THE return of our hero to Tregaron. His welcome from old friends,
cronies, and acquaintances. Is engaged by Squire Graspacre, and is
elevated socially and physically.
After setting out early in the morning, and walking all day over the
rugged mountain road, the heart of Twm Short Catty thrilled with delight,
and the tears filled in his eyes, when, late in the evening, his own
native place, the humble town of Tregaron appeared before him. Each
object that met his eager gaze was familiar; not a shrub but Twm knew it,
not a spot but was remembered in Twm’s mind by some vagary or other
practised either by himself or the renowned Watt; and although his feet
were so blistered that he could scarcely move, he attempted to make his
limbs partake of the new vigour which sprung up in his heart, and essayed
to run, but failing in his aim, fell down completely mastered by
exhaustion and fatigue. Whether, like Brutus, he was re-nerved by
breathing awhile on the bosom of his mother earth, or that the thoughts
within, of home and its association, gave him strength, he rose much
refreshed, but with considerable pain continued the short untraced
portion of his journey.
Entering the town, at length, just as the darkness began to veil every
object, he came to his mother’s door, which was open, and cast an
inquiring look before he entered. Catty had long dismissed her scholars,
and sat in the chimney corner with her back towards the door; whilst
Carmarthen Jack was busily engaged upon an artistic combination upon the
handle of a ladle. He was a thoroughly business man, as far as spoons
and ladles were concerned, and on this occasion he sat sullenly busy in
scooping out the bowl of a new ladle.
Twm’s merry trick-loving soul is not to be subdued by his troubles;
having drawn his flat-rimmed old hat over his eyes, he leaned over his
mother’s hatch, and in a feigned voice, begged for a piece of bread and
cheese, saying that he was a poor boy, very hungry and tired, who was
making his way home to Lampeter. “We are poor folk ourselves, and have
nothing to give,” said Carmarthen jack, rather gruffly. “Stop!” cried
Catty, “he’s a poor child, Jack, a bit of bread and cheese is not much,
and somebody might take pity on my poor Twm, and give him as much, if he
should need it.”
The affectionate heart of Twm could no longer contain itself, but opening
the latch, he burst forward, dashing his hat on the ground, and falling
on her neck, giving the most ardent utterance to the word “mother,” and
after the tender pause of nature’s own embrace, he cried with streaming
eyes, “My good, kind, charitable mother! you shall never want bread and
cheese while your poor Twm has health and strength to earn it.” Warmly
returning his embrace and kisses, Catty long clasped her boy, and was
quite terrified to see his pale lean cheek, and altered looks. Ashamed
of the exposure of his pitiless nature, Jack now came up, shook hands and
condoled with him, but Twm _had seen the man_, _and loved him not_.
Twm was an excellent judge of human nature, and he knew well the
duplicity and cunning of his father-in-law, and shunned him accordingly.
Twm would never fraternize harmoniously with those he did not like. In
this, he was invariably honest.
After being refreshed, Catty eagerly enquired of all that had happened to
him since he left home, and wept much as he detailed his narrow escape
from starvation and the small-pox. By twelve o’clock next day, his tale
was known to everybody at Tregaron.
The catastrophe at Morris Greeg’s, of course, was considered a judgment
from heaven for his miserly propensities; and Ianto Gwyn again set his
poetical muse at work, and after a slight effort wrote a pathetic ballad,
to the great edification of old women and tender-hearted damsels, giving
a _true and particular_ account of the whole affair; to which was
attached a moral on the cruelty of mal-treating parish apprentices, and
stuffing them with mouldy bread and sour flummery. This interesting
ballad was daily sung by Watt, the mole-catcher, to the English tune of
Chevy Chase, which gained the good-will of all those old cronies who had
taken deep offence at his numerous tricks.
Carmarthen Jack, although so careful of his bread and cheese, was
determined not to be outdone on this occasion, but brought the graphic
art to perpetuate his stepson’s tale; that is to say, he carved on a
wooden bowl the figures of four beings, well-attended, in bed, with the
scythe of death across their throats, while in the distance a meagre boy
was snatching a joint of meat from the fire. The effort, artistically
regarded, was not calculated to carry away the Royal Academy’s prize; the
idea perhaps was better than the execution; but altogether it gained Jack
very great applause.
Right glad were all Twm’s cronies to see him again at Tregaron; but
dearer than all to him was the welcome of the curate Rhys, with whose
books he was again permitted to make free, while he profited by his
instructions and conversation. He had now been at home about three
months, and recovered his health, strength and spirits to perfection;
when his mother fancied he had become an eye-sore to her husband, who she
thought looked at him with the scowling brow of a step-father, which
Twm’s conduct, she might imagine, justified, as his behaviour towards
Jack had been very unconciliating, ever since the bread and cheese
adventure.
With this impression, Catty once more waited on Squire Graspacre, to
solicit that some employment should be found for her boy, as she could
not afford to keep him in idleness. The tale of his sufferings at _Gwern
Ddu_, interested the squire in his favour; and he felt some reluctance to
send him again as a parish apprentice. The worthy curate, Rhys, had also
spoken a kind word in his late pupil’s favour; and Carmarthen Jack,
gaping, hat in hand, looked as if he would say much to get rid of his
step-son, could he hit on words to his purpose. Amused by his simplicity
and awkward gestures the squire asked him,
“Well, Jack, what would you advise me to do with Catty’s boy?” This
plain question met with as blunt an answer, “Make him your servant boy,
sir, if you please.” “And so I will, old hedgehog!” cried the squire,
slapping him on the shoulder, “Your oratory has settled the matter.”
Accordingly, our hero next appears as the squire’s man at Graspacre-Hall.
This was an agreeable change in life to him, where he lived, as they say
in clover; and by his good temper and turn for mirth, gained the
good-will and admiration of his fellow-servants, particularly the girls,
with whom he became an especial favourite. Behold him now in the
seventeenth year of his age, with his looks and habits of twenty, gay,
happy, and as mischievous as an ape; kissing and romping with the girls,
caring for none of them, but showing attentions to all, while he jeered
and mocked the cross-grained and disagreeable, and whenever he could,
raised a laugh at their peculiarities. His employments at the squire’s
were various, among which, waiting at table every day, neatly dressed,
and carrying his master’s gun, and attending him during his shooting
excursions, formed the principal.
To these, Squire Graspacre, who since the death of his wife was ever
wench-hunting, aimed to add the noble office of pimp, which Anglicized,
means, the honourable office of wench-procurer, to satisfy the lustful
appetite of the squire. Twm, however, had been swayed too long by the
counsels of Rhys the curate, to lend himself to any such service; and
having by his conversations with him, and by the tenor of his readings,
imbibed a taste for romantic honour, he was not without a secret hope
that his great father might some day own him, and destine him to a very
different sphere in life. With the growth of these notions, rose in his
mind a distaste for servitude, and an ardent longing to shine in a sphere
allied to literature and respectability.