, forever, put an end to the\nconflicting doubts as to her future course, which had so long torn her\nheart, and banished her peace.\n\nNoon was now verging into evening, and at the earnest request of his\nmistress, Twm consented, to save appearances, immediately to quit her\nroof.  She directed him to wait for her, and her confidential friend Miss\nMeredith, at the entrance to the ancient cave on the top of Dinas, which\nwas the name of the conical hill exactly fronting the mansion of Ystrad\nF\u00een.  He accordingly took his departure; and winding round the base of\nDinas, he crossed the river Towey, which, being then in summer, was there\nlittle more than a brook.  After walking over a couple of fields, and a\npiece of rough common, he had to cross the Towey once more, when he\ncommenced his ascent at the only part of this very steep hill where it\nwas possible to climb.  During his former stay at Ystrad F\u00een, this wildly\nromantic height had been his favorite haunt, as the cave in its side was\nthe greatest object of his wonder.  It was, in fact, a mighty mound, that\nbore all the appearance of having been, at the period of its formation,\nconvulsed by an earthquake, and in the height of nature\u2019s tremendous\nheavings, suddenly arrested and becalmed, even while the huge crags were\nin the act of tumbling down its steep sides.  A narrow valley circled its\nbase, and the mountains around of equal height with itself, separated\nonly by this deep and scanty dell, seemed as if rent from it, during the\nsupposed convulsion of the earth, and Dinas left alone, an interesting\nmonument of the memorable event.  The surface of the acclivous ground was\nso speckled with huge loose stones, that it was dangerous to hold by them\nin ascending, as the slightest impetus would roll them downward.\n\nTwm, at one time, when assisting his mistress to climb the steep sides of\nDinas, in his wild way said, that he had no doubt but an earthquake had\nturned the bosom of the hill inside out, so that no secret could be\ntherein concealed; archly insinuating that he trusted the time would soon\ncome when without so violent a process, her own fair bosom would be\nequally open to him, while it rejected the stony barriers that then stood\nbetween him and her heart.\n\nThe entrance into this excavated work was no less singular that the\npetite cave itself.  It was through a narrow aperture, formed of two\nimmense slate rocks that faced each other, and the space between them\nnarrower at the bottom than the top, so that the passage could be entered\nonly sideways, with the figure inclined forward, according to the slant\nof the rocks: a thin person being barely able to make his way in, while a\nman of some rotundity might also succeed, by rising on his toes, and\nforcing himself upwards.  Between these rocks of entrance, a massive\nstone block was wedged at the top, so that it formed a rude and faint\nresemblance of an arch.  After _sidling_ so far through a comparatively\nlong passage, it was no small surprise to find that it led to so small a\ncave; scarcely large enough to shelter three persons huddled close\ntogether, from a shower of rain.  What it wanted in breadth, in possessed\nhowever in height, as it ran up like a chimney, to the altitude of forty\nfive feet, and was open at the top to the very summit of the mount,\nforming a skylight to the _room_ below.  Although the little cave was\ndeficient of a solid roof, a very rural one was formed by the large tufts\nof heather, and fern, which sprung through the crevices of the rocks; the\nwhole being surmounted by the pendant branch of a dwarf oak, that with\nmany other trees stood like a crown on the elevated head of Dinas.\nHowever singular the interior of this cave might appear to our hero, he\nfound a superior pleasure in examining the grand combinations that graced\nits exterior.  There he saw, with never satiated delight and wonder,\nobjects of the most romantic character, curiously united here near the\njunction of three counties.  The rocky Dinas, with its many inaccessible\nsides, besides the loose crags before mentioned, was partially covered\nwith aged dwarfish trees, all bending in the same direction; many with\ntheir heads broken by tempests, but still throwing out fantastic-looking\nbranches, while others, stark, sere, and shrouded in grey moss, were\nthings that seasons knew not.\n\nThe opposite mountain, called Maesmaddegan, facing the entrance of the\ncave, was more gaily bedecked with underwood, birch, oak, and the\nmountain ash; while the junction of the rivers Towey and Dorthea, {214}\nenlivened the gloom caused by the deep gulfs which separated Dinas from\nthe parent mountain.\n\nHowever interesting these objects might formerly have been to Twm, he\nlooked now only in one direction,\u2014towards the spot where he might catch\nthe earliest glimpse of his approaching mistress.  Out of all patience at\nher long delay, he now began to wonder at the cause of it, when at\nlength, to his great dismay, he saw _one_ female hurrying on, and her not\nthe right one, although the faithful Miss Meredith.  Having reached the\nside of the river, which separated her from the base of Dinas, and\nfinding that he was watching her, she placed a paper on the rock and a\nstone upon it, then kissing her hand to him, sportively, she turned\nabout, and hastened homeward with the utmost precipitation.  In his\neagerness to overtake her, Twm attempted to run down the declivity, but\nsoon lost his footing, sliding and rolling down several yards, by which\nhe was for a few moments rather stunned.  Losing all hope of catching his\nmistress\u2019s confidante, to learn the cause of her non-appearance,\naccording to promise, he applied to the paper on the rock, which he found\nto be a note hastily scrawled with a pencil, containing merely these\nwords\u2014\u201cMy father has unexpectedly arrived, with several of his\nfriends\u2014can\u2019t see you till at Llandovery on fair day.  Yours ever.\u201d\u2014\u201cBy\nthe Lord!\u201d muttered Twm to himself, \u201cif this is a coquette\u2019s trick which\nshe puts on me, it will avail her nothing in the end;\u2014mine she is, by\npromise, and mine she shall be, in spite of the devil, and all her\nBrecknockshire friends to boot.\u201d  Determined to bring his affairs with\nthe widow to a speedy crisis, he changed his clothes, and soon made his\nway to Llandovery.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XXVI.\n\n\nTwm\u2019s vagaries and disguises at Llandovery fair.  The adventure of the\nbale of flannel and the iron pot.  Quotations from Catwg the wise.  Twm\ndiscovered.  A strange catastrophe.\n\nTHE day of Llandovery fair arrived; and Twm, who calculated nearly as\nmuch on the amusement he intended to create on this occasion for himself,\nas with meeting his mistress, determined that the grey horse should\nbecome the hero of another adventure.  Much to their credit, the\nneighbouring gentry had recently opened a subscription for rebuilding\nbetween thirty and forty poor people\u2019s houses, which had unfortunately\nbeen burnt down; and our hero resolved that every farthing gained by the\ngrey horse, or otherwise, clandestinely, should be appropriated to this\nlaudable purpose.  It was no small satisfaction to him to find that while\nit mortified the purse-proud vanity of the haughty squires to see so\nlarge a sum attached to his name, it had the good effect of increasing\ntheir contributions, resolved not to be out-done, in money matters at\nleast, by so obscure a personage as Twm.\n\nFor the purpose here named he assumed the garb and manner of the most\nabsolute lout that ever trudged after a plough tail.  His feet were\nthrust into a very heavy pair of clogs, or wooden-soled shoes, which\nbeing stiff and large, maintained such a haughty independence of the\ninmates, as to need being tied on with a hay-band.  His legs were\nenveloped in a pair of wheat-stalk leggings, or bands of twisted straw,\nwinding round and round, and covering them from the knee to the ankle.  A\nraw hairy cow-hide formed the material of his _inexpressibles_, which\nwere loose, like trowsers cut off at the knee; and his jerkin was of a\nbrick-dust red, with black stripes, like the faded garb of the old\nCarmarthenshire women.  A load of red locks, straight as a bunch of\ncandles, hung dangling behind, but in front rather matted and entangled,\nquite innocent of the slightest acquaintance with that useful article, a\ncomb: the whole surmounted with a soldier\u2019s cast-off Monmouth cap, so\nhighly varnished with grease, as to appear water-proof.  Without any\napology for a waistcoat, he wore a blue flannel shirt, striped with\nwhite, open from the chin to the waistband, which answered the purpose of\na cupboard, to contain his enormous cargo of bread and cheese and leeks,\nwhich, as he was continually drawing upon his store, stood a chance of\nsoon becoming wholly inside passengers.  Added to this, his booby gait,\nand stupid vacant stare was such, that his most intimate acquaintance\nmight have passed him by as a stranger.\n\nInstead of entering the horse-fair, he stood with his dainty steed of\ngrey at the entrance of the town, and munched his bread and cheese,\napparently careless whether a purchaser appeared or not.  Many persons,\nin passing by, gazed with wonder at this piece of cloddish rusticity, and\nasked if the horse was for sale; but receiving such drivelling and\ndolt-like answers, it became a matter of wonder who could have intrusted\ntheir property to such an oaf.\n\nJust as the ground was once more cleared of gazing idlers and\nunprofitable querists, a gentleman, well mounted on a chesnut-coloured\nhunter, entered the town, and cast an eager eye at the grey horse.  Twm\nrecognized him at a glance as a Breconshire magistrate, named Powell, one\nof the many rejected admirers of the lady of Ystrad F\u00een; riding up to our\nhero, he asked if the horse was for sale.  Twm answered in broken\nEnglish, imitating the dialect of the lower class, \u201cI don\u2019t no but it\niss, if I can get somebody that iss not wice, look you, somebody that was\nfools to buy him.\u201d  \u201cBut why,\u201d asked the gentleman, \u201cdon\u2019t you take him\ninto the horse-fair?\u201d  \u201cWhy indeed to goodness,\u201d answered Twm, \u201cI was\nshame to take him there; for look you, he hass a fault on him, and I do\nnot find in my heart and my conscience to take honest pipple in with a\nhorse that has a fault upon him, for all master did send me here to sell\nhim.\u201d  \u201cWell, and what is this mighty fault!\u201d asked the stranger,\nsmiling.  \u201cWhy indeed to goodness and mercy,\u201d replied Twm, \u201cit was a\nfault that do spoil him\u2014it was a fault that\u2014\u201d  \u201cBut what _is_ the fault?\u201d\nasked the Breconshire magistrate impatiently: \u201cgive it a name man.\u201d  \u201cWhy\nindeed to goodness,\u201d replied the scrupulous horse-dealer, \u201cI will tell\nyou like an honest cristan man, without more worts about it; I will make\nmy sacraments and bible oaths\u201d\u2014\u201cI don\u2019t ask your oath,\u201d cried Powell,\nalmost out of humour, \u201cmerely tell me in a word, what ails the horse?\u201d\n\u201cIndeed and upon my sole and conscience to boot, I can\u2019t say what do ail\nhim.\u201d  \u201cYou don\u2019t?\u201d cried Powell in an angry tone, and looking as\nsurprised and wroth as might be expected from a proud Breconshire\nmagistrate.  \u201cConfound me if I do,\u201d replied Twm, \u201cbut I will tell you why\nhe wass no good to master; it wass this\u2014Master iss a parson, a great\nparson, a gentleman parson, not a poor curate, one mister Evans, Rector\nof Tregaron, and the white hairs do come off the grey horse here, and\nstick upon his best black coat and breeches; and that wass his fault.\u201d\n\nIt is needless to add that the rising choler of the fiery Powell\nimmediately subsided, and laying no particular stress on this singular\nblemish, purchased the grey horse, and paid for it at once, apparently\nglad to escape from the tedious fooleries of the strange horse-dealer.\n\nAnxious to discover his mistress, he chose another disguise, not daring\nto commune with her in his own proper person.  He now appeared in a sober\ngrey suit, shining brass buckles, stockings of the wool of a black sheep,\nand a knitted Welsh wig of the same, that fitted him like a skull-cap,\nand concealed every lock of his hair.  Thus arrayed, he presented the\nappearance of a grave puritanical mountain farmer, from the most remote\ndistrict of Cardiganshire.  After gazing awhile at the motley train that\nconstitute a fair, in a Welsh country town, he noticed a well known old\ncrone, who had the reputation of being exceedingly covetous and\ndisagreeable.  Lean, yellow, and decrepid, her ferret-eyes glanced\neagerly about for a customer, as she held beneath her arm a large roll of\nstout striped flannel.  Twm, unobserved, took his stand behind her, and\ndexterously stitching her bale to his coat, he, with a sudden jerk,\ntransferred it from the old woman\u2019s grasp to his own.  Her wonder and\ndismay was unutterable.  Elbowed and toed by the bustling crowd who were\npassing to and fro, she knew not who to vent her spleen upon; but, in\nutter despair, set up a tremendous howl, as a requiem for her beloved\ndeparted.  Instead of seeking the assistance of a light pair of heels,\nTwm scarcely moved a yard, but drew from his pocket a little black\nlighted tobacco-pipe, and puffed a cloud with admirable coolness, while\nhis right arm lovingly embraced the bale of flannel.  Roused by the old\nbeldame\u2019s outrageous expressions of grief and fury, he moved up to her\nwith apparent concern, and asked in a very pathetic tone, the cause of\nher sorrow, which she related with many curses, sobs, and furious\nexclamations.  Shocked at her impiety and want of resignation, Twm took\nupon him to rebuke her, and edified her much, by an extempore discourse\non the virtue of patience; assuring her she ought to thank heaven that\nshe was robbed, as it was a most striking proof she was not a neglected\nbeing.  In conclusion, he remarked, that fairs and markets in these\ndegenerate days were so sadly infested with rogues and vagabonds, that an\nhonest person was completely encompassed by dangers.  \u201cNow for my part,\u201d\ncontinued he, \u201cI never enter such places without previously sewing my\ngoods to my clothes, which you ought also to have done, in this\nmanner\u201d\u2014shewing, at the same time, the roll beneath his arm, which he\nthought the old crone\u2019s eye had glanced on, with something like a light\nshadow of suspicion, that however instantly vanished, on this notable\ndisplay and explanation.\n\nHawking a roll of flannel through a fair was too tame a pastime for our\nhero, when unaccompanied with more animated trickery, and he began to\nthink of giving it up, that he might more leisurely pursue his principal\nvocation of searching out the lady of Ystrad F\u00een, when the genius of whim\nprovided more mirth for him, and arrested his attention.\n\nA poor half-starved looking fellow, with a merry eye, that poverty had\nsunk, but could not quench, now made up to him, and strove to bargain for\na few yards of his flannel; but on reckoning his money, found he could\nnot come up to his price, as he said he had to buy a three-legged iron\npot, in addition to a winter petticoat for his wife: \u201cand,\u201d observed the\nman of tatters, with a grin of miserable mirth, \u201cit will be better for\nher to go without flannel than our whole family to want a porridge pot.\u201d\nTwm liked this man, but not his logic; conceiving he made too light an\naffair of what was perhaps heavy about his dame, who might be no sylph in\nfigure; which implied a want of courtesy and due deference to that fair\ntrain, whose indisputable right to warm petticoats claimed precedence of\nall pots, pans, and every earthly consideration.  \u201cHere, take this bale,\ntake it all, for I have lost my yard and scissors, and pay me when you\ngrow rich;\u2014confound your thanks! away with you, bestow it safe, then\nreturn here; perhaps I may get thee an iron pot at as cheap a rate as the\nflannel.\u201d\n\nThis ragged man, by his alacrity and silent obedience, seemed to\nunderstand the spirit he had to deal with.  Off he ran with his enormous\npresent, and immediately returned; when our hero accompanied him to the\nshop of an old curmudgeon of an ironmonger, whose face, hardly\ndistinguishable behind his habitual screen of snuff and spectacles,\nseemed of the same material as his own hard ware.  The man of rags was\nquite in luck, and, as instructed, followed his benefactor into the shop\nin silence.  Twm examined the culinary ware, with all the caution of an\nold farm wife, asking the prices of various articles, and turned up the\nwhites of his eyes in the most approved puritanic fashion, expressive of\nastonishment at such excessive charges.  Old Hammerhead indignantly\nrepelled the insinuation, and swore that cheaper or better pots were\nnever seen in the kitchen of a king.  \u201cThen you must mean the king of the\nbeggars,\u201d quoth Twm, \u201cfor you have nothing here but damaged ware.\u201d\n\u201cDamaged devil! what do you mean?\u201d roared the enraged ironmonger.  \u201cI\nmean,\u201d replied Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti, with provoking equanimity, \u201cthat there is\nscarcely a pot here without a hole in it; now this which I hold in my\nhand, for instance, has one.\u201d  \u201cWhere! where!\u201d asks the fiery old\nshopkeeper, holding it up between his eyes and the light; \u201cif there is a\nhole in this pot I\u2019ll eat it: where is the hole that you speak of?\u201d\n\u201cHere!\u201d bawls the inexorable hoaxer, pulling it over his ears, and\nholding it there, while the necessitous man, who did not seem much unlike\na thief, took the wink from his patron, and was walking off with a choice\narticle, which he had selected from the whole lot, when Twm whispered in\nhis ear, \u201cTake better care of it than you did of the two sheep and white\nox.\u201d  \u201cThou art either the devil or Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti,\u201d replied the other,\nin an under tone.  \u201cMum! and be off,\u201d said Twm, and off went shrewd\nRoger, for he it was, who now deemed himself more than paid for his coat\nlost at Cardigan some years ago, by a freak of Twm\u2019s.\n\nLoudly roared the hardwareman, but his voice was drowned in the fatal\ncavity.  Having tied his hands behind his back, Twm left him howling and\nsweating beneath the huge extinguisher, and made, as he took his\ndeparture, this consolatory and effective exit speech\u2014\u201cHad there not been\na hole in it, how could that large stupid nob of yours have entered such\na helmet?\u201d\n\nAs he reached the street, and mixed with the crowd, he noticed a general\nand very rapid movement towards the town-hall.  As the assemblage\nincreased, its course, like a choked mill-dam, became more and more\nimpeded, until the whole restless mass became consolidated, and stood\nstill perforce.  Our hero had forced his way till near the entrance of\nthe hall, when he ventured to ask what cause had drawn together such a\ncrowd; but he got no immediate answer, as many came there, like himself,\ndrawn by the powerful influence of curiosity.  At length he heard his own\nname buzzed about, by many voices; one said that Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti, whose\nhumorous tricks were the themes of every tongue, was discovered to be a\ngreat thief: and that he who had fought against highwaymen, was at last\nbecome one himself, and committed all the robberies which had taken place\nin that country for years past.  One said that he could never be taken;\nand a third contradicted that assertion, declaring that he was then\nfettered in the hall, and waiting to be conveyed to Carmarthen gaol.  One\nassigned him the gallows as his due, while another tenderly replied that\nhanging was too good for him.  Opposing the sentiments and opinions of\nall these, more than one declared that the hemp was neither spun nor\ngrown, that would hang Twm; and pity it should, as he was the friend of\nthe poor, and an enemy to none but the stupid, the cruel, and the\noppressive.\n\nThe town crier now came out of the court, and, obtaining silence, he\ninformed the assembled multitude that the magistrates who were now\nsitting, required that any \u201c_person or persons_\u201d who might have been\ndefrauded in the fair, should now come forward, so as to form a clue\ntowards the identity of the robber, which it was generally believed was\nno other than the notorious Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti.  The crier retired, and in a\nfew minutes made his appearance again, and read the court\u2019s proclamation,\noffering a reward of twenty pounds to any person who would apprehend the\nsaid Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti; which was answered with loud hisses by the majority\nof the crowd, that effectually drowned the applause of the rest.\n\nPleased with this evidence of his popularity, the pride of desperate\ndaring seemed to have blinded his better judgment, as he immediately\nformed the singular and hazardous resolution of entering the hall, to\nlearn the cause of the present discussion, for he was utterly ignorant of\nthe precise act of his that now engaged the polite attention of their\nworships.\n\nThat any person in the perilous predicament of our hero should venture on\nsuch an expedient, will doubtless astonish the common-place man of weak\nnerves and prudent views; but when enthusiasm, and the pride of\nachievement, even in a worthless cause, actuates the passion-fraught\nbreast, supplanting the place of reasoning calculation, the wonder\nvanishes.  The desperate outlaw, whose temerity is applauded, feels the\ngust of heroism in as warm a degree as the generous patriot whose claim\nto renown is better founded, and graced with national approbation.  Twm\nsoon found himself in the hall; for his own native energies stood him in\nbetter stead than the fabled cap of Fortunatus: he wished, and obtained;\nhated, and was revenged; desired to tread a difficulty under foot, and\nobtained his purpose, while the generality of men would be analysing\nevery shadow of obstruction that impeded their aim.  He took his stand in\na conspicuous place near the bench, the \u201cawful judgment seat,\u201d which was\nat this time filled by his laughter-loving friend Prothero, whose ruddy\nhappy round face had deprived law itself of all its terrors.  Before him,\namong others, he found his old _friend_, Evans of Tregaron, who had been\nsputtering a confused account of our hero\u2019s gracelessness, from his\nchildhood, to the last trick which he had played him, by stealing his\ngrey horse at Machynlleth.\u2014How he had cheated a purchaser of the stolen\nhorse at Welshpool; and how the said horse was traced into the possession\nof a simple fellow in straw boots and cow-hide breeches, who that very\nday had sold it to his friend Mr. Powell; which sale, he contended, could\nnot stand good, as the stolen horse was his property to all intents and\npurposes, which he could prove by creditable witnesses.  This\nrecapitulation of Twm\u2019s tricks tickled the gravity of Prothero amazingly;\nand at every close which Evans made in his narration, he was answered by\nthe loud \u201cho, ho, ho!\u201d of the sitting magistrate.  Mr. Powell then told\nhis story, and, in conclusion, said he was in the commission of the peace\nin the town of Brecon.  \u201cHo, ho, ho!\u201d roared Prothero, \u201chere we are,\nthree magistrates, ho, ho, ho! three magistrates, and all fooled by Twm\nSh\u00f4n Catti.\u2014Clever fellow, ho, ho, ho! wild dog, ho, ho, ho! means no\ngreat harm\u2014never keeps what he steals\u2014gives all to the poor fellows that\nwant\u2014did me out of two sheep and a white ox, ho, ho, ho!\u2014I wish him joy\nof them, ho, ho, ho!  Never mind, gentlemen, the fun of the thing repays\nthe loss, which can be shared between you.  Let Mr. Evans take the horse,\non paying Mr. Powell what he gave young cow-breeches, ho, ho, ho! better\nthat than lose all.\u201d  Mr. Powell immediately acceded to this arrangement,\nbut the unaccommodating Evans insisted on having the horse without any\npayment, and made some tart remarks on conniving at a rascal\u2019s tricks and\nvillanies.  \u201cFor my part I\u2019d shoot him dead like a dog!\u201d cried the\nreverend preacher of peace and concord; drawing, at the same time, a pair\nof pistols from his coat pocket, and replacing them, in a fiery fit of\npassion.  \u201cHo, ho, ho!\u201d roared Prothero, \u201cbut you\u2019d catch him first,\nbrother, ho, ho, ho!\u2014too cunning for you, for me, and all of us\u2014might be\nhere this moment, laughing in his sleeve at us, for what we know, ho, ho,\nho!\u201d\n\nOur hero, in his primitive attire, now attracted the attention of the\njustices, by the utterance of a deep groan, while he appeared wrapt in\nthe perusal of a small book.  Prothero, alive to every thing allied to\ncomicality, burst out into a loud ho, ho, ho!  Evans arrayed his\nnaturally gloomy brows in a magisterial frown, and Powell smiled, with an\nexpression of wonder.  \u201cWhat are you reading, friend?\u201d asked Prothero,\nchuckling as he surveyed the black Welsh wig.  \u201cThe wisdom of Solomon,\u201d\nquoth the man of solemnity, drawing the muscles of his face most\nludicrously long; \u201cbut mark you, worshipful gentlemen, I mean not the\nSolomon of scriptures, but our own Cambrian Solomon\u2014that is to say, Catwg\nthe Wise, the excellent and erudite abbot of Llancarvan, and teacher of\nthe bard Taliesin.\u201d\n\n\u201cA fine fellow, no doubt, but can\u2019t you read him at home? why do you\nbring him here?\u201d asked Prothero, good-humoredly.  \u201cWherever I go, I have\nresolved to make his wisdom known, and to reprove all deviators from it,\nin the sage\u2019s own words,\u201d quoth Twm.  \u201cPoor man, poor man, he\u2019s crazy,\nhis brain turned, perhaps, by too much study,\u201d observed Prothero.  \u201cAn\nimpudent fellow!\u201d cried Evans; \u201cbut you are strangely lenient here in\nCarmarthenshire; were I the king, I would have all such fellows put in\nBedlam.\u201d  Twm looked at the clerical magistrate, then read from the book,\n\u201cIf a crown were worn by every fool, we should all of us be kings.\u201d\n\u201cGentlemen, he calls us all fools!\u201d cried Evans.  Twm, without raising\nhis eyes from the book, read on, \u201cWere there horns on the head of every\nfool, a good sum might be gained by shewing a bald man.\u201d  \u201cGentlemen, he\nmakes us all cuckolds!\u201d cried Evans, in his usual passionate sputter;\n\u201chowever it may fit you, gentlemen, I can safely say, that no such\ndisgrace as a horn belongs to my brow.\u201d  Twm read on;\u2014\u201cIf the shame of\nevery one were written on his forehead, the materials for masks would be\nsurprisingly dear.\u201d  \u201cHo, ho, ho!\u201d roared Prothero, till the hall echoed\nwith his loud laughter, which the Cardiganshire magistrate seemed to take\nas a personal affront, and sulkily observed, that this was no place for\nfoolery, but for gravity, wisdom, and truth.  Twm read on, \u201cIf no tongue\nwere to speak other than truth and wisdom, the number of mutes would be\nastonishingly great.\u201d  The consequential Evans, mumbled something about\nhis own mode of doing business at Cardigan, and declared that he would\ncommit such a fellow to gaol for three months, at least, for disturbing a\ncourt of justice.  Twm cut him short with another passage from Catwg;\n\u201cWere the talkative to perceive the folly of his chattering, he would\nsave his breath to cool his broth.\u201d  Here Powell of Brecon entered a\nlittle into the spirit of the scene, by quoting also from the well-known\naphorisms of Catwg, applying the passage to Twm himself;\u2014\u201cIf the buffoon\nwere to see the vanity of his feat, he would leave it off for shame.\u201d\nThis feeble hit excited the applause of the good-humoured Prothero, who\nclapped the speaker heartily on the back, and, amid his eternal ho, ho,\nho! exclaimed, \u201cWell said, brother, well said; better silence him with\nwit than by authority; well done, well done!\u201d\n\nOur hero now very pointedly directed his quotation against the\nBreconshire magistrate; \u201cIf the lover were to see his weakness, terror\nwould drive him to a premature end.\u201d  A general laugh at the expense of\nPowell, instantly followed.  To him that passage was considered\npeculiarly applicable, as the known unsuccessful woer of the gay widow of\nYstrad F\u00een.  It was a tender string to touch so roughly; losing his ease\nand temper at the same instant, he cast a most ungracious frown at the\nutterer of proverbs, and said in an under tone of threatening energy,\n\u201cWhoever you may be, it were not wise of you to repeat such conduct\ntowards me again.\u201d  \u201cAgain?\u201d said Twm, pretending to misunderstand him,\n\u201cOh, certainly, I\u2019ll give you the passage again, or any other, to please\nyou, \u2018If the lover\u2014\u2019\u201d (here Powell\u2019s face blazed with anger, as he\nclenched his fist, and cried, \u201cYou had better not.\u201d)  Twm began\nagain,\u2014\u201cIf the lover\u2014of war, were to see his cruelty, he would fear that\nevery atom in the sunbeam might stab him as a sword.\u201d  This dexterous\nevasion, with the point given to the words \u201cof war,\u201d had its full effect\nin restoring the good humour so suddenly disturbed; but that beautiful\npassage from the aphorisms of the old Welsh abbot failed to elicit the\napplause which its moral merits deserved: nor could we expect to find\ndecriers of war among farmers and country squires.\n\nHere the general attention was called to the entrance of the\nex-proprietor of the roll of flannel, who almost deafened them by the\nvehemence of her complaints, which, however, were too incoherently\nexpressed to be immediately understood.  \u201cOh! my roll of flannel, my\nfine, excellent flannel! all of my own spinning too,\u2014eight and twenty\ngood yards, and a yard and a half wide\u2014my wooden shoe too that I lost in\nthe crowd\u2014and my poor corns trod off by the villains\u2014my dear sweet\nflannel, all of my own carding and spinning\u2014nobody but the devil himself,\nor his first cousin Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti, could have taken it in such a\nmanner\u2014it was whisked from me as if a whirlwind had swept it away.\u201d  At\nlength she paused for want of breath, and Twm approached her with the air\nof a comforter, and read from his book, \u201cWere a woman as quick with her\nfeet as with her tongue, she would catch the lightning to kindle her fire\nin the morning.\u201d  It is probable that she did not perfectly hear this\npassage, as, on perceiving Twm, she gave a shout of joy, and then, as\nincoherently as before, appealed to the magistrate; \u201cThis honest man,\nyour worship, knows it all.  I told him, the moment I lost my\nflannel\u2014this worthy man, your worship,\u2014a good man, a wise man, a man who\nreads books, your worship, he can witness.\u201d\n\nA fresh hubbub at the entrance of the hall, now diverted all the\nattention from the old woman\u2019s complaint, and loud were the shouts of\nlaughter on beholding the object that now presented itself.  Supported by\ntwo constables, who rather dragged forward, than led him, came Twm\u2019s\nfriend the hardwareman, crowned with the identical iron pot before-named,\nwhich the officers, as a matter of official formality, or to indulge\ntheir own facetiousness, refused to remove, till in the presence of a\nmagistrate.  When his laughter had a little subsided, Prothero ordered\nthe pot to be removed, and his hands untied.  The hardwareman then told\nhis lamentable tale in a few words; in conclusion, he declared, that\nhaving overheard certain words between the robber and his accomplice, he\nhad learned that the thief was no other than Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti.  His eye now\ncaught the figure of our hero, and with a yell as astounding as if the\neternal enemy of man stood before him, he cried, \u201cThere he is! there he\nis!  As heaven shall save me, there stands the man, or devil, who crowned\nme with the iron pot, while his accomplice ran off with another.\u201d  \u201cAnd\nwho robbed me of my flannel!\u201d roared the old woman, who now changed her\nopinion, as her earliest suspicions became thus suddenly confirmed.  \u201cAnd\nwho stole my grey horse!\u201d bawled Evans of Tregaron.  \u201cAnd who sold it to\nme, when disguised in straw-boots and cow-hide breeches,\u201d cried Powell of\nBrecon, who had now closely examined his features.\n\nA violent rush upon our hero, by the whole party, now ensued; but Twm\neluded their eager attempts to grasp him, sprung upon the table before\nthe bench, and, drawing a couple of pistols from his coat pockets, held\none in each hand, and kept them all at bay, protesting that he would\nshoot the first who would advance an inch towards him.  Loud was his\nlaughter, as they all started back: but the great laugher, Prothero, now\nsat silently on the bench, alarmed for his safety, which he had thought\nto secure by giving him warning of his danger, in the feint of the\nproclaimed reward for his apprehension.  As he stood in this manner, with\nextended arms, watchful eyes, and grasping the pointed pistols with a\nfinger to each trigger, Powell of Brecon exclaimed, \u201cThou art a clever\nfellow, by Jove, Twm! very clever for a Cardy; but wert thou with us, the\nquick-witted sons of Brecon, thou wouldest soon find thyself overmatched\nand outwitted too.  I dare thee to enter Brecon, to trust thy wit\u2014come\nthere, and welcome, and thou shalt stand harmless for me, in the affair\nof the grey horse.\u201d  Twm smiled, and nodded, in token of having accepted\nhis challenge.\n\nBy this time Evans of Tregaron, with some of his followers, got behind\nhim, and clung to his right arm, but with one violent effort Twm shook\nthem away, as the mighty bull throws off the yelping curs that dare\nattack him.  Then, with a single leap, he sprung from the table into the\ncrowded court, where a lane was formed for him, and rushed out at the\ndoor unimpeded, and pursued by his accusers.  They soon lost sight of him\namong the moving multitude, some of whom dispersed from fear of\naccidents, while others followed him as spectators.  To the great\nastonishment of his pursuers, they next caught a view of him mounted on\nthat grand subject of contention, the grey horse.  He took the route to\nYstrad F\u00een, followed by them all, including several constables in the\nemploy of Evans of Tregaron, and many disinterested people from the fair.\nLoud were the shouts of the numerous riders; loud the tramp of galloping\nhorses; and wild the disorder and terror created, as Twm at different\nintervals turned on his pursuers, and fired his pistols.  This caused a\npowerful retrograde movement among them, by which the foremost horses\nfell back on those behind them, unhorsing some, who lay groaning and\ncrying on the ground, and frightening others altogether from further\npursuit.  It was on this occasion that a bard of that day wrote the\nstanza which appears in the title page, thus translated by the late Iolo\nMorganwg:\n\n    \u201cIn Ystrad F\u00een a doleful sound\n    Pervades the hollow hills around;\n    The very stones with terror melt,\n    Such fear of Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti\u2019s felt.\u201d\n\nTwm at length, although closely followed, reached the foot of Dinas,\nwhere he dismounted, sprung from stone to stone, that formed the ford of\nthe Towey, and climbed the steep side of that majestic mount, with the\nutmost agility and ease.  Like a prudent sea-captain chaced in his small\nboat by a fleet of rovers, till he reaches his own war-ship, and springs\nup her fort-like side, in the extacy of surmounted peril, conscious\nstrength, and superiority, Twm now attained the summit of a prominent\ngnoll, and waved his hand triumphantly, in defiance of his foes below.\nEvans of Tregaron, with his crew of catch poles, made an attempt to climb\nalso; Twm permitted them to advance about twenty yards above the river,\nwhen he commenced, and at the same time ended his warfare, by rolling\ndown several huge stones, that swept them in a mass into the very bed of\nthe Towey, sadly bruised, and some with their bones broken, from whence\nthey were extricated by the amazed and terrified spectators.\n\nThe Tregaron magistrate met a woful disaster on this occasion; starting\naside, to avoid the dreadful leaping crags that threatened to crush him,\nhis pistols went off in his pockets, and carried away, besides his\ncoat-skirts and no small portion of his black breeches, a large portion\nof postern flesh, that deprived him forever after of an easy seat, on the\nagreeable cushion which nature had provided.  Amusing to the population\nof Tregaron was the singular sight of their crest-fallen magistrate and\nhis hated gang, brought home in a woful plight, as inside passengers of a\ndung-cart, which had been hired for the purpose; and more than all, that\ntheir discomfiture should have been caused by their long-lost countryman,\nTwm Sh\u00f4n Catti.\n\nOur hero, in the mean time, like a princely chieftain of the days of old,\nenthroned upon his native tower of strength, marking in his soul\u2019s high\npride the awkward predicament of his baffled foes, perceived them all\ndepart; leaving him the undisputed lord of his alpine territory, the\nglorious height of Dinas.  After witnessing, with his limbs stretched\nupon his mountain couch, the glorious beauty of the setting sun, he\nentered the cave, tore from its top a sufficiency of fern and heather to\nform his bed, threw on it his fatigued, over-exerted frame, and soundly\nslept till morning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. XXVII.\n\n\nTwm\u2019s exploits at Brecon.  The adventure of the ducks, the crow\u2019s nest,\nand the crockery ware.  His successes at the Eisteddvod, the Races, and\nthe Ball.  His singular marriage with the lady of Ystrad F\u00een, and various\nother matters.  Conclusion.\n\nOUR hero awoke by sun-rise, after a refreshing sleep; but his mind was\nfar from being cheered by the bright beams of morning.  Unable to account\nfairly for his second disappointment of seeing his mistress, according to\npromise, he gave way to despondency, and conjectured the worst\u2014that she\nwas no longer true to her vows, but had yielded to the persuasions of her\nhaughty relatives, and become a renegade both to love and honor.  He was\nnow, however, so near her residence, he could at least ascertain how\nmatters stood; and, after many efforts of resolution, he descended the\nhill for that purpose.  On crossing the Towey, he was surprised to find\nthat the \u201cgallant grey\u201d was still left for him; he was busily feeding in\nan adjoining field, and the saddle and bridle hung dangling from a\nstorm-stricken old thorn.  He felt this, directly, as a handsome piece of\nattention to him, on the part of Powell of Brecon, who, doubtless, had\nleft it there for his convenience.  On examining further, he found a\nnote, tied to the bridle, from that generous individual, inviting him to\nbe present at the Eisteddvod, the Races, and the Ball, which were to take\nplace successively in the gay town of Brecon.\n\nAt Ystrad F\u00een he found nobody but the servants, who informed him that\ntheir lady, Miss Meredith, and the late visitors, were all gone to\nBrecon, and would not return for some days.  This intelligence determined\nhim to go there also; and, recollecting a trunk of clothes of his, which\nhad been left ever since his former sojourning here, he called for it;\nand having dressed himself, and placed, with other things, in his\nsaddle-bags, an elegant suit which he had brought from London, he mounted\nhis horse, and rode off for Brecon.  About a couple of miles beyond\nTrecastle, he overtook a poor fellow driving an ass, laden with coarse\ncrockery ware, who turned out to be no other than \u201cshrewd Roger.\u201d  He had\nbeen enabled to commence this humble merchandize by the success he met\nwith in the sale of the greater portion of the roll of flannel, received\nfrom our hero the day before, with the produce of which he purchased the\nstock of an old Neath hawker, whom illness had detained at Llandovery.\nHaving long been married to a Cardiganshire lass, they both, pretending\nto be single, entered Squire Prothero\u2019s service at the same time, but the\ncircumstance being at length discovered, they were both discharged, and\nhad since lived in great poverty; and therefore our hero\u2019s bounty was a\ngreat lift in life to the lowly pair.  After some jests on the feats of\nthe fair day, Twm spurred on, but not before he had purchased the whole\nof Roger\u2019s stock, which, however, that worthy was to take to Brecon, for\na purpose to be hereafter described.  At Brecon he took lodgings at the\nThree Cocks\u2019 inn, to which he gave the preference, on account of the sign\nbeing the armorial bearings of the celebrated David Gam, the hero of\nAgincourt.\n\nThe town, although continually filling, seemed now as full as on a fair.\nWhile our hero looked out at the window to observe Roger, who arranged\nhis crockery in front of the inn, his attention was suddenly caught by\nthe sound of a harp, which proceeded from the kitchen.  To his great\nsurprise, he found the performer to be his old friend, the venerable\nIanto Gwyn of Tregaron.  The old man was very glad to see him, and after\nlearning the particulars of the fortunes he had met since he left his\nnative town, proceeded to inform him of the Tregaron news.  His mother\nwas well, and had received the various small sums which he had sent her\nat different times, and was in daily hopes of burying her churl of a\nhusband.  Wat the mole-catcher was arrested in London by young Graspacre,\nwho sent him down to Cardigan, where he was hanged two months before.\nRachel Ketch was dead; having broke her heart for the loss of her money,\nwhich had been stolen by Wat.  In conclusion, the old man said that he\nhad come to the Eisteddvod rather as a spectator than a candidate for the\nprize, having accidentally hurt his right hand, which had nearly disabled\nhim altogether from playing.  \u201cThat circumstance is now the more\nprovoking,\u201d said the old man, \u201cas I am convinced that were my hand well,\nI should certainly win the noble silver harp, which is to be the meed of\nthe best player.\u201d  Twm took his musical friend up stairs, and, after\ndining together, began coquetting with the harp, which, with the hand of\na ready player, he tickled into alternate fits of grief and laughter, as\nhe ran over many of our most popular airs.  The old man jumped up from\nhis seat, and embraced him with raptures, protesting that he could not\nfail to win the harp, if he chose to be a candidate.  Our hero, having\npracticed but little on the harp since he left London, felt considerable\ndiffidence in becoming a competitor among proficients in music, but\nresolved, at any rate, to avail himself of the instructions of his friend\nIanto Gwyn.  Intensely anxious to meet his mistress once more, he sought\nan early opportunity of a walk through the streets; but instead of the\ndesired one, it was his lot to meet Powell the magistrate, who gave him a\njocular and right hearty welcome.  They were soon joined by two other\nhigh bloods of the town, one a wealthy attorney, named Phillips, and the\nother a reverend and right portly son of the church, who shone more at\nthe punch-board than in the pulpit.  They all adjourned to the parlour of\nthe Three Cocks, where the best of wine was soon in request, and a gay\nscene of conviviality and good fellowship ensued.\n\nEach of the Breconians was well acquainted with Twm\u2019s celebrity, and\nfound unusual satisfaction in this meeting.  Being all high lads of the\nturf, the practice of betting was familiar to them; and the lawyer\noffered at once to oppose Twm in a match of angling for five pounds; and\nthe bet should be, that whoever fished the largest weight, no matter of\nwhat kind, in half an hour, should be declared the winner.  Our hero,\nalthough a poor angler, accepted the wager, and Powell, as the umpire,\nwrote down the terms of it, which was signed by each.  Possessing himself\nof the angler\u2019s paraphernalia, he repaired with them to the bridge; and\nhad the upper side of it assigned to him, while Phillips took the lower.\nThe latter displayed a grand morocco pocket-book, filled in the neatest\norder with the most choice artificial flies, of every description, and\nsoon had his handsome rod in order; while the former had nothing better\nthan what could be procured at a shop.  The lawyer landed fish after\nfish, with great rapidity, and when half the given time was expired, Twm\nfound himself much in arrears, and the continued good fortune of his\nantagonist left him, apparently, no chance of ultimate success.\n\u201cConfound these good-for-nothing flies, fetch me a beef steak!\u201d cried he\nat last, and gave money for that purpose to a bye-stander, who\nimmediately brought the article wanted.  \u201cThere\u2019s a Cardy angler, fishing\nfor trout with a beef steak!\u201d cried the Breconians, with an exulting\nlaugh; Twm said nothing in reply, but fastened several hooks in different\nparts of a strong line, to each of which he attached a small piece of\nbeef, and, watching the movement of a flock of ducks that floated in\nluxurious ease down the Usk, he threw the whole among them.  Loud was the\nclamour of the aquatic crew, as they hustled each other, in their\neagerness to partake of the showered feast, which they soon gobbled, and\nwere drawn up to the top of the bridge by the singular angler above, amid\nthe shouts and laughter of the numerous spectators.\n\nPowell now held up his watch, and declared that the stipulated half hour\nwas just up.  Phillips, as the conscious winner, produced a goodly shew\nof trout, and, as Twm had caught but four small fish, said it would be\nidle to weigh them.  \u201cNot so,\u201d replied our wag, \u201clet the written terms of\nthe bet be read, and you will find that my ducks have a right to be\nweighed against your boasted trout, aye! and shall make them kick the\nbeam.\u201d  Phillips stared at such an assertion made in earnest, and Powell\nread, \u201cWhoever fished the largest weight, no matter of what kind, would\nbe declared the winner,\u201d and, as umpire, awarded the five pounds to our\nhero.  Some merriment at the expense of Powell was caused by his\ndeclaring himself the unlucky proprietor of the said flock of ducks; but\nwith his usual good-humour, he proposed that the ducks and trout should\nbe cooked at his house for their supper, in which Phillips acquiesed.\n\nThey were promenading, soon after this, in the agreeable walks of the\nPriory Grove, where there was a large rookery, almost every third tree\nbeing crowned with the nest of one of these sable and clamorous children\nof the air.  \u201cLet us try,\u201d said Hughes, who was also much addicted to\nbetting, addressing our hero, \u201cwhich can the most completely take one of\nthose nests, you or I.\u201d  \u201cDone, be the bet what it may,\u201d cried the\nTregaron wag.  It was agreed that this boyish feat was to be for a wager\nof five pounds, and Phillips to be the umpire.  Hughes observed to his\nopponent, \u201cI propose that we accompany each other up our respective\ntrees, to be satisfied that nothing but fair play is used,\u201d to which Twm\nassented, and gave him the first chance and choice of his nest.  The pair\nwere soon at the top of a lofty oak, and the merry parson took out the\neggs, one at a time, placing them in his coat pocket, and afterwards\nremoved the nest, and brought it down with him.  Twm then went to a\ndistant tree, and climbed to the top with the utmost caution, before his\nopponent had reached the lower branches, and, with good management, that\nproved him an adept in this idle business, placed his hat on the top, and\nthus secured the old bird.  Fastening the hat and nest together, he\ndescended with them both.  Hughes was the first to declare his antagonist\nthe winner; but the umpire requiring him to produce the amount of his\nadventure, his surprise was great, on finding that he had nothing more to\nshew than the empty nest; our hero having slipped his pen-knife through\nthe bottom of his pocket, and received the eggs in the palm of his hand,\nin the same order that they were taken from the nest.  On this discovery,\nHughes declared that Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti would never meet his match, till\nSatan himself became his opponent.\n\nWhile sitting with the aforesaid trio, some time after, paying their\ndevotions to the bottle, at the Three Cocks, our hero contrived to bring\nPowell, who had hitherto fought shy, into a bet with him.  He declared\nthat a stranger as he was, at Brecon, he firmly believed he could\ncommand, and be obeyed there, with greater promptitude than himself,\nalthough a justice of the peace and quorum.  \u201cI\u2019ll lay you twenty pounds\nto the contrary,\u201d cried the magistrate.  \u201cDone!\u201d replied Twm, \u201cand we can\nprove it without quitting this room, by opening the window, and\npractising on one of those people opposite.\u201d  \u201cLet it be on yonder\ncrockery-ware man, who is the most conspicuous,\u201d said Powell, and Twm, of\ncourse, could have no possible objection.  The magistrate opened the\nwindow, and called in a tone of authority, \u201cCome here, you fellow; go\ndirectly to the Black Lion, and tell the landlord to let you have Justice\nPowell\u2019s black mare, and bring her here to me.\u201d  \u201cI can\u2019t quit my goods,\nsir,\u201d said Roger, \u201cor I would willingly oblige you.\u201d  \u201cI tell you,\nfellow, do as I order you, or I shall kick you and your ware out of the\ntown,\u201d said Powell in a blustering tone, and with a look the most\nterrifying that he could assume.  Roger repeated his former answer; and\nwhen the magistrate increased his threats, he burst out into a rude\nlaugh, and, without further deference, said, he really believed that his\nworship was drunk: this was enough, and the worthy magistrate felt\nhimself completely put down.  Our wag now took his turn, and commenced\nwith him: \u201cI say, fellow, did\u2019st thou ever see, or hear of Twm Sh\u00f4n\nCatti?\u201d  \u201cYes,\u201d replied Roger, \u201coften at Llandovery, once at Cardigan,\nand now I see him before me at Brecon.\u201d  \u201cWell then,\u201d continued Twm, \u201cI\norder thee to give us a dance, in the middle of thy crockery.\u201d  \u201cWith all\nmy heart, if _you_ order it, for I should dread to disobey Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti\nmore than twenty times my loss.\u201d  On which he jumped, capered, and\ndanced, in the midst of his brittle commodities, kicking and treading the\ndishes, pans, basins, and other articles, to powder beneath his feet.\n\u201cBy the Lord, thou art a strange fellow;\u201d said Powell, as he paid him\ndown the amount of his forfeit; \u201cand I foresee that there\u2019s much more\nluck for thee than thou dreamest of: and I confidently anticipate what\nwill surely come to pass in thy favour, my Cardiganian hero.\u201d\n\nThese words, uttered in a very pointed manner, and with a significant\nexpression of countenance, could not but excite surprise in him, to whom\nthey were addressed; but on parting with the other gentlemen, after the\njovial supper at the magistrate\u2019s, he found, to his utter amazement, that\nPowell was in the whole secret of his affairs with the lady of Ystrad\nF\u00een.  \u201cShe once,\u201d said he, \u201cplayed me a jade\u2019s trick, but no matter, we\nare now friends, and she has even assisted me in my suit with her amiable\nfriend, Miss Meredith.  In heart and soul, she is attached to you, Jones,\nbut she is a weak yielding woman beneath the terrors of her father\u2019s\nfrown, and in some evil hour might again sacrifice herself, if you are\ntoo long out of her sight.  She is proud of you, and of your wild\nachievements, and even finds excuses for your most blameable courses.\nNow, my advice is, that you will endeavour to distinguish yourself during\nthe races, and start for the gold plate: the grey horse, I suspect, has\nblood in him, and will beat the best that is to run.\u201d  \u201cBut why,\u201d asked\nTwm, \u201cdid she not keep her promise to meet me at Llandovery fair?\u201d\nPowell replied that she was prevented by her father\u2019s sudden illness; and\ngreat is her sorrow for the disappointment she must have caused.\n\nThe next morning was ushered in with the ringing of bells, firing of\nguns, and every demonstration of the gaiety that prevails on a gala day;\nand this was an especial one, to be honored successively by the\nEisteddvod, the Races, and a grand Ball.  Between eleven and twelve\no\u2019clock, our hero, with many other musical and literary competitors,\nentered the town hall, in bardic trim, with the harp of his friend Ianto\nGwyn, slung by a blue ribbon, and attached to his shoulder.\n\nThe hall, which was handsomely decorated, now shone with the presence of\na vast number of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen; in fact, it was a\nbright assemblage of the beauty and fashion of the town, and surrounding\ncountry, sitting in anxious expectation of the commencement.  At length\nthe business of the meeting was begun by a speech from the president, who\noccupied a central seat on the raised platform.  He dwelt emphatically on\nthe laudable object of the Eisteddvod; \u201cto preserve from annihilation one\nof the most ancient languages spoken by mankind, remarkable for its\ncopiousness, energy, and expression; that, like a perpetual living\nmiracle, kept its firm stand in this solitary nook of country, the\nprincipal vestige of our national characteristics;\u2014to revive and preserve\nthe beautiful melodies which had been the delight of our gallant and\npatriotic forefathers;\u2014and lastly, by emulation, to keep alive the\nbrilliant blaze of the native Awen, the darling poesy of the land, which\nyielded their fragrant and refreshing blossoms, lovely sacrifices on the\naltar of Taste; that with their incense appeased the rugged Genius of the\ncold and stern realities of life.\u201d  Penillion singing succeeded; in which\nthe minstrels of Merionethshire excelled.  The rest went on in rotation,\nminutely according with the description given by the ever-faithful\nMichael Drayton. {245a}\n\n    \u2014\u201cSome there were bards, that in their sacred rage\n    Recorded the descents, and acts of every age;\n    Some with nimble joints that struck the warbling string;\n    In fing\u2019ring some unskill\u2019d, but used right well to sing\n    To other\u2019s harp; of which you both might find\n    Great plenty, and of each excelling in their kind,\n    That at the Stethva {245b} oft obtain\u2019d a victor\u2019s praise,\n    Had won the silver harp, and worn Apollo\u2019s bays;\n    Whose verses they deduced from those first golden times,\n    In sundry forms of feet, and sundry suits of rhymes.\n    In Englyns {245c} some there were that in their subject strain;\n    Some makers that again affect a loftier vein,\n    Rehearse their high conceits in Cowyths; {245d} other some\n    In Owdels {245e} theirs express, as matter haps to come.\n\n    So varying still their moods, observing yet in all,\n    Their quantities, their rests, their measures metrical;\n    For to that sacred art they most themselves apply,\n    Addicted from their birth to so much poesy,\n    That in the mountains those who scarce have seen a book,\n    Most skilfully will make, as though from art they took.\u201d\n\nAmong the given subjects for a Cowydd, or Poem, was \u201cGovid,\u201d or\nAffliction, for which it turned out that there was but one who had\nwritten on it, and, to Twm\u2019s unutterable surprise, he heard his own poem\nof that title recited, and more than all, a prize awarded to it by the\numpires.  Lady Devereux, who had attached her name to this effusion, was\ncalled upon to receive the meed of her talents.  That lady, who sat by\nher father, as one of the audience, now rose with dignity, and said with\nsome emotion, that the poem so highly honored; was not of her\ncomposition, but had been sent to her by its author, a person of taste\nand ingenuity, whom she was bound ever to esteem; as to his valour and\ncourtesy she had once been indebted for the preservation of her life.\nThen naming Mr. Thomas Jones, as the author, she pointed him out; and,\namid loud and long applause, a handsome silver medal was placed round his\nneck.\n\nBut why should we prolong, by intermediate detail, the ultimatum so\neasily inticipated by the reader?  Our hero won also the miniature silver\nharp, and the gold cup at the races; the admiration of the ladies at the\nball, and withal, the wonder and esteem of the Breconians.  But alas! the\nbuoyancy of spirits, and exultation of heart, which owed their evanescent\nexistence to these distinctions, was soon doomed to give way to feelings\nof contrasting severity.  Now, while in the zenith of his glory,\nconfidently anticipating, as the final crown of his happiness, the\nwilling hand of his mistress, a note for him arrived at the inn, from the\nfair widow, that threw him into absolute despair\u2014she told him in plain\nterms, that unless he could outwit her, all his hopes of her hand would\nbe utterly in vain.  This intimation he could understand only as a formal\n_permit_ to wear the willow as soon as he pleased; that she was otherwise\nengaged, and had altogether done with him.\n\nMeeting Miss Meredith in the walks soon afterwards, he sought an\nexplanation with much earnestness, but she only burst out into laughter\nat his \u201cserious sad face,\u201d as she called it, and made her escape from his\nimportunities.  This confirmed the worst construction which he had put on\nher conduct, and the \u201cvile caprice and inconsistency of woman,\u201d became\nthe subjects of his bitterest railing.  Hearing that her company had\npreceded her in the way home, next evening, and that she was about to\nfollow them alone, he resolved to way-lay, and put her under\ncontribution, at any rate; which he conceived would be one way, at least,\nof outwitting her, and perhaps the right one.\n\nDisguising himself in a heavy great coat, and a rough hairy travelling\ncap, which had always been his treasury, in preference to a pocket, in\ncase of being at any time overpowered by numbers on the road, as no\nsuspicion would attach of money being there concealed; he took his stand\nby the gate, that in those days led from the town into the mountains,\nthrough which the road ran to Llanspyddyd, Trecastle, and Llandovery.  At\nlength the gay widow arrived, and Twm immediately caught a firm hold of\nher bridle, and, in an assumed snuffling tone of voice, demanded her\nmoney.  She begged hard for mercy on her pocket, but in vain; and gave at\nlast a considerable sum, which, she said, was the whole contents of her\npocket.  Our hero, while placing the booty in the crown of his cap,\ndeclared himself quite satisfied: \u201cAnd so am I!\u201d cried the spirited\nwidow, and, at the same moment, grasped his cap and its whole contents,\nlaughing aloud as she galloped away from him, she cried, \u201cthus the widow\noutwits and triumphs over Twm.\u201d\n\nHere was our hero, at length, in a deplorable dilemma;\u2014shorn of his\nlaurels, and at once a bankrupt in love and fortune; as the cap contained\nthe whole of the money brought with him to Brecon, as well as what he had\ngained there.  This inauspicious adventure, although it damped his\nspirits for the time, had the ultimate effect of rousing his latent\nenergies to the highest pitch.  He was not long in hatching a scheme to\nforward his purposes, that, however, required the aid (which was offered\nto him) of Powell and his two friends.  Twelve o\u2019clock the next morning\nsaw him dismounting at the door of Ystrad F\u00een, accoutred in a military\ncostume, intended as a disguise, to gain immediate admittance as a\nstranger.  To his great dismay, instead of finding the door fly open to\nhis knock, as he expected, it appeared to have been barricaded against\nhim.  The lady of the mansion, with pompous formality, appeared at the\nwindow, like the warder of a fortress holding a parley at an outpost.  In\na gay spirit of bantering, she declared, that the military uniform became\nhim exceedingly, and begged to know what rank he held in the army.  Our\nhero parried these home thrusts with but an ordinary degree of grace,\nand, in a bowed spirit, intreated admission to the inner walls.  The lady\nJoan was quite peremptory in her refusal, declaring, that having lately\nheard so much to his disadvantage, she had decided to break off all\nfuture acquaintance with him as a lover; \u201cespecially,\u201d added she, \u201cas,\ninstead of the witty person I thought you, I find you quite a dull\nanimal, that any school-girl might outwit.\u201d  Here she indulged in a\nprovoking laugh, and bade him \u201cgood-bye,\u201d as she turned to close the\nwindow.  \u201cNay then,\u201d said Twm in a desponding key, \u201cif we are indeed to\nbe henceforth strangers, as we _have been_ friends, true and warm\nfriends, you will give me your hand, at least, in parting.\u201d  She slowly\nstretched out her hand at the window, and our hero, with the eager spring\nof a hungry tiger, darted forward, grasped her wrist with his left hand,\nand drawing his sword with the right, exclaimed in a tone of fury,\n\u201cRevenge at least is left me\u2014by yon blessed sky above us, I\u2019ll be trifled\nwith no longer\u2014off goes your hand, unless you consent to our union this\ninstant, and on this very spot.\u201d  \u201cLord! don\u2019t squeeze so hard and look\nso fierce,\u201d cried the lady of Ystrad F\u00een.  Twm, with increased\nboisterousness, resumed, \u201cOn your answer will depend whether, for the\nremainder of your life, you will have a single, or a pair of hands\u2014for on\nthe pronouncing of a negative, this hand, this soft white hand, beautiful\nas it is, will instantly fly, severed from the wrist.\u201d  \u201cI would not so\nmuch care,\u201d cried the lady of Ystrad F\u00een, \u201cbut for your horrid name; I\ncould not endure to be called Mrs. Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti.\u201d  \u201cI have protested\nbitterly, and will not be forsworn,\u201d cried Twm, \u201cthat here, even here,\nwith your hand thus stretched through the window, the marriage ceremony\nshall be performed; and so your answer at once without evasion.\u201d  \u201cThe\nparson of our parish is gone to a christening,\u201d said the lady of Ystrad\nF\u00een.  \u201cYes or no!\u201d roared the terrific Twm, menacing the threatened blow.\n\u201cWell then, as I could not handle a knife and fork, or play my spinnet,\nor give you a box on the ear when I want pastime, I may as well say\u2014yes!\u201d\n\u201cBless thee for that,\u201d cried Twm in extacy, and eagerly kissed the\ncaptured hand.  With his left hand he drew forth a small bugle, and blew\na loud blast that was re-echoed by the surrounding mountains.\nImmediately a party of ten persons, wearing masks appeared, one of which\nwas arrayed in a clerical habit, who without further ado commenced the\nmarriage ceremony, Twm the while holding her hand through the window.\n\nThe wedding service had been more than half gone through, when four\nwindows of the first floor were suddenly opened, and several persons put\ntheir heads out, while, with the most sideshaking peals of laughter, they\nlooked down on this singular wedding.  The \u201cho, ho, ho!\u201d of the merry\nProthero, was heard with surpassing loudness; and, \u201cWell done Twm,\u201d were\nthe first words that the spirit of titillation permitted him to utter.\nNotwithstanding this interruption, the ceremony was finished, and parson\nHughes pronounced them man and wife.  Unwilling to loosen the hand which\nhe now considered his own, our hero held it fast till he entered the\nhouse through the window.  Once within the mansion that now called him\nmaster, an amazing change of circumstances took place.\u2014The lady\nendearingly asked forgiveness for her latter conduct, while Twm intreated\nthe same for himself.  Squire Prothero had been the author of many good\noffices to our hero; having conciliated Sir John Price, who, although a\nproud man, was also something of a humorist, as he proved himself in this\ninstance.  A plan was concerted to throw every impediment in the way of\nTwm\u2019s union, for him to surmount them as he could, to afford sport for\nthe old baronet and his merry friend Prothero, in which trickery the lady\nherself was by promise compelled to join, which accounts for her latter\nconduct.  Being ushered by his bride into the drawing-room, our hero was\nintroduced to, and well received by more than one stranger\u2014namely, Sir\nJohn Price, and his own father!  On the following day their public\nwedding took place in Brecon, when our hero\u2019s friend Powell was also\nunited to the amiable Miss Meredith.  These parties being made happy,\nlittle remains to be added.  Evans of Tregaron, had soon after, to add to\nhis other losses, that of his clerical gown, on account of a fine\nchopping boy affiliated on him by the luckless Bessy Gwevel h\u00eer; and his\nmagisterial functions were also numbered with \u201cthings which were, but are\nnot.\u201d\n\nThe annals of those times evince that our hero filled various civil\noffices of the first rank in the good town of Brecon, with great ability;\nand \u201cThomas Jones, Esq.\u201d shines conspicuously on the list of its mayors\nand sheriffs; but no where more honourably than in the pages of his early\nfriend Rhys\u2014the Doctor Rhys\u2014whose undoubted testimony crowns him with the\nfame of an accomplished herald and antiquary.  A single anecdote,\nillustrative of his good humour in late life, shall close this book.\n\u201cBless me!\u201d cried the lady mayoress one day to her husband, as they\npassed arm in arm through the street from church, \u201cthe people are always\nlaughing to think of my having married you.\u201d  \u201cI don\u2019t wonder,\u201d replied\nthe hero of these adventures, \u201cfor I always laugh when I think of it\nmyself.\u201d\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n                                 THE END.\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n                     PRINTED BY J. COX, ABERYSTWYTH.\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes\n\n\n{3a}  His wife\u2019s name was Joan.\n\n{3b}  The truth against the world.\n\n{4}  The English pronunciation of Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti, is Toom Shone Katty;\ninstead of which the Londoners called it _Twim John Katty_, which seemed\ndoubly ludicrous as the name of a tragedy hero.\n\n{5}  Another cause assigned for the adoption of this name is, that a\ncat\u2019s eye formed part of his armorial bearings.\n\n{6}  A small cup, so called from its contents being able merely to damp\nthe clay of a genuine toper.\n\n{56}  It is a singular circumstance, that in the county of Cumberland is\nkept up among the peasantry a custom resembling this of the\nWelsh\u2014voluntary contributions at weddings\u2014which doubtless had its origin\nfrom the same source, and may be thus accounted for.  When the Britons\nwere driven by the Saxons from the valleys of England to the mountains of\nWales, a considerable number of them separating from their countrymen,\nremained and settled in the North of England, among the Saxons, in a\ndistrict thence called \u201cGwlad y Cymru,\u201d i.e. _the land of the Cymru_,\nsince corrupted to \u201c_Cumberland_.\u201d  Adopting the language and manners of\ntheir conquerors, their own name as a people became entirely lost to\ntheir posterity, while this sole vestige (the contributions at weddings)\nalone remains, of their ancient customs.\n\n{57}  In addition to the _Gwahoddwr\u2019s_ address, there is another mode\nprevalent in the present day, of inviting to the Bidding, by a printed\ncircular, which in some parts of the principality supersedes that merry\npersonage altogether, a thing to be regretted, as it deprives the rural\nWelsh Wedding of one of its most pleasant features, and cuts off its\nalliance with romance, and the manners of _oulden tyme_.  The following\nis a specimen of a Bidding circular.\n\n                                                     _October_ 5_th_, 182\u2014\n\n    As we intend to enter the matrimonial state, on Saturday, the 10th of\n    November next, we are encouraged by our friends to make a Bidding on\n    the occasion, the same day, at the young woman\u2019s father\u2019s house,\n    called Tynant, at which place, the favor of your agreeable company is\n    most respectfully solicited; and whatever donation you may be pleased\n    to bestow on us then, will be thankfully received, and cheerfully\n    repaid whenever called for on the like occasion.\n\n                                                   Your obedient Servants,\n\n                                                                     A. B.\n                                                                     C. D.\n\n    *** The parents of the young man, and his brothers and sisters,\n    desire that all gifts of the above nature due to them, be returned to\n    the young man on the above day, and will be thankful for all favors\n    granted.\u2014Also, the young woman\u2019s parents and her brothers and\n    sisters, desire that all gifts of the above nature due to them, be\n    returned to the young woman on the above day, and will be thankful\n    for all favors granted.\n\n{62}  The large three-legged iron pot used for cooking.\n\n{77}  Pronounced Coom dee.\n\n{129}  Dio is in Wales, the diminutive or familiar of David.\n\n{134}  This simple rustic song is a translation from a popular ballad by\nJohn Jones of Glangors, generally sung to the tune of \u201cWill you come to\nthe bower?\u201d\n\n{136a}  Strawberries strung or beaded on long grass.\n\n{136b}  Ewes are milked in Wales, for which purpose they are driven from\nthe hills and mountain in sheep-pens: their butter is also used for many\npurposes.\n\n{138}  Hob y deri dando signifies \u201caway my herd to the oaken grove.\u201d  Mr.\nParry, for whose Welsh Melodies the modern words were written, remarks,\n\u201cThere is something very quaint and characteristic in this ancient air,\nand it is popular in Wales.\u201d\n\n{152a}  Pennill signifies stanza.  The original, of which the above is a\ntranslation, runs thus\u2014\n\n    Gwych yw y dyffryn, y gwenith, a\u2019r yd,\n    Mwyn dir a maenol, ac aml le clyd,\n    Llinos ac eos, ac adar a g\u00e2n;\n    Ni cheir yn y mynydd ond mawnen a th\u00e2n.\n\n{152b}  A Triban may be defined a lyric epigram; it is common in Welsh\nliterature.\n\n{172}  In the original\u2014\n\n    \u201cNid twyll twyllo twyllwr;\n    Nid br\u00e2d bradychu bradwr;\n    Nid lladrad mi wn yn dda,\n    Lladratta ar ladratwr.\u201d\n\n{208}  Signifying \u201c_The Poem of Affliction_.\u201d  The original Welsh poem,\nin recitative measure, of which the above is rather a condensed\nparaphrase than a translation, is in no ancient MS in the possession of\nthe late Mr. Jenkins of Llwyn-y-groes, Cardiganshire; and published in\nboth Meyrick\u2019s \u201cCardigan,\u201d and \u201cHynafion Cymreig.\u201d\n\n{214}  Between these two rivers, before they unite, is an angular slip of\nlowland, being the last of Cardiganshire; Dinas, and all the interesting\nheights here described, are in Carmarthenshire; while the boundary of\nBreconshire is about half a mile off.  The reader who is a Welshman, will\nhence recognize the etymology of Ystrad F\u00een, which signifies, The vale of\nthe boundary.\n\n{245a}  Drayton\u2019s poetry is so constructed, that to read it with any\nharmony, there should be a pause in the middle of every line, when the\nsense will permit.\n\n{245b}  Eisteddvod.\n\n{245c}  The Welsh epigramic stanza.\n\n{245d}  Cowydd, or Poem.\n\n{245e}  Awdl, or Ode.","title":"The Adventures and Vagaries of Twm Sh\u00f4n Catti: Descriptive of Life in Wales: Interspersed with Poems","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":68570}