His enforced leisure at Hungerford had not been unprofitably spent, for

he had listened attentively to the conversation of the different drinking

parties at the tavern where he stayed; and found the dangers of the road

to be the general theme. The great hero of the turnpikes at this time,

was a certain knight of the road called the Gallant Glover, alias Tom

Dorbell, originally a leather-breeches maker and glover. It appeared

that he was a man who, by his shrewdness in general, as well as

particular instances of cunning, combined with his dauntless daring, had

become so much an object of admiration to those who had nothing to lose,

as of terror to the men of money, who had become the victims of his

audacity.

The following anecdote of him, told by one of these tavern worthies,

interested our worthy much, and had the effect of putting him on his

mettle, in case of an accidental meeting with him during his journey.

It seems, a gentleman’s son was taken for robbing on the highway; and as

he had been formerly pardoned, he despaired of mercy a second time. Upon

this, Tom Dorbell opened a treaty with his wealthy relatives, and

undertook, for five hundred pounds, to bring him off. It was stipulated

and agreed to, that one half of that sum be paid in hand, and the other

half when the deliverance was effected. On the trial of the young

gentleman, he was found guilty; but just as the judge was about to pass

sentence, Tom Dorbell cried out “Oh! what a sad thing it is to shed

innocent blood!” and continuing to reiterate the expression, he was

apprehended, and the judge asked him what he meant by such exclamations,

he answered,—“May it please your Lordship, it is a dreadful thing for a

man to die wrongfully; but one may see how hard-mouthed some people are,

by the witnesses swearing that this gentleman now at the bar robbed them

on the highway, at the time stated in the indictment, when, indeed, my

Lord, I was the person who committed that robbery.”

Accordingly the “Gallant Glover” was taken into custody, and the young

gentleman liberated. Being brought to trial the following assizes, to

the astonishment of the court, he pleaded not guilty. “Not guilty!”

exclaimed the judge in a voice of thunder, “did you not at the last

assizes own yourself guilty of the robbery in question?”

“I don’t know,” replied Tom Dorbell, as meek as a mouse, “how far I was

guilty then, but, upon my word, I am not guilty now; therefore, if any

person can accuse me of committing such a robbery, I desire them to prove

the same.” No witnesses appearing, the Gallant Glover was of course

acquitted.

What Twm had heard about the Gallant Glover and his achievements, warned

him that fresh trials on the road awaited him; but he was no “Bob Acre,”

and, “screwing his courage to the sticking-point,” he manfully resumed

his journey.

He had got within ten miles of Reading, in Berkshire, anxiously hoping to

reach it without disaster, when the sudden discharge of a pistol, close

to his ear, convinced him that he was in the centre of danger. Instantly

a horseman, well mounted, rode fiercely down a lane that entered the

road, and ordered him to stop and deliver in a minute, or have his brains

scattered on the hedge beside him.

“Catch a weasel asleep!” You might do that, but to surprise Twm Shon

Catty when he had reason to be on the alert, was almost impossible.

Assuming an air of clownish simplicity, he replied, “Lord bless ye

master, I ha gotten nothing to deliver but an old testament, a crooked

sixpence, and a broken fish-hook, and—and—” “And what, you prevaricating

young scoundrel!” roared the highwayman. “Why, this purse,” continued

Twm, “which uncle Timothy gave I to market for him, and pay his bills at

Reading to-morrow;” producing at the same time an old stocking, which he

had stuffed with old nails and cockle shells, in order to make a jingle.

{210} The robber made a grasp at the supposed well-stocked purse, which

Twm dexterously evaded, and flung it over the hedge into the adjoining

field, riding on; while the former instantly alighted, blustering out a

string of oaths and threats as he made his way to the field to search for

the coveted treasure.

Twm was, of course aware that as soon as the robber had discovered how he

had been tricked, that he would doubtless ride after him, and in his

rage, shoot him on the spot. As Twm’s poor pony would have no chance in

a race with the highwayman’s high-spirited charger, he determined that a

daring act, if carried out successfully, would both ensure his safety and

prove profitable to him likewise. The knight of the road, when he

alighted, had thrown his bridle over a hedge-stake; so Twm, abandoning

his pony for the second time, watched the robber into the field, crawled

along the ditch till he reached his horse, which he instantly seized by

the bridle, mounted and rode off in a hot gallop, till he got safe into

the ancient town of Reading, as the clear-toned bells of St. Lawrence

were chiming their last evening peal.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A GRACIOUS Lawyer. Twm determines to “pedestrianize” a bit. Watt’s

horrible tale. A fair bevy of lasses from Cardigan. Guilt and the

punishment.

Next morning, Twm had the horse which he had taken from the robber, cried

through the town of Reading, in the honest hope that he should find the

rightful owner. He was right in his conjecture that it would prove to be

the property of some one in that town, for a wealthy attorney claimed it,

with a considerable degree of hauteur and insolence. So far was this

limb of the law from either allowing our hero anything for the loss of

his own humble beast, or even thanking him for his instrumentality in

recovering a valuable horse, that he told him he might think himself very

lucky he was not prosecuted for its being found in his possession. Our

worthy did think himself so, and took a precipitate departure

accordingly.

Being now within eight-and-thirty miles of London, he resolved to throw

off his disguise, and walk the rest of the journey. Accordingly, he

bought a suit of clothes at Reading, in which he concealed his money and

valuables, with a pair of pocket pistols; and thus provided he resumed

his journey to the metropolis. Having walked twelve miles, he attained

the town of Maidenhead.

On a seat outside the Bear Inn, he beheld a jovial company of topers, and

in the midst of them, Watt the mole-catcher. It turned out that he had

sold his pigs without going to London, and was now sauntering from tavern

to tavern, squandering the money that was not his own. The moment he

recognized our hero, he started on his legs, and offered him his hand.

“Twm, I take shame to myself for the manner in which we met and parted

last, but I was sober then! and in my grave and sober moods all the evil

and bitterness of my heart come out; now I am rather mellow, there’s

nothing but good in me.” On being asked when he intended to return to

Tregaron, Watt ground his teeth and exclaimed—“never!” adding, “it is not

from fear of old Inco Evans, for I stayed there as long as I pleased, in

spite of him, notwithstanding my promise to the contrary. But for other

reasons Tregaron has been made too hot for me.”

The whole of the drinking party having gradually dropped off, Watt and

our hero were left alone, when the latter with much feeling asked his old

companion what was the meaning of the extraordinary change of manner, and

of character, which he perceived in him.

“I’ll tell thee, lad, what’s the meaning—it means that instead of the

frank merry fellow I was in the dear gone days, I now am—call it what you

like, but,”—cried Watt, laughing with wet eyes, “some of my dear friends

who scorn flattery, would say a d—ed rascal, and I quite agree with them.

But never mind—I belong to the strongest party after all.”

Our hero here pressed him for something of a connected account of his

adventures since he left Tregaron; on which Watt immediately assented,

and ran them over in the following off-hand strain.

“You remember, I dare say, Twm, that when you were only a child, that I

was famed throughout the village as a wit and joker; in short, that I was

the funny fellow of Tregaron, and my ambition was to retain this title.

The comical tricks and humorous saying of Watt the mole-catcher, made

mirth at every farmer’s heath, and their tables were spread with food for

me whenever I called. As I grew older, my pleasures and antipathies

acquired a stronger cast; and there were but few in our adjoining

parishes who were subject either to execration or ridicule, and dreaded

my satire and exposure.

“I formed attachments more than once among the daughters of the farmers,

whom I had frequently entertained at the social evening hearth; but

although my jests were relished, my overtures were rejected. In short, I

found that while mirth, innocence and harmless wit were my companions,

parents generally disposed of their daughters to young men of characters

directly opposite to mine—the stupidly grave, and thrifty, no matter how

knavish. My eyes were at length opened; and I found that the funny man,

however amusing as an acquaintance, was coveted by none as a relative,

but considered as a mere diverging vagabond at best. Well, thought I,

this will never do; but since gravity is the order of the day, I will be

as grave and roguish as the most successful of my fellow-men. Having

come to this conclusion, I studied knavery, that is to say, thrifty

rascality like a science.

“As the first step I went immediately to my grandmother, who had often

exhorted me to quit my sinful mirth and become serious, when I assured

her of my conversion, in token of which I threw myself on my knees, and

entreated her blessing. She afterwards took me to a puritanic chapel,

and in that assembly, where I had often pinned the skirts and gown-tails

of the elect together, the poor old doting soul in the pride of her heart

exhibited her convert to the gaze of the saints; but neglected to inform

them that I had robbed her that same evening of half the contents of her

pocket, as she lay asleep. I was not long in discovering that a sedate

aspect was a goodly mask for the most profitable villainy, and therefore

determined to wear it for life. Laughter, jest, and mirthful humour, and

all those thriftless indications of the light and harmless heart, I

abjured for ever.

“I now gave a respite to the rats and moles, and set up as a butcher at

Tregaron; and for one sheep that I bought of the farmers, I stole three,

and slaughtered them either by moonlight on the hills, or by candle-light

in my own cottage. Although I daily bettered my condition, I considered

this but a slow and creeping course of thrift; and therefore, as

conscience no longer stood in my way, I meditated some bolder way of

leaping into property at once.

“You know that wrinkled old she-usurer of Tregaron, Rachel Ketch, who

made money, Heaven knows how, and increased it by lending out to country

people, at a higher rate than city usurers dared to ask. In the

bitterness of my heart, after losing all hope of a girl, whom I had long

doated on, I went to the old Jezabel and sought her hand in marriage;

aye, and would have taken her were she ten times as loathsome, in the

anxious hope of her speedy death, and of succeeding to her golden hoards.

I strove to recommend myself by assuring her I was the most finished

scoundrel in existence; and that when gain was my object, theft, perjury,

and even murder, however hideous to silly innocents, had no power to

scare me from my pursuit. This avowal of my noble qualifications I

thought would have won her heart forever, but I was mistaken. The

keen-eyed hag, who was never seen to smile before, laughed outright at my

proposal.

“‘What! you want the old woman’s gold, master cut-throat of the muttons,

do you? to slit her weasand also, and make away with her a month after

marriage, like a troublesome old ewe;’ screamed she, as her spiteful

black and broken snags grinned defiance, and her shrill tones broke out

in laughs of mockery. I never saw mirth so damnable before! I felt

myself the butt of her ridicule, humbled and degraded; and as my anger

rose against the beldame, I resolved that since I could not wed her, to

rob her would answer my purpose full as well. Accident supplied an

opportunity; the little boys who had formerly been my favourites, and who

in their innocence failed to recognize my change of character, I found it

difficult to drive from me.

“A neighbour’s child one day asked me to lift him up to Rachel Ketch’s

thatch, to take from it a wren’s nest, which he had long watched, and

said he was sure that the young ones were on the eve of flying. It was a

winning little urchin that made the request, and I could not refuse him.

The moment that I raised him to a standing position on my shoulders, he

eagerly thrust his little hand into the thatch, and cried, ‘Dear, dear,

how cold!’ when a snake which he had felt, that had destroyed the young

birds, coiled itself round in the nest, darted out into his face, and the

youngster shrieked and fainted in my arms. I carried him home, where he

soon died of the fright, for it appeared he was not stung.

“Supposing there was a nest of these reptiles in the old rotten straw

thatch, I poked it in all directions with a long hooked stick, and at

last felt something attached to it. As I drew it forward and examined

it, to my great astonishment, I found it to be an old woollen stocking,

closely stuffed with various golden coins. Here was a discovery! I felt

myself a man for ever! The old woman was at this time in

Carmarthenshire, where she had gone to enforce her claims to certain

debts among her former neighbours; and therefore, having no fear of

detection, I pushed back the golden prize and went away, intending to

return for it at night. As I anxiously watched the hours and minutes

pass away, reflecting on my newly-acquired wealth, a raging savage spirit

of avarice so possessed me, that I determined to plunder old Rachel’s

cottage of all the money I could find.

“Night came, and with breathless haste I made an entrance through the

thatch, on the side furthest from the street, and at midnight went away

with a heavy booty, the greater part of which I buried beneath the floor

of my own cottage, determined to seek an opportunity of quitting Tregaron

for ever. Fortune seemed to favour me beyond my hopes; Squire Graspacre

having a numerous herd of fine pigs, engaged me to drive them to England,

and sell them at a good price; I have done so, and pocketed the cash, not

one farthing of which will the squire ever handle. To relate all my

rogueries since I became a grave man, would take too much of your time;

so here ends my story.”

Twm had heard Watt’s tale with sorrow and regret, and his spirits were

fast sinking below zero, when a party of Cardiganshire lasses, who were

making their annual journey to weed the gardens in the neighbourhood of

London, passed opposite the tavern door where our worthies were sitting.

With heart-touched delight, our hero recognized the comfortable and not

unpicturesque costume of his native country; and his satisfaction was

still increased when he found among the rural damsels, two Tregaron

girls; one of whom, named Martha Gwyn, was a fast friend of Gwenny

Cadwgan’s. These poor girls expressed their gladness to see their

long-lost “neighbour’s child,” as their homely but touching phrase went;

but their recognition of Watt amounted to such terror and abhorrence that

the rose of health and innocence faded on their cheeks, while their

expanded eyes were fearfully fixed on his countenance, as if something

unearthly met their stony stare.

At length they found words to say that he was charged, not only with the

robbery of Rachael Ketch’s cottage, but with murder; that the constables

were out to search for him in all quarters, and that Squire Graspacre had

sent out a man to supersede Watt in the care of his pigs.

This unexpected news, and the evident horror evinced by the fair maidens

for him, quite overcame Watt, and he showed unmistakable signs of the

fear which had taken possession of him. From Martha Gwyn, Twm learned

that poor Gwenny’s affection for him was unchanged, but it was thought,

for all that, said the candid girl, that she will be married to a

Breconshire farmer’s son, who met her in Herefordshire, when she went a

hop-picking there.

“But if Gwenny has him,” said Martha, “it will be for the sake of making

a home for her poor father.”

Twm’s generous heart prompted him to give each maiden a piece of silver;

and, having made them eat heartily of a good homely, substantial meal of

cheese and bread and ale, he dismissed them on their journey. Watt, in

great agony of mind, exclaimed—

“Oh God, where shall I fly! all my supposed security I find but a dream,

and misery alone awaits me! When I told you the tale of my enormities, I

kept back the relation of one crime—a dreadful one—which, lost as I am, I

felt averse to acknowledge, and too heart-smote with the consciousness of

its atrocity, to turn to it my most secret thought—’twas a deed of blood,

the crime of murder!

“You remember a tall, thin, skeleton-like man, generally dressed in a

suit of grey, who lived in a cottage on the mountain, in the

neighbourhood of Tregaron, known by the nickname of Stalking Simon the

Mooncalf, from his wandering by moon-light over the hills. This man was

known to be a spy, employed and paid by all the neighbouring farmers.

His habits were, to sleep all day and to spend the night on the hill,

watching to identify the hedge-pluckers and sheep-stealers. Many poor

persons who depended on their nightly excursions for fuel, while they

deemed themselves unobserved of any human being, cutting down a tree, or

drawing dry wood from an old hedge, would suddenly find themselves in the

presence of Stalking Simon. So instantaneous was his appearance, as to

startle his victims with the idea of an apparition suddenly sprung up

through the ground, as his approach was never seen till close upon them.

“‘’Tis only me, neighbour,’ would be the hypocrite’s reply, ‘searching

for my stray pony:’ but when two persons had been executed and three

transported, on his evidence, the nature of his employment became known,

and he was execrated by the whole country.

“One moon-light night, as I was skinning a fine weather, which I had

suspended and spread out on an old storm-beaten thorn, in a field

adjoining the mountain, easy in mind, and so fearless of danger, that I

whistled in a half hushed manner, as I followed my illicit occupation, a

circumstance took place that wrought a violent change in the tone of my

mind. My thoughts ran on the whimsicality of the idea of selling this

very mutton to the rightful owner, on the morrow, which was market-day,

and laughing inwardly at the thought: all at once, Stalking Simon, with a

single stride, moved from behind a mossy dwarf thorn, gray as his own

suit, and stood before me. My blood curdled with terror; but when the

old stone-hearted wretch made the old Judas-like reply—

“‘It is only me, searching for my pony,’ I knew my danger, and my terror

changed to savage ferocity against the vile informer, who had ruined so

many of my friends and neighbours. I darted on him, grasped his collar

with one hand, and with the other stabbed him to the heart.”

Watt’s tale was now ended, and he seemed to be terribly agitated at the

recollection of old Simon’s murder, and of the dreadful position into

which his crime had brought him.

“O God! what shall I do; where shall I fly?” he exclaimed, “I cannot

return, for that road leads straight to the gallows, and in London I

should be in hourly danger of being seen by somebody from the country.

Since the perpetration of this deed of blood, I have not known an hour’s

peace. Heaven is my witness, I could be content with slavery, and smile

beneath the man-driver’s whip—could strip myself and wander the world in

nakedness, or herd with beasts, to regain my former peace and innocence!

Oh, I could labour till my bones ached, and my exhausted body dropped to

the earth with fatigue, to be once more free from the keen stings of a

guilty conscience!”

Twm was but a poor comforter; for his strict ideas of justice and

retribution made him look upon Watt’s terrible agony as part of the

punishment which he was called upon to pay for the awful crime of murder.

After all, Watt’s distress was due quite as much to the fear of the

gallows, which he now saw to be in close proximity to him, as to regret

and repentance for his unwarrantable deed.

Twm hardly recognized Watt as he sat there, his face blanched with fear,

large drops of sweat rolling down his pale checks, with quivering lips

and staring eyes, all showing the effect which his knowledge of the

dreadful penalty which, from every prospect, speedily awaited him.

A grey-coated man now approaching the tavern, brought dreadful

associations to Watt’s terrified conscience, and, in the utmost

trepidation, he darted out at the back door of the inn, and ran across

the fields with the speed of a pursued murderer.

CHAPTER XXIX.

TWM encounters Tom Dorbell. The quick encounter of their wits, in which

our hero has the advantage. Twm rescues a high dignitary of the church.

Twm’s triumphal entry into London in a bishop’s carriage.

It was yet only four o’clock the following morning, when our hero was

once more upon the road. The stars were bright as at midnight, and the

fine bracing frost, the glory of our northern clime, seemed to have

purified his blood, and at the same time excited his fancy, so that both

mind and body were sweetly attuned, and in the full glow of enjoyment.

It might be thought the knowledge he had gained of Gwenny’s coquettings

would have disheartened him; but his residence at Ystrad Feen, with his

communion with the “lady of his vision,” had a little tinged his mind

with something of romantic forebodings, that overshone the rusticity of

earlier impressions.

Elastic and lusty were his healthy limbs, as they bounded to the music of

his heart, while he strode forward on the highway, exulting in the

thought that the day had at length arrived on which his eyes were to be

regaled with a sight of the far-famed city of London.

In this happy spirit, he successively passed through Langley Broom and

Colnbrook, anxiously hoping to reach Hounslow by mid-day. Thus, light of

heart, and full of brilliant anticipations, he continued to bound along

the road.

In this overweening fit of enthusiasm, he considered danger of every sort

entirely out of the question; and this, too, if he knew the truth, while

he wandered over the very hot-bed of robbers, both foot-pads and

equestrians! Deluded by such a course of cogitation, he began to jeer

himself on his simplicity in keeping his pistols loaded, and considered

whether he had best fire them off for amusement or not.

Before he had formed his resolution, he was startled to hear a rude and

heavy tread close at his heels. Sudden as the thought, he turned round,

and reeled some steps backward at the sight that presented itself! In

the advanced light of the morning, he beheld a villainous-looking

powerful man, with a long black-beard, who might have passed for the

high-priest of a Jewish synagogue. He grasped a pistol that was levelled

at his head, while his forefinger seemed actually pressing on the

trigger. By his ominous silence, and the fierce glare of his eye, Twm

conceived that murder and not robbery was his object, till the ruffian

roared, “Garnish or die!”

“Wha—what is garnish?” stuttered Twm.

“Money, and be d—d to you, or here goes!” replied the bearded man,

without the slightest touch of the dialect of the people whose

chin-trimmings he had assumed. Our hero saw at once that this prepared

ruffian was not to be trifled with, and that an instant’s delay might

cost him his existence; therefore, he immediately produced from his bosom

the packet entrusted to him by Sir George Devereaux.

As the robber reached to snatch it, Twm’s wits were at work; assuming the

dialect and foolery which he knew passed among the English for Welsh,

“Here wass the money, look you now, but God tam! it wass not mine, but

you shall haf it in the tifel’s name, only let master see I wass praave,

and show fight for it, look you, and not gif it up like a craaven.” With

that he gave it into the fellow’s hand, saying, “Now, her begs, and

solicits, and entreats you to be so kind ass to shoot some holes in hur

cott lappets, just a pounce or two, look you, to prove hur hard fight and

praavery.”

“Aye, with the greatest pleasure in life!” cried the ruffian, laughing.

Here Twm put off his coat in an instant, and threw it over a bush on the

roadside. When the robber fired at it, Twm leapt up, laughing with

idiotic glee, crying, “Got pless hur for a praave marksman! that was a

noble pounce, look you! But now another pounce for tother lappet, and I

wass have great praise for praavery!”

So the foot-pad, apparently amused, fired again, and Twm leapt and

laughed as before, exclaiming, “That was another nople pounce, look!” He

now ran to the bush, and snatching up his coat, put it on, seemingly as

delighted with its perforations as a warrior of his vaunted scars. “Now,

one pounce more through my hat, look you, and all will be right!” added

he, appealingly.

“Why, as to that!” replied the robber, commencing to break open the

parcel with great eagerness, “I have no more pounces, as you call them,

to give you.”

“But I have!” thundered our hero, holding a pistol in each hand to the

robber’s breast, “return the packet and garnish!” continued he, “or I

will pounce your rascal prains apout the road, look you—and that wass not

goot for your health, look you, this fine morning.”

The robber was no bad judge of circumstances, so immediately returned the

packet. “Garnish!” roared Twm, laughing, and holding the pistols nearer

to his head; “I must have a new suit for the one you pounced for me, look

you now!” The robber handed him a heavy purse, with a couple of splendid

watches, exclaiming “the devil’s luck to you with them!” on which Twm

snatched off his false beard, as he laughingly said, “So much for a

shallow knave whose length of beard is greater than his brains!” No

sooner was the beard removed, than Twm saw a deep scar on his left jaw,

which cleared all doubt as to the identity of his antagonist.

“Never was Tom Dorbell so humbugged before!” cried the baffled ruffian,

as he tore his hair up by the roots in resentment against Fortune, that

allowed such an inauspicious day to dawn on him.

“What! Tom Dorbell, the Gallant Glover?” queried Twm, with amazement.

“The same,” growled the knight of the road, “till my luck turned; but now

I am nobody.”

“By that blushing witness on your jaw-bone, I perceive we once met

before,” quoth Twm, jeeringly; “I think, on the other side of Reading. I

think, too, that, in token of friendship, we exchanged horses on that

occasion, a Welsh pony for a gallant grey; and, I think, also, but

perhaps I am mistaken, that I threw thee a long purse full of something

_that uncle Timothy gave I to market for him at Reading_.”

By the well mimicked simplicity of the latter words, the freebooter knew

him at once, and laughing in his turn, vowing that he was now satisfied

that he was outdone by no common ’un, “but a d—ned clever fellow, whoever

thee bee’st” Quick as the fox who hears the hounds and hunters long

before the sound can reach indifferent ears, Tom Dorbell started—gave a

hasty farewell, dashed through the hedge, over a field, and was soon out

of sight.

The Gallant Glover’s well-trained ears had heard the sound of horses’

feet, and, taking all things into consideration, he had thought it best

to decline any fresh interview with travelling humanity until he had

recovered his serenity of mind, and was in a position to enforce any

demands it might please him to make.

As the approaching horse and rider neared him, Twm perceived the latter

to be a wounded man, evidently so much disabled as to be scarcely capable

of sitting on his horse. With courteous but hurried accents, the

stranger addressed our hero, lifting his hat as he spoke.

“Your pardon, sir; if you are armed and inclined to act a brave and

generous part, you have now an opportunity of doing so.” Twm declared

his readiness. The stranger dismounted, with pain; “Take this horse,”

cried he, “ride forward as fast as you can, and a quarter of a mile on

you will find a couple of robbers rifling a coach. Other assistance may

arrive—on! on, sir! in heaven’s name! the party assaulted are of no

common rank or estimation—profit and reputation will attend their

liberator, and”—Twm was out of hearing before he could finish his

sentence.

Never did a young medical practitioner, called on an emergency to the

bedside of a wealthy patient, whom he never thought to have the honour to

approach, ride forth with a more excited imagination. Fire flashed from

the stones, ground to powder by his horse’s hoofs, and brief was the

gallop that brought him in sight of the scene of villainy.

The first object that struck his view were three or four horses, with

their harness cut, one dead, and the others struggling on the road-side,

while the centre was occupied by an un-horsed coach. As he came nearer,

he distinctly made out a man at each door of the vehicle, their feet

resting on the steps, while their heads, and the greater portion of their

bodies, were invisible, implying their activity in the work of

depredation. So intently devoted were they to this grand undertaking,

that Twm’s approach seemed either unnoticed or mistaken, perhaps, for the

wounded and unharmed gentleman’s, who had apprised him of this nefarious

business. With that happy forethought given by indulgent Providence to

the self-dependent, and which forms one of the grand ingredients in the

chalice of success, our hero turned his horse from the thundering road to

the soundless green beside it, and silently gained upon his object.

He arrived within twenty paces of the coach, when the green altogether

ceased. Dismounting with the alacrity of the occasion, silent as the

mole, and swift as the greyhound, he made a rush forward, and, contrary

to his expectation, he found himself, unchallenged or unnoticed, close to

the coach. He heard one of the amiable threatening instant death to his

“Lordship’s reverence” unless his watch accompanied his purse into the

hands of his “solicitors.”

The opposite worthy was equally polite to a lady, after his own fashion,

declaring that he had shot one of her sex lately for less provocation

than she had shown, in withholding his fair demands, which was merely all

her cash and jewels.

Twm’s instantaneous action was to catch the nearest gentleman by the

ankles. With a powerful drag backwards, his feet were jerked off the

coach-steps, and his full face literally _scraped_ an ungentle

acquaintance with their iron edges, in its rapid descent to the frosty

road, which was flooded with his blood.

“Hollo! where are you, Bill?” enquired his active partner, thinking that

he had merely lost his footing and falling accidentally.

“Here!” cried Twm, firing at the word, when the robber fell backward from

his perch, a lifeless corpse. Before he could recover himself, our hero

was grappled at the throat by the powerful hands of the first robber. In

the struggle, Twm managed to strike him twice with his discharged pistol

on his blood-covered face; but the strong ruffian’s tenacious grip

tightened notwithstanding; and our tale must have terminated here, with

the death of its hero, but for an unexpected relief.

The venerable and aged gentleman in the coach with his daughter, looking

out on this deadly struggle with intense anxiety, snatched up a pistol

which had been dropped in the carriage, seized a critical moment, and

discharged it at the ear of the freebooter, whose head was perforated by

the bullet, so that his grasp relaxed, and he fell backward, with his

eyes glaring on his intended victim, and, with a ferocious oath in his

mouth, he expired.

The aged gentleman now called to the lady, who sprang from the coach,

declaring he feared that the villain had succeeded in destroying their

deliverer. Well, indeed, might he have thought so, as Twm had sunk

senseless on the road, the stagnant blood blackening in his face, and his

eyes projecting from their sockets.

On recovering a little, he found a young lady bathing his temples, and

applying her scent-bottle, while the venerable old gentleman was busied

in rubbing his neck to restore the circulation of the blood, which now

happily took place.

On his recovery, our hero learnt that the party whom he had succoured

were the venerable Doctor Morgan, Bishop of St. Asaph, translator of the

Scriptures into Welsh, and his only daughter; and that the wounded

gentleman who sent Twm to their rescue, and who had now rejoined the

party, was his lordship’s chaplain.

This spirited clergyman had manfully opposed the depredators, when they

first attacked the coach, but was sadly wounded by a bullet in the right

arm. In the midst of the congratulations, compliments, and explanations

that followed, the spirit of the scene became suddenly changed to one

that is patronized by the comic muse.

Alarmed by the report of the bishop’s servants, who liberated themselves,

having been tied to a tree by the thieves, the town of Hounslow evinced

its heroism by sending forth its constabulary force, with the principal

inn-keeper, who was also a farmer, and his farm-servants.

A motley assemblage, in truth, it proved! Some were on foot, and some on

horse or ass-back, and one fellow was seen bestriding a large horned ox,

that reluctantly yielded the speed required of him; while each and all

were as whimsically armed as mounted. The valiant joskin on the ox,

flourished a flail, threatening annihilation to the rogues of the road,

but lucklessly struck his own sconce by exercising the weapon. The

ostler and waiter, who was also the plough-boy, was mounted on a

superannuated blind mare, and grasped a dung-fork with the consequence of

a Neptune’s trident. Among the others were seen bill-hooks, a scythe,

three spades, an awfully long spit, and a ponderous wooden beetle.

But the most amusing figure in the group was the old landlady and

farm-wife, who had hastily mounted a donkey, and was riding it in a more

masculine style than is usual to the fair sex, and thumping the restive

brute with a vast wooden ladle, with which, for she led the van, she was

prepared to battle with the highwaymen. Finding them already conquered,

her heroic spirit vented itself in discontent, that she had had no hand

in the great event.

“Dang un!” quoth the doughty dame, “I would ha baisted the chops o’un

noicely!”

“Shame on thee, dame! cover thy garters—whoy dusten roide like a christen

woman,” cried her lord and master, who rode a high horse, and bore a huge

cavalry sword.

At this rebuke, the bishop’s daughter, his lordship, and the chaplain,

laughed most heartily; while our hero, now pretty well recovered, joined

in their glee.

The fallen being consigned to the care of the landlord, and the coach

somewhat righted, our hero was seated by the chaplain, and facing his

lordship, who, with his amiable daughter, cordially acknowledged his

services; which the worthy prelate declared were not to be requited with

mere words.

Twm, with truth, averred he was indebted for his life to the promptitude

with which his lordship brought the ruffian down; and therefore the

services he received, he said, far over-balanced any that he had

rendered. The modest position in which he had thus placed himself,

worked well in his favour, and was fully estimated. After having

refreshed at Hounslow, and the chaplain’s arm dressed, depositions having

been made, before the judicial authorities, of the attack and rescue, the

party filled his lordship’s carnage again, and all were driven off

towards London, well guarded by a rustic patrol sent from Hounslow.

On the way, Twm explained that he was an agent of Sir George Devereaux’s

to a Mr. Martyn’s in Holborn, and the bearer of a sum of money to him.

The bishop seemed surprised, and declared that Mr. Martyn was his very

good friend, and chosen by him to be an umpire on the following day, in a

matter of great importance.

“To-morrow, then,” added the bishop, “I shall see you at my friend’s

house, and learn from you in what manner I can serve your interests.”

Our hero bowed.

“Your lordship will have your long deferred explanation with the fiery

old baronet, Sir John Wynn, then, to-morrow?” asked the chaplain.

“Yes,” replied the old bishop, “and heaven send me scatheless from a

contest with that self-willed man! In our interview I can only repeat

what I have objected in my letters; and right well I know, he can only

reiterate his former ill-grounded assertions.”

Our hero was thunderstruck with these observations and became silent and

thoughtful.

Many were the villages and suburbs through which they passed, before the

lady, breaking a silence which had endured some time, exclaimed, “The

stones of London, at last, my Lord.”

The worthy prelate directed his coachman to drive to Mr. Martyn’s; and,

in a brief space, the carriage stopped at a large, lofty, and many gabled

house, opposite to St. Andrew’s Church, in Holborn, where Twm was put

down, and kindly received by Mr. Martyn, who helped him from the bishop’s

coach. His lordship observed that he was waited for by his brother, the

Bishop of London, at Lambeth Palace; briefly referred to the business of

the morrow, kindly shook hands with our hero, as did the young lady and

the chaplain, each repeating their acknowledgments, and when the carriage

drove off, Twm Shon Catty was ceremoniously ushered into the fine

town-house of Mr. Martyn.

CHAPTER XXX.

TWM, at last, face to face with his paternal parent. A little scene

between a Baronet and a Bishop. Twm’s particular star brightens.

When it became known that Twm was the bearer of money from the baronet to

Mr. Martyn, that he had rescued the bishop of St. Asaph and party, and

that he was the hero of many other encounters with daring highwaymen, he

became quite a lion in the house, was regarded as a fine specimen of a

Welshman, and, in homely language, was “made much of.”

Previous to the sound slumber that soon overcame his softly-pillow’d

head, he pondered much on what he had heard of his reputed father, and

felt his mind strongly impressed with the idea that the coming morrow

teemed with events that would cast their shade or sunshine on his future

days.

In a dream that followed, he found himself in the presence of a

passionate little gentleman who threatened him with terrible vengeance,

unless he returned to the house of Morris Greeg, and gave his hand in

marriage to the amiable daughter Shaan; and he thought he discovered in a

murky recess, a parrot-nosed sprite, resembling Moses, who was grinning

at his dilemma; when the lady of his former dream appeared suddenly, and

smiled like an angel on the churlish old man, who forthwith smiled again,

when Ianto Gwyn stood forth with his harp; on which he joined her in a

Welsh jig. Then came a long and dreamless sleep, which at length was

broken by the numerous clocks of London, clamorously informing its

citizens of the seventh hour of a new day.

The letters borne by our hero to Mr. Martyn from Sir George Devereaux

spoke most highly of his abilities and good qualities; and the trust

reposed in him by the baronet was fully evinced by his being trusted with

such an important pecuniary mission as that which had brought him to

London.

In addition, his introduction by the Bishop of St. Asaph, with the

details of his acknowledged services to that venerable prelate, insured

our hero the most marked consideration among his present friends, who

vied with each other in their attentions to him. The whole family

expressed their hope that his stay would be long in town; and Mrs. Martyn

insisted that he would make their house his home the while.

After breakfast, Twm requested a private conversation with his host; when

he explained, with straightforward candour, that, although unlooked-for

circumstances had placed him in his present favourable position, he was,

in reality, the most friendless of human beings; inasmuch that he was a

natural son, unacknowledged by his father.

Mr. Martyn kindly commiserated him; and our hero continued,—“I learnt

yesterday evening that the Bishop of St. Asaph is to-day engaged to meet

the man, who, of all others, I wish, yet dread to see—my father, Sir John

Wynn of Gwydir.”

“Sir John Wynn, your father!” exclaimed Mr. Martyn, in great

astonishment. “The same,” replied Twm, “yet he knows me not, nor have I

a single document or a witness to prove it. Yet did I hope, ardently

hope, that some chance would turn up in my favour, to avail myself of the

meeting of this day, between Sir John and the good bishop.” Mr. Martyn

said, with much concern, that, although their mutual friend, he saw great

difficulties to oppose the introduction of such a matter.

“This conference,” continued he, “cannot end amicably; one party is bent

on urging a claim, while the other is resolved to reject it, and they

will part bad friends at last; while I, their umpire, cannot prevent it.

Sir John, ruffled by disappointment, will be in no cue to listen to any

claims on his kindness, especially one of a nature so serious, more

especially as the very existence of such a complaint, criminates his past

conduct.”

It struck our hero, that it would be well to make the benevolent bishop

acquainted with his tale, and take his advice; with which suggestion, Mr.

Martyn entirely agreed.

“The Bishop,” observed the latter, “is an early man, generally, and will,

no doubt, be the first to call this morning.” While they were yet

speaking, a servant announced Sir John Wynn’s carriage; and before Mr.

Martyn could reply, or rise from his chair, Sir John Wynn entered.

Martyn, rising with a bland countenance, met the Baronet’s advances with

courtesy, if not cordiality. Our hero having retired to the window, was

unseen by Sir John, although Twm seized the opportunity of exercising all

his powers of observation.

“Well, I am the first in the field, I see,” observed the Baronet; “and

now, my dear Mr. Martyn, let me again impress you with the sense of the

wrongs I endured from this ungrateful Priest, this Bishop of my own

making.” “My dear Sir John,” replied Martyn, “he may arrive this

instant, and then see how unseemly it will be to find you touching on the

case before his arrival, and me your unbiassed umpire.”

“Oh, Martyn, Martyn!” replied the Baronet, disregarding the delicacy of

the appeal, “there is no grief like the grief of unkindness; he rewarded

me with evil for good, to the great discomfort of my soul. I may well

say so, and justly complain to you of my Lord of St. Asaph, who, besides

what his ancestors received of mine, is in many matters beholden to me.

My mind is eased by opening to you his hard dealings with me, and my

benefits towards him;—but who is that?”

Our hero, feeling the awkwardness of his situation, had coughed gently,

to inform the gentleman of his presence, and while making towards the

door, was not ungracefully apologizing for his presence. He stopped as

Mr. Martyn took his hand, and replied, “A young countryman of yours, Sir

John; or, I should say, a South Walian, whom I beg leave to introduce to

you as my friend.”

“Ha, ha!” cried Sir John, with his constitutional heartiness, “a young

Welshman, a countryman of my own; your hand, Sir!” and the old gentleman

shook it with a friendly feeling towards his country, if not the

individual. “I could have sworn,” continued Sir John, “he was a native

of our glorious mountain land, by his frank open countenance, and healthy

look, unlike your suet-pudding-faced cockneys here.”

A servant answering the bell, Mr. Martyn desired that his son should show

his guest to the picture gallery, on which our hero withdrew, with a tear

in his eye which he found it impossible to suppress, when he felt the

pressure of his father’s hand.

The parlour door being closed, Martyn recounted briefly our hero’s

adventures, in bringing him a considerable sum of money, from

Carmarthenshire. Sir John gave one of his most loud and hearty laughs,

when he heard how he outwitted the notorious Tom Dorbell. But when he

related his part in the rescue of the Bishop, at the imminent peril of

his life, the Baronet grew serious; but giving way to his spleen against

the prelate, he replied, “I wish he had saved some one more worthy of his

bravery!—but, Martyn, I must be better acquainted with this gallant. A

brave young Welshman like this, should be known, noted, and patronized!

but perhaps he has abundance of friends without my thought of him.”

“Not so, Sir John, he is a stranger in London, and almost friendless

anywhere,—he is a natural son; but you may hear his history hereafter,”

replied Mr. Martyn, almost pointedly, as he fixed his eyes on the

Baronet.

This was not unobserved by him, as he smiled, and said, “You mean

something, Martyn; but let it pass for the present; so let us proceed

with this matter of mine.”

“In honour and truth, I can hear no more till his lordship arrives,” was

the reply.

“Well, why doesn’t he come, then,” said Sir John, with the unamiable

frown that at times distinguished him; adding, rather superciliously, “is

it fitting Mr. Martyn, that the head of the house of Gwydir should be

waiting the leisure of this parson lord,—I shall drive out a little, and

let him wait for me in his turn.”

Sir John took a quick turn towards the door, but, stopping suddenly, said

he would join the young men in the picture gallery, where, accompanied by

Mr. Martyn, he went. With the younger Martyn, the Baronet was well

enough acquainted; and now his aim was to chat with our hero.

Twm became a little agitated as he found himself in close contact with

his father, and a something like an equality in society, since they were

both friends in the same family. True, this was really owing to the

accident of circumstances, but Twm was there fairly upon his own merits,

and not by imposition. Sir John asked him particulars concerning his

adventures on the highway, and Twm, throwing all his natural wit into the

account, made a favourable impression on his father.

The Martyns, father and son, being summoned down stairs, the stately

baronet was left alone with his humble and unknown son. Twm looked

towards the walls, with some feelings of awkwardness. The old-fashioned

gallery was hung with numerous paintings: portraits by Holbein and

Vandyke, with interesting and humorous pieces by foreign masters. Sir

John pointed out and warmly expatiated on the merits and peculiarities of

the various schools, fixing his eyes more on our hero’s face than on the

paintings, to measure the extent of his taste and intellect by the effect

they might produce on him; for the Baronet was quite an enthusiast in the

fine arts, and would be quick in discovering whether or not he was

throwing away his observations on a blockhead. He was not slow in

observing the evidence of mind in his auditor, from the deep interest

which he took in his details; but he especially remarked that his fancy

was principally taken by the drolleries and homeliness of the Dutch and

Flemish pictures, in one of which Twm fancied he saw a resemblance to

Carmarthen Jack, his aunt Juggy, of hump-backed peculiarity, and even a

counterpart to the starveling Moses. Apologizing for the rusticity of

his taste, he owned his admiration of the boors and the lowly damsels, as

they reminded him of some such, the familiars of his childhood in Wales.

“And where might that be passed?” enquired the Baronet, smilingly.

“In the humble town of Tregaron, in Cardiganshire,” replied Twm.

“Who are the principal gentry in that neighbourhood?” enquired the

Baronet. When Twm mentioned Squire Graspacre and his late lady, Sir John

looked him hard in the face; then, silently fixing his eyes on the floor,

he recollected a certain passage in his life, that prevented him visiting

Graspacre-Hall, from the dread he entertained of the censures and

lectures of his decorous and straight-laced sister, Mrs. Graspacre.

“Did you know the lady you mentioned, Mrs. Graspacre?” enquired the

baronet. “Very well, Sir John,” was Twm’s reply, “I have great reason,

for, to that lady’s benevolence I am indebted for the little education I

have received.”

Now, Sir John knew very well that his sister was anything but benevolent,

so that by this assertion our hero lost a little in his opinion, and he

suspected him of a little cant.

“If she sent you to school, she had some motive; what was it?” “I am a

natural son, Sir John, which, perhaps Mr. Martyn informed you of: the

lady sent me to school, because one of her great relations was said to be

my father,” replied Twm, fixing his eyes on the baronet’s face, which he

had the satisfaction of seeing quail beneath his riveting gaze.

Recovering himself, however, he cast a severe look on our hero, and, in a

harsh tone and manner, said, “Now must I doubt all your assertions, as

one falsehood is apparent to me. The lady you named was my sister, and

certain it is that no relation of hers could be your father.”

Here the lion in our hero’s heart was roused, and he indignantly repelled

the charge of falsehood, saying that he expected neither truth nor honour

from his father, since he was known to him.

“And what may be your father’s name then?” asked the Baronet, biting his

lip, to prevent the laughter that seemed ready to burst out. “Sir John

Wynn of Gwydir!” exclaimed Twm in a dare-devil strain, that made the

Baronet start at his vehemence. Admiring the fire that flashed in his

eyes, his honest, fearless, and energetic behaviour, Sir John opened his

arms, and received him in his embrace!

When Mr. Martyn came to announce the arrival of the bishop, he found our

hero sobbing on his father’s neck, who soothed him by promises, that the

neglect of years should now be remedied, and that he was glad and proud

of the original, which he found in Mr. Martyn’s picture gallery.

The interview had ended very differently to what Twm and Mr. Martyn had

expected, and our hero felt grateful to a protecting Providence which had

so ordered events.

Sir John and Mr. Martyn descended, and our hero was left alone in the

picture gallery. They joined the worthy Bishop at the table in the

old-fashioned saloon, which, being overlooked from the rails of the

gallery, Twm saw and heard all that passed, by the particular invitation

of his worthy host.

The Bishop commenced addressing Mr. Martyn:—

“We are here met to-day, Mr. Martyn,” said he, “to submit to your

arbitration, a matter in dispute between Sir John and myself. Sir John

has expressed himself to you with reference to me, in an unfriendly

manner, yet I have every confidence in your impartial judgment.” Here

Mr. Martyn bowed, and Sir John, coughing to keep down his choler, of

which he had as good a share as ever fell to the lot of a Cambro Briton,

flourished his laced cambric handkerchief about his face, as he added,

“His lordship cannot be more glad of an unbiassed umpire than I am

myself, Mr. Martyn.”

The Bishop continued:—“Sir John’s request to me, was, that I would

confirm a lease for three lives, upon the rectory of Llanrwst, at the

yearly rent of fifty pounds; the same being worth one hundred and forty

pounds, and is of my patronage. This request much perplexed my mind, for

it grieved me to deny Sir John anything, yet my conscience cried aloud

against such a grant, so prejudicial to the church itself, and especially

to the next incumbent, whom I should have grievously wronged by beggaring

the See, and injuring the living for future Clergymen.”

Here the Bishop resumed his seat, and the Baronet with great assumption

of stateliness, rose and spoke in a slow and acrimonious strain.

“The sower went out to sow; and some of his seed fell in stony ground,

where it withered, because it took not root; the seed was good, but the

land nought. I may justly say so by you, my lord. I have in all things

showed myself a friend, my lord; inasmuch that if I had not pointed the

way with my finger, whereof I have yet good testimony, your lordship

would have been still humble vicar of Llaurhaiader.”

The Bishop, without rising, mildly replied, “You have done me much

kindness, Sir John, but no dishonest kindness; nor do I mean to deny you

any of your fair requests.”

“I am really much obliged to your lordship, for your present good

opinion,” replied the Baronet, with sneering courtesy, “more particularly

that you express your opinion before Mr. Martyn. But the words you have

just uttered agree only indifferently with others you have at various

times used in reference to me.”

“Good Sir John,” replied the Bishop, “you do wrong me very much to say

so.”

Sir John replied with much warmth, “I have good proof, my lord, that you

protested to your late servant, Thomas Vaughan, that all the good I ever

did you, when vicar of Llaurhaiader, was to go to Llandda Church, and

with my family add so much to your scanty congregation there; and,

forsooth! that I had once on a time sent you a fat ox, on your

installation in the See of Asaph; truly, my lord, this is to strain at a

gnat, and swallow a camel.”

The good Bishop’s reply was mild and conciliating. “Good Sir John, you

wrong yourself as much as me, to believe such idle sayings. If this were

not a case of conscience, you should not need to ask me twice;

remembering ancient kindness, your request is of great force to me.”

“You plead conscience when you should give, and make no pains to receive

courtesy of your friends,” replied Sir John. Then, changing from the

sarcastic tone in which this was uttered to one of vehemence, he

proceeded. “But I appeal to Him who searches the consciences of all men,

whether you have used me well; and whether conscience, which you have

ever in your mouth, be the sole hindrance of my request. I will avow and

justify it before the greatest divines in England, that has always been

the usage, now is, and ever will be, that a man may with a safe

conscience be a farmer of a living, paying in effect for the same as much

as it is worth. I stand on your word, my lord of St. Asaph, your sacred

word of promise, the confirmation of my lease and the advowson.”

Temperate and patient still was the Prelate’s reply. “I made no such

promise; my words were ‘that I would be very loath to confirm any lease

upon any presentative benefice; that I would do as much, and more for

you, than for any other; that if I would confirm any lease, yours would

be the first.’ In conclusion, I never did confirm any, nor do I mean so

to do; therefore is such conditional promise void, and my honour and word

sufficiently vindicated.”

The Baronet tenaciously urged,—“It is well known that your Lordship has

favoured others in such a matter.”

“Not so,” replied the Bishop, rather more impatiently; “you well know

there is a difference between granting a lease of our own, and confirming

the lease of another; between a presentative benefice and an

impropriation; between a public usage and a private one: still you refuse

to note these distinctions, and exclaim that I have confirmed the lease,

and will not, according to my promise, confirm yours.”

The last remark of the Bishop’s appeared to be unanswerable, and Sir John

seemed to think so too, as, instead of replying to the argument directly,

he began to beg the question, and give way to the overbearing petulance

of a spoiled child of fortune.

“It is not,” replied he, “the loss of the thing that I regard a dobkin,

but your unkind dealing; it shall lessen me hereafter to expect no sweet

fruit from so sour a stock. But my lord of St. Asaph, you know my stand

in the world. I never have been a man to make requests and be denied;

therefore having never failed before in my requests, my grief is the

greater.”

“Pray Heaven, Sir John, that your grief of missing be not like Ahab’s

grief for Naboth’s vineyard,” was the Bishop’s pithy and characteristic

reply.

Here Sir John sprang to his feet, exclaiming almost fiercely, “My lord,

my lord, I am not of a nature to put up with wrongs; for as I have

studied for your good, and wrought the same, so be assured of me as

bitter an enemy as ever I was a steadfast friend!”

“A fiery little father have I found to-day,” thought Twm, as he noticed

the vehemence of the baronet.

“I am ashamed of you,” continued he, “almost forgetting the courtesy of a

gentleman, and the firm, but mild and patriachal character of the Bishop.

I am ashamed for you, that you have hereby given cause to your enemies

and mine to descant on the ingrate disposition. You have made use of

gentlemen when they serve you, and afterwards discard them, on the

pretence of conscience, forsooth! I laboured in your cause, my lord, as

if it had been to save the life of one of my children.”

These hard uncompromising words did not exasperate the venerable prelate,

whose command of temper under trying circumstances, and unjust

aspersions, was worthy of his reputation. He rose with dignified

demeanour, and said, “Amongst other kindnesses, Sir John you gave good

testimony of me; I pray you let me continue worthy of it; so many chips

have been already hewed from the church, that it is ready to fall; you

ought rather to help than to despoil it. Thus it stands with us, Sir

John, which I pray you Mr. Martyn note. You ask of me certain leases—you

ask me to injure my successor in my diocese, to benefit you! you urge the

favours I have received at your hands, and claim from me rewards that are

not mine to give. Were I to grant your desires I should prove myself a

dishonest, unconscionable, irreligious man, a sacrilegious robber of the

church, a perfidious spoiler of my diocese, and an unnatural foe to

preachers and scholars. I do verily think it were better to rob on the

highway than to do the thing you request. However hard you may take my

denial, be it known to you, if the father and mother whom I loved and

honoured were alive and made such requests, I should have the grace to

say nay.”

The Bishop took his seat, and began to repeat his regrets, when the

Baronet started from the table, and in a furious mood began to pace the

saloon to and fro; but stopping suddenly he exclaimed, “Your verbal love

I esteem as nothing! I have ten sons—(eleven interrupted the Bishop,

with quite jocoseness;) I say I have ten sons,” repeated the Baronet; and

“if ever they forget this,”—“Eleven sons and the last as good as the

best;” interrupted the Bishop again. “But where is this gallant

deliverer?”

Mr. Martyn beckoned our hero down, while Sir John suddenly resumed his

seat at the table. On the good Prelate’s pressing Twm to name in what

manner he could reward his services, he at last replied, “By yielding to

Sir John’s request as far as your Lordship sees right.”

The whole party stared with amazement at the unexpected reply. The

Baronet was softened to tears, and but for compromising his dignity,

would have embraced him before them all. The Bishop smiled, and shaking

his hand very cordially replied, “The request is as graceful in you to

make as in me, to deny; that question is disposed of. In a few days I

will call again, when you may decide in what I can be of service to you.”

He then took a courteous leave of Mr. Martyn and of our hero, with a

ceremonious bow to Sir John, and departed. Right glad was Martyn to be

relieved, by the temper of the Baronet, from the unpleasant office of an

arbitrator of their differences.

CHAPTER XXXI.

TWM meets one of his best friends from Wales. Death of Sir George

Devereaux. Hopes and fears. Interruption of happy hours. Lady

Devereaux’s forced return to Wales. Twm follows her.

Our hero was now living amongst the _elite_ of the metropolis, and his

daily communion with men of taste, feeling, and education, produced a

quick and remarkable change for the better in his manners and personal

appearance. His new-found father assisted him largely in his finances,

and a handsome pecuniary present from the worthy bishop, accompanied with

a complimentary letter, which was doubly gratifying to him, as emanating

from so respectable a source.

When he had been eight months in London, he was sitting alone one morning

in Mr. Martyn’s picture gallery, intently pondering on his future plans

of life, considering whether to return to his friends at Ystrad Feen, or

seek employment in town. His reverie was disturbed by a servant’s

informing him that a gentleman was waiting to see him.

On his descent to the parlour, great and gratifying was his surprise to

meet there his old friend Rhys. The cordiality of their mutual greetings

but faintly echoed the ardour of their feelings. News from the country

was our hero’s first inquiry, and Rhys assured him he had an abundance to

relate. Gwenny Cadwgan is married, and living with her husband and

father on a fine farm at Kevencoer-Cummer, near Merthyr. Walt the

mole-catcher is transported, having narrowly escaped the gallows. Your

mother and step-father are well. “So much for Tregaron news,” said Rhys;

“and now for Ystrad Feen and Llandovery. A singular coincidence,—in the

same week we lost the venerable Vicar Prichard, and your friend Sir

George Devereaux.”

“The last is a climax indeed to your budget; but is it really a fact that

Sir George is no more?” enquired Twm, looking hard in his friend’s face.

“Fact as deeth! as the Scotchman says,” replied Rhys; “He threw his life

away in one of his foolish fox-hunting leaps.”

“Well, well! I am truly sorry,” exclaimed Twm, “for he was a kind

being.” “He was so; but tell me truly,” said Rhys, looking archly in his

friend’s eyes, “is it for death, or his lady’s being left so young a

widow, that your sorrow is most intense?” Twm looked grave, but finally

smiled, as Rhys, with great archness, added, “It somewhat strikes me that

this is a sorrow which you will soon get over; and, if I mistake not, so

will the widow too.”

Here Twm took his hand, and said, “You look deeper into the hearts of men

than I thought; but listen to a mystery and expound the dream that has so

long haunted me.”

Here he related the particulars of the “glorious vision” in the hay-loft

of Morris Greeg, and of its repetition since he came to London; “and

strange to say,” added he, “it was in widow’s weeds the fair spirit each

time appeared. What can be the meaning or end of such dreams?” “I’ll

tell thee,” answered Rhys, leaning on his shoulder and looking in his

face; “Dreams long nursed, especially waking dreams, in time become

realities—so will yours; you will marry this young widow, Twm!”

“Me! impossible!” cried Twm, blushing from the chin to the forehead.

“Oh, very well, I’ll court her myself, then!” cried Rhys; on which they

both burst into a most hearty laugh.

Our hero was growing silent and meditative, when Rhys, striking him a

hearty smack on the shoulder, asked, “What would you say now, if the fair

widow was herself in town at this moment?”

“What!” cried Twm, starting up, with an expression of interest that

nothing could repress. Rhys in a most serious strain, assured him that

her father, being chosen a knight of the shire for the ancient county of

Brecon, was now in town with his widowed daughter. That he had ridden to

town in their company, by which he had availed himself of a safe escort

from the dangers of the road. Rhys added, that he had frequently

conversed with the Lady Devereaux, both at home and on the journey, and

that he, Master Thomas Jones, had always been the subject of her

conversation and eulogy.

Very shortly after this conversation, in fact as shortly after as

sufficed to take Twm and his friend Rhys to the town-house of Sir John

Price, which was situated in Derby-street, Westminster, our hero was

shaking hands and exchanging hearty good-wishes and congratulations with

the “lady of his dream.” His recollection of his dearly-cherished vision

was now stronger than ever, in consequence of the widows’ cap which she

had lately assumed.

On the part of Sir John, our hero’s reception was more ceremonious than

friendly, but the feeling evinced in his daughter’s eyes, and the

speaking pressure of her hand, made ample amends for the baronet’s

stately coldness.

Having dined together, Sir John retired early on a more ceremonial visit,

and the three friends were left together; for Lady Devereaux held Rhys in

great esteem for his high professional character, and unassuming manners;

and, in truth, we must add, more than all, for the friendship evinced by

him for our hero, and the friendly way in which he spoke of him in his

absence. It was with surprise and regret they heard the announcement of

Rhys’ intention (being now superceded in his curacy by the new

incumbent,) of quitting his country and entering a foreign university, to

seek in a far land that consideration and advancement not attainable in

his own.

Lady Devereaux being only in the fifth month of her widowhood, the

conversation, although kindly in the extreme, was of a melancholy cast.

Rhys having to embark in the morning, urged the necessity of retiring

early, and took his final leave of the fair widow, who expressed the

kindest wishes for his prosperity and success in all undertakings.

Accompanying his friend, Twm bade her adieu for the evening, and gained

her leave to repeat his visit on the morrow. The permission to repeat

his visits was eagerly seized by Twm, and not once a day only, but many

times did he trouble Sir John’s stately domestic to open the door to him.

That he was welcome by the fair enchantress, he could not doubt, and

pleasant were the mid-day walks in the Park or Mall, their indoor

conferences, and the evening parties at which they shone as twin-stars;

but trebly pleasant to our hero was the hour in which he ventured to

break to her his tender feelings and his darling hopes.

With the utmost candour, and without the least reservation, he told the

humbleness of his origin, the blemish in his birth, his wretched

bringing-up, and withal, the mysterious matter of his glorious vision.

The assertion that the moment he beheld her, on rescuing her from the

robber, he identified her face and figure with the lady of his dream,

called forth her deepest blushes, and she audibly whispered “Incredible!”

His repeated assertions, passionately urged, of the truth of his

assertion, silenced and perhaps convinced her.

Certain it is that, like the gentle Desdemona, “She gave him for his

pains a world of sighs;” and time evinced to him that the lady had a tale

to tell also, which proved that although highly born, and affluent as she

was, her lot had not been entire sunshine.

“I am yet hardly twenty-one,” replied she, “although I have been twice

married. To neither of these husbands have I been able to give my entire

heart. My first union was at my father’s _command_, when solicitations

proved useless, to his contemporary and old schoolfellow, who was

old-fashioned enough to restore the long-exploded _abs_ in his name,

vaunting himself as Thomas ab Rhys ab Thomas Gock, of Ystrad Feen; who

could carry on the antique and rusty chain of _abs_, without a broken

link, through several centuries up to the patriarch of his tribe, Elystan

Glodrydd.

“Poor old gentleman! I fed him with a pap-spoon, in his large gothic

arm-chair, when a stroke of paralysis had withered his right hand; but in

six months after our marriage (marriage!) he fell a victim to his ruling

passion, which I will not name to his disparagement, and died of

apoplexy. My year’s mourning for him had barely expired, when my mother

claimed her right of choosing my next husband; and, in the course of

time, poor Sir George (peace to the memory of a harmless man!) became my

second husband. Had I lived to these days unwedded,” said she, with a

look and tone of resolute firmness, almost foreign to her usual

gentleness, “it is more than probable that I should not have become the

victim of either of my parents’ whims.”

“My poor mother has been long deceased; but well I know my father’s

future aim respecting me—to have me united to some other choice of his

own; but no! the sapling may bend to the storm, but, springing up again,

who shall re-bend the youthful oak that time matures? If my good father

inclines to play the tyrant with me, he will find some difference between

the woman and the child.” Applauding her resolution, Twm, kissed her

hand with rapture; and, she added in a tone of gaiety, “if ever I change

my state, I shall become the votary of a different shrine to any that I

have yet bowed to;”

“The little god shall shoot the porch,

Ere faithful Hymen waves his torch.”

With that expressive couplet, she rose, and our hero, with enlarged

hopes, took a tender, but restrained and respectful leave of her.

If Twm was heartily welcomed by Lady Devereaux, he was no less heartily

disliked by her father. Sir John had learnt that he was a natural son of

Sir John Wynn of Gwydir’s, and no earthly merit could compensate, in his

estimation, the bar of bastardy in his escutcheon. He sternly desired

his daughter to break off all intercourse with our hero, as he had

discovered, he said, the baseness of his origin. Although Twm appeared

no more in his house, he had the mortification to learn that at the play,

the ball, and in the Park and Mall, their meetings had been frequent. In

a bitter spirit of resentment against his daughter, without the least

previous warning, he one morning compelled her roughly to enter a coach

at the door, which soon drove off, taking her she knew not whither.

Our hero’s surmises became numerous and agonizing, when for three long

weeks he had neither seen nor heard from his charmer, although he had not

missed one opportunity of encountering her at any of their accustomed

places of meeting, and his days became burdensome, and his nights

sleepless. Just as he was sinking into a state of despondency, he one

evening received a note in the hand of Lady Devereaux, informing him of

her forcible conveyance to, and safe arrival at Ystrad Feen. His father

having long since returned to North Wales, he took an affectionate but

hasty leave of the hospitable family of the Martyns, and commenced his

journey to his native principality.

CHAPTER XXXII.

TWM in Wales again. His meeting with the “lady of his dream.” “The

course of true love never did run smooth,” which Twm ruefully

acknowledges.

The dangers of the road had been somewhat reduced by the vigorous

prosecution of highwaymen and robbers, many of whom had been lately

convicted and executed. Travellers could pursue their way in comparative

security, so Twm encountered no “hair-breadth escapes by flood or field”

and his journey home, consequently added no exciting incident to swell

his gallant reputation. At Reading, he heard of the late execution there

of his former antagonist Tom Dorbell.

Our hero’s impatience towards the close of his journey was so great that

he rode all night, that he might reach Ystrad Feen a day earlier. How

would the “lady of his dream” receive him? With what delight would he

not gaze upon her dear face again! When Twm, mounted on a goodly steed,

dashed into the court-yard, Lady Devereaux, who witnessed his arrival

sprang from her seat and hurried to meet him as he reached the entrance

hall. We fear, for the honour of prudery, that her resistance was not

very great.

When our gallant hero caught her in his arms, and impressed a certain

number of kisses somewhere about the region of the cheeks and lips, both

of which looked many degrees redder than when, a few minutes before, she

complained to Miss Meredith of his strange delay in town.

“Kiss her also, so that she can’t tell tales of me!” said the gay young

widow; so Twm, somewhat less ardently, kissed Miss Meredith, and seemed

to look about to see if there were any more business of that kind on

hand.

“My dear Mr. Jones, you are welcome, most welcome, back to Wales, and

trebly welcome to me, and the lonely walls of Ystrad Feen,” were the kind

Lady Joan’s first words. Neither of the ladies was slow in discovering

the change for the better which had taken place in his address, his

former diffidence and indecision of manner being supplanted by easy

confidence, and high animal spirits.

Twm was now, indeed, happy with the “lady of his dream;” for he was on

much more intimate terms with her than he had, at one time, ever hoped to

be. She told him that when her father so suddenly forced her into the

coach, to be hurried towards the country, she was joined by two lofty

ladies, his maiden sisters, who literally became her jailors in the

travelling vehicle. Our hero remembered them well, from seeing them at

cards one evening at their brother’s; and he did not fail to describe

them to young Martyn, as ugly as heartless pride, ill-temper, long

saturnine noses, yellow ribbons and slippers, could make them.

The ancient gentlewomen had chosen the state of ceaseless virginity, they

said, to keep up the dignity of the family, which, in their persons, they

proudly added, should never be lowered by an unworthy alliance. During

their homeward journey, they entertained their victim with ingenious

reproaches and disparaging observations respecting “the strange young man

who had obtruded himself into their brother’s house—the unknown Mr.

Jones.”

“Why, the creature has no family,” observed the long-waisted Miss Felina

Tomtabby Price. “Then,” replied our heroine, “he is never likely to be

pestered with the claims of poor relations, nor the persecution of rich

ones.” “No, he is of no stock,” said Miss Euphemia Polparrot Price,

following up her sister’s remark; “the creature was only born yesterday.”

“Then he is singularly young and harmless,” answered the lady of Ystrad

Feen. “And, above all blemishes, he is base-born,” added Miss Felina

Tomtabby Price. “That is less his fault than his misfortune, as the

Irishman said who warranted his blind mare free from faults,” answered

their merry niece.

The young lady was evidently more than a match for the two elder ones,

and so these ancient gentlewomen kept a dignified silence, or spoke only

to each other, during the rest of the journey; which terminated at length

by their seeing her to Ystrad Feen, and betaking themselves to the Priory

House at Brecon.

In the course of many private conversations between Miss Meredith and the

young widow, the subject of which discourses, strange to say, being

invariably Twm himself; she declared herself delighted with him, and Twm,

it was easy to see, returned the compliment with interest. At her

invitation, he became an inmate of the house, until, as she said, he

could put himself to rights. The golden chain and sum of money left to

her care, were delivered up to him with considerable additions, in return

for his services by a journey to London and from her own private bounty.

With the evident encouragement vouchsafed to him by the lady of Ystrad

Feen, Twm was soon madly and irrecoverably lost in his warm affection for

her, and there is nothing to surprise any reasonable being when he is

told that Twm, with energetic enthusiasm, protested that he admired—nay,

loved her! If the lady chided him, it was with such winning gentleness

that it seemed to say, “Pray, do so again.” If she turned aside her head

to conceal her blushes, smiles ever accompanied them, in coming and

retreating; or if she frowned, it was so equivocally, that, for the life

of him, our hero could not help considering each transient bend of the

brow as so many invitations to kiss them away, which the gallant Twm

never failed to accept and obey.

These golden days were too rich in delight to last long. As the

_good-natured and most virtuous world_ discovered that they were very

happy, and pleased with each other, it breathed forth its malignant

spirit, and doubted whether they had a legitimate right to be so; of

course, deciding negatively, and consequently awarding to the lovers the

pains and penalties of persecution and mutual banishment.

When they had become for some time, undivided companions, and walked,

rode, danced at Brecon balls, and resided under the same roof together,

although under the strict guidance of moral propriety, as daily witnessed

by the lady’s female friend; it will be no wonder that scandal at last

became busy with the lady’s fame. An additional incentive for raising

these evil reports was that she had rejected the attentions of several of

the rural noblesse, who had endeavoured to recommend themselves to her

good graces.

All at once like the inmates of a hornet’s nest, the various members of

her family, the proud Prices of Brecon, buzzed about her ears and stung

her with their reproaches. She bore all with determined patience, until

assured that her fame had been vilified, and that she had been described

as living a life of profligacy and dishonour. Conscious of rectitude,

however indiscreet she might have been, the haughtiness of her spirit now

rose, as she indignantly repelled the infamous charges; in the end,

requested her _dear friends and relations_ to dismiss their tender fears

for her reputation, and keep to their own homes for the future, or at

least not to trouble hers.

Although she had treated her officious friends with the contumely they

deserved, she could not afford to set at nought, altogether, the opinions

of the little world in which she lived; and, tired, irritated, and vexed,

by hearing the same tale from day to day, she at last consented to send

away her deliverer and friend, as she called him, from the protection of

her roof. Our hero, however, could never be brought to distinguish

between her real kind feelings towards him, and the constrained

appearance which her altered conduct made in his sight.

Free as the air, as he felt himself, he could not understand why a great

and wealthy lady was not equally unshackled and independent.

Explanations and excuses were entirely thrown away upon him, as he could

not, or would not, understand aught so opposed to his happiness and

pre-conceived notions.

When, at length, it was made known to him that the separation was

inevitable, and the season of it arrived, he received the astounding

intelligence like a severe blow of fortune, that struck him at once both

sorrowful and meditative. Pride and resentment, from a supposed sense of

injury at last supplanted every other feeling; and, starting up with a

frenzied effort, he ordered his horse to be got ready, and gave

directions for his things to be forwarded to Llandovery; after which, he

wrote a note, and sent it to the lady’s room requesting a momentary

interview with her alone, before he took his departure.

She came down with a slow, languid step, and met him in the parlour. Her

eyes were red with weeping; and, before she uttered a syllable, our

hero’s much-altered looks affected her so much, that she burst out into a

heavy fit of sobbing. “Do not think hardly—do not feel unkindly towards

me, Jones,” were her first words! “I entreat you to give me the credit

due to my sincerity, when I assure you that the sacrifice I made on

consenting to part with you, was—yes! although I have buried two husbands

who loved me tenderly, it was the heaviest of my life.”

Twm replied in a tone and manner that evinced both his pride and his

suffering; “I have but few words, madame, and they shall not long intrude

upon your leisure. I came here a stranger, and had some trifling claims,

perhaps, on your attention. Those claims have been more than

satisfied—noble has been your remuneration of my humble services, your

beneficence generous and princely.

“A change took place in your destiny; you honoured me beyond my merits,

and bade me stand to the world in a new character. You called me friend,

your sole friend, in a faithless world; nay, lady, your lover; I loved,

and love you with a pure but unconquerable flame! Blame me not if I am

presumptuous;—it was your own condescension, your own encouragement, that

made me so, and elevated me to an equality with yourself. You gave me

hopes to be the future, the only husband of your choice. You stretched

forth your hand to aid my efforts, as I eagerly climbed towards the

darling object of my aim; but before I attained the summit, you, madame,

in the spirit of caprice or treachery, dashed me headlong downwards, to

perish in despair.

“Your great and wealthy friends will praise you for this, while the

mincing madames and the insipid misses of Brecon shall learn a noble

lesson by your conduct, and emulating you, become in their day as arrant

coquettes and tramplers on manly hearts, as their limited powers and

vanity will permit. But enough! you shall have your generous

triumph,—and from this hour I tread the world without an aim, a wanderer

in the wilderness, reckless of everything. Advancement, estimation, I

here abjure; nor, from this hour, would I raise my hand to save from

annihilation the being I am—for life is henceforth hateful to me.

“Lady, farewell!—never more will I cross your path; but you may hear of

my wayward steps,—and if in me you are told of a wretched idiot, a being

whose mind had perished while his frame was strong, remember that it was

yourself who wrought that mental desolation. Or, if they name me as a

lawless being, plunged head-long into deeds of guilt, remember it is you,

you, madame, who are the authoress of my crimes and sorrows, and, may be,

of an ignominious death. And now, madame, farewell!” On which he darted

out, mounted his horse, and rode off; while the unhappy lady of Ystrad

Feen, whose agitation choked her utterance, caught a last glimpse of him,

and fell on the parlour floor in a swoon.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

FINE Arts at a discount. Hungry Moses, whose appetite was his ruin. New

tricks and jokes on Ready Rosser. Parson Inco once more.

Twm left Ystrad Feen in no enviable state of mind. He was in a similar

temper to that of a child when deprived of a favourite toy, and as he

urged his horse with speed in the direction of Llandovery, he determined

never to place faith in woman again,—a resolution which underwent some

slight modification before he reached the “Cat and Fiddle,” a

diminutive-looking ale-house, where for the present he decided to take up

his quarters.

Notwithstanding his chagrin, he could not help smiling at this whimsical

sign, then newly painted,—a droll-faced creature of the feline race,

drawn, as an enthusiast in melody, erect on her hind feet, her eyes

turned up in ecstacy, while her open mouth seemed to be mewing music, or

tow-rowing harmony at a fine rate, in concord with the fiddle that she

handled with the most artist-like taste, and professional gravity. If

the sign was to his taste, a sort of homely snuggery in the form of a

small parlour, and a good-humoured-looking fat landlady, were no less so.

Dinah Dew, the widowed mistress of the Cat and Fiddle informed him that

she owed her sign to the skill of a poor tramping painter, who had run

into her debt, to the enormous amount of five shillings and sevenpence

half-penny, for board, washing, lodging, and drinking: and the poor

fellow being penniless and without work, “I let him free,” said she, “for

the sign, and gave him a shilling and a brown loaf over.”

This liberal patronage of the fine arts, (for the sign included music,

poetry, and painting,) gave Twm a favourable opinion of his hostess. She

apologized to him for the absence of her hostler, and said he was a poor

ragged fellow with a pregnant wife, and two children; by trade a mat and

basket maker; also a waiter at two other taverns; and an occasional

husbandry servant with several farmers, who employed him in their busy

times. “The fellow is well enough,” said the little round woman, “but

for his cormorant appetite; and eat what he may, he never looks better

for it. Indeed your horse would scarcely be safe with him, but that this

is not the most hungry time of year.”

“I knew such another once,” thought Twm, his mind reverting to the hungry

house of Morris Greeg; as he went forward on his walk over the fields.

The said “hostler” soon overtook him, to ask his commands about his

horse. Twm looked with compassion on the ragged Guy Fawkes figure before

him, and conceived that he might earn a fair livelihood by merely walking

over the farmer’s grounds, as all the kites and crows must inevitably

flap their departing wings at his approach. Twm looked into a keen pair

of ferret eyes, that glistened above a high-bridged parrot nose, and

found no difficulty in identifying the miserable Moses of past days.

Twm’s spirit of joking was rampant within him, notwithstanding the

morning’s vexations, and he determined upon having a little fun, in

refreshing Moses’s memory regarding a few incidents which were best

forgotten. Assuming an attitude of tremendous importance, and

overwhelming authority, he commenced:

“You are the very fellow I have been long seeking. You ran away from the

comfortable and very plentiful house of Morris Greeg, in Cardiganshire;

after having in concert with a young scamp, named Twm Shon Catty, eaten

all his pork and mutton.” Moses started and looked blue as indigo.

“I’ll have thee put in stocks, and taken back to the house of that

generous and most injured man,” cried Twm, in the tone of a

jack-in-office.

Compassionating the perplexity of the poor devil, he caught his hand and

cried, “Don’t you know me?—Twm, your former fellow-starveling.” “Well,

well! who could have thought it!” cried the astonished Moses; “dear,

dear, what a many good dinners you must have had to make you look so

well.”

Twm assured him, he should have dinners too, if he behaved himself, but

charged him to be silent as to their former acquaintance. Moses so

bounced and bounded up, in token of his rapture, that Twm feared the wind

would bear away the poor creature like a paper kite from him.

Poor fellow! anticipating warmth and comfort from such a proceeding, he

married a very fat widow of a butcher, who was accomplished in her

husband’s calling. Moses had often sought the pleasant shelter of her

slaughter-house, and amusingly admired the dexterous and delicate manner

in which she cut the throats, and flayed the hides off the subjects that

she operated on; inasmuch that he conceived the creatures themselves

ought to be delighted at being so skilfully finished. After he had wooed

and won the widow, oftentimes, when she was almost broken-hearted at her

failing to sell certain joints towards the close of the market-day, Moses

would be in raptures, as he feelingly observed, they would eat the unsold

portion themselves. Somehow their trade gradually declined, till

latterly it ceased altogether, and the widow was no longer a butcher,

owing, as she protested, to her husband’s being a “huge feeder,” and the

mysterious disappearance of various joints that she suspected him of

devouring in secret.

Where were now the lover’s despair and tears, his dedication to a life of

solitude, nay, his refusal even of life? True, for some days, Twm

stalked about in the neighbourhood of the “Cat and Fiddle” as if his

earthly mission had been brought to a sudden termination; as if, like

Othello, his occupation was gone, and there was no likelihood of any

other suitable employment turning up. Alas for the consistency of the

lover!—days we repeat, and not weeks nor months, much less years, of

seclusion of this kind. He soon illustrated the Shaksperian adage, “Men

have died, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.” But by him

everything was to be done by strokes of impulse. To banish his cares, he

plunged at once into intemperance; and from merely tolerating a little

cheerful company, he entered the society of the greatest topers and

madcaps to be found, till he emulated and outdid the highest, and became

the very prince of wags and practical jokers.

He was of course recognized as the conqueror of the tremendous Dio the

Devil, and the acknowledged preserver of the lady of Ystrad Feen, which,

with his relation of many freaks and vagaries in England, together with

the assured fact that he had been once to London, and spent a year there,

gained him no inconsiderable share of celebrity.

The good-humoured Justice Prothero, he found as merry, and as much a

friend as ever. “Fear not for the fair widow, boy!” would he exclaim,

slapping him heartily on the back; “she’ll have thee yet, in spite of the

long-nosed Prices and their pedigrees.”

To divert him from his frequent fits of melancholy, and dangerous freaks

of folly among his newly-made companions at Llandovery, Prothero would

keep him a week at a time under his friendly roof, and make trifling

bets, to amuse him, by which freaks he secured some enjoyment for himself

also.

Ready Rosser again became his antagonist in these rustic feats and

stratagems. The first wager that Prothero laid, was of twenty shillings,

that Twm would not by his cunning decoy a sheep out of the safe keeping

of this worthy, as he was to fetch one home for butchering on the morrow;

but if he succeeded, the mutton and the money would both become his own;

otherwise he would forfeit that sum and resign the woolly victim to its

owner. To all this our hero agreed, and prepared accordingly.

Ready Rosser was as loud in bidding defiance to our hero, now as he had

been on a former occasion, where the result had scarcely justified his

extravagant bragging. He shouldered his sheep, vowing before his

grinning fellow-servants, who grouped round to crack their jests on him,

that the devil himself should not deprive him of his burden. As he

proceeded along a part of the high road, up a slight ascent, he

discovered with surprise, a good leathern shoe lying in the mud. A shoe

of leather, be it known, in a country where wooden clogs are generally

worn, is no despicable prize. Rosser looked at the object before him

with a longing eye; but reflecting that one shoe, however good, was

useless unmatched with a fellow, spared himself the trouble of stooping,

for troublesome it would have been with such a weight on his shoulders,

and passed on without lifting it. On walking a little farther, and going

round a bend in the road, great was his surprise on finding another shoe,

a fellow to the former, lying in the sledge mark, which like the rut of a

wheel, indented the mud with hollow stripes. In the height of his joy he

laid down the sheep, with its legs tied, beside the shoe, and ran back

for the other; when Twm Shon Catty, watching his opportunity, sprang over

the hedge, and seized his prize, which he bore off securely; won his bet,

and ate his mutton undisturbed.

The termination of this sheep wager did not add to Ready Rosser’s

reputation, and that worthy was nearly beside himself with rage, on

finding himself again beaten. His master, Squire Prothero, although the

most good-humoured of country gentlemen, was rather angry with Rosser,

whose shrewdness always became questionable when opposed to Twm’s. It

was admitted, in excuse, that the most cunning at times may be

accidentally over-reached by his inferior in wit. On this plea the merry

magistrate was conciliated, and induced into another wager, precisely

like the former, when a similar sum, against our hero, and in favour of

his servant, was laid and accepted. The man of shrewdness, as before,

determined to use the utmost vigilance and caution to preserve his charge

and redeem his reputation. He grasped his load, which was a fine fat

ewe, most manfully, and swore violent oaths in answer to his master’s

exhortation to chariness, that human ingenuity should never trick him

again; but

“Great protestations do make that doubted,

Which we would else right willingly believe.”

In his way to Llangattock, he had to pass through a wood, which he had

scarcely entered, when the bleating of a sheep attracted his attention,

and he came to a dead stand, as he intently listened to what he conceived

a well-known voice. “Baa—baa!” again saluted his ear. A sudden

conviction rushed across his mind, that this was the very sheep he had

before lost, which he imagined might have been concealed by Twm in the

recess of the woody dingle.

What a glorious chance, thought he, of recovering his lost credit with

his master, and depriving his antagonist of his laurels! He instantly

deposited his burden beneath a tree; and eagerly forcing his way through

the copse and bushes, he followed the bleating a considerable way down

the wood, when to his great dismay it ceased altogether. A thought now

struck him, though rather too late, that the bleating proceeded from no

sheep, but a more subtle ram, in the presence of Twm Shon Catty; he

hurried back in a grievous fright, and found his surmises but too

true—the second sheep, and his high reputation for shrewdness, had both

taken flight together.

Moses’s face and figure began to improve, for he received the greater

proportion of the winnings both of money and mutton, and he secretly

thanked the good fortune which had brought him into Twm’s service.

Squire Prothero, not yet being tired of our hero’s witty genius and

cunning cleverness, offered to oppose to his cunning, the collective

vigilance of his husbandmen and maidens; laying a bet with him that he

should not steal a white ox, with which a black one was to be yoked to

the plough. The plough to be held by Rosser and driven by another

servant; while two girls, driving each a harrow, should also be on their

guard, to prevent his aim if possible.

There could be no doubt that Twm would accept this wager as he had done

the others, and accordingly he very obligingly undertook to convey away

the white ox, as he had formerly done the bull Bishop; and to eat the

gentleman’s beef, provided it turned out sufficiently tender; protesting

with a half yawn, and the perfect ease of a modern Corinthian, that he

was absolutely tired of mutton, which he had too long persisted in

eating, against the judgment and advice of his physician.

The morning at length dawned, when the test of Twm’s sagacity, the most

severe to which it had yet been exposed, was to be applied. The plough

was guided and the cattle driven, while two bare-footed maidens giggled

and laughed till the rocks echoed, as they whipped the horses and ran by

their sides, till the harrows bounced against the stones, and sometimes

turned over; their mirth was excited by the idea of Twm’s folly in

accepting such a bet, and thinking to steal the white ox from under their

noses, the impossibility of which was so evident.

The two servants at the plough also cracked and enjoyed their clumsy

jokes at the thought of our hero’s temerity, at the same time keeping a

wary eye in every direction, armed against surprisals, and exulting in

the thought that for once, at least, the dexterous Twm would be baffled

in his aim. Time went on; the day waned away towards the evening, and as

their fatigue increased, their vigilance gradually lessened.

Such was the state of matters when Moses, who seemed to be loitering

about without any particular purpose in view, encountered them, and,

laughing loudly at the cautious and careful way in which they continued

to guard their prize, assured them that Twm had given up the idea of

outwitting such a wary and clever party, and was at that moment drinking

his wine with their master, whom he allowed to win the wager.

“Allowing, indeed!” quoth a sharp-tongued lass, as she stopped her harrow

to listen, “pretty allowing, when he could not help himself!” “Aye,”

cried the other girl, “so the fox allowed the goose to escape, when she

took to flight and escaped his clutches!”

Rosser and the plough-boy exulted in their anticipated reward of a

skin-full of strong beer. Thus the whole party was excited to a high

pitch of triumphant mirth. Moses was, of course, a decoy, and his report

had really the effect of throwing them off their guard, which another

circumstance contributed to aid. The rural party had rested, sitting on

their ploughs and harrows, at one end of the field, while they listened

to their informant; and now were about to resume their labours, when a

hare started from the adjoining thicket, crossing the ground towards the

opposite hedge.

Suddenly the halloo arose; away ran the ploughman and girls, over hedges

and ditches, and away ran the yelping sheep-dog, amid the clamour of

shouting and barking; but the wondering oxen stood still, and their grave

looks of astonishment gradually changed to a more animated expression of

alarm on the arrival of Twm Shon Catty.

Having loosed his captive hare to decoy the clowns, he availed himself of

their absence to dress the black ox in a white morning gown,—that is to

say, a sheet, which became him much, and contrasted with his complexion

amazingly; and the white ox he attired in a suit of mourning, formed of

the burial pall which he had borrowed from the clerk of Llandingad church

for that express purpose; and, having unloosened his fair friend from the

yoke, they suddenly disappeared through a gap in the hedge.

Although busily engaged in the gentlemanly pastime of the chase, the

husbandry worthies now and then glanced towards the plough, but seeing,

as they thought, the white ox safe, returned to it at a leisurely pace,

till quickened, as they neared it, by the singular sight before them; and

their petty vexation at losing the hare was now swallowed up by the

terrible circumstance of their loss of their especial charge. A suitable

lamentation followed, of course, which was succeeded by fear and

trembling, from a conviction that Twm Shon Catty dealt with the devil;

and that the hare which they had chased was no other than the foe of man

in disguise. This reasonable and self-evident assumption quite satisfied

their merry master, who deemed himself quite compensated for his loss by

the hearty laugh he enjoyed.

Twm and his singular charge entered Llandovery in triumph, the white ox

being gaily decorated with ribbons, and the half-starved, but

trustworthy, Moses seated on its back. Loud were the huzzas and laughter

by which he was received by the juvenile part of the population of

Llandovery; not one of whom enjoyed the sight more than the good-humoured

Prothero, who cheerfully paid the bet, and from a tavern window had full

view of the scene, which he declared excited his laughter till his heart

and sides ached with the agreeable convulsion.

Twm did not confine himself to love of beef and mutton. He had higher

aspirations which evinced a very ardent passion for horse-flesh; and

pursued it with all the fiery zest of a first-love, when impeded by

difficulties the most insurmountable.

The lady of Ystrad Feen, still sitting on his heart like a night-mare,

and pinching it with pain rendered him, however amusing to others,

miserable enough within himself. Lassitude, chagrin, and bitterness,

often betrayed themselves in his countenance and manners, and were only

transiently removed by the hilarity of the company with which he mixed,

or the freaks which he played, in his ill-combined humours of mirth and

sorrow. Reckless of consequences, he now entered into the follies less

innocent than hitherto detailed; led to them, however, more by a spirit

of youthful wildness than by any really criminal intention.

In one of his many walks he found himself one day at Machynlleth, in

Montgomeryshire, and who should he see but his old enemy Inco Evans of

Tregaron, riding into the town on a fine grey horse? “Ho, ho!” quoth he,

“my dear friend still alive! Now is that horse to be mine or his?” said

he to himself, as he produced a copper coin; “now heads for Inco, and

tails for Twm,” added he, as he tossed the penny high up in the air. On

its fall to the ground he found that fortune had declared against the

parson.

With the utmost coolness he made himself known to the amiable Inco, whose

features underwent various contortions at the recognition; nor did they

settle to serenity when Twm with provoking laughter told him that he must

journey homeward on foot, as it was a settled thing fixed by fate, that

he was to have the gallant grey himself. Inco started and stared; but,

without answering a word, he hurried to the innkeeper and the hostler,

charging them to lock the stable, and assist him to secure a daring

delinquent whom he had discovered in the street. On reaching the stable,

the grey, like the grey mist of morning, had dissolved from view, and our

hero was equally invisible in the ancient town of Machynlleth.

This last transaction sat uneasily on Twm’s conscience. He thought that

it hardly came within the legitimate bounds of a joke, although the free

and unlicensed spirit of the times permitted a long tether in this

respect; he therefore promised himself some mirth in returning the grey

horse to Inco, if he could be found in a Welshpool fair, which was

probable, as the accumulating clerical magistrate was a great trafficker

in farm stock of all kinds. Thither proceeded the gallant Twm, on a fine

Monday morning, in the following week; but the purpose of his better

thoughts was unluckily thwarted.

On entering this little wool-combing town, a certain countenance burst

upon his recollection; the owner of the face made known to him as a

stranger, and made overtures for the purchase of the steed. It struck

our hero that there would be some fun in selling it to this personage—no

other than young Marmaduke Graspacre—as it could not but cause a

whimsical altercation with Inco Evans. Accordingly a bargain was struck,

and Twm received the amount in hard cash.