CHAPTER XXII.

ESCAPE of Twm from Cardigan. Meets an old friend. The heiress of

Maes-y-velin, a most tragical legendary ballad.

The addition to his wardrobe pleased Twm exactly, and he had no qualms of

conscience to prevent him from using it, for he remembered how easily he

had been despoiled of his own. Not being fastidious about a

dressing-room, Twm retired to a stable, and soon came out fully clad in

his male attire; of which a coat only was before wanting.

Bent on a precipitate retreat, as the urgency of his case demanded, he

bolted down St. Mary’s Street, and soon found himself on the turnpike

road, with the good town of Cardigan some miles behind him. In little

more than two hours he reached the small town of Dinas Emlyn, now called

New-castle-in-Emlyn, on a romantic part of the Teivy, dividing the

counties of Cardigan and Carmarthen, and occupying its banks on each

side. Entering a small public-house, he regaled himself on the fine

potent ale for which that place has been so long famous.

After addressing himself steadily for a good half hour to the pleasures

of the table, he commenced a little private conversation with himself

regarding his present and future prospects, and came to the conclusion

that, on the whole, they were not worth much. Although the most serious

cogitations on the subject might have availed little or nothing, chance

very unexpectedly decided him, and relieved his apprehensions for the

present.

He could hear, in the adjoining room, a pig-drover, whose potations had

not only loosened his tongue, but invested it with unusual power,

boasting of his roaring trade at Cardigan fair, and he determined to take

the same route, wherever it might lead, and on inquiry, found he was

going to Llandovery.

The inebriated dealer in cattle, glad of company, stretched out his hand

at once and welcomed him as a fellow traveller. About ten o’clock that

night they arrived together at Lampeter, which Twm now visited for the

second time. The geography of the country being but little known to him,

he felt some alarm on finding himself so contiguous to his own native

place.

Twm and the pig-drover were getting thoroughly jolly and comfortable over

a pot of foaming ale, when Twm caught sight of an old friend. It was

worthy Rhys the curate, who had spied him from the little parlour where

he had been sitting before his arrival, and now cordially welcomed him to

partake of his supper, which was then preparing.

Shaking hands with the elated pig-jobber, from whom he had heard all the

mysteries of his calling, and bidding him good night and wishing him

success in his future dealings, Twm joyously accepted the curate’s

invitation to partake of his evening repast. Supper dispatched, Mr. Rhys

informed him that he had left Tregaron for ever, disgusted with the

treatment he had met with from old Evans, and was on his way to

Llandovery to take possession of the curacy of Llandingad, to which he

had been just appointed by the vicar, the reverend Rhys Prichard.

In return, Twm recited his late adventures, colouring them in such a

manner as to create a favourable impression on the curate, who laughed

heartily at many points of his story, and finished by saying that he had

also determined to visit Llandovery in quest of his fortune, which,

somehow or another, he thought he should find there.

“Well,” said he, “your fortunes are altogether romantic, and fortitude

such as yours is a virtue that becomes us all. Whatever I can do to get

you into employment, when you are there, rest assured shall not be

wanting.” With this understanding Twm’s hopes were buoyed up to the

highest pitch, and to his sanguine mind, became already certainties,

which presented themselves in dreams of various felicitous shapes.

They were both early astir the following morning, and were soon on the

road, the curate leading his horse by the bridle, that (generous and

considerate soul) he might be on a level with Twm. They had nearly

reached the top of Pen-y-garreg hill, over which the road leads from

Lampeter to Llandovery, while a bright prospect of the newly-risen sun

attracted their mutual attention, when the clergyman thus addressed his

companion:

“We are now on the spot to be yet immortalized, perhaps, by the legendary

muse, for a deed of blood perpetrated here in our own times; when the

banks of the impetuous Teivy, now before us, became the scene of a

lamentable tragedy. The towers in the distance, are all that now remain

of the family mansion of MAES-Y-VELIN, the fair seat of the ancient

family of the Vaughans, once of considerable note in this part of the

principality. Ten years ago, a young lady and her three brothers, the

last of that race, were its possessors. The lady named Ellen, was

exceedingly beautiful, and beloved by the son of the venerable Rhys

Prichard, the present vicar of Llandovery, whose curate I am now become.

“On the very place where we now stand, the young man tied his

handkerchief to the end of a rod, that he held as a flag-staff, which was

immediately seen by the heiress of Maes-y-velin; and when she could

succeed in getting her brothers out of the way, the signal of love was

answered by hoisting her own handkerchief to a branch of a tree above the

house, on which, both ran down from their respective hills, till they

stood face to face on either side of the Teivy, when the fond lover,

whenever the stream was unfordable, dashed into the river, crossed over,

and caught the fair one in his arms. Perhaps you would like to hear the

tragical story at further length; if so, I have employed my leisure time

lately in versifying it, and will now read it to you.”

Twm signifying his willing assent, they took their seats on the side of

the hill, when Rhys drew a manuscript from his pocket and read to his

attentive auditor

THE HEIRESS OF MAES-Y-VELIN

AND

THE FLOWER OF LLANDOVERY.

WHAT is amiss with the maiden fair,

What is the sweet one ailing?—

Why pale her cheek, and her spirits low

And why up the hill doth she daily go,

The heiress of Maes-y-velin?

Why are the brows of her brothers dark?

Nor mother nor sire hath Ellen;—

Her brothers whisper—her steps they watch—

The heart of her mystery eager to catch,

The maiden of Maes-y-velin.

The parents of Ellen her merits knew,

And frown’d on her brothers’ vices:

Her brothers are disinherited,

And Ellen is heiress in either’s stead;

Thereat all the land rejoices.

Her brothers one day went out to hunt,

And alone at home left Ellen;

She watch’d them away, then flew to her bower,

And cried “Oh now for Llandovery’s Flower!

Right welcome to Maes-y-velin.”

She hoisted her silken kerchief red,

To the highest branch of her bower,

To Pen-garreg hill then strained her eyes,

And the flag of her hope was seen to rise,

’Twas thine, oh Llandovery’s Flower!

Long had he watch’d—the faithful youth!

His wish each day unavailing.

At length he sees with wild delight,

His true love’s signal, the lady bright,

The heiress of Maes-y-velin.

The signal that was chosen between the twain,

When absent her stern proud kindred;

And then would they rush from either hill,

The lovers true, with a right good-will,

Till the waters of Teivy sunder’d.

Now as ers’t they rush’d, and as ers’t they paused,

When arrived on the banks of Teivy,

They gazed at each other across the stream,

And gestured affection’s high glow supreme,

Till the two hearts grew less heavy.

In plung’d the youth with most anxious speed,

The flower of fair Llandovery,

The maiden trembling with wild alarms—

She brightens—she sinks in her true lover’s arms,

Deem’d lost her past recovery.

Oh nature hath many warm generous glows—

But they say love’s joys are fleeting;

Most dear to her mother her new-born son,

And sweet is the fame that’s fairly won,

To the blind restor’d, oh the summer’s sun

Less sweet than the lovers meeting!

Sweet to the donor the generous deed,

That serves merit’s child, unweeting;

Healing is sweet when gashed by the sword;

To the wounded heart, the benevolent word:

Oh sweet is the breeze to the sick restored;

But sweeter true lover’s greeting.

Each flower that flaunts in vanity’s cap,

And sets youthful hearts a gadding,

Has its charms, its zest,—but the whole above,

Is the magical thrill of sweet woman’s love,

That drives heart and brain a madding.

And fondly loved this youthful pair,

The heiress of Maes-y-velin,

And he to whom they called Llandovery’s Flower;

Oh frequent their meeting and parting hour,

Their moments of joy and wailing.

Once when they met on Teivy’s banks,

Canopied o’er by the wild wood,

Mid fragrance of flowers that graced the shade,

The youth sung his song, of true lovers betrayed,

An ominous song—that drew tears from the maid,

For her heart was as simple as childhood.

“‘Oh come to the banks of the Teivy with me,

To the deep woodland glade, ’neath the shady green tree,

Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,

In the face of the day and the bright eye of light,

That God and his angels may witness our troth,

That God and his angels may favour us both.

“‘I’ll go the green-wood,’ the lady replied,

‘Fore God and his angels be fairly affied,

Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,

In the face of the day and the bright eye of light;

That God and his angels may witness our troth,

That God and his angels may favour us both.

“So sung a young chief to his lady love,

At the base of her tower—she answered above—

Vile vassals espied them, and flew to their lord,

The lady’s true lover soon fell ’neath his sword;

She hurled herself headlong, fulfilling her troth,

And Death was the priest that united them both.”

PART II.

OVER the hill of Pen-garreg road

Is seen that leads from Llandovery,

Maes-y-velin’s green hill is opposite,

The mansion below—oft on either height,

The lovers are making discovery.—

But envious eyes were on the watch,

And the genius of evil hover’d;

The brothers who wish’d their sister unmatch’d,

For any approach of a lover watch’d,

At length their flags discover’d.

They hatch’d a scheme to enmesh the youth,

And see him at length on the mountain;

His flag they answer—he runs down the hill—

Now forth rush the wretches resolved to kill,

And waste his youth heart’s warm fountain.

Like prey-beasts they hide on the Teivy’s banks,

In the covert of thick-leaved bushes;

The youth he dashes across the river,

And ardent to seek his fond receiver,

He seeks her form in the rushes—

He deems she plays him at hide and seek,

Her heart he knew was gayful—

“Oh come from thy covert, my Ellen dear?

Oh come forth and meet thy lover here!”

He cries in soft accents playful.

No Ellen appears—rustling steps he hears—

Perhaps some perfidious stranger;—

He quits the rushes, and steals to a copse,

But there not an instant for breathing stops,

Peril’s presentiment suddenly drops,

And he flies for his life from danger.

He knew not his foes, up the hill he goes,

With the speed of the hart that’s hunted:

The brothers pursue, till fatigued they grew

To Maes-y-velin his course they knew,

And eager revenge is blunted—

They saw him enter—“the foe is snared!”

Exclaimed the elder brother;

“To kill him surely be firmly prepared,

Accursed be the arm by which he is spared!

Let’s stab him, or drown, or smother.”

“Let’s do him dead, and no matter how,

And our sister’s fortune is ours;

No brats of her’s shall supplant our hope:

Prepare we a dagger, a sack, and rope,

For brief are the stripling’s hours.”

Now rush’d the youth through the mansion door,

And fell at the feet of Ellen;

Ere he could speak the brothers appear,

The maiden shrieks with terrific fear,

The heiress of Maes-y-velin.

She fell in a swoon, the brothers soon

Gag and proceed to bind him,

His hands they fasten’d behind his back,

And over his head they drew a sack,

They jump on his body—his rib bones crack,

Till a corpse on the ground they find him.

Oh God! ’twas a barbarous, bloody deed;

’Twas piteous to hear him groaning;

A demon’s heart might relent to hear

The sobs of death, and convulsions drear—

Oh Christ! is no merciful angel near,

Call’d down by this woeful moaning!—

Oh murderous fiends! the eye of God

Hath flamed on this tearless murder!

They grasp at his throat to check his breath—

With knees on his breast—oh merciful death!

Thou sav’st him from anguish further.

And dead in the sack his body they bore,

And sunk in a pool of the Teivy;

After many days when the corpse was found,

No tongue could tell whether smother’d or drown’d,

Or crush’d by men’s buffets heavy.

Thus fell in its bloom the blameless youth;

Insanity seized on Ellen,

The lovely maniac! with bosom bare,

And eyes of wildness, and streaming hair,

Roved frantic o’er Maes-y-velin.

She said he was thrown in the Teivy’s stream,

The flower of fair Llandovery;

She cross’d o’er the hills to his father’s town,

And he bless’d the maid like a child of his own;

But Ellen was past recovery.

Rhys Prichard wept long o’er his murder’d son

And buried the hapless Ellen;

He curs’d her brothers—the land of their birth—

He curs’d their mansion, its hall and hearth,

And the curse is on Maes-y-velin.

Strong was the curse on the savage race,

The murderers and their kindred;

Their bosoms possess’d by the furies of hell,

Oft vented the scream, the curse, and the yell;

All men stood aloof and wonder’d.

They quarrell’d and stood forth in mortal strife,

Each one oppos’d to the other:

They never, oh never! are doom’d to agree,

While sharing poor Ellen’s property,

To murder their elder brother.

And yet the murderers still are foes,

Furious and unrelenting;

Each coveting all his sister’s share;

At length one falls in the other’s snare,

Ere yet of his crimes repenting.

Now lived the survivor, a man forbid,

For murder his brow had branded—

Shunn’d by all men, none bade him God speed,

But solitude work’d wild remorse for his deed,

In madness he seiz’d on a poisonous weed,

And in a suicide’s grave he landed.

Maes-y-velin became a deserted spot,

The roof of the mansion tumbled;

The lawns and the gardens o’er-ran with weeds,

And reptiles, vile emblems of hellish deeds,

Bred there, and the strong walls crumbled.—

They crumbled to dust, and fell to the earth,

And strangers bought Maes-y-velin;

Vain, it is said, their attempts to rebuild,

Vain was their labour in garden or field.

Snakes, toads, baneful weeds alone they yield.

Not a stone to another adhering.

The possessors fled, and oft others came,

But all their aims unavailing;

The peasants protest that at midnight hour,

The spirit of Ellen is seen in her bower.

While on Pen-gorreg stands Llandovery’s Flower,

And shrieks burst from Maes-y-velin.

Twm had listened with the most earnest attention to the terrible account,

and rivetted his eyes on Maes-y-velin, the two hills, the banks of the

Teivy, and scenes now subordinate to the modern grandeur of the new

college of Lampeter; and still remaining silent, seemed, by the force of

his imagination, to bring before his eyes the whole action of this

domestic tragedy. Rhys assured him that all the particulars of the

murder, as narrated in the ballad, were well authenticated, both by the

evidence of the unhappy young lady herself, and that of a countryman who

beheld the murderers bearing the body by night, and who distinctly saw,

as the moon shone upon them while in the act of casting their burden into

the river, the shining spurs of the murdered youth, projecting from the

end of the sack which contained his body. But in so disorderly a state

was the country at the time, from the civil wars between the king and the

parliament, that no cognizance was taken of the atrocious circumstance.

{165} After these remarks, they got up from their grassy resting-place,

and re-commenced their walk to Llandovery.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A SERMON on mountains and country labourers. Twm retaliates upon Dio the

devil, with whom he returns in triumph to Llandovery. The lady of Ystrad

Feen, and Twm’s gallant service in her behalf.

As they advanced on their journey, which was amongst a most mountainous

country, Twm expressed his wonder at seeing the turf-cutters and

haymakers following their avocations almost side by side in this wild

district. “Well,” cried he, “I know that much has been said, sung and

written, in praise of mountain scenery; and where ’tis truly romantic as

well as wild, I am a great lover of it myself; but this is not to my

liking—it is too dead in its deserted appearance for me. Here no sound

salutes the ear but the lonely cry of a few melancholy kites, hungry

enough to prey upon one another; and no object strikes the eye but the

flat, tame desert, and a few wretched cottages thinly scattered over this

desolate region, whose inhabitants are miserably employed in scooping

peat from the marsh for their fires, or cutting their bald thin crop of

hay from the unenclosed mountain—_the gwair rhos cwtta_, or moor hay,

which dispensing with the incumbrance of a cart or sledge, the women

carry home in their aprons, as the winter maintenance of a half-starved

cow. To me, there is nothing that associates more with squalid poverty

than turf fires: the crackling faggot and the Christmas log, have their

rustic characteristics; coal has its proud and solid warmth; the

clay-and-culm fires of Cardigan and Pembrokeshire, formed of balls, and

fantastically arranged by the industrious hands of fair maidens, are

bright and durable, revealing the gay faces of the cheerful semi-circular

group—and above all, the smokeless cleanly stone coal; but turf, smoky,

ill-savoured, ash-creating, dusty turf—recalls the marsh and moor,

rain-loaded skies, and fern-thatched cottages, whose battered roofs swept

by the blast, discover the rotten rafters grinning like the bare ribs of

poverty; worse than all, the joyless faces of the toil-bowed children of

the desert. The old stanza is quite to my mind when it says—

“How gay seems the valley with rich waving wheat,

Fair hands and fair houses, with shelters so neat;

While the whole feather’d choir to delight us conspires,

There’s nought on the mountain but turf and turf fires.”

“And besides that,” added Twm, “I can give you a few rhyming lines of my

own, bearing in the same direction. Here they are,

Three things—to my mind each with loveliness teems;

A vale between mountains that’s threaded by streams;

A neat white-wall’d cottage, ’mid gardens and trees;

And a young married pair that appreciate these.”

“Well,” replied Rhys, “do not let us find too much fault with these

scenes, for the recollection of what our mountain land has been, would

induce me to kiss the sod of its dullest region, when I remember how it

became the refuge of our war-worsted fore-fathers in the days of old, as

the star of liberty seemed to vanish for ever from our sphere.” The

curate grew warm with his subject, and his eyes kindled with enthusiasm

as he proceeded. “I could as soon twit my beloved mother with the

furrows which Time has ploughed on her honoured brows, as censure the

homeliest part of our dear mountains, hallowed of old by the tread of

freemen, when the despot foreigner usurped the valleys.

“Freedom, amid a cloudy clime,

Erects her mountain throne sublime,

While natives of the vales and plains

Are gall’d with yokes and slavish chains—

Then shrink we ne’er, unnerved as bann’d

In the cloudy clime of the Mountain Land.

Turban’d in her folds of mist

Our Mountain Land the sky has kiss’d,

While on her brow the native wreath

Of yellow furze and purple heath

The rural reign her vales command,

And the freeman’s sword of the Mountain Land.”

Twm accepted the remarks of Rhys as rebukes, for his own depreciatory

observations on his native country, and was about to clear himself from

all suspicion of lack of nationality; when the latter, looking up at the

sun, declared the day so far advanced that he must instantly mount his

horse and ride with speed, so as to meet the vicar of Llandovery at the

place appointed; on which, directing Twm on the route he was to take, he

rode off and left him to pursue his way at leisure.

Thus left alone, Twm prepared for a lengthened walk, and pursued his way

in thoughtful silence for many miles, but was at length brought to a

stand by the discovery that the way he trod had ceased to be either a

road or beaten path; and that he was actually pacing the trackless

mountain, with the disagreeable conviction that he had gone wrong,

without a clue to recover the right way.

Taking a careful and critical view of the surrounding country, he came to

the conclusion that there must be a road through _bwlch_, or gap, which

he perceived dividing the mountains at some distance. He entered it, and

hastened on with the utmost alacrity, till he came to a cottage on the

road side, opposite to which was an immense rick of turf, that at a

distance looked like a long black barn. He called at the cottage, and

asked if he was right in his route to Llandovery, “Right!” squeaked a

thin old man who met him at the door, “God bless you young man, you could

not be more wrong, as your back is to Llandovery, and you are making

straight for Trecastle.”

Twm’s face indicated his deep chagrin, as he listened to the response,

and the old man seeing him vexed, asked him to walk in and rest himself,

an invitation that he gladly accepted. “What, I suppose you thought to

be at Llandovery to hear the great preaching there to-day?” said the

man’s wife, a little fat woman who was carding wool by the fire. “No,”

replied Twm, “I never heard of any preaching that is to be there.”

“That’s very odd,” rejoined the old man, “as the whole country has been

crowding there to hear the good Rhys Prichard, the great vicar of

Llandovery.” “I have heard he is very popular,” said Twm.

“Popular!” screamed the weazon-faced old man, as if indignant at the

coldness of our hero’s eulogy, “he is the shining light of our times, and

hardly less than a prophet; wisely has he called his divine book the

_Welshman’s Candle_, for it blazes with exceeding brightness, and men

find their way by it from the darkness of perdition. When it is known

that his health permits him to preach, the country hereabouts is up in

swarms, to the distance of two score miles and more. Then, the farmer

forsakes his cornfield, the chapman his shop, and every tradesman and

artizan quits his calling, to listen to the music of his discourse.

Infirmity alone has kept me from going to hear him to-day; but my wife is

no better than an infidel, and would rather listen to a profane fiddler,

or a vagrant harper, than the finest preacher that ever breathed out a

pious discourse.”

This was too much for any woman to listen quietly to, without saying a

word or two in reply, and his spouse assured Twm that he was a miserable

dreamer, whose brains had been turned by the ravings of fanatical

preachers; that some months ago he ran three miles, howling, thinking he

was pursued by the foul fiend, when it turned out to be only his own

shadow; and that when a patch of the mountain furze was set on a blaze to

fertilize the land, nothing could convince him that the world was not on

fire, and the day of judgment come, till he caught an ague by hiding

himself up to the chin in the river for twelve hours.

“Facts are stubborn things,” and as these were most unpleasant ones to be

served up at his cost, for the entertainment of a stranger, the old man’s

reply was angry and indignant, and the war of words seemed likely to

degenerate into one of actual blows, when the violent galloping of a

horse drew their attention, and in an instant a steed and rider passed

the door; but suddenly checking his speed he returned, and calling at the

cottage door, asking in a tone of authority if a lady had passed that way

towards Llandovery within the last half hour.

The old man, trembling as he spoke, protested that no lady had passed for

many hours; on which the bluff horseman told him as he valued his life,

that neither he nor his wife should appear on the outside of the cottage

door till he gave them leave. The old man assured him of his entire

obedience, when the fellow quietly crossed the road, and effectually

concealed himself and horse behind the opposite turf-stack.

This scene had received all attention from Twm, who had recognized in the

despotic horseman, his late dearly-remembered friend, Dio the devil. He

suspected Dio’s intentions and prepared forthwith to take part in some

approaching business in which his presence had not been reckoned upon.

He asked the timorous old cottager if he possessed such a thing as a

long-handled hedge bill-hook, to which the poor dotard, his teeth

chattering the while, replied in the negative. On searching the cottage,

with the assistance of his mistress, to his great vexation he could find

no weapon, but a blunt old hatchet, and a rusty reaping hook.

While they were yet seeking, Twm’s ear, sharpened to the utmost by the

excitement and impending danger, heard another horse approaching, his

heart caught fire at the sound, and with almost fierce vehemence he

called to the people of the cottage, “Give me some weapon in the name of

God! to defend you and myself from having our throats cut;” but it only

increased their terror and confusion.

As he still spoke, there stopped opposite the cottage, a lady on a

beautiful white horse, and the horseman darted forward from behind the

turf-rick, and producing pistols demanded her money. The lady protested,

in the most piteous and earnest tone, that she had accidentally left her

purse behind and must be indebted to a friend at Llandovery, should she

fail to meet her husband there, for some small change.

A momentary thrill, mysteriously strange and unaccountable, overcame our

hero, as he caught a view of the lady’s face, and recognized one that he

felt certain he had seen before; and when, or where, he could not

recollect; and the enquiring thought was checked in its birth by the

consideration of her present danger. “I’ll not be disappointed for

nothing,” cried the ruffian, “Dio the devil is not to be fooled, and my

pretty lady of Ystrad Feen, I have depended on a good booty from you

to-day, so that unless in two minutes you strip, and give me every

article in which you are clothed, a pistol bullet shall pass through your

fair and delicate body.”

The fair horseman begged for consideration, and promised a liberal reward

for any mercy shown to her. But the scoundrel laughed scornfully in her

face, and cocked his pistol, on which she uttered a loud scream and

fainted, when he immediately approached to dismount, strip, and rifle

her.

Our hero whose blood was boiling with honest indignation, now started up

from behind the lady’s horse, and struck the highwayman an astounding

blow on the temples, with a stout hedge-stake grasped with both hands,

and repeated that delicate treatment till it brought the desperado

senseless to the ground. After the first terrible blow, confused as he

was, he instinctively presented his pistol at random, but Twm struck him

heavily on the extended arm, which caused it to fall like a withered oak

branch smote by the thunderbolt.

In a few minutes the lady began to recover under the kind and attentive

treatment of the old woman, who bathed her face with water. How Twm was

rewarded by the deeply grateful expression on her countenance! Truly he

had delivered her from peril, but into what a difficulty had he brought

himself! He was in love; over head and ears. The fair one appeared to

be still in dread of other dangers, but Twm, in the gentlest manner,

assured her of her entire safety, and that he would have the happiness of

conducting and protecting her to Llandovery, where he intended to bring

the highwayman dead or alive, and deliver him, with an account of the

whole affair, to the magistrate.

Poor Twm! The lady praising his courage, informed him that she was the

wife of Sir George Devereaux, and that her husband would not allow his

services to pass without pecuniary reward. Poor Twm! in love with

another man’s wife, and that man with an aristocratic handle to his name.

“For my own part,” continued she, “as I assured the merciless highwayman,

I am at present without my purse, having left it accidentally at the

house of a poor sick person, whom I relieved, and stayed with many hours

this morning, by which delay I have missed hearing the sermon preached

to-day by the Rev. Rhys Prichard.”

Twm declared he did not in the least feel himself entitled to any reward;

sufficient for him was the approval of so beautiful and amiable a lady;

but that he had another gratification in the action he had performed, as

it was his fortune to have punished the man who had once stopped him on

the highway and robbed him of his little all. Our hero felt quite sure

he had seen the lady before, and in endeavouring to remember where, he

fell into a silent reverie; from which, however, he was suddenly roused

by the loud groaning of his wounded captive.

The fears of the old man had driven him beneath the rickety old bedstead,

and no threat nor offer of reward could induce him to leave his retreat,

where he lay exclaiming, “Oh Lord! oh dear! I shall surely have my

throat cut.” The lady of Ystrad Feen, however, alighted and lent an

active hand in binding the thief, still insensible, with old halters

contributed by the fat woman of the cottage, who also gave all possible

assistance; so that with their united aid Twm soon got him across his own

horse, like a sack of barley, and secured him by tying him neck and heels

under the horse’s belly. Our elated hero leaped into the saddle, and

rode side by side with the lady of Ystrad Feen, and conversing freely

with her, no longer embarrassed with his former bashfulness, till they

reached Llandovery.

The good people of the town were just leaving Llandingad church, and were

considerably astonished with what they saw, and Twm and his fair

companion were soon surrounded by a large and curious crowd. Sir George

Devereaux, a ruddy and hearty fox-hunting Baronet, came up and assisted

his lady to alight, Mr. Rhys the curate approached Twm, and each in a few

minutes was in possession of the whole story. The baronet eagerly

grasped our hero by the hand, and assured him of his protection and

favour to the utmost of his power; declaring at the same time that no

possible reward could equal his deserts or repay his services.

All were delighted to hear of the defeat and capture of Dio the Devil,

as, with very few exceptions, the farmers of that district had suffered

from the highwayman’s depredations, and a subscription was immediately

raised, to reward the captor; so that our hero was soon in possession of

a sum of no less than ten pounds, in addition to five more that the

county awarded.

Twm and Mr. Rhys received an invitation to dinner for the following day,

at Ystrad Feen, where Sir George promised them good entertainment, and

added that they would decide in what manner our hero’s gallant service

could be best repaid. As for Dio the Devil, when the constables advanced

to unloose him, it was discovered that he was dead. “Dead as a fox

within the jaws of Juno!” exclaimed Sir George, as the lifeless robber

fell heavily on the ground, amid the crowd of spectators.

CHAPTER XXIV.

TWM remains at Ystrad Feen. The vicar of Llandovery. A famous run with

the hounds. An enthusiastic hunter’s leap.

Twm took up his abode, for the time, at a tavern recommended by Mr. Rhys,

where, being decidedly the hero of the day, he was surrounded by a large

company, all anxious to minister to the bodily wants of so brave a

fellow, and wishful to hear the details of his desperate encounter with

the famous robber, from the lips of Twm himself. Cautioned by the worthy

curate, however, his potations were rather limited; and urging his

fatigue as an excuse for retiring, he soon left his admirers, and slept

on a bed of roses.

At an early hour Mr. Rhys awoke Twm, and told him that they were invited

to breakfast with the Rev. Rhys Prichard, who had expressed a desire to

see the brave young man that had captured the highway robber. This

invitation was the more acceptable to Twm, as he was exceedingly anxious

to see so celebrated a character as the vicar of Llandovery; though no

less for his pious than his poetical celebrity, and more especially the

association of his name with his own family calamity, in the death of his

son Samuel, poetically called the “Flower of Llandovery,” at the

murderous hands of the young men of Maes-y-velin, as before related.

Twm was desirous to change his country suit for something better, and

commenced negotiations with Mr. Rhys, for the purchase of one of the

latest clerical cut from him. The worthy curate, however, cut him short,

and generously presented him with one a little the worse for wear, that

as the mass of mankind were apt to judge by external appearances, an

appropriate garb would aid even a man of merit in making a favourable

impression.

The house of the vicar of Llandovery was among the best in the town; a

well built strong mansion, distinguished from all others by a neat small

cupola on the top, for a bell, to call the boys to school. Twm and Rhys

waited in the breakfast parlour about half an hour, filling up the time

by noticing and remarking on the well-waxed oaken floor and furniture,

that, with the prints of some of the English martyrs, with which the room

was hung, gave it something of a gloomy appearance; and in skimming over

some dusty old volumes of divinity, till the clock struck six.

The worthy vicar received his visitors with a few brief but courteous

sentences, in which he quietly yet earnestly expressed his gratification

at their presence. Breakfast was preceded by prayers; after which came

in bowls of milk and hot cakes, with cold meat, butter and cheese, and

ale. Twm looked at his venerable host with awed reverence. This eminent

character was of a tall, stately figure; his hair white as wool, his face

pale, and rather long, with a countenance beaming with sedate benignity.

He regarded Twm for some time with silent attention, and afterwards made

a few enquiries respecting his recent feat, which when answered, he

indulged in some pious ejaculations on the fortunate event.

Their host compared the physical capacity and appearance of Twm to the

well developed and robust figure of Dio the Devil, and referred to the

scriptural records of the combat between David and Goliah; strictly

charging the fortunate youth to take no credit to himself for the

achievement, as he was but an humble instrument in a mighty hand, and for

a special purpose unknown to the actors of the scenes themselves.

All justice having been done to the good things before them, grace was

said, and Twm received some excellent advice from the celebrated divine,

who placed twenty shillings and a copy of his “Welshman’s Candle” in the

hand of Twm; and after shaking him warmly by the hand, he saw the pair to

the door and bade them farewell.

In an hour or so afterwards, Rhys and Twm prepared for departure to

Ystrad Feen, the latter mounting the noble hunter which Dio the Devil had

so lately bestrode in all his arrogant pride. The road was entirely over

the mountains, through diversified scenery of much interest. At times it

ran above the edge of a deep ravine; at others, hills overtopped them, in

peaks of various, fantastic forms; till a length succeeded the tame and

flat moorland, abounding with wild ducks and various aquatic and mountain

fowl. These scenes were soon left behind, and others of a different

character succeeded, tamed to softer beauty by the indefatigable hand of

industrious man.

Passing through a small ravine at the base of a well-wooded hill, they

emerged suddenly upon a view which embraces the rural chapel of Boiley,

the ornamented estate of Ystrad Feen, the hill of Dinas, and a glimpse of

the river Towey. The ancient mansion of Ystrad Feen they found most

romantically situated, terminating a sloping descent from the mountain,

with a roaring alpine brook falling headlong through its rocky bed, at

the back; while the high conical hill of Dinas stood, an object of

singular beauty, in front; and the background was occupied by an almost

endless perspective of forest, vale and mountain.

They entered the farm-yard, which occupied one side of the house, in

which stood several large elms and oaks, and, here and there, a huge

hollow yew, that associated well with the antique appearance of the

house.

They were expected, for the baronet and his lady were awaiting their

arrival, and hastened, as they appeared, to give them hearty welcome. It

wanted about a couple of hours to dinner time, which interim Sir George

wished to fill up by introducing them to his fox-hounds and pigs, while

his lady urged the superior attractions of the lawn and flower-garden, to

the terror of the sporting baronet, who seemed to consider her taste not

only questionable, but absolutely depraved. Sir George shook his comical

head in a comical manner, inferring a protest against their choice, when

the young men decided on seeing the garden first, and the kennel and

pig-stye after; a preference that seemed to involve an absolute inversion

of the order of things, apparently, to his thinking.

What a contrast there was between the lady of Ystrad Feen and her lord

and master! Twm’s attention was almost entirely taken up with the sweet

and unaffected grace of the lady; but we must be impartial and take some

notice of her husband. Sir George was a spare and somewhat tall figure,

the erectness of which was frequently disturbed by what at first appeared

some constitutional fidgetiness—a habit of perpetually drawing up, and

letting down, his right shoulder; while he conversed in jerking short

sentences, never standing still an instant when speaking. These

peculiarities, at first sight, gave him the appearance of a man afflicted

with St. Vitus’s dance; and affected the observer with the repulsive

sensations endured by those who, from delicacy towards the afflicted, aim

to conceal their notice of a personal blemish or deformity.

But this strange habit had its source in a fox-hunting accident that

occurred in a chase wherein Sir George, in the heat and ardour of the

pursuit, leapt down a terrific precipice in which the fox had sought

cover. His noble hunter, named Dare-devil, was killed by the achievement

of this feat, his own neck nearly broken, and his shoulder so dislocated

and otherwise injured, that no surgical skill could cure him of the

nervous affection which caused the continual restlessness alluded to.

Sir George, however, gloried in his dearly-bought triumph, and boasted

like a veteran detailing the particulars of a famous battle in which he

had figured; winding up his narrative with—“glorious and remarkable

hunt—the world never saw the like—and I was solus in at the death—in a

hell-hole that none but myself dared approach.”

His face was no less curious than his figure. He was rather small

featured, with very light blue eyes; indeed so exceedingly light that

they were often described as literally white; and when he gazed, with the

wildness of imperfect consciousness, caused by indulgence in the potent

cup, might give no inapt idea of Pygmalion’s marble statue, on its first

wild stare when imbued with inward light and life; although his merry

neighbour, Squire Prothero, summed their description up, less

classically, as the nearest approach to a boiled salmon’s eyes, or the

lack-lustre dullness of a couple of baked gooseberries. His face was

fair, and much freckled in the upper part; while a shock head of

closely-curling red hair, and white, or rather sandy eyebrows, concludes

the description of this strange piece of eccentric manhood.

The walk through the garden was by no means to his taste. He did not

understand flowers, and could not restrain his expression of impatience,

protesting that there was nothing worth seeing there. “Besides,” added

he, with the gravity of a philosopher who aimed to eradicate a vulgar

error, and instil a superior principle, “flowers are bad—a great

evil—showy nuisance—bank of violets often a snare to the hounds—like

beauty to the boy, to lure him from the paths of duty;—but come and see

my kennel—finest dogs in the world—no false charms there—they say truth’s

hid in a well—all a mistake—she’s hid in the snouts of my

fox-hounds;—strong as bulls, and swift as hell—a cannon ball’s a fool to

them—deadly as the doctor wherever they rush—but what’s your name, my

young Cæsar of the Welsh mountains, hey?”

Twm was too busy with the lady of Ystrad Feen to listen to the rattling

tongue of Sir George, and Mr. Rhys hastened to give the story of Twm’s

parentage, dwelling with much emphasis on the cruel neglect of his

father, Sir John Wynn of Gwydir; and, in conclusion, he said his friend’s

name, derived from his humble mother as well as from his stately father,

was Thomas ap John a Catty, familiarized into Twm Shon Catty; but that

which he intended to adopt, and desired to be known by, was Thomas Jones.

The promenade had, in the fox-hunter’s opinion, been unreasonably

prolonged, and he hailed with delight their approach to his sanctum

sanctorum, the dog-kennel, where he anticipated the delight of his

visitors, when—how shall we express the intensity of his

disappointment!—a voice struck on his ear, like the croak of the bird of

ill-omen with the intelligence of “dinner waits!”

Fain would he have horse-whipped the intruding messenger, and expatiated

with his friends on the absurdity of eating dinners, when the sublimer

pastime of entering a kennel of fox-hounds was offered to them. But

before he found words to his purpose he had the mortification to see his

auditors accompany his lady wife into the house, where, musing on their

questionable taste, he followed them.

We need not dwell on the delicacy of the viands, the rarity of the wines,

the jocularity of Squire Prothero, the laughing magistrate, who dropped

in and joined them after dinner; the beauty and fascination of Miss

Meredith, the lady’s companion, who almost made a conquest of the heart

of poor Rhys—and, above all, the captivating sweetness of our heroine,

the young hostess! and other interesting details. But we must find space

to say that a short hunt was got up, contrary to usual custom, in the

evening, to save the baronet from dying of chagrin for his failure of

exhibiting his animal treasures to his guests before dinner.

A young fox being started, our hero acquitted himself so amazingly to the

satisfaction of his host by the most daring feats of leaping and yelling

out, in the fox-hunter’s strain, “yoy, yoy, hark forward, wind him Juno!”

and many other such expressions, that Sir George in the ecstacy of his

feelings almost wept in the contemplation of such a promising genius,

vowing that a year’s tuition under his first whipper-in would make him a

truly great man, and a fit companion of princes. Grasping his hand with

the tenacity of a blacksmith’s vice, he vowed that from that moment he

had engrossed his name upon his heart, high on the list of his most

choice friends.

Sir George was not one who limited his friendship to profession only;

and, having learned from Twm his position in life, he became desirous to

aid him permanently, and put him on the road to fortune, knowing right

well that if he had only a glimpse of it, that he was wide awake enough

never again to lose sight of it. He lost many nights’ rest in striving

to settle this knotty point, and at last determined that he should live

with him on the footing of a friend; indeed so necessary had he become to

him in his hunts, that he at length declared it was impossible to part

with him.

Thus, as an inmate of Ystrad Feen, Twm spent some of the happiest days of

his life, for the best part of this, and the following year. Alternately

hunting with the baronet and reading with his lady, who called him her

hero, and made him an absolute show lion among her friends, Twm could not

but feel this, as a remarkable contrast to the wretched life passed at

the house of Morris Greeg.

Twm also enjoyed many happy hours with his staunch friend Rhys, at the

houses of the surrounding rural potentates, where, on account of his

brave reputation, and for his ready wit, so unsparingly lavished by him

wherever he went, he speedily became a favourite. We shall close this

somewhat long chapter with the relation of one of these adventures which

gave universal satisfaction to his friends, and became the subject of

remark and wonderment for many a year.

Llandovery was just at this time honoured by a visit from a London buck,

who, thoroughly convinced of the utter darkness and benighted state of

that retired district, had charitably come to reside amongst the

miserable inhabitants thereof, that they might know and understand what

civilization meant, as evinced in his own proper and illustrious person.

He took a very ungracious way of teaching the important fact, for he did

nothing but boast of the immense superiority of everything appertaining

to his glorious self, and depreciate that which belonged to others.

Mr. Tomkins (that was his euphonious title) insisted that his gun, his

fishing tackle, his boots, the cut of his coat, and everything that was

his, was better than those belonging to any body else. But if there was

one object above all others that engrossed his volubility, it was the

praise of his horse; daily did he ring the changes on his wonderful

animal, his feats, his beauty, blood, and pedigree, at every house where

he visited.

One day after dinner at Ystrad Feen, in company with the baronet, Squire

Prothero, our hero, and the ladies, he rudely asserted the superiority of

his own horse to any in that country, when both our baronet and the

squire seemed nettled at his disparaging remarks, which, had he not been

his guest, it is probable Sir George would have resented.

He offered to wager fifty pounds that his horse should surpass the best

of theirs in running or leaping, be the given feat what it might. Great

and gratifying was their surprise when our hero, with much emphasis cried

“done!” Adding, “I have a mare of no very splendid exterior that shall

perform a feat, with myself on her back, that you and your boasted hunter

dare not follow for your lives.”

“Done! for fifty pounds,” cried the London buck; “I’ll back him for a

hundred, without knowing what he is at,” exclaimed the baronet; “And so

will I,” roared and laughed the excited Squire Prothero. With unusual

alacrity up rose all four, bent on having the bet lost or won instanter.

“Now hasten all together up the hill towards Craig Ddu, and I will be

with you in the cracking of a whip,” said Twm, as he hurried off in

another direction. The two neighbours looked at each other, and wondered

what would be the upshot of this adventure; but, having all faith in Twm,

they attended the boastful Londoner to the place appointed.

The summit of Craig Ddu (the Black Rock) was soon reached, where they

waited Twm’s arrival. The town-bred buck expressed impatience at the

delay; adding with great complacency, “I intend, gentlemen, to teach this

youngster a lesson that he will not forget as long as he lives.” “Ho,

ho, ho!” laughed the portly Squire Prothero, “take care that he does not

teach you one!” Scarcely were these words uttered when our hero appeared

among them; but what was their dismay, and the sneers of his antagonist,

when they beheld him mounted on a sorry old blind mare, scarcely worth a

dozen shillings!

“You’ll do as I do?” asked our hero, addressing the Londoner, “or forfeit

fifty pounds?” “That I will, and something more too!” cried the buck,

vauntingly, “in which case the forfeit of that sum will be yours.”

“Agreed!” replied Twm; and gradually facing his animal towards a rising

sward or ditch, that had been raised to prevent the cattle from falling

over the almost perpendicular side of a deep ravine; “Now for it then,”

cried he, imitating the sound of a trumpet, and spurring his sorry jade,

“neck or nothing for the fifty pounds!” and at the word the blind mare

reached the ditch, and obedient to the spur and rein, sprung over, and

was out of sight in an instant.

“Good God, he has gone to a sure death!” cried Prothero; the stout heart

of the baronet (accustomed as he was to such mad freaks,) seemed to have

leapt to his throat and choked his utterance, as he expanded his singular

white eyes in a chalky stare towards the spot of his disappearance. The

party rode forward, and, with the most thrilling anxiety looked down the

precipice.

Down at the bottom of the ravine, lay the poor old mare, evidently having

concluded a hard life by an equally hard death. But they had no time for

sympathy with the unfortunate beast; they were too anxious about its

daring rider to waste much consideration on it. Their phrenzied eyes at

length rested on the object of their search; scarcely six feet beneath

their standing place lay the redoubted son of Catty, sound in wind and

limb!

The baronet yelled a terrific _view halloo_ that made the old rocks echo

with his dissonance, and the kind-hearted old Prothero was so over-joyed

at his safety that he actually failed to laugh. Our hero, who had

dexterously thrown himself off at the critical instant that the mare

sprung over, and fell, as he had calculated, on a projecting ledge, which

was thickly covered with a mass of heath and long grass; so that,

although rather stunned, he was but little hurt. An instant’s delay in

throwing himself off would have precipitated him to the bottom, and the

fate of the poor mare would have been his own.

Great was the delight of his friends to see him rise, and wave a

handkerchief in token of his safety, and in a few minutes he stood before

his disconcerted antagonist, who had calculated, from the appearance of

the ground, that a race was the thing in contemplation; but when the feat

here narrated took place, the pallid hue of his countenance evinced his

inward feelings. “Now, sir, it is your turn,” cried our hero, bowing

courteously to Mr. Tomkins, who looked paler and paler as he peered down

the declivity; and as his eye for a moment rested on the dead mare in the

bottom, his teeth chattered, and he turned away shuddering.

“I have no notion of such mad doings,” muttered the crest-fallen Mr.

Tomkins. “Then you lose the bet,” cried Prothero; “which I can afford to

pay, as well as any one here,” replied the Londoner, in a tone of haughty

sulkiness, as he witnessed the applause bestowed on our hero by the

admiring baronet and his friend the squire.

Mr. Tomkins rightly arguing that he had lost caste by this little

transaction, had sense enough to leave the district and take his

departure for town, dispensing with the ceremony of bidding farewell to

any of those country friends, of whose hospitality he had so often

partaken.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE Land of Dreams. Twm’s journey to London. A bet upon a bull. Ready

Rosser outwitted, and Squire Prothero’s fright.

When Twm had any leisure or reflection, his mind was occupied with but

one subject, so that at this period of his life he could hardly be said

to be a man of many ideas. This remark applies only to the time when he

indulged in retired country rambles, or when he was in the solitude of

his own apartment. Confront him with any specimen of male humanity

extant, and his faculties returned in all their natural vigour, and

success generally attended his enterprises.

As before related, the moment he first set his eyes on the remarkable and

pleasing countenance of the lady of Ystrad Feen, he felt a conviction

that it was not the first time that he experienced the pleasurable

sensation that then pervaded his whole soul. His continued intercourse

with her during his prolonged stay stubbornly maintained his first

conviction that they had met before; but when, where, and under what

circumstances, he could not discover. At length, when the mind had been

repeatedly fatigued with these vain tuggings at the nerve of memory,

although compelled by exhaustion to give up the point, it was only for a

season, to be resumed on the first opportunity for putting his powers of

recollection again into practice.

After analyzing these mental enquiries with the closest precision, he

came to the successive negative conclusions, that he could not possibly

have seen her either at Graspacre Hall, at Inco Evan’s, nor, most

assuredly, at the cottage of his mother. “Then, where on earth else?”

muttered he, wiping his moist brow, which was a little fevered by the

intensity of his labours in this mental research. Determined, for his

future ease, to dismiss the thought altogether, he answered himself

peevishly, “nowhere, surely, but in the land of _dreams_.”

Yes, indeed, this chance thought provided him with the key so long

sought, to his remembrance of the face and form of his charming hostess,

for scarcely had he uttered those talismanic words than they acted on his

memory like Ithuriel’s spear;—the sentence fell like a flash of fire on

the touch-spring of the whole mystery, and flashed in full effulgence,

illuminating fully his long-darkened powers of recollection!

Little had he thought of putting to himself what appeared so vain a

query, whether it was at Morris Greeg’s home of misery that he had beheld

the never-to-be-forgotten face of beauty and intellect—but at length he

traced it! And, of all places in the world, the most unfitting to be

associated with it—the murky hay-loft of Cwm y Wern Ddu: in short

mysterious still as the inference gave out, Lady Devereaux, in every

glance, feature, and movement, was indeed the spirit of his glorious

vision—the lady of his dream!

Thoroughly absorbed by this unexpected and most interesting discovery, he

forgot altogether the lapse of time, and was startled by the sudden

appearance of Sir George by his bed side. The friendly baronet inquired

with much concern, if he was unwell, as they had been waiting breakfast

for him full half an hour. On being assured of the contrary, and that he

had only overslept himself, Sir George hastened down with the glad

tidings, as the whole family feared the consequence of his temerity on

the day before.

Our hero was soon among them, tendering his apologies, and parrying the

graceful banterings and rallyings of the ladies, who rated him playfully

for a sluggard and a lie-abed. The baronet soon recurred to the

punishment inflicted by our hero on the intolerable vanity and

presumption of the London buck. A knock at the parlour door checked the

current of his discourse, and, on permission being given, in walked that

little comical undersized fellow, familiarly called Tommy Thomas, the

second whipper-in, with a face of ruefully long dimensions.

After a very worshipful bow, accompanied with many a bodily turn and

twist, while his fingers wandered among the regions of his head and his

whiskers, it turned out that honest Tom Thomas came to report a

calamitous visitation that had befallen this very respectable house.

During this worthy functionary’s absence at Llandovery, yesterday, (of

course his stay was not prolonged by his curiosity to examine the quality

of the different taps there!) he said that some audacious villain had

been to the stable, and stolen all the food which he had purchased for

the hounds.

“What food—what food?” inquired the baronet; for everything was important

to him that was in any way connected with his darling hounds. “Why look

you now, I wass py an oil plind mare for ten shillings and two quarts of

beer from a travelling packman that wass sold off his goots, and not want

her agen; so I did pargen for hur, see you now, and wass paay for hur,

and dit put hur in te stapples, for foots for te hounce; and look you

now, some loucey peggar wass steal hur.”

All the party except the baronet laughed heartily at this intimation; but

our hero soon relieved both Sir George and honest Tommy Thomas, by

informing the latter that his bargain was to be found at the bottom of

the Craig Ddu ravine; on which the poor fellow joyfully withdrew. Twm

immediately called him back, and astonished him with the present of a

broad piece, in company with divers smaller silver coins, in

acknowledgment that his precious bargain had enabled him to win his bet

from the Londoner.

This was another piece of information for the baronet and his friends,

and the cause of another explosion of triumphant laughter, at the expense

of their late nuisance, the bragging Mr. Tomkins,—Sir George declaring

that he had repeatedly thought of asking the question as to how he had

possessed himself of the wretched animal; and now the mystery was

amusingly explained.

One long winter’s morning, when the weather was so stormy as to forbid

all hope of being able to stir out for the day, the baronet broke an

unusually protracted silence by saying, “Mr. Jones, I have a favour to

ask you.”

“Glad in my heart,” replied Twm, “for some change to make any return for

the favours I have received.”

“Fiddle-de-dee with your favours! you talk like a mountainer, lad,” cried

Sir George; “balance against us—owe thee much—Joan’s life—thy merry

company; but how the devil to part with thee!—joy to thee, this

London—death to me—no fox-hunting, all smoke and devilment!”

Lady Devereaux came out and explained that Sir George had a pressing

necessity which he had long put off, of sending to London a considerable

sum, due to a certain Mr. Martyn, being the last instalment of the

purchase-money for some land bought of him by our baronet.

Having just received an application for the cash, Sir George was startled

to find how much time had elapsed in the delay caused by his aversion to

going personally to London; for nothing less would do in those days,

except by a trusty messenger. “Thou’rt a lad of mettle, Twm, head as

well as heart,” resumed Sir George—“arms to fight, and legs to run—roads

full of thieves—can’t fight them all—out-wit them!”

Twm was at no loss to discover that the baronet was loth to leave his

family residence, his fox-hunting, and his neighbours’ society, to

encounter the perils and discomforts of a journey to the metropolis, and

that he was wishful that Twm should go there as his representative, and

accordingly he declared himself ready to commence his journey whenever

Sir George might please.

“Let us have a little fine weather first,” replied his engaging hostess,

“and in the meantime we will make the necessary preparations for your

departure.”

Our hero gazed on her animated friendly face, with an admixture of the

romantic gallantry of the knights of old, and the religious veneration of

a devotee towards his patron saint; for he felt that his fate was somehow

mysteriously connected with her influence, and never forgot that she was

the spirit of his glorious vision, the lady of his dream.

Squire Prothero’s hearty laugh disturbed somewhat these gentle

reflections. He had just bought a bull and hired a servant, and was in

high glee at what he considered the accomplishment of a favourable

bargain. The bull, he said, was a large and glorious white creature of

the Herefordshire breed, and the man a small black one, of the true

Cardiganshire runt description; but cunning as a fox, and keen as a kite.

A fellow, the worthy squire said, who was proverbially known in the

neighbourhood of Aberteivy for his exceeding shrewdness, by no other

cognomen than Ready Rosser.

Twm chuckled inwardly at his recollection of the swain whom he had

outwitted at Cardigan; and, in the hair-brain spirit that often possessed

him, longed to break a lance with this worthy once more. As robbing the

fields and hills was the prevalent villainy of the period, and as

Prothero, as well as some of his neighbours, had been a considerable

loser in numerous instances, he was the more elated with his present

acquisition. “I have now,” quoth he, with the usual accompaniment of a

hearty laugh, “a guardian for my ox and my ass, my bull, and my bulwarks,

and I defy the most cunning thief in the country to ferret away my live

things from the custody of Ready Rosser of Aberteivy.”

“Well, I’ll undertake to walk off with your bull, in spite of Ready

Rosser, if you’ll leave it out three nights, let him do what he pleases,”

said Twm, with a confident air.

“Done!” roared the merry Prothero, with a loud ho, ho! that shook the

room; but recollecting himself, he added—“but hark ye, my buck of bucks;

my bull shall not be left out to starve of these cold winter nights; he

shall be secured within the shelter of the cow-house, and if thou canst

abduct him from thence, within the three days and nights, welcome shalt

thou be to his carcase, and twenty pounds to reward thy cleverness.”

“Done!” cried the baronet, “and I’ll pay forty pounds for him if he

fails.”

“Remember, three days and three nights is the time given,” cried Twm, “as

it will take two to get all in train.”

The squire lost no time in communicating his wager to the members of his

household, and putting them on their guard. “Now mind,” he exclaimed,

“our friendly antagonist is a sharp fellow, and you must sleep with your

eyes open during the next three days. Look out, Ready Rosser.”

The worthy thus addressed merely laughed at the impudence of any one that

could venture on such a bet. The emphasis which Twm laid upon the period

of three days was merely a _ruse de guerre_ of his, to throw his

opponents off their guard, as he fully intended commencing operations

soon as darkness came on.

The snow was thick on the ground; therefore, as the nearest approach to

invisibility, our hero arrayed himself in a white frock and a cloth cap

of the same colour, and sallied forth at eight o’clock in the evening, on

a march of observation. Having arrived at Llwyn-mawr, the residence of

Prothero, crossing the garden hedge, he coolly leaned over the gate, and

listening to the squire and his party in the adjoining farm yard heard

the whole plan of defence, as laid down by that skilful Cardiganshire

engineer, Ready Rosser. The white bull the hero of the present wager,

had been placed in his stall for the night, the door of the cow-house

duly locked; and now the whole party of farm servants, under the command

of Rosser, were busily employed by lantern light in forming the outward

fortification.

In the first place, four harrows were laid one upon the other, across the

entrance to the cow-house; on the upper harrow was placed a heavy roller,

then a new implement in Welsh farming, and beside it two ploughs; the

whole being surmounted by a sledge, used in those days for a harvest

cart. To make this sledge, which was placed across the ploughs and

roller, still more unmovable, Rosser had it heaped with hay, duly trodden

down, carefully, as if intended for the foundation of a rick. His last

stroke of masterly management was to suspend to one of the shafts of the

sledge a large bell, which the squire, at the request of vicar Prichard,

had procured from Bristol, to ornament the dome of his school, and to

call the boys to their meals and studies. Rosser shrewdly remarked that

any movement of these barricades, would be announced by its peal in the

night.

By nine o’clock the whole party, including, the squire, were wrapt in

sound slumber, and the field was open to the operations of our hero, who,

in the meantime had returned to Ystrad Feen, and brought back from thence

the tools that he required for the purpose. These consisted of an iron

crow-bar and a saw, a bag containing something, and little Tommy Thomas

for his _avante courier_, or look out, in case of surprisal. Twm had

observed that the cow-house was formed of two pine-ends, substantially

built of stone, while the back and front, were on planks, nailed across

horizontally. The cunning Rosser had effectually fortified the front,

where there was a door, but entirely neglected the back, where there was

none; considering perhaps that the duck-pool or horse-pond, which ran

parallel the length of the lowly edifice, would prove a sufficient

rear-guard. But greatly did that scheming wight err in his estimation of

the ingenious daring of his adversary; for although three feet deep,

black, and full of frogs and their spawn, it was through the middle of

this domestic lake, our Twm, shouldering his crow-bar, made his way to

commence the attack, while Tommy Thomas occupied his post of observation

on the top of an old blighted oak stump.

To the great satisfaction of our hero, his onset was auspicious; he

succeeded without noise in wrenching off numerous planks, and in a short

time entered the building. He made up at once to the grand object of his

enterprise, and approached the mighty brute with deference; then patting

him kindly with a patronizing air, he called familiarly by his name,

which he had learnt was Bishop, from the fair resemblance perhaps, of his

outward bull to the outward man of the lord of the lawn sleeves; or, in

his dignified rotundity, to some specimens of that princely priest of our

favoured land. Bishop having sniffed and snorted a little, wondering at

the temerity of the two-legged animal that so daringly sought his

acquaintance treated his advances as due homage, and resumed his easy

contemplative posture, like a politic Autocrat that condescendingly gives

audience to a loyal peasant. Guessing the yearning of his mighty mind,

and no less mighty carcase, our hero presented him with a small bag of

oats, to conciliate his good-will, which being graciously received, gave

goodly omen of the magnanimity of his disposition.

Twm now proceeded to his task of enlarging the opening for his egress.

After having heaved up, with his crowbar, two of the uprights which

formed the ribs of the old cow-house, from which he had removed its

sinews the planks, just as he was enjoying his conquest over his worst

obstructions, he found to his dismay, that he had reckoned without his

hostess, as Lady Fortune claimed more from his exertions than he thought

due. A strong square heart-of-oak piece of timber ran along,

horizontally, the whole length of the building, which nothing but a saw

could remove. As the bull, Bishop, was too lordly and unaccustomed to

diminish his lofty altitude by dropping on his knees, like the meek

docile camel, and too stiff and heavy to spring like the active dog,

nothing remained but to remove in some way, the stout wood that formed a

bar across his furious-looking forehead.

As he considered the noise of sawing would rouse the Philistines of

Llwynmawr, for an instant Twm’s inventive powers were at a stand; but

they soon rallied, and he how had to strike a bold stroke, that promised

anything but success, while certain failure would otherwise be his lot.

From the bag he took two pairs of top-boots which he had provided, and

drew them, one at a time, with the toes pointing backward, on the feet of

the bull, Bishop, who seemed at first modestly to decline such an unusual

honour. But as Twm was very pressing, he meekly submitted, like a

bashful maid to don her wedding robes, or like King Richard, to have

fortune buckled on his back; for he in fact endured to have his boots

corded above his knees.

Twm now took the crow-bar to the front of the house, and fixed it firmly

through an old-fashioned iron ring in the farm-house door, so as utterly

to prevent the opening of it from the inside. Fastening next a halter to

the bell attached to the sledge-shaft, he instructed Tommy Thomas to ring

and roar “fire” with all the strength of his arms and might of his lungs;

applying as he spoke, a candle to the hay on the sledge, while he

retreated to saw, amid this din, the stubborn wood that barred alike the

bull’s departure and the progress of the enterprise.

Whiz, crick, crack went the blaze! ding, dong! went the clapper of the

bell! fire, fire! roared the scare-crow voice of little Tommy Thomas;

Twm’s saw being unheard through the prevalence of these mightier sounds.

The squire was the first awakened by the unusual noise, and terrible was

the fat man’s fright on seeing the blazing pyramid that illumined the

whole house inwardly, and all over the yard, while he beheld some little

devil ringing the bell and roaring “fire!” like a sergeant major while

drilling a battalion.

The activity of a fat man in a fright is truly ludicrous. The nimbleness

of the thinnest frightened tailor that ever hid himself behind a

fishing-rod, was mere sluggishness compared to the flea-hopping trips of

Squire Prothero, although almost too large to conceal himself behind a

church, in some mountain parishes of Wales. Down stairs he rolled, ten

steps at a time, and tried in vain to open the outward door. Up he

rushed again, as if his unbreeched hams and shirted shoulders had wings

appended to them, to assist his upward flight, bellowing “fire! fire!”

till hoarseness silenced him.

Just as he lost his voice, he found a deputy for it in a broomstick, with

which he ran into the men’s room, cudgelling Ready Rosser and the rest

through the bed-clothes, till they roared a dissonant chorus to the

hoarse bass of “fire, fire!” “get up and be d—ned to you, or be fried in

your own tallow!”

Still the bell rung, and still Tommy Thomas lustily roared “fire!” Ready

Rosser, overwhelmed with fear and stupidity, proved his name to be

henceforth a misnomer, having, with the rest of the clowns, utterly

failed to open the door. Running up stairs again, they met the squire at

the top, flourishing his cudgel like a flail about their heads. In his

extremity, to give poor Rosser his due, he tried the notable plan of

rising above his troubles by climbing up the chimney; but when he had

nearly attained the top, like many other ambitious aspirants, he lost his

footing, and tumbled down to the bottom, blackened with soot, and

smarting with his bruises. At length this scene of confusion received a

turn by the adventurous daring of Gaby Snipe, a parish apprentice boy,

who, squeezing himself through a narrow casement, dropped to the ground,

and ultimately succeeded in removing the crow-bar and opening the door.

During this scene of dire confusion, Twm’s enterprise had progressed

swimmingly, and he had his worship the bull out of the cow-house, through

the horse-pond, over the snow-clad field, and into a lane that led to the

parish road, which brought them to a sheep-cot on the high mountain top,

that almost overhung the mansion Ystrad Feen. Just as he had bestowed

his precious charge within the aforesaid shelter, he was joined by little

Tommy Thomas, terribly out of breath with running and laughing. Our hero

had also his full share of laughter, daylight having now pretty well

advanced, in noting the paces of the mighty brute as he stamped it along

in his top-boots, with, the toes reversed, being the first of the family,

as he deemed, that ever was honoured with such a dashing leg and heel

trimmings.

Tommy Thomas related that on the descent of Gaby Snipe, he quitted his

bell-rope and hid himself awhile to witness the result of the outpouring

from the house. The rush was whimsical to witness, for fear, as usual,

had exaggerated the danger, and when in the yard they ran to and fro like

scared rabbits, not knowing what to do, nor what was required of them.

The hay being all consumed, and the fire self-extinguished, Ready Rosser

called out, “water, water!” which, in their confusion and imperfect state

of wakefulness, they dashed, by pailsful, at one another, till at length

a general fight commenced in the farm-yard; and when the squire came and

parted them, not one could tell how the fray began, any more than they

could account for the stirring incidents that had frightened them all out

of their senses.

CHAPTER XXVI.

PHILOSOPHY of smiles. Twm sets out for modern Babylon. New use of a

pack-saddle. A gentleman of the road, and how Twm borrowed his horse.

Laughter was the order of the morning at Ystrad Feen. Grief causes the

loss of the appetite, but mirth produced the same effect in a different

way on this particular occasion, as no one seemed to have strength nor

leisure to attack the tempting delicacies spread before them in such

profusion. Laughter, loud, strong, boisterous, hearty ringing laughter,

burst forth again and again as Twm, in the drollest manner, excited their

risibility by a relation of what had passed the preceding evening.

“A bull in boots!” chuckled the Baronet, laughing till the tears ran down

his florid countenance. “A bull in boots!” cried the lady of Ystrad

Feen, till a sweet glow diffused itself over her whole countenance,

developing, by the effort a pair of the finest dimples that ever lent

their attraction to a female face. “A bull in boots!” cried the Reverend

John David Rhys, whose excited countenance bore animated contrast to the

“pale cast of thought” that usually distinguished him, and with whom

laughter was not habitual.

“A bull in boots!” tittered Miss Meredith, with something more than a

simper, or small grin, used to exhibit a fine set of teeth (which Parson

Rhys thought peerless;) for honest, hearty, spleen-dispersing laughter,

was not voted to be vulgar in those days; nor gentility and insipidity

considered as synonymous terms.

“A bull in boots!” muttered a tall elderly gentleman with a long

saturnine nose, that seemed to curl away, half disdainfully, from the

mouth beneath it, which laughed, however, in spite of the nose, inclining

to extend itself from ear to ear, in revenge for never having so indulged

itself before. “A bull in boots!” repeated he sneeringly; “how

ridiculous! I should have as soon thought to see a pig in pattens.”

In the midst of this merriment, Tommy Thomas made his appearance, to

announce something; but catching the exclamation of “a bull in boots,”

and “a pig in pattens,” was immediately infected with the general

contagion, and laughed and snorted like a pig in a hay-field, when a

cunning cur has suddenly seized him by the buttocks. The new arrival

promised additional fun, and all were prepared to enjoy it. At length he

explained himself in a brief sentence, “Mr. Prothero is coming!”

Twm now made a hasty retreat for some unexplained purpose; and in a few

minutes the portly figure of Squire Prothero was seen in the yard,

sitting on his horse, and laughing till too convulsed to alight. The

company ran out and greeted him, while the good-natured squire co-mingled

with their mirthful peals as hearty a “ho, ho, ho!” as ever shook his

jolly fat sides.

“Laugh away, ho, ho, ho! laugh away,” cried he, “I know I look an ass,

after bragging up such a nincompoop as my fellow against this young wag

of yours. But where is he? where is the young dog? I suppose my noble

bull is slaughtered by this time.”

“Tough steaks he gave us for breakfast,” cried the baronet, “tough as an

alligator with his scales on.”

“Fine fun if he had choked you all! but never mind!” returned the squire,

“a joke is a joke, and a bet is a bet; and I have come to pay mine.”

Scarcely had he uttered these magnanimous sentiments, that proved him

worthy of the Grand Master’s chair in a society of laughing philosophers,

than the booted bull, Bishop, gravely approached, with our hero on his

back. A fresh explosion now burst from the party, to note the stately

and apparently conceited paces of the buskind king of the kine, who now

wore his boots with toes foremost, like any other gentleman; but none

laughed so heartily as Prothero himself, who seemed in raptures to find

his bull unbutchered.

“This fellow would tame a fiery dragon,” quoth he, “aye, and ride him

through the air, too, without fear, or he could never have coaxed Bishop

into such a good humour as to become a steed for him.”

The whole party now entered the house, and Prothero narrated, to their

boundless amusement, their ultimate discovery of the bull’s abduction.

Rosser and his fellows had been sent in a body to trace the foot-prints

of the bull in the snow, and recapture him if possible; but as such signs

were utterly invisible, Rosser returned in the utmost dismay, with a face

half a yard long, from the effect, he said, of a new light that had just

broken in upon him. With great solemnity, he declared his conviction

that the supposed bull was no beast at all, but the devil in disguise, as

not a print of his hoof was to be found anywhere, although four set of

human feet were traceable, backwards and forwards.

“That was no bull,” said the wise Rosser; “it was a devil which, after

kicking down the cow-house, and firing the hay with his brimstone breath,

flew away in a clap of thunder, which indeed I heard myself, as plainly

as I hear my own voice at this moment.”

“For all these abominable bounces,” quoth the squire, “I called him a

liar and a fool, when the fellow turned upon me with ‘the devil take the

bull! you didn’t think I could keep him in my pocket!’ Now the

whimsicality of the idea of a fellow’s pocketing a bull, tickled me so

much that I forgave him everything!” Another chorus of the trebles and

bass aforesaid burst out again, and, at the conclusion, the ladies

declared they had almost laughed themselves into illness.

“Never mind, fair ones, let the stay-laces crack—cut them asunder, and

give the lungs and laughter fair play!” cried the squire; closing his

period with as hearty a “ho, ho, ho!” as usually formed the climax of his

sayings and doings. In the present instance the elderly gentleman chimed

in with him, and exclaiming, “droll as ever, Prothero, but now outwitted

by a mere boy.”

“True, Sir John, (your pardon for the omission of my respects thus

long),” cried the squire, as he cordially shook his hand, “but such a boy

as our combined manhood here never met with before.”

The worthy here referred to, and before noticed as the gentleman with the

saturnine nose, was no less a personage than Sir John Price, Baronet, of

Priory House, Brecon, the highly respected father of Lady Devereaux. He

had arrived the preceding evening, about the time that Twm commenced his

attack upon the bull.

Lady Devereaux explained to her father the great and gallant services

which she had received at Twm’s hands, and her statement was made in the

most earnest and impassioned manner, as if her gratitude was as great as

on the day she was attacked by Dio the Devil, and rescued by our hero.

Sir John Price at once rose from his chair, in a way that strongly

contrasted with his usual cold and ceremonious habit, and extending his

white, diamond-ringed, aristocratic hand to Twm, assured him of his

friendship and protection in all things wherein he could serve him.

Twm would not accept the money which Prothero tendered in liquidation of

his bet. “No,” said the successful champion, “it was all for fun and

amusement, and you will allow that we have had some enjoyment out of it,

and all I ask is that, when I am far away, and you are brought face to

face with your well-prized bull, Bishop, you will think of me.”

The generosity of his sentiments met with the encomiums of all present;

and the worthy squire reluctantly consenting to receive back his bull

without fee or fine, absolutely insisted on leaving the forfeited twenty

pounds in the hands of Lady Devereaux, who received it accordingly.

Recollecting the manner in which he had been hunted from Tregaron, it was

truly gratifying to his feelings, and flattering to his pride, to hear

persons of the rank of the present company express their regret that he

was to leave them the next morning.

The following day was the one appointed for Twm’s departure to London,

and he arose with a sorrowful heart, (for he was thinking of the lady of

his dream,) to make a preparation for his departure. The baronet having

presented him with a sum of money for his expenses, insisted on his

leaving behind him, with Lady Devereaux, whatever cash he possessed, till

his return; while the lady herself, playfully promising to be a faithful

banker, threw on his neck a heavy golden chain, as her present. Twm had

often seen her wear it; and fervently kissing the splendid article,

returned it to her keeping till his return.

If anything could add to his satisfaction, it was to experience the

attention of his two fast friends, Rhys and the Squire, who even at this

early hour had hastened to bid him farewell. Right glad was he of the

opportunity of sending some cash to his mother, and to remit what he had

borrowed from his friend, Cadwgan. In the yard, he had to receive the

good wishes and parting civilities of every man and maidservant in the

establishment, particularly of the huntsman and the whippers-in, with

whom he had become an amazing favourite.

It had been concerted that his best mode of travelling _incog._ would be

on a mean horse, with a pack-saddle, and disguised as a lowly country

lad. Thus mounted and accoutred, behold him at length disappearing

through the yard-gate of Ystrad Feen; the cash and papers entrusted to

his care having been studiously concealed about his person. Although but

ill-contented with his homely harness, he found his mountain pony, like

his race in general, far better than his looks promised; so that he rode

on with a heart full of glee, proud of the honours which he had gained,

and glowing with bright anticipations of the future.

Through his native principality, his journey was interesting enough, so

we need not note the scenes, which, however charming in their rural

beauty and romantic wildness to Twm, would lose most of their attraction

in mere description. He jogged on steadily and perseveringly till he had

left Bristol behind, and he had even passed through Bath and Chippenham

before a single adventure occurred worthy of record.

Riding late one evening, between the last-named town and Marlborough, he

found it necessary to put up at a small public-house on the road-side,

distinguished by the sign of the “Hop-pole,” the obscurity of which he

considered favourable to his safety.

Having fed his beast and eaten his supper, he went immediately to bed;

and, with a view of preserving his treasure in the best manner, slept

without divesting himself of his clothes. He had slept some hours, and

day was just breaking, when he was aroused by the trampling of a horse,

and the gruff voice of a traveller whom he heard alight and enter the

house.

A strong impulse of curiosity determined him to rise from his bed; and,

as the large treble-bedded room which he occupied was over the parlour,

to which the guest was introduced, he listened, to learn whether anything

portended danger to himself. He found, to his surprise and dismay, that

he was the subject of conversation between the landlady and her guest,

whom he discovered to be no other than the very character of which he

stood most particularly in peril—a highwayman.

He had heard himself described to him by the landlady, as an uncouth

booby of a countryman from the Welsh mountains, miserably mounted on a

piece of animated carrion, for which the crows cawed as it limped along;

and what booty was to be expected from such a beggar inquired she?

“You are wrong, mistress, you are quite wrong,” cried the stranger; “from

your account I expect much from him. I have robbed more than one such,

dressed like a scarecrow, while making for London, and bearing with him

the twelvemonth’s rent of half-a-dozen of his neighbours to pay the

landlord in town. I shall be at this fellow as soon as he quits your

roof; I have no doubt but what he is a prize, and if he is, you of course

come in for shares.”

Having learnt thus much, Twm, in some trepidation, retired to his bed,

and began to consider how he should contrive, in order to preserve the

property in his possession. He rose again, thinking to escape through

the window, but found it too small to admit his egress, and therefore

gave up the idea.

As he looked out through the miserable casement, busily plotting to hatch

a scheme of deliverance, he could perceive no favourable object to aid

his purpose except a large pool on the road-side, in which he thought of

dropping his cash if he could reach it, and do the act unobserved, so

that he might recover it at his leisure.

As nothing better offered, he determined to adopt his plan immediately;

and therefore, after making a studied clattering in putting on his shoes,

he went down stairs, and called for a jug of beer and toast for his

breakfast. The freebooter did not show himself, but the landlady and her

daughter, who seemed to be in the habit of sitting up all night to

receive and entertain such guests, scrutinized our hero very closely.

The worthy hostess asked him some apparently careless questions

respecting his business in travelling the country, to which he replied he

was trying to overtake a brother pigman, who was driving their joint

charge to London.

While at breakfast, Twm’s brain showed him another project for securing

his valuables, which he considered an improvement upon the pond scheme.

To give a more clownish character to his manners, the night before, he

had carried the old pack-saddle up stairs, brought it down in the

morning, and while at breakfast sat on it before the fire, instead of a

stool.

It occurred to him that this peculiarity of his would have been

attributed to other motives, and that, no doubt, the honest inmates of

the place thought that he would not have exhibited such care for his

pack-saddle if it were not worth more than it looked. He was ultimately

convinced that they had decided that all his treasure was contained

therein.

Indeed, it was not a bad idea, for he could then sit on it all day and

make a pillow of it by night. He determined to encourage their

suspicions; accordingly, bursting a hole in the fore end of it, he called

the landlady to receive her reckoning, and in her presence, pushing his

fist into the straw cushion of the pack-saddle, he drew out several

pieces of gold, and asked her if she could give him change; but she

answered in the negative, on which he again thrust his hand into the

pack-saddle, and brought out more gold and silver intermixed; and with

the latter settled his bill, and went to the stable for his horse.

Securing all his money about his person, he mounted his Rosinante.

Having cut away the girths from the pack-saddle, he bade the landlady

farewell, and rode with all his might towards the pool, which was about a

quarter of a mile forward on the road. He soon heard the highwayman

brushing forward in his rear, with many oaths calling on him to stop, a

summons that increased our hero’s speed, till, being opposite the pond,

his pursuer overtook him.

Twm rode to the edge of the water, and threw the pack-saddle, with all

his strength, towards the centre of the pool; but in bustling to regain a

steady seat as he made towards the road, he fell headlong from his horse.

The free-booter cursed him for a Welsh fool, and with a thundering voice

ordered him to hold his horse, or he would blow his brains out,

(brandishing his pistol all the while,) that he might go into the water

to recover the booty.

Twm appeared to be frightened out of his senses, and trembled with very

visible terror as he approached to do the robber’s bidding; but no sooner

had the highwayman reached the centre of the pool, and began groping

about for the object of his search, than Twm, with one spring, mounted

his fine tall horse, and rode away with all his might.

So far all went well; but, to Twm’s unspeakable horror, the knight of the

road, finding himself thus tricked, placed his fingers in his mouth and

gave a loud whistle, on which his horse immediately stopped quite still.

Twm, in real terror, as he was within pistol-shot, roared “murder!” with

all his might; when the horse, to his great amazement, took his

exclamation of terror for a counter order, and again started into a

gallop. The freebooter repeated his whistle, and again the horse stood

still as a mile-stone: Twm reiterated “murder!” with all the power of his

lungs; and the well-taught horse instantly resumed his gallop.

Thus the highwayman’s whistle and Twm’s roaring of “murder!” had an

alternate effect on the noble animal, till at length, our hero got

completely out of hearing of the baffled robber. As he rode on

triumphantly, he sang the old Welsh pennill or stanza—{203}

“No cheat is it to cheat the cheater

No treason to betray the traitor:

Nor is it theft, but just deceiving,

To thieve from him who lives by thieving.”

As he rode into Marlborough, in the highest spirit, one of the church

chimes was playing “See the conquering hero comes!” which appeared to him

to be a singularly appropriate greeting, and which he accepted as a

personal tribute to his ingenious trickery upon the highwayman, whom, Twm

secretly hoped, had not yet got out the old pack-saddle from the pool.

How Twm laughed when he pictured to himself the rage and dismay of the

villain when he discovered its contents! That was a thought to chuckle

over and enjoy. It would extort many a boisterous “ho, ho, ho!” from old

Squire Prothero, when he should have the pleasure of giving him the

story.

He received great commendation at the inn where he stayed for the night,

when he related his adventure; and many of the inhabitants were loud in

their congratulations to the young Welshman, who had so cleverly

outwitted the English highwayman.

CHAPTER XXVII.

WATT, the mole-catcher, in a pleasant mood. Twm hears of his old love,

Gwenny Cadwgan. Tom Dorbell, and his feats. Another adventure with a

knight of the road.

Twm had reason to be satisfied with his progress on his road to London,

for he had met danger, and his wit and ingenuity had proved equal to any

emergency. But success did not make him over-confident, and consequently

careless; but, on finding himself yet seventy-four miles from his

journey’s end, he prepared for more trials of his skill and courage. He

was sent for next morning by the mayor of Marlborough, who had heard of

his adventure, and required to bring the horse with him, which he had so

adroitly won.

Many gentlemen having assembled at the entrance to the town-hall, our

hero appeared in all the pride of a conqueror, mounted on his goodly

steed; although so humbly clad, their hats were doffed, and loud shouts

of applause were immediately given. It was soon ascertained by the mayor

and the gentlemen present, that the horse was regularly bred to the road,

and instructed by a highwayman, therefore, not, as at first conjectured,

the property of any person deprived of it by one of these free-faring

gentry; consequently, his worship, with many comments on his cleverness

and courage told our hero that the horse was his own by right of

conquest; but that if he were inclined to part with it, he would give

forty pounds for it Twm directly assented; and the money was paid to him

the same morning.

Being now in want of an animal on which to continue his travel, Twm

determined to walk on to Hungerford, and purchase one nearly like the one

he had set out upon at the commencement of his journey, as he was still

of the same opinion, that the less temptation in his outward appearance

to the gentlemen of the road, the less likely were they to interfere with

him.

About three miles out of Hungerford, he saw before him a pig-drover, with

a large herd of porkers, that he alternately cursed in his ancient

British tongue, and cut up with a whip; while at intervals between these

amusing recreations he loudly sang, or roared, certain scraps of Welsh

songs. Twm’s ear was quick in recognizing the well-known voice, and he

soon stood side by side with his old friend Watt the mole-catcher. After

mutual expressions of wonder and congratulation, Twm immediately asked

him how his mother was, as well as farmer Cadwgan and his daughter

Gwenny.

Watt replied that his mother and her husband were well; but instead of

answering the latter question, enquired his adventures since he left

Tregaron. Twm, with animated vanity, ran over that bright portion of his

history, occasionally heightening the colour of events, according to the

general practice of story-tellers, from time immemorial; dwelling

particularly on his fortunate preservation of the lady of Ystrad Feen,

and the benefits which accrued to him in consequence, from the liberality

of Sir George Devereaux, whose confidential agent he then was, on

business of the utmost importance, to London.

These extraordinary events were intended by Twm to astonish the

sulky-looking mole-catcher, Watt, who was not in an impressionable mood;

but Twm, nothing daunted, still ran on, saying, in allusion to his

“friend” Sir George,—“Well, Watt, were he ten times as rich and happy as

he is, I should never envy him any thing he possessed, but one lovely

piece of property.” “And what might that be?” asked Watt. “Why,”

replied the other, “could I once forget poor Gwenny Cadwgan, which I

never can, I should envy him the possession of his charming young wife,

the beautiful lady of Ystrad Feen—the finest, the handsomest, and

cleverest woman I ever saw! and although now married to a second husband,

she is little more than one-and-twenty years of age. But I was asking of

my old sweet-heart Gwenny, poor Gwenny Cadwgan.”

“Poor Gwenny Cadwgan indeed!” echoed Watt.

The sneering manner in which the mole-catcher spoke this, alarmed our

hero; “What of her, Watt?” cried he eagerly; “is anything the matter?

tell me quickly, for Heaven’s sake!” Watt replied evasively, that great

trouble had come to both her and her father, in consequence of their

having harboured him when the hue and cry was up. That fact, he said,

was discovered a few days after his disappearance, by old Rachel Ketch,

who sold the secret to the Squire for the highest price she could get;

and would have sold her own soul on similar terms to the Devil himself.

Twm observed Watt writhing as he spoke, and struggling inwardly, with

some terrible feeling, that for awhile deprived him of utterance. He

noticed with regret the deep furrows of worldly care on his cheek, so

lately ruddy and mirthful; and thought he observed a sinister expression

in his sunken eye and trembling lips, that now were paler than his sallow

face. Fiercely resenting the closeness of our hero’s scrutiny by an

assumption of rude abruptness, he said “but why do I waste time in

talking here, when—but I must be off—good-bye!”

“But you have not told me of Gwenny and her father,” quote Twm, in

amazement at his demeanour.

“That is soon told,” replied Watt, pettishly; “the squire turned him out

of his farm, and made so many claims one sort or other, that Cadwgan was

beggared, and left him so poor that he could scarcely take a cottage for

himself and daughter. If I hadn’t let him mine, he would have had none.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Twm, “thy hovel for farmer Cadwgan and the

gentle Gwenny!”

“Why not?” replied Watt, with a lowering brow; “is he not a day labourer?

it served me _when I was one_, for many a bitter day. His daughter too,

the dainty Gwenny, she was too good for me—turned with scorn from poor

Watt the mole-catcher—but never mind! she was a bit of a sweet-heart of

thine too, Twm, I remember; but set thy heart at rest, lad, if she won’t

be mine, she will never be thine, at any rate.”

All this was uttered in a tone of bitter sarcasm, that both surprised and

enraged our hero; especially when he thus learned from his own mouth that

Watt had sought to win the affections of the fair and generous Gwenny

Cadwgan. He replied—“Well, the devil take thee when he will, for he must

have marked thee for his own, long since, or thou wouldst never have had

the impudence to court Gwenny Cadwgan!”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Watt, with a bitter snarl; “she will never be thine nor

mine! so don’t burden thy memory with one who has already forgotten thee.

Farewell! and better luck with thy next sweet-heart!” With that he

cracked his whip and drove on his herd of swine, with an air of excited

fierceness that was actually fearful to witness.

So much hurt was Twm at the bearing and conduct of Watt that he allowed

him to go without asking more questions. His sorrow to hear of the

change in the fortunes of Cadwgan and his lovely daughter, threw a heavy

cloud over his mind; and he regretted that his remittance to him, by the

hand of his friend, was so small. He felt rather relieved by the

reflection that however small the sum was, it would be deemed a

“God-send” to them under present circumstances; and at the same time

prove to friends that he was not unmindful of them, nor ungrateful for

their boundless kindness in his dark days of peril. However, he felt

somewhat embittered by the insinuations of Watt, that the fair Gwenny’s

regard for him was on the wane, if not altogether given to another; and

right glad would he have been to learn the exact bearing of the whole

affair, at which the mole-catcher’s hints but darkly hinted.

Twm was detained at Hungerford for some days, by starving weather; and

while looking about for another animal, was taken by an old pedlar, down

a green lane, to a creature of his, left there to graze. He was not a

little surprised to find it to be his own pony, left in exchange with the

highwayman, having on his back the identical pack-saddle in which he had

formerly concealed his money. Twm made a purchase of both, and the next

morning took his departure from Hungerford.