Both parties were highly pleased with their transaction, and Twm praised

the grey steed still more warmly now that he had pocketed the money. He

spoke quite enthusiastically of the animal’s points, remarking that its

merits were far away in excess of what he had represented them to be. “I

protest to you in honesty and truth,” he exclaimed with much earnestness,

“you have a greater bargain than you imagine. As I was not anxious to

sell him, I have omitted to inform you of half his good qualities; he is

capable of performing such wonderful feats as you never heard of.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed the elated Marmaduke, staring alternately

at his horse and at our hero. “In fact, I assure you,” cries Twm, with

the most sober face imaginable; “and if you don’t believe me, I’ll

convince you in a moment, if you will allow me to mount him.” “Oh,

certainly, with many thanks,” quoth the delighted heir of Graspacre Hall.

Twm very leisurely mounted, and after a variety of postures and

curvetings, gradually got out of the fair into the high-road; suddenly

giving spur and rein to the “gallant steed,” he astonished Marmaduke by

his disappearance.

The “green” one had to confess with bitterness of heart, that the jockey

had certainly kept his word, as he showed him such a trick as he never

before saw, or heard of. But when he received a note informing him that

the horse-dealer was his old “friend” Twm, his wrath was boundless.

The fame of Twm’s cunning and adroitness spread through the whole country

round, and his wide-spread reputation brought him many country people to

consult him respecting their difficulties.

One morning, while sitting in his favourite corner at the Cat and Fiddle,

a person called, who described himself as a small farmer in the

neighbourhood, his name Morgan Thomas; and having heard so much of his

cleverness, he came to ask his advice on an affair of great weight. He

had been annoyed, he said, by the continual trespassing of a certain

squire’s pigeons on his ground, which had made such a havoc amid his

wheat yearly, that the loss was grievous to him; he had computed his

damages, and applied for the amount, for the last four years; reckoning

that the forty pigeons would devour at least a bushel of wheat each

annually. The squire only laughed at his claims and complaints, telling

him he might pound them and be d—d, if he liked when he would pay the

alleged damages and not till then.

“Now, to pound them, I should like vastly,” quoth Morgan Thomas, “but

without the squire’s polite invitation to be d—ned, at the same time.

But,” added the poor farmer, “pounding pigeons, I look upon as

impossible; yet as you have done feats no less wonderful, if you will

pound those mischievous pigeons for me, I will engage to give you half

the amount of my claims.” “Agreed?” cried Twm, and grasped his hand, in

token that he undertook the task.

He sent a quantity of hot grains from the brewing, to the farmer, next

morning, which he afterwards scattered about the farm-yard. The pigeons

came, as usual; and eagerly devouring the grain, each and all soon

appeared as top-heavy as the veriest tress-pot in Carmarthenshire; and,

like the said fraternity incapable of returning home, they fell in stupor

on the ground. Our hero, assisted by the farmer, picked them up, tied

their legs, and put the whole party in the pound. The squire, who was no

other than Prothero, the laughing magistrate, ever pleased with a jest,

especially when cracked by our hero, immediately paid the farmer’s

demand; and Twm generously refused the proffered remuneration for his

very effective assistance.

Our hero never used the money acquired by his art for his own

requirements, and we must not forget to say here that the cash our hero

received for the parson’s horse, was cast into the parish poor-box.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

TWM’S poetical address to his “lady love.” “A gipsy’s life is a joyous

life.” Dinas and a singular natural cave. Faithless woman.

Twm’s thoughts were not often forgetful of Ystrad Feen, and its

inhabitants: the lady “of the ilk” seldom indulged in silent reverie,

without making the absent Twm the principal figure in her day-dream. She

had not known a day’s peace since his absence, and was daily waving

between a resolution to send for him back, to bestow on him her hand, and

a deference for her father and proud relatives, who insisted that if she

ever married again, it should only be to a title and fortune; by which

they themselves might share in the honour.

Information was brought to her of his wild excesses, which gave her the

greatest concern, as she conceived herself in part the authoress of his

misfortunes. Twm, at the same time, felt that his tedious absence from

the fair widow was no longer to be endured; and as he knew her to be

watched by her father’s spies, he determined on paying her a visit in

disguise. Previous to putting his design into execution, he composed and

sent her the following poem, in which he dwells on, and exaggerates, his

own misfortunes, in a strain calculated to move her tenderness in his

favour.

CYWYDD Y GOVID. {264}

THE outcast’s forced ally is mine

And Govid is his name;

It is a ruthless savage mate,

And like a foe that’s pale with hate,

To crush me is his aim:

His cruel shafts are fiercely hurl’d,

He forced me friendless on the world.

If forward, seeking good I wend,

My eager steps outstrip the fiend;

If backward I retreat from ill,

My cruel foe arrests me still:

I seek the flood to end despair,

Relentless Govid meets me there,

And tells of endless pangs of pride,

The wages of the suicide.

Fell Govid’s mighty in the land,

His children are a horrid band,

Who joy in hapless man’s distress,

Lo, one in debt—one nakedness:—

And need against me doth combine;

(Fierce Govid’s loveless concubine;)

And care, that knows not how to yearn,

Is Govid’s consort, keen and stern:

And thus this family of ill,

E’er bruise my heart and curb my will.

Though lost to me the tranquil day,

My vanquisher I hope to slay;

The fierce enormous giant fiend

No more the heart of Twm shall rend,

If thou, my lady-love! but smile,

Thou gentle fair, devoid of guile—

Thou darling object of my choice,

Oh bless me with assentive voice,

And soon shall Govid lay his length,

A curse! struck down by Rapture’s strength.

The Lady of Ystrad Feen did not read the pathetic poem without being

deeply affected, and tears ran down her fair cheeks as she sobbingly

perused it for the fourth time. She still bowed her head in grief, when

her maid entered her chamber, and in a tone of complaint informed her

mistress that there was a very important and troublesome gipsy in the

kitchen, who, after having told the fortunes of all the servants in the

house, insisted on seeing her also.

“I am not in a mood to relish such foolery now, so send her about her

business,” answered the lady, in a tone more sorrowful than angry. “It

is quite useless,” replied the girl, “to attempt to send her away; big

Evan the gardener tried to take her by the shoulders, and turn her out by

force, but she whirled round, grasped him by his arms, tripped up his

heels, and laid him in a moment on the floor. There she sits in the

kitchen, and vows she will not budge from thence for either man or woman,

till she sees the Lady of Ystrad Feen, whom she loves, she says, dearer

than her life, and would not for millions harm a hair of her head.”

Although too deeply absorbed in sorrow to have curiosity much excited,

she went down stairs, and approached the sybil, who had now taken her

station in the hall, asking her, “What do you want, my good woman?”—“To

tell you,” answered she, “not your fortune, but what may be your fortune

if you choose.” “Let me hear then,” said the Lady Joan, with a faint

incredulous smile, walking before her, at the same time, into a little

back parlour. Before she could seat herself, the apparent gipsy caught

her right hand wrist, and looking round, whispered in her ear,—

“To heal your torn bosom, and ease every smart,

Oh take—he’s before you—the youth of thy heart.”

The colour fled from the fair widow’s cheeks, and in a moment she sank

into a swoon in her lover’s arms. Soon recovering, she desired her maid

to deny her to every body that called, “as,” added she, with a smile, “I

have particular business with the gipsy.”

A scene of tears and tenderness ensued; when Twm, with the utmost

fervour, urged his suit. She replied that her father had insisted on,

and received her promise that she should wed no being but who either bore

a title or stood within a prospect of one.

“You did well,” replied our hero, with the most easy confidence, “and

your promise, so far from militating against me, would really be in my

favour, for am I not the son of a baronet? his nature child, ’tis true,

but still his son; and you would break no promise to your father in

marrying me; but if you did, so much the better broke than kept. I have

friends at this moment who are doing their utmost to move my father, Sir

John Wynn, of Gwydir, to own me publicly, for his right worthy son; and

if he does not, the loss is his, not mine, for I shall certainly disown

him else for a father, and claim parentage of some greater man.”

In this interview, Twm pleaded his affection with such persuasive vigour

and tender persistence, that the old “lady of his dream” resisted the

promptings of her own heart no longer, and promised to be his in spite of

every obstacle. The joy of our hero knew no bounds, nor did the lady

very strenuously resist his rapturous embraces; but seemed to find her

heart relieved by the resolution she had come to, that now for ever put

an end to the conflicting doubts as to her future course, which had so

long torn her heart, and banished her peace.

It was now time for the pretended gipsy to depart, as the sun was

descending rapidly, and Twm was chary of the fair widow’s reputation. He

would not have the faintest breath of slander associated with her name

and so he unwillingly left. She directed him to wait for her, and her

confidential friend Miss Meredith, at the entrance to the ancient cave on

the top of Dinas, which was the name of the conical hill exactly fronting

the mansion of Ystrad Feen. He accordingly took his departure; and

winding round the base of Dinas, he crossed the river Towey, which, being

then in summer, was there little more than a brook.

After walking over a couple of fields, and a piece of rough common, he

had to cross the Towey once more, when he commenced his ascent at the

only part of this very steep hill where it was possible to climb.

During his former stay at Ystrad Feen, this wildly-romantic height had

been his favourite haunt, as the cave in its side was the greatest

wonder. It was in fact a mighty mound, that bore all the appearance of

having been, at the period of its formation, convulsed by an earthquake,

and in the height of nature’s tremendous heavings, suddenly arrested and

becalmed, even while the huge crags were in the act of tumbling down its

steep sides.

A narrow valley encircled its base, and the mountains around of equal

height with itself, separated only by this deep and scanty dell, seemed

as if rent from it, during the convulsions of the earth, and Dinas left

alone, an interesting monument of the memorable event. The surface of

the acclivity was so speckled with huge loose stones, that it was

dangerous to hold by them in ascending, as the slightest impetus would

roll them downward.

Once in poetical mood, when accompanied by his mistress, while tenderly

and lovingly protecting her during their ascent at this very spot, he had

said, that no doubt an earthquake had turned the bosom of the hill inside

out, so that no secret could be therein concealed: archly insinuating

that he trusted the time would soon come, when, without so violent a

process, her own fair bosom would be equally open to him, while it

rejected the stony barriers that then stood between him and her heart.

But let us proceed with our description, while Twm awaits the arrival,

according to promise, of the Lady of Ystrad Feen.

The approach to this curious place was as romantic as the cave itself.

It was through a narrow aperture, formed of two immense slate rocks that

face each other, with the space between them narrower at the bottom than

the top, so that the passage could be entered only side-ways, with the

figure inclined forward, according to the slant of the rocks, a thin

person being barely able to make his way in, while a man of some

rotundity might also succeed, rising on his toes, forcing himself

upwards. Between these rocks of entrance a massive stone block was

wedged at the top, so that it formed a rude resemblance to an arch.

After _sideling_ so far through a comparatively long passage, it was a

great surprise that it led to so small a cave; for it was scarcely large

enough to shelter three persons huddled close together. What it wanted

in breadth, it possessed in height, as it ran up like a chimney, to the

attitude of forty-five feet, and was opened at the top to the very summit

of the mount, forming a skylight to the _room_ below. Although the

little cave was void of a solid roof, a very rural one was formed by the

large tufts of heather and fern, which sprung through the crevices of the

rocks; the whole being surmounted by the pendant branch of a dwarf oak,

that with many other trees stood like a crown on the elevated head of

Dinas.

However singular the interior of this cave might appear to our hero, he

had great pleasure in examining the grand combination that graced its

exterior. There he saw, with never-satisfied delight and wonder, objects

of the most romantic character, curiously united, near the junction of

the three counties. The rocky Dinas, with its many inaccessible sides,

besides the loose crags before mentioned, was partially covered with aged

dwarfish trees, all bending in the same direction; many with their heads

broken by tempests, but still throwing out branches, while others, stark,

sere, and shrouded in green moss, were things to which seasons brought no

change.

From the mouth of the cave a beautiful view was obtained of the

well-wooded mountain of Maesmaddegan, while the junction of the rivers

Towey and Dorthea {269} enlivened the gloom caused by the deep gulf which

separated Dinas.

Twm was, however, careless for this once of the extremely attractive

character of the scenery around him. One of the most interesting pages

in the Book of Nature lay open before him, but it remained unperused,

unnoticed at his feet. His eager eye was fixed steadily on the spot

where it would catch the earliest glimpse of his approaching mistress.

Out of all patience at her long delay, he now began to wonder at the

cause of it; when at length, to his great dismay, he saw _one_ female

hurrying on, and her not the one, although the faithful Miss Meredith.

Having reached the side of the river, which separated her from the base

of Dinas, and finding that he was watching her, she placed a paper on the

rock, and a stone upon it, then kissing her hand sportively, turned about

and hastened homeward with the utmost precipitation. In his eagerness to

overtake her, Twm attempted to run down the declivity, but soon lost his

footing, sliding and rolling down several yards, by which he was for a

few moments rather stunned. Losing all hope of overtaking his mistress’s

confidante, he applied to the paper on the rock, which he found to be a

note hastily scrawled with a pencil, containing merely these words:—

“My father has unexpectedly arrived, with several of his friends—can’t

see you at Llandovery on the Fair day. Yours ever.” “By the Dood!”

muttered Twm to himself, “if this is a coquette’s trick which she put on

me, it shall avail her nothing;—mine she is, by promise, and mine she

shall be, in spite of the devil, and all her Brecknockshire friends to

boot!” Determined to bring his affairs to a speedy crisis, he changed

his clothes, and soon made his way to Llandovery.

CHAPTER XXXV.

TWM assumes various disguises, and accomplishes many clever things at

Llandovery fair. A strange scene in a court of justice. Twm flies and

is pursued.

Twm set off to Llandovery fair with a fluttering heart and hopeful

anticipations of seeing his mistress, and planned another little drama,

in which he intended the grey horse should have an important part.

Much to their credit, the neighbouring gentry had recently opened a

subscription for rebuilding between thirty and forty poor people’s

houses, which had unfortunately been burnt down; and our hero resolved

that every farthing henceforward gained by the grey horse, or otherwise,

clandestinely, should be appropriated to this laudable purpose. It was

no small satisfaction to him to find that, while it mortified the

purse-proud vanity of the haughty squires to see so large a sum attached

to his name, it had the good effect of increasing their contributions,

resolved not to be outdone, in money matters at least, by so obscure a

personage as Twm.

It was necessary for him to disguise himself thoroughly, for he intended,

in the first place, to offer the horse for sale. He decided to dress as

a country booby; and after he had finished, his most intimate friend

would have been puzzled to recognize him. Twm Shon Catty, (we beg his

pardon,) Mr. Thomas Jones was effectually concealed in the rough garb of

a Welsh country ploughman. His feet got thrust into a very heavy pair of

clogs, or wooden-soled shoes, which being stiff and large, maintained

such a haughty independence of the inmates, as to need being tied on by a

hay-band. His legs were enveloped in a pair of wheat-stalk leggings, or

bands of twisted straw, winding round and round, and covering them from

the knee to the ankle.

A raw hairy cow-hide formed the material of his _inexpressibles_, which

were loose, like trowsers cut at the knee; and his jerkin was of a

brick-dust red, with black stripes, like the faded garb of the

Carmarthenshire women. A load of red locks, straight as a bunch of

carrots, hung dangling behind, but in front rather matted and entangled,

quite innocent of the slightest acquaintance with that useful article, a

comb; the whole surmounted with a soldier’s cast-off Monmouth cap, so

highly varnished with grease, as to appear waterproof.

Without any apology for a waistcoat, he wore a blue flannel shirt,

striped with white, opened from the chin to the waistband, to contain his

enormous cargo of bread and cheese and leeks, which, as he was

continually drawing upon his store, stood a chance of all becoming wholly

inside passengers. Added to this, his booby gait and stupid vacant stare

was such that he might have passed muster anywhere for what he pretended

to be.

He took up his post on the outskirts of the town, preferring that

position to elbowing his way through the busy crowd in the middle of the

fair. He did not appear anxious for a customer, and munched his bread

and cheese and onions with quiet perseverance. Many persons, in passing

by, gazed with wonder at this piece of cloddish rusticity, and asked if

the horse was for sale; but receiving such drivelling and dolt-like

answers, that it became a matter of wonder who could have trusted their

property to such an oaf.

When Twm had stood some time, patiently bearing the ridicule of many

bystanders, who cracked jokes at his expense, a gentlemen, well-mounted

on a chestnut-coloured hunter, entered the town, and cast an eager eye at

the grey horse. Twm recognized him at a glance as a Breconshire

magistrate, named Powell, one of the many rejected admirers of the lady

of Ystrad Feen. Riding up to our hero, he asked if the horse was for

sale. Twm answered in broken English, imitating the dialect of the lower

class, “I don’t no but it iss, if I cann get somebody that is not wice,

look you, somebody that was fools to buy him.”

“But why,” asked the gentleman, “don’t you take him into the horse-fair?”

“Why inteed to goodness,” answered Twm, “I was shame to take him there;

for look you, he has a fault on him, and I do not find in my heart and my

conscience to take honest people in with a horse that has a fault on him,

for all master did send me here to sell him.”

“Well, and what is this mighty fault?” asked the stranger, smiling.

“Why inteed to goodness and mercy,” replied Twm, “it was a fault that do

spoil him—it was a fault that—”

“But what is the fault?” asked the Breconshire magistrate impatiently:

“give it a name, man.”

“Why inteed to goodness,” replied the scrupulous horse-dealer, “I will

tell you like an honest christian man, without more worts about it; I

will make my sacrament and bible oaths”—“I don’t ask your oath,” cried

Powell, almost out of humour, “merely tell me in word, what ails the

horse?”

“Inteed and upon my soul and conscience to boot, I can’t say what do ail

him.” “You can’t?” cried Powell in an angry tone, and looking as

surprised and wrath as might be expected from a proud Breconian;

“Confound me if I do,” replied Twm, “but I will tell you why he was no

good to master; it wass thiss—Master iss a parson, a gentleman parson,

not a poor curate, one mister Inco Evans, rector of Tregaron, and the

white hairs do come off the grey horse here, and stick upon his best

black coat and preeches; and that was his fault.”

This was a curious reason for disposing of so good-a-looking animal as

that Twm held by the bridle, and one that did not deter Powell from

buying him without further parley, and paying for him there and then. He

disappeared with his prize, wondering at the stupid dolt from whom his

purchase had been made.

Twm retired now to a small public-house, where having asked for a

bed-room, he contrived, after making a total change in his garb, to slip

out again unperceived, not wishing, for various reasons, to appear before

his mistress _in propria personæ_. He now wore a grey sober suit,

shining black buckles, stockings of the wool of a black sheep, and a

knitted Welsh wig, of the same, that fitted him like a skullcap, and

concealed every lock of his hair. Thus arrayed, he presented the

appearance of a grave puritanical farmer, from the remote district of

Cardiganshire.

After gazing awhile at the motley crowd that constitutes a fair, in a

Welsh country town, he noticed a well-known crone, who had the reputation

of being exceedingly covetous. Lean, yellow, and decrepid, her

ferret-eyes glanced eagerly about for a customer, as she held beneath her

arm a large roil of stout striped flannel. Twm, unobserved, took his

stand behind her, and dexterously stitching her bale to his coat, he,

with a sudden jerk, transferred it from the old woman’s grasp to his own.

Her wonder and dismay was unutterable.

Elbowed and tossed about by the bustling crowd who were passing to and

fro, she knew not who to vent her spleen upon; but, in utter despair, set

up a tremendous howl, as a requiem for her beloved departed. Instead of

seeking the assistance of a light pair of heels, Twm scarcely moved a

yard, but drew from his pocket a little black tobacco-pipe, and puffed a

cloud with admirable coolness, while his right arm lovingly embraced the

bale of flannel.

Roused by the old beldame’s outrageous expressions of grief and fury, he

asked in a very pathetic tone, the cause of her sorrow, which she related

with many curses, sobs, and furious exclamations. Shocked at her

impiety, and want of resignation, Twm took upon him to rebuke her, and

edified her much, by a discourse on the virtue of patience; assuring her

she ought to thank heaven that she was not a neglected being. In

conclusion, he remarked, that fairs and markets in these degenerate days

were so sadly infested with rogues and vagabonds, that an honest person

was completely encompassed by dangers.

“Now for my part,” continued he, “I never enter such places without

previously sewing my goods to my clothes, which you ought also to have

done, in this manner.”—showing at the same time, the roll beneath his

arm, which he thought the old crone’s eyes had glanced on, with something

like a light of suspicion, that instantly vanished, on this notable

display and explanation.

Our hero’s appetite only grew by what it fed upon, and the taste of fun

he had as yet been able to snatch only made him wish for more. He did

not wait long for an opportunity; it was his habit to be so; he either

met “opportunity” half-way or entirely created his chance, making

circumstances, in a measure, contribute to his especial purposes.

Casting a sharp glance around, he saw making towards him, a man of the

cadaverous aspect, one who was an entire stranger to substantial creature

comforts, or, if not, one who “shamed his pasture” considerably.

On closer scrutiny, Twm saw it was his old friend Moses, whose hungry

stomach had kept him hopelessly poor. Moses advanced and tried to

bargain for a few yards of his flannel; but on reckoning his money found

he could not come up to the price, as he said he had to buy a three

legged iron pot, in addition to a winter petticoat for his wife: “and,”

observed the man of tatters, with a grin of miserable mirth, “it will be

better for her to go without flannel than our whole family to want a

porridge pot.”

Twm liked Moses, but not his logic; which implied a want of courtesy and

due deference to his better half, whose indisputable right to warm

petticoats claimed precedence to all the pots, pans, and every earthly

consideration.

“Here take this bale, take it all, for I have lost my yard and scissors,

and pay me when you grow rich;—confound your thanks! away with you,

bestow it safe, then return here; perhaps I may get thee an iron pot at

as cheap a rate as the flannel.”

Moses did not want twice bidding to induce him to avail himself of his

good fortune, but entering into the spirit of the scene at once, appeared

to understand our hero’s joking propensities, although he had no

suspicion that it was the veritable Twm himself. Off Moses ran with his

enormous present, and immediately returned; when our hero accompanied him

to the shop of an old curmudgeon of an ironmonger, whose face, hardly

distinguishable behind his habitual screen of snuff and spectacles,

seemed of the same material as his own hardware.

The man of rags was quite in luck, and as instructed, followed his

benefactor into the shop in silence. Twm examined the culinary ware,

with all the caution of an old farm-wife, asking the prices of various

articles, and turned up the whites of his eyes in the most approved

puritanic fashion, expressive of astonishment at such excessive charges.

Old hammerhead repelled the insinuation, and swore that cheaper or better

pots were never seen in the kitchen of a king. “Then you must mean the

king of the beggars,” quoth Twm, “for you have nothing here but damaged

ware.”

“Damaged devil! what do you mean?” roared the enraged ironmonger. “I

mean,” replied Twm Shon Catty, with provoking equanimity, “that there is

scarcely a pot here without a hole in it; now this which I hold in my

hand for instance, has one.” “Where! where!” asked the fiery old shop

keeper, holding it up between his eyes and the light: “if there is a hole

in this pot, I’ll eat it: where is the hole that you speak of?” “Here!”

bawls the inexorable hoaxer, pulling it over his ears, and holding it

there, while Moses took the wink from his patron, and walked off with a

most choice article, which he had selected from the whole lot.

Here was a predicament for a respectable old tradesman! Our hero fairly

held his sides with laughter as the old curmudgeon sprawled about, vainly

endeavouring to free himself from the pot, in which his terrible shouts

for help were entirely lost. Having tied his hands behind his back, Twm

left him howling and sweating beneath his huge extinguisher, and made as

he took his departure, this consolatory speech—“Had there not been a hole

in it how could that large stupid knob of yours have entered such a

helmet?”

Twm left the enraged ironmonger to get out of his dilemma as best he

could, having very little sympathy with him in his distress. When once

more in the street, he found that the people were all moving in one

direction, and Twm discovered shortly that there was some unusual

attraction at the Town Hall. As the assemblage increased, the way, like

a choaked mill-dam, became more and more impeded, until the whole

restless mass was consolidated, and stood still perforce.

Our hero had forced his way till near the entrance of the hall, where he

ventured to ask what cause had drawn together such a crowd; but he got no

immediate answer, as many came there, like himself, drawn by the powerful

influence of curiosity.

At length he heard his own name buzzed about; one said that Twm Shon

Catty whose humorous tricks were the themes of every tongue, was

discovered to be a great thief: and that he who had fought against

highwaymen, had at last become one himself, and committed all the

robberies which had taken place in that country for years past. One said

that he could never be taken; and a third contradicted that assertion,

declaring that he was then fettered in the hall, and waiting to be

conveyed to Carmarthen gaol. One assigned him to the gallows as his due,

while another tenderly replied that hanging was too good for him.

Opposing the sentiments and opinions of all these, more than one declared

that the hemp was neither spun nor grown that would hang Twm; and pity it

should, as he was a friend of the poor, and an enemy to none but the

stupid, the cruel, and the oppressive.

The disputed argument was disposed of summarily by the appearance of an

important functionary, resplendent in the gorgeous dress which he wore in

virtue of his exalted office. This individual, who was the town crier,

obtaining silence, informed the assembled multitude that the magistrates

who were now sitting, required that any “_person or persons_” who might

have been defrauded in the fair, should now come forward, so as to form a

clue towards the identity of the robber, which it was generally believed

was no other than the notorious Twm Shon Catty. The crier retired, and

in a few minutes re-appeared, and read the court’s proclamation, offering

a reward of twenty pounds to any person who would apprehend the said Twm

Shon Catty; which was answered with loud hisses by the majority of the

crowd, and effectually drowned the applause of the rest.

This was a most flattering ovation for Twm, and his spirits rose

accordingly; while, at the same time, he felt himself aggrieved by this

public proclamation concerning him by the authorities, who, he

considered, had, in this instance, somewhat exceeded their vocation. He

resolved to “beard the lion in his den,” or in other words, to enter the

hall and give the lie to any base-minded cur who should dare to associate

his name with common robbers and felons.

Softly, Twm, softly, my boy! On second thoughts he came to the

conclusion that that would not be quite prudent—he would make his way

into the Hall of Justice, and preserving his disguise, see how matters

were progressing, and try if he could not secure a little personal

entertainment for himself.

Daring Twm! thy genius adapted itself to circumstances; many people would

be doubtless astonished that our hero should venture on such cause, but

when enthusiasm, and the pride of achievement, even in a worthless cause,

actuates the passion-fraught breast, supplanting the place of reasoning

calculation, the wonder vanishes. The desperate outlaw, whose temerity

is applauded, feels the gust of heroism in as warm a degree as the

generous patriot whose claim to renown is better founded and graced with

national approbation. Twm soon found himself in the hall; for it was his

own native energies stood him in better stead than the fabled cap of

Fortunatus: he wished, and obtained; hated, and was revenged; desired to

tread a difficulty under foot, and gained his purpose; while the

generality of men would be analyzing every shadow of obstruction that

impeded their aim.

He took his stand in a conspicuous place near the bench, the “awful

judgment-seat,” which was at this time filled by three magistrates

including his laughter-loving friend Prothero, whose ruddy happy round

face deprived law itself of half its terrors. Before him, he found his

old _friend_ Evans of Tregaron, who had been sputtering a confused

account of our hero’s gracelessness from his childhood, to the last trick

he had played him, by stealing his grey horse at Machynlleth. How he had

cheated the heir of Graspacre-Hall of the horse at Welshpool; and how the

same horse was traced into the possession of a simple fellow in straw

boots and cow-hide breeches, who that very day had sold it to his friend

Mr. Powell; which sale, he contended, could not stand good, as the stolen

horse was his property to all intents and purposes, which he could prove

by credible witnesses.

This recapitulation of Twm’s tricks tickled the gravity of Prothero

amazingly; and at every pause which Evans made in his narration, he was

answered by the loud “ho, ho, ho!” of that merry magistrate.

Mr. Powell then told his story, and, in conclusion, said he was in the

commission of the peace in the town of Brecon. “Ho, ho, ho!” roared

Prothero, “here we are, three magistrates, ho, ho, ho! three magistrates,

and all fooled by Twm Shon Catty.—Clever fellow, ho, ho, ho! wild dog,

ho, ho, ho!—means no great harm—never keeps what he steals—gives all to

the poor fellows that want—ho, ho, ho! Never mind, gentlemen, the fun of

the thing repays the loss, which can be shared between you. Let Mr.

Evans take the horse, on paying Mr. Powell what he gave young

cow-breeches, ho, ho, ho! better than lose all.”

Mr. Powell immediately acceded to the arrangement, but the

unaccommodating Evans insisted on having the horse without the payment,

and made some tart remarks on conniving at a rascal’s tricks and

villanies. “For my part, I’d shoot him dead like a dog!” cried the

reverend preacher of peace and concord; drawing at the same time, a pair

of pistols from his pocket, and replacing them, in a fiery fit of

passion. “Ho, ho, ho!” roared Prothero, “but you’d catch him first,

brother, ho, ho, ho!—too cunning for you, for me, and all of us—might be

here this moment, laughing in his sleeve at us, for what we know, ho, ho,

ho!”

Twm thought it was now time to be taking a more active part in the scene,

so taking out a small book, while appearing to be deeply absorbed in its

perusal, he gave a deep groan as if much moved by what he read, and the

mourning sound at once attracted notice.

Prothero, alive to everything allied to comicality, burst out into a loud

ho, ho, ho! Evans arrayed his naturally gloomy brows in a magisterial

frown, and Powell smiled, with an expression of wonder. “What are you

reading, friend?” asked Prothero, chuckling as he surveyed the black

Welsh wig. “The wisdom of Solomon,” quoth the man of solemnity, drawing

the muscles of his face most ludicrously long; “but mark you, worshipful

gentlemen, I mean not the Solomon of the scriptures, but our own Cambrian

Solomon—that is to say, Catwg the Wise, the excellent and erudite abbot

of Llancarvan, and teacher of the Bard Taliesin.”

“That’s all right enough. Catwg was doubtless a clever man, but why do

you bring him here?” enquired Prothero, with a broad smile on his face.

“Wherever I go, I have resolved to make his wisdom known, and to reprove

all deviators from it, in the sage’s own words,” quoth Twm. “Poor man,

poor man, he’s crazy, his brain turned, perhaps by too much study,”

observed Prothero. “An impudent fellow!” cried Evans; “but you are

strangely lenient here in Carmarthenshire; were I the king, I would have

such fellows put in Bedlam.”

Twm looked at the clerical magistrate, then read from the book, “If a

crown were worn by every fool, we should all of us be kings.”

“Gentlemen, he calls us all fools!” cried Evans. Twm, without raising

his eyes from the book, read on, “were there horns on the head of every

fool, a good sum might be gained by showing a bald man.” “Gentlemen, he

makes us all cuckolds!” cried Evans, in his usual sputter; “however it

may fit you, gentlemen, I can safely say, that no disgrace as a horn

belongs to my brow.”

Twm read on:—“If the shame of every one were written on his forehead, the

materials for masks would be surprisingly dear.” “Ho, ho, ho!” roared

Prothero, till the hall echoed with his loud laughter, which the

Cardiganshire magistrate seemed to take as a personal affront, and

sulkily observed, that this was no place for foolery, but for gravity,

wisdom, and truth.

Twm read on:—“If no tongue were to speak other than truth and wisdom, the

number of mutes would be astonishingly great.” The consequential Inco,

mumbled something about his own mode of doing business at Cardigan, and

declared that he would commit such a fellow to gaol for three months, at

least, for disturbing a court of justice. Twm cut him short with another

passage from Catwg:—“Were the talkative to perceive the folly of his

chattering, he would save his breath to cool his broth.”

Here Powell of Brecon entered a little into the spirit of the scene, by

quoting also from the well-known aphorisms of Catwg, applying the passage

to Twm himself;—“If the buffoon were to see the vanity of his feat, he

would leave it off for shame.” This feeble hit excited the applause of

the good-humoured Prothero, who clapped the speaker heartily on the back,

and, amid his eternal ho, ho, ho! exclaimed, “Well said, brother, well

said; better silence him with wit than by authority; well done, well

done.”

Twm was not slow in taking up the gauntlet which the Breconshire

magistrate had thrown at his feet, and so turning pointedly to him, he

read;—“If the lover were to see his weakness, terror would drive him to a

premature end.” A general laugh at the expense of Powell, instantly

followed. To him that passage was considered peculiarly applicable, as

the unsuccessful woer of the gay widow of Ystrad Feen. It was a tender

string to touch so roughly. Losing his ease and temper at the same

instant, he cast a most ungracious frown at the utterer of proverbs, and

said in an undertone of threatening energy, “Whoever you may be, it were

not wise of you to repeat such conduct towards me again.” “Again?” said

Twm, pretending to misunderstand him, “Oh, certainly, I’ll give you the

passage again, or any other, to you; ‘If the lover—’” here Powell’s face

blazed with anger, as he clenched his fist, and cried, “You had better

not.”

Twm began again,—“If the lover—of war, were to see his cruelty, he would

fear that every atom in the sunbeam might stab him as a sword.” The

dexterous evasion, with the point given to the words “of war,” had its

full effect in restoring the good humour, so suddenly disturbed; but that

beautiful passage from the aphorisms of the old Welsh abbot failed to

elicit the applause which its moral merits deserve.

At this moment the attention of all present was attracted by the noisy

entrance of the ex-proprietress of the flannel, who almost deafened them

by the vehemence of her complaints; which, however, were too incoherently

expressed to be immediately understood.

“Oh! my roll of flannel, my fine, my excellent flannel! all of my own

spinning too,—eight and twenty good yards, and a yard and a half wide—my

wooden shoe too, that I lost in the crowd—and my poor corns trod off by

the villains—my dear sweet flannel, all of my own carding and

spinning—nobody but the devil himself, or his first cousin Twm Shon

Catty, could have taken it in such a manner—it was whisked from me as if

a whirlwind had swept it away.”

At length she paused for want of breath, and Twm approached her with the

air of a comforter, and read from his book,—“Were a woman as quick with

her feet as with her tongue, she would catch the lightning to kindle her

fire in the morning.” It is probable that she did not perfectly hear

this passage, as on perceiving Twm, she gave a shout of joy, and then as

incoherently as before, appealed to the magistrate; “This honest man,

your worship, knows it all. I told him, the moment I lost my

flannel—this worthy man, your worship—a good man, a man who reads books,

your worship, he can witness.”

This vehement outburst of eloquence was brought to a sudden termination,

and the old woman’s wordy complaint effectually strangled by the laughter

and applause which greeted the appearance of a more ridiculous applicant

for justice and his right.

Supported by two constables, who rather dragged forward, than led him,

came Twm’s friend the hardwareman, crowned with the identical iron pot

before named, which the officers, as a matter of official formality, or

to indulge their own facetiousness, refused to remove, till in the

presence of a magistrate. When his laughter had a little subsided,

Prothero ordered the pot to be removed, and his hands untied. The

hardwareman then told his lamentable tale in a few words; in conclusion,

he declared, that having overheard certain words between the robber and

his accomplice, he had learned that the thief was no other than Twm Shon

Catty. His eye now caught on the figure of our hero, and with a yell as

astounding as if the eternal enemy of man stood before him, he cried,

“There he is! there he is! As heaven shall save me, there stands the

man, or devil, who crowned me with the iron pot, while his accomplice ran

off with the other.”

“And who robbed me of my flannel!” roared the old woman, who now changed

her opinion, as her earliest suspicions became thus suddenly confirmed.

“And who stole my grey horse!” bawled Evans of Tregaron.

“And who sold it to me when disguised in straw boots and cow-hide

breeches!” cried Powell of Brecon, who had now closely examined his

features.

Things looked desperate as far as Twm was concerned, as an attack was now

made upon him by three or four of his most determined enemies; but Twm

eluding their eager attempts to grasp him, sprang upon the table before

the bench, and drawing a couple of pistols from his coat pockets, held

one in each hand, and kept them all at bay, protesting he would shoot the

first who would advance an inch towards him. Loud was his laughter when

they all started back: but Prothero, now sat silently on the bench,

alarmed for his safety, which he had thought to secure by giving him

warning of his danger, in the feint of his proclaimed reward for his

apprehension.

As he stood in this manner, with extended arms, watchful eyes, and

grasping the pointed pistols with a finger to each trigger, Powell of

Brecon exclaimed, “Thou art a clever fellow, by Jove, Twm! very clever

for a Cardy; but wert thou with us, the quick-witted sons of Brecon, thou

wouldst soon find thyself overmatched. I dare thee to enter Brecon, to

trust to thy cunning—come there, and welcome, and thou shalt stand

harmless of me, in the affair of the grey horse.” Twm smiled, and

nodded, in token of having accepted his challenge.

Rather daunted by the failure of their first attempt to seize Twm, his

assailants had held back awed by his resolute and defiant attitude, but

recovering their courage on reflecting upon the odds against him, they

now, headed by Evans of Tregaron, got behind him, and clung to his right

arm, but with one violent effort Twm shook them away, as the mighty bull

throws off the yelping curs that dare to attack him. Then, with a single

leap, he sprang from the table into the crowded court, where a lane was

formed for him, and rushed out of the door unimpeded, and pursued by his

accusers. They soon lost sight of him among the moving multitude, some

of whom dispersed from fear of accidents, while others followed him as

spectators.

To the great astonishment of his pursuers they next caught a view of him

mounted on that grand subject of contention, the grey horse. He took the

route of Ystrad Feen, followed by several constables in the employ of

Evans of Tregaron, and many disinterested persons from the fair. Loud

were the shouts of the numerous riders; loud the tramp of galloping

horses; and wild the disorder and terror created, as Twm at different

intervals turned on his pursuers, and fired his pistols. This caused a

powerful retrograde movement among them, by which the foremost horses

fell back to those behind them, unhorsing some who lay groaning and

crying with fright on the ground, and frightening others altogether from

the pursuit.

It was on this occasion that a bard of that day wrote the stanza which

appears on the title page, thus translated by the late Iolo Morganwg:—

“In Ystrad Feen a doleful sound

Pervades the hollow hills around;

The very stones with terror melt,

Such fear of Twn Shon Catty felt.”

Fortune still favoured Twm, who reaching the foot of Dinas somewhat in

advance of his motley train of pursuers, dismounted, sprung from stone to

stone, that formed the ford of the Tower, and climbed the steep side of

that majestic mount, with the utmost ease. Like a prudent sea-captain,

Twm was chased in his small boat by a fleet of rovers, till he reaches

his own war-ship, and springs up her fort-like side, and treads his deck

in the ecstasy of surmounted peril, conscious strength, and superiority.

Thus Twm now attained the summit of a prominent knoll, and waved his hand

triumphantly, in defiance of his foes below. Evans of Tregaron, with his

crew of catchpoles, made an attempt to climb also; Twm permitted them to

advance about twenty yards above the river, when he ended the warfare, by

rolling down several huge stones, that swept them in a mass into the bed

of the river Towey, sadly bruised, but more frightened, from whence they

were extricated by the amazed and terrified spectators.

Evans of Tregaron met with an accident, which during the remainder of his

life reminded him of his hasty chase after Twm Shon Catty. In starting

aside to avoid the dreadful leaping crags that threatened to crush him,

his pistols went off in his pockets, and carried away, besides his coat

skirts and the rear of his black breaches, a large portion of postern

flesh, that deprived him forever after of that agreeable cushion which

nature had provided.

Amusing to the population of Tregaron was the singular sight of their

crest-fallen magistrate and his hated gang, brought home in woeful

plight, as inside passenger of a dung-cart, which had been hired for the

purpose; and more than all, that his discomfiture should have been caused

by their long-lost countryman Twm Shon Catty.

Our hero was clearly in an unassailable position, and his enemies were

not so stupid as to be entirely blind to that important fact. So, like a

princely chieftain of the days of old, enthroned upon his native tower of

strength, marking in his soul’s high pride the awkward predicament of his

baffled foes, perceiving them all depart; leaving him the undisputed lord

of his alpine territory, the glorious height of Dinas.

After witnessing, with his limbs stretched upon his mountain couch, the

glorious beauty of the setting sun, he entered the cave, tore from its

top a sufficiency of fern and heather to form his bed, threw on it his

fatigued, over-exerted frame, and slept soundly until morning.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

TWM at Brecon. An angling feat. Twm in a musical character. Wins the

prize offered for a poem. A new style of marriage—and some other little

“odds and ends.” Conclusion.

With the earliest rays of the morning’s sun Twm was astir, and during a

long ramble on the hills, was busily turning over in his mind the

exciting-incidents of the previous day. Unable to account for his second

disappointment of seeing his mistress, according to promise, he gave way

to despondency, and conjectured the worst—that she was no longer true to

his vows, but had yielded to the persuasions of her haughty relative, and

become a renegade both to love and to honour. He was now, however, so

near her residence, he would at least ascertain how matters stood; and,

after many efforts of resolution, he descended the hill for that purpose.

On crossing the Towey, he was surprised to find that the “gallant grey”

was still left for him; he was busily feeding in an adjoining field, and

the saddle and bridle hung dangling from a storm-stricken old thorn. He

felt this, directly, as a handsome piece of attention to him, on the part

of Powell of Brecon, who, doubtless, had left it there for convenience.

On examining further, he found a note, tied to the bridle, from that

generous individual, inviting him to be present at the Eisteddvod, the

Races and the Ball, which were to take place successively in the gay town

of Brecon.

He was doomed to disappointment; for on reaching Ystrad Feen he found

nobody but the servants, who informed him that their lady, Miss Meredith,

and the late visitors, were all gone to Brecon, and would not return for

some days. This intelligence determined him to go there also; and

recollecting a trunk of clothes of his, which had been left ever since

his sojourning there, he called for it; and having dressed himself, and

placed with other things, in his saddle-bags, an elegant suit which he

had brought from London, he mounted his horse, and rode off for Brecon.

About a couple of miles beyond Trecastle, he overtook a poor fellow

driving an ass, laden with coarse crockery ware, who turned out to be no

other than Ready Rosser. Having long been married to a Cardiganshire

lass, they both, pretending to be single, entered Squire Prothero’s

service at the same time; but the circumstance being at length

discovered, they were both discharged a few days since, and now commenced

the crockery business for a livelihood. After a few jests on the white

bull, ox, and sheep, Twm spurred on, but not before he had purchased the

whole of Rosser’s stock, which, however, that worthy was to take to

Brecon, for a purpose to be hereafter described.

At Brecon he took lodgings at the Three Cocks’ inn, to which he gave a

preference, on account of the sign being the armorial bearings of the

celebrated David Gam, (Shakespeare’s Captain Fuellin,) the hero of

Agincourt.

Crowds still poured into the town from all points of the compass, until

it seemed impossible that the streets would hold them. While our hero

looked through the window to observe Rosser, who arranged his crockery in

front of the inn, his attention was suddenly caught by the sound of a

harp, which proceeded from the kitchen. To his great surprise, he found

the performer to be his old friend the venerable Ianto Gwyn of Tregaron.

The old man was very glad to see him, and after learning the particulars

of the fortunes he had met since he left his native town, proceeded to

inform him of the Tregaron news. His mother was well three weeks ago,

and had received the various sums which he had sent her at different

times, and was in daily hopes of burying her churl of a husband. Rachael

Ketch was now dead; having broken her heart for the loss of her money,

which had been stolen by Watt the mole-catcher, who was transported.

In conclusion, the old man said that he had come to the Eisteddvod rather

as a spectator than a candidate for the prize, having accidentally hurt

his right hand, which nearly disabled him altogether from playing. “That

circumstance is now the more provoking,” said the old man, “as I am

convinced that were my hand well, I should certainly win the noble silver

harp, which is to be the meed of the best player.”

Twm took his musical friend upstairs, and, after dining together, began

coquetting with the harp, which with the hand of a ready player, he soon

tinkled into alternate fits of grief and laughter, as he ran over many of

our most popular airs.

The old man jumped up from his seat, and embraced him with rapture,

protesting that he could not fail to win the harp, if he chose to be a

candidate. Our hero, having practised but little on the harp since he

left London, felt considerable diffidence in becoming a competitor among

proficients in music, but resolved, at any rate to avail himself of the

instructions of his friend Ianto Gwyn.

Intensely anxious to meet his mistress once more, he sought an early

opportunity of a walk through the streets; but instead of the desired

one, it was his lot to meet Powell the magistrate, who gave him a jocular

and right hearty welcome. They were soon joined by two other high bloods

of the town, one a wealthy attorney, named Phillips, and the other a

reverend and right-portly son of the church, who shone more at the

punch-bowl than in the pulpit. They all adjourned to the parlour of the

Three Cocks, where the best of wine was soon in request, and a gay scene

of conviviality and good fellowship ensued.

Twm’s fame had of course preceded him, for Powell’s tongue had been busy

in his praise, although he had done him no more than justice, and those

four worthies soon understanding each other, they spent a pretty jolly

time of it. Being all lads of the turf, the practice of betting was

familiar to them; and the lawyer offered to oppose Twm in a match of

angling for five pounds; and the bet should be, that “_whoever fished the

largest weight_, _no matter of what kind_, _in half an hour_, _should be

declared the winner_.” Our hero, although a poor angler, accepted the

wager, and Powell, as the umpire, wrote down the terms of it, which was

signed by each.

Possessing himself of angling paraphernalia, he repaired with them to the

bridge, and had the upper side of it assigned to him, while Phillips had

the lower. The latter displayed a grand morocco pocket-book, filled in

the neatest order with the most choice artificial flies, of every

description, and soon had his handsome rod in order; while the former had

nothing better than what could be procured at a shop. The lawyer landed

fish after fish, with great rapidity, and when half the given time had

expired, Twm found himself much in arrears, and the continued good

fortune of his antagonist left him, apparently, no chance of ultimate

success.

“Confound these good-for-nothing flies! fetch me a beef steak!” cried he

at last, and gave money for that purpose to a by-stander, who immediately

brought the article wanted.

“There’s a Cardy angler, fishing for trout with a beef steak!” cried the

Breconians, with an exulting laugh. Twm made no reply, but fastened

several hooks in different parts of a strong line, to each of which he

attached a small piece of beef; and, watching the movement of a flock of

ducks that floated in luxurious ease down the Usk, he threw the whole

among them.

Loud was the clamour of the aquatic crew, as they hustled each other, in

their eagerness to partake of the showered feast, which they soon

gobbled, and were drawn up to the top of the bridge by the singular

angler above, amid the shouts of laughter of the numerous spectators.

This feat was greeted by the by-standers with shouts of derision, as they

thought that Twm, in thus trifling, had practically confessed his

inability to win the wager. Powell called time, saying that the half

hour had struck. Phillips, as the conscious winner, produced a goodly

show of trout, and, as Twm had caught but four small fish, said it would

be idle to weigh them.

“Not so,” replied our wag, “let the written terms of the bet be read, and

you will find that my ducks have a right to be weighed against your

boasted trout, aye! and shall make them kick the beam.”

Phillips started at such an assertion made in earnest, and Powell read,

“Whoever fished the largest weight, no matter of what kind, would be

declared the winner,” and as umpire, awarded the five pounds to our hero.

Some merriment at the expense of Powell was caused by his declaring

himself the unlucky proprietor of the said flock of ducks; but with his

usual good-humour, he proposed that the ducks and the trout should be

cooked at his house for their supper, in which Phillips acquiesced.

After dinner, when the bottle had passed pretty freely, and all were

prepared for any fun which might fall in their way, our hero contrived to

bring Powell, who had hitherto fought shy, into a bet with him. He

declared that a stranger as he was to Brecon, he firmly believed that he

could command, and be obeyed there, with greater promptitude than

himself, although a justice of the peace and one of the quorum.

“I’ll lay you twenty pounds to the contrary,” cried the magistrate.

“Done!” replied Twm, “and we can prove it without quitting this room, by

opening the window, and practising on some of those people opposite.”

“Let it be yon crockery-wareman, who is the most conspicuous,” said

Powell, and Twm, of course, could have no possible objection.

The magistrate opened the window, and called in a tone of authority,

“Come here, you fellow; go directly to the Black Lion, and tell the

landlord to let you have Justice Powell’s black mare, and bring her here

to me.”

“I can’t quit my goods, sir,” said Rosser, “or I would willingly oblige

you.”

“I tell you, fellow, do as I order you, or I shall kick you and your ware

out of the town,” said Powell in a blustering tone, and with a look the

most terrifying that he could assume.

Rosser repeated his former answer; and when the magistrate increased his

threats, he burst out into a rude laugh, and, without further difference,

said he really believed that his worship was drunk: this was enough, and

the worthy magistrate felt himself completely put down.

Our wag now took his turn, and commenced with him: “I say, fellow, did’st

thou ever see or hear of Twm Shon Catty?”

“Yes,” replied Rosser, “often at Llandovery; once at Cardigan; and now I

see him before me at Brecon.”

“Well then,” continued Twm, “I order thee to give us a dance in the

middle of the crockery.”

“With all my heart, if _you_ order it, for I should dread to disobey Twm

Shon Catty more than twenty times my loss.” On which he jumped, capered

and danced, in the midst of his brittle commodities, kicking and treading

the dishes, pans, basins, and other articles, to powder beneath his feet.

“By the Lord, thou art a strange fellow!” said Powell, as he paid him the

amount of his forfeit; “and I foresee that there’s much more luck for

thee than thou dreamest of: and I confidently anticipate what will come

in thy favour, my Cardiganian hero.”

Twm was much surprised to hear Powell speak thus, as his manner implied

much more than his words; but his astonishment was considerably augmented

when, in a subsequent conversation, our hero discovered that Powell knew

all his affairs and connections with the lady of Ystrad Feen.

“She once,” said he, “played me a jade’s trick; but no matter, we are now

friends, and she has even assisted me in my suit with her amiable friend,

Miss Meredith. In heart and soul, she is attached to you, Jones; but she

is a weak yielding woman beneath the terrors of her father’s frown, and

in some evil hour might again sacrifice herself, if you are too long out

of her sight. She is proud of you and of your wild achievements, and

even finds excuses for your most blameable courses. Now, my advice is,

that you will endeavour to distinguish yourself during the races, and

start for the gold plate: the grey horse, I suspect, has blood in him,

and will beat the best that is to run.”

“But why,” asked Twm, “did she not keep her promise to meet me at

Llandovery fair?”

Powell replied that she was prevented by her father’s sudden illness; and

great is her sorrow for the disappointment she must have caused.

On the following day the town speedily put on its gala dresses, and flags

waved from every corner. Bells were rung and guns fired in honour of the

festival, which consisted of a rather extensive programme, namely the

Eisteddvod, Races, and Ball. Between eleven and twelve o’clock, our

hero, with other musical and literary competitors, entered the Town-Hall,

in bardic trim, with the harp of his friend Ianto Gwyn, slung by a blue

ribbon, and attached to his shoulder.

The audience included all the intellect, taste, and fashion of the

district, and the competitors were greeted on their appearance, with

hearty and long-continued applause.

At length the business of the meeting was begun by a speech from the

president, who occupied a central seat on the raised platform. He dwelt

emphatically on the laudable object of the Eisteddvod; “to preserve from

annihilation one of the most ancient languages spoken by mankind,

remarkable for its perspicuousness, energy, and expression; that, like a

perpetual living miracle, kept its firm stand in this solitary nook of

country;—to revive and preserve the beautiful melodies which had been the

delight of our gallant and patriotic forefathers;—and lastly by

emulation, to keep alive the brilliant blaze of the native Awen, the

darling poesy of the land, which yielded their fragrant and refreshing

blossoms, lovely sacrifice on the altar of Taste.”

Penillion singing succeeded; in which the minstrels of Merionethshire

excelled. The rest went on in rotation, minutely according to the

description given by the ever-faithful Drayton, to whose pages we refer

the reader.

There was a surprise awaiting Twm. Among the given subjects for the

Cowydd, or Poem, was “Govid,” or Affliction, for which it turned out that

there was but one who had written on it; and, to his unutterable

astonishment, he heard his own poem on that title recited, and more than

all, a prize awarded to it by the umpires.

Lady Devereaux, who had attached her name to this effusion, was called

upon to receive the meed of her talents. That lady, who sat by her

father, as one of the audience, now rose, and said, with some emotion,

that the poem so highly honoured was not of her composition, but had been

sent to her by its author, a person of taste and ingenuity, whom she was

bound ever to esteem; as to his valour and courtesy she had once been

indebted for the preservation of her life. Then naming Mr. Thomas Jones

as the author, she pointed him out; and, amid loud and long applause, a

handsome silver medal was placed round his neck.

We will not occupy more space in relating what the reader can so readily

imagine. Our hero was the most successful competitor at the Eisteddvod,

and at the Races. At the Ball too he won the admiration of the ladies,

and withal, the wonder and esteem of the Breconians. But alas! the

buoyancy of spirits, and the exultation of heart, which owed their

evanescent existence to these distinction, were soon doomed to give way

to feelings of contrasted severity.

Now, while in the zenith of his glory, confidently anticipating, as the

final crown of his happiness, the willing hand of his mistress, a note

for him arrived at the inn, from the fair widow, that threw him into

absolute despair. She told him in plain terms, that unless he could

outwit her, all his hopes of her hand would be utterly in vain. This

intimation he could understand only as a formal _permit_ to wear the

willow as soon as he pleased; that she was otherwise engaged, and had

altogether done with him.

His reasoning and conclusions in this argument received absolute and

entire confirmation by the tantalising conduct of Miss Meredith, who

accidentally meeting him one day, did nothing but laugh and jest at his

anxious-looking face and restless behaviour. She would give no answers

to his eager, importunate questioning, and ran away and left him, half

wild and desperate. The next hour, at least, was spent by Twm in railing

bitterly the “vile caprice and inconsistency of woman.”

Hearing that her company had preceded her in the way home, next evening,

and that she was about to follow them alone, he resolved to way-lay and

put her under contribution, at any rate; which he conceived would be one

way, at least, of out-witting her, and perhaps the right one.

He hastily assumed a dress which thoroughly disguised him, for his

features were almost altogether concealed by a large hairy travelling

cap, which he wore well down over his ears, and his figure was equally

lost amongst the ample folds of a great coat, which had never been made

for him.

His preparations made, he took his stand by the gate that in those days

led from the town into the mountains, through which the road ran to

Llanspyddyd, Trecastle, and Llandovery.

At length the gay widow arrived, and Twm immediately caught hold of her

bridle, and, in an assumed snuffling tone of voice, demanded her money.

She begged hard for mercy on her pocket, but in vain; and gave at last a

considerable sum, which, she said, was the whole contents of her pocket.

Our hero, having placed the booty in the crown of his cap, declared

himself quite satisfied; “And so am I!” cried the spirited widow; and, at

the same moment, grasping his cap and its whole contents, laughing aloud

as she galloped away from him, she cried, “Thus the widow outwits and

triumphs over Twm Shon Catty!”

Had Fortune determined to spite poor Twm Shon Catty as much as she had

previously favoured him? It looked most unpleasantly like; for he had

never been in such a deplorable condition as now, standing there in the

road, glancing wistfully at the fast retreating figure of the widow. He

was shorn of his laurels completely, and at once a bankrupt in love and

fortune; as the cap contained the whole of the money he brought with him

to Brecon, as well as what he had gained there.

This inauspicious adventure, although it damped his spirits for a time,

had the ultimate effect of rousing his latent energies to the highest

pitch. He was not long in hatching a scheme to forward his purposes,

which, however, required the aid (which was soon offered to him) of

Powell and his two friends.

Twelve o’clock the next morning saw him dismounting at the door of Ystrad

Feen, accoutred in a military undress; originally used by him in London,

as at present, for masquerading purposes. In this disguise, he expected

immediate admittance as a stranger; but to his unutterable dismay,

instead of finding the door fly open to his knock, it appeared to have

been doubly barricaded against him.

After his repeated summons, the lady of the mansion, with pompous

formality, appeared at the window, like the warder of a fortress holding

a parley at the outpost. In a gay spirit of bantering, she declared that

the military uniform became him exceedingly, and begged to know what rank

he held in the army. Our hero parried these home-thrusts but with an

ordinary degree of grace, and, in a bowed spirit, entreated admission to

the inner walls. The lady Joan was quite peremptory in her refusal,

declaring, that having lately heard so much to his disadvantage, she had

decided on breaking off all future acquaintance with him as a lover;

“especially,” added she, “as, instead of the witty person I thought you,

I find you quite a dull animal, that any school-girl might outwit.”

Here she indulged in a provoking laugh, and bade him “good bye,” as she

turned to close the window.

“Nay then,” said Twm in a desponding key, “if we are indeed to be

henceforth strangers, as we have been friends, true and warm friends, you

will give me your hand, at least, in parting.” She slowly stretched out

her hand through the window, and our hero, with the eager spring of a

hungry tiger, darted forward, grasped her wrist with his left hand, and

drawing his sword with the right, exclaimed in a tone of affected fury,

“Revenge at least is left me—by yon blessed sky above us, I’ll be trifled

with no longer—off goes your hand unless you consent to our union this

instant, and on this very spot.”

“Lord! don’t squeeze so hard and look so fierce,” cried the lady of

Ystrad Feen.

Twm, with increased boisterousness, resumed, “On your answer will depend,

whether, for the remainder of your life, you have a single hand or a pair

of them—for on the pronouncing of a negative, this hand, this soft white

hand, beautiful as it is, will instantly fly, severed from the wrist; and

only think now, my gentle lady Joan, how dreadful you would look with a

stump.”

Twm looked determined enough, and what could a lady do in respectable

society with only one hand? The idea was preposterous. In her vexation,

she stretched her pretty neck out, and endeavoured to make her tormentor

relax his grasp by inflicting a bite on the back of his hand. Twm seized

this opportunity of imprinting a very decisive kiss on her check, on

which she drew back her head, her face glowing radiantly with blushes.

“You villain!” cried she, “I suspected you were about to bite my ear

off.”

“No, only your hand, Joan,” replied Twm; “and that I _will_ have, unless

you consent to be mine this instant.”

“I would not so much care,” cried the lady of Ystrad Feen, “but your

horrid name; I could not endure to be called Mrs. Twm Shon Catty.”

“I have protested bitterly, and will not be foresworn,” cried Twm, “that

here, even here, with your hand stretched through the window, the

marriage ceremony shall be performed; and so your answer at once without

evasion.”

“The parson of our parish has gone to a christening,” said the lady of

Ystrad Feen.

“Yes or no!” roared the terrific Twm, menacing the threatened blow.

“Well then, as I could not handle a knife or fork, or play my spinnet, or

give you a box on the ear when I want pastime, I may as well say—Yes!”

“Bless thee for that,” cried Twm in ecstacy, and eagerly kissed the

captured hand. Sticking his sword in the ground, he drew forth a small

bugle, and blew a loud blast that was re-echoed by the surrounding

mountains. Immediately a party of ten persons, wearing masks, appeared,

one of which was arrayed in a clerical habit, who drawing forth his book,

at once commenced the marriage ceremony, Twm the while holding her hand

through the window.

The Lady of Ystrad Feen had never calculated upon being married in this

unceremonious fashion; but she was fairly at a loss, and therefore came

to the conclusion to endure her fate, patiently and with resignation, yet

in her heart very glad that she was under such a pleasant pressure of

circumstances.

The ceremonial was nearly half over, when four windows of the first floor

were suddenly opened, and several highly-dressed ladies and gentlemen put

out their heads and displayed most mirthful countenances, the fair ones

waving their whitest cambrics above their heads; and with shaking peals

of laughter, looked down upon this singular wedding. The “ho, ho, ho!”

of the merry Prothero, was heard with surpassing loudness; and “Well

done, Twm!” were the first words that the spirit of titillation permitted

him to utter.

Notwithstanding this interruption, the ceremony was finished, and parson

Hughes pronounced them man and wife. Unwilling to loosen the hand which

he now considered his own, our hero held it fast till he entered the

house through the window.

Once within the mansion that now called him master, an amazing change of

circumstances took place. The lady endearingly asked for forgiveness for

her latter conduct, while Twm entreated the same for himself. Squire

Prothero had been the author of many good offices for our hero; having

conciliated Sir John Price, who, although a proud man, was also something

of a humorist, as he proved himself in this instance. A plan was

concerted to throw every impediment in the way of Twm’s union, for him to

surmount them as he could, to afford sport for the old baronet and his

merry friend Prothero, in which trickery the lady herself was by promise

compelled to join, which accounts for her latter conduct.

Being ushered by his bride into the drawing-room, our hero was introduced

to, and warmly greeted by two most unexpected personages, his lady’s

father and his own! Sir John, who had been a visitor at the Priory-House

for a week, was the gayest of the gay on this occasion. Placing an

elegant tiara of jewels on her brow, the northern Baronet embraced her

tenderly; and handing her to our hero, said, “Here, you lucky dog! prove

thyself worthy of the blood of the Wynns, and that shall warm to thee

yet.”

This most unexampled wedding was followed in a few days by another

ceremony more befitting the social position of Lady Devereaux, and at the

same time Miss Meredith gave her hand to the delighted Justice Powell.

Somehow, it did not occur to any of the parties that its brilliance was

much impaired by the absence of Miss Felina Tomtabby Price, and her

high-minded sister. These stately spinsters determined to punish their

family for this unprecedented proceeding, by withdrawing their

countenance from them, and the degenerate world for ever.

Some of the _great_, (great fools!) that is to say, the most eminently

useless residents of the then proud town of Brecon, were in the most

embarrassing state of dilemma on this occasion. They entertained very

serious doubts as to the possibility of admitting our hero into their

exquisitely select circle, on account of his left-handed origin; and more

than all, his former questionable doings:—certain malignant spirits

having insinuated suspicions of his once figuring in London as a

black-leg, if not a thief. But as the patronizing influence of Sir John

Price was scanned, they condescended to overlook these supposed

peccadilloes; as it was decidedly proved to them that he had never

vulgarized himself by any practice of usefulness in the world, by what

they deemed worse than witchcraft in the debasement of gentility—the

following of a trade or profession.

Our tale is almost ended; we have only to add a word or two with respect

to our principal characters, as it would hardly be respectful to dismiss

them without some appearance of attention.

Reparation having been made to all parties who were sufferers by our

hero’s faults and follies, the Graspacres, father and son, by the good

offices of Sir John Wynn and the friendly Prothero, were in time

conciliated. The luckless Inco Evans had soon after to add to his other

losses, that of his clerical gown, on account of a certain complaint

preferred against him to his diocesan, by Miss Bessy Gwevel-heer: and his

magisterial function was also numbered with the things that were, but are

not. When despised and impoverished, in his old age, Twm stepped forward

with timely aid, that more than compensated for the injuries he had ever

done him.

Twm showed most kindly consideration for hungry Moses and his ever

starving family, and made a praiseworthy attempt to fatten them up. All

was in vain, and Moses was struck with wonder and admiration when he saw

an unusually stout specimen of humanity.

The venerable Ianto Gwyn was installed as the family harper; while each

and all of the humbler companions of his wild days, were acknowledged,

befriended, and aided in their views in life.

The landlady of the Cat and Fiddle was so greatly benefited by the

association of our hero’s name in her house, that her increased wealth

and charms gained her another husband, in the person of little Tommy

Thomas, the late under whipper-in of Ystrad Feen; and their sign

underwent a change to “The Twm Shon Catty Inn.”

One day, many years after all these things had been so happily and

comfortably settled, to the satisfaction of the principal parties

concerned, an old friend called upon Twm in the person of Doctor John

David Rhys, who had acquired great fame and honour in far-off Continental

cities. Their meeting was most joyous; and when he reminded his old

pupil of his prophecy respecting his union with the lady of his dream, a

friendly pressure of her hand accompanied by an inexpressibly sweet

smile, acknowledged her pleasure in the truth of his foresight.

Poetical justice and fact, are unhappily at variance in our closing

notice of this most excellent character. During his residence abroad, he

changed his profession of a Protestant Divine, and became a Catholic, and

a physician; practising among princes and nobles, he soon realized an

ample fortune. For the enjoyment of a further intercourse with these,

his friends, in preference to his own native Anglesea, he fixed his

residence at Llanllwch, in the neighbourhood of Brecon.

Here our hero’s friendship stood him much in stead; for when the

_enlightened_ Protestant mobs of the time persecuted him for his faith,

forcibly entering his house to search for the Pope in the cavity of his

porridge pot, and a legion of Friars in his night-chair and warming-pan,

Squire Jones was the magistrate that stood forward to check their

lawlessness. His great popularity and known Protestant principles were

all sufficient warrants for his word, when he assured the many-headed

monster of the groundlessness of such suspicions.

Our hero, who, the reader must be aware, has shown no little power in

poesy, set to work to write the history of the Gwydir family, when he

discovered that his father was devoting himself to the same purpose. The

old man candidly declared that among his ten sons, not one of them

possessed a literary taste, or evinced a congenial feeling with him in

his pursuits. But his left-handed eleventh seemed to justify the adage

respecting luck in odd numbers, which drew on him his affections

accordingly.

Squire Jones never forgot the humble way in which he spent the earliest

portion of his life; his was a nature as little likely to be unduly

elevated by prosperity as unnecessarily cast down by adversity.

When he built a mansion at Tregaron, beside the cottages of his

childhood, he would never suffer the homely fabric to be removed, but

kept it as a private appendage to his house; the interior containing all

its rude characteristics, as left at his mother’s death, which took place

a week before his union; although poor Catty survived both her sister

Juggy and her husband. There, once a year he made a lonely visit of many

hours; and felt his heart soften as he surveyed the rude shelves and

wooden bowls and piggins; platters and trenchers; and even the spoons and

ladles manufactured by the coarse hand of his late step-father. The

unflattering reminiscences awakened by the annual visits were better than

sackcloth to the skin of kings, as an antidote to worldly pride, and a

check to the overweening heartiness and want of sympathy with our humbler

brethren in their struggles for a little firmer feeling on the earth;

which is ever the result of the undisputed despotism of prosperity.

Thomas Jones, Esq., filled many most honourable offices in the good town

of Brecon, and in such a manner as to prove that fortune for this once

had not showed her favours upon one unworthy of them. His early friend,

Dr. John David Rhys, mentions him with respect as an accomplished

antiquary, and testifies to the general excellence and worth of his

character. For many years he was Mayor and Sheriff of Brecon, and we

will close our chronicle of his various achievements by one more

anecdote.

“Bless me!” cried the lady mayoress one day to her husband, as they

passed arm in arm through the street from church, “the people are always

laughing to think of my marrying you.” “I don’t wonder,” replied the

hero of these adventures, “for whenever I think of it, I laugh myself.”

APPENDIX.

THE Triads referred to, as the collection made by Thomas Jones, of

Tregaron, (Twm Shon Catty,) are translated from a series in the second

volume of the Welsh Archæology, p. 57. The series bear the following

title. “These are Triads of the Island of Britain—that is to say, Triads

of memorial and record, and the information of remarkable men or things

which have been in the Island of Britain; and of the events which befell

the Race of the Cymry, from the age of ages.”

To the copy, from which the transcript was made for the London edition,

the following note is annexed.

(Translation.) “These Triads were taken from the book of Caradoc of

Nantcarvan, and from the book of Jevan Brechva, by me, Thomas Jones, of

Tregaron—and those are all I could get of _the three hundred_—1601.”

I. The three pillars of the Race of the Island of Britain.

The first _Hu Gudarn_, who first brought the Race of the Cymry into the

Island of Britain; and they came from the land of _Hav_ called

_Defrobani_, [where Constantinople stands,] and they passed over Mor

Tawch (the German ocean) to the Island of Britain, and to Llydaw where

they remained.

The second, _Prydain_, the son of _Aedd-Mawr_, who first established

regal government in the Island of Britain. [Before this, there was no

equity but what was done by gentleness, nor any law but that of force.]

The third, _Dyfnwal Moelmud_, who first discriminated the laws and

ordinances, customs and privileges of the land and nation. [And for

these reasons they were called the three pillars of the nation of Cymry.]

II. The three benevolent tribes of the Island of Britain.

The first was the stock of the _Cymry_, who came with Hu Gadarn, into the

Island of Britain; for _He_ would not have lands by fighting and

contention, but of equity, and in peace.

The second was the race of the Lloegrwys, who came from the land of

Gwas-gwyn, and were sprung from the primitive stock of the Cymry.

The third were the Britons. They came from the land of Llydaw, and were

also sprung from the primordial line of the Cymry.

[And they are called the three peaceful tribes because they came by

mutual consent and permission, in peace and tranquillity. The three

tribes descended from the primitive race of the Cymry, and the three were

of one language and one speech.

III. Three tribes came, under protection, into the Island of Britain,

and by the consent and permission of the nation of Cymry, without weapon,

without assault.

The first was the tribe of the Caledonians, in the North.

The second was the Gwyddelian Race, which are now in Alban (Scotland.)

The third were the men of the Galedin, who came in their naked ships

(canoes) into the Isle of Wight, when their country was drowned, and had

lands assigned them by the Race of the Cymry.

And they had neither privilege nor claim in the Island of Britain, but

the land and protection that they granted, under specified limits. And

it was decreed, that they should not enjoy the immunities of the native

Cymry, before the ninth generation.

IV. Three usurping tribes came into the Island of Britain, and never

departed out of it.

The first was the _Coranied_, who came from the land of Pwyl.

The second were the Gwyddelian Fichti, who came into Alban, over the sea

of _Llychlyn_ (Denmark).

The third were the Saxons.

[The Corained are _about_ the Humber, and on the shore of Mor Tawch, and

the Gwyddelian Finchti are in Alban, on the shore of the sea of Llychlyn.

The Coranied united with the Saxons, and being partly incorporated with

them, deprived the Lloegrwys of their government, by wrong and

oppression; and afterwards, they deprived the Race of the Cymry of their

crown and sovereignty. All the Lloegrwys became Saxons, except those who

are found in Cornwall, and in the Commot of _Carnobun_, in _Deria_ and

_Bernicia_.

The primitive Race of the Cymry have kept their land and their language;

but they lost their sovereignty of the Island of Britain, through the

treachery of the protected tribes, and the violence of the three usurping

tribes.]

V. The three awful events of the Island of Britain.

First, the bursting of the lake of waters, and the overwhelming of the

face of all lands; so that all mankind were drowned excepting Dwyvan and

Dwyvach, who escaped in a naked vessel, (without sails), and of them the

Island of Britain was re-peopled.

The second was the consternation of the tempestuous fire, when the earth

split asunder, to Annwn, (lower region,) and the greatest part of all

living was consumed.

The third was the scorching summer, when the woods and plants were set on

fire, by the intense heat of the sun, and multitudes of men and beasts,

and all kinds of birds, and reptiles and trees and plants irrecoverably

lost.

VI. The three chief master works of the island of Britain.

The ship of _Nevydd Nav Neivion_, who carried in it a male and a female

of all living, when the lake of waters burst forth.

The drawing of the _avanc_ to land out of the lake, by the branching oxen

of _Hu Gadarn_, so that the lake burst no more;

And the stones of Gwyddon Ganhebon, on which were read the arts and

sciences of the world.

VII. The three great Regulators of the Island of Britain.

Hu Gadarn, bringing the Race of the Cymry out of the land of Hav, which

is called Defrobahi into the Island of Britain.

Prydain, the son of Aedd-Mawr, establishing government and law over the

Island of Britain.

And Rhitta Gawr, who made himself a robe of the beards of kings, whom he

caused to be shaved (reduced to vassalage) for their oppressions and

contempt of justice.

VIII. The three happy controllers of the Island of Britain.

Prydain, the son of Aedd-Mawr, suppressing the Dragon tyranny. [This was

a tyranny of pillage and contempt of Equity, that sprung up in the

Island.]

Caradog, the son of Bran, the son of Llyr, checking the oppression of the

Cæsars;

And Rhitta Gawr, controlling the tyranny and pillage of the tumultary

kings.

IX. The three benefactors of the Race of Cymry.

The first, Hu Gadarn, who first showed the Race of the Cymry the method

of cultivating the ground, when they were in the land of Hav [namely,

where Constantinople now stands] before they came into the Island of

Britain.

Coll, the son of Coll-Frewi, who first brought wheat and barley into the

island of Britain, where, before, there had only been oats and rye;

And Elldyd the knight, [a holy man of Cor Dewdws,] who improved the

manner of cultivating the ground, taught the Cymry a better method than

had been known before, and showed the art of ploughing which now

prevails. [For before the time of Elldyd, land was cultivated only with

a mattock and a spade, after the manner of the Gyddelians.]

X. The three primary Sages of the Race of the Cymry.

Hu Gadarn, who first collected the Race of the Cymry, and disposed them

into tribes.

Dyvnwal-Molemud, who first regulated the laws, privileges, and

institutions of the country and the nation.

And Tydain tad Awen, who first introduced order and method into the

memorials and preservation of the Oral art (poetry) and its properties.

And from that order, the privileges and methodical usages of the Bards

and Bardism (Druidism) of the Island of Britain, were first devised.

XI. The three primary Bards of the Island of Britain.

Plennydd, Alwan, and Gwron.

These were they who devised the privileges and usages which belong to

Bards and Bardism.

[Yet there had been Bards and Bardism before; but they were not

completely methodized, and they enjoyed neither privileges nor

established customs, but they were obtained through gentleness and

civility, and the protection of the country and the nation, before the

time of these three.

Some say they were in the time of Prydain, the son of Aedd Mawr, others,

that they were in the time of his son, Dyvnwal-Molemud, whom some of the

old books call Dyvnvarth, the son of Prydain.

XII. The three elementary masters of Poetry and Memorial, of the Race of

the Cymry.

Gwyddon Ganhebon, the first man in the world who composed poetry;

Hu Gadarn, who first adapted poetry to the preservation of records and

memorials;

And Tydain Tad Awen, who first developed the art and structure of poetry,

and the due disposition of thought.

And, from the labours of these three personages, sprang Bards and

Bardism, and the regulation of their privileges and established

discipline, by the three primary Bards, Plenvydd, Alwan, and Gwron.

XIII. The three primary baptized (or christian) Bards.

Merddyn Emrys; Taliesin, the chief of the Bards, and Merddin, the son of

Madawc Morvyn.

XIV. The three mighty Labours of the Isle of Britain.

Erecting the stone of Ketti. Constructing the work of Emrys. And

heaping the pile of _Cyvrangon_.

The three happy astronomers. (_Serenyddion_, _Suronides_) of the

_Island_ of _Britain_. _Idris Gawr_. _Gwyddion_ the son of the _Don_.

And _Gwyn_ the son of _Nudd_.

So great was their knowledge of the stars, and of their nature and

situations, that they could foretell whatever might be desired to be

known to the day of doom.

XVI. The three masters of mysterious and secret science, of the _Island_

of _Britain_.

_Math_, the son of _Mothanwy_, and he disclosed his secret to _Gwyndion_

the son of _Don_.

_Mengw_, the son of _Teiagmaedd_, who taught his secret to _Uthyr

Bendragon_.

And _Rhuddlwm Gawr_, and he learned his mystery of _Eddic Gor_ and

_Coll_, the son of _Coll Frewi_.

XVII. The three great modellers of the _Island_ of _Britain_.

_Corvinwr_, the Bard of _Ceri Hir_ of _Llyngwyn_, who first made a ship,

with a sail and a helm, for the race of the _Cymry_.

_Mozdial Gwr Gweilgi_, the architect of _Ceraint_, the son of _Greidial_,

who first taught the race of the _Cymry_, the work of stone and lime, [at

the time _Alexander the Great_ was subduing the world.]

And _Coll_, the son of _Cylin_, [the son of _Caradawr_, the son of

_Bran_,] who first made a mill with a wheel, for the race of _Cymry_.

* * * * *

W. NICHOLSON AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, WAKEFIELD.

Footnotes

{9a} The truth against the world.

{9b} The English pronunciation of Twm Shon Catty, is Toom Shone Cutty;

instead of which the Londoners call it TWIM JOHN KATTY, which seemed

doubly ludicrous as the name of a tragedy hero.

{10} A small cup, so called from its contents being able merely to damp

the clay of a genuine toper.

{31} In the farce of the Spirit Child.

{50a} The good ale of old Wales.

{50b} Wheat that may have been left out too long unharvested from the

prevalence of rain, when found to sprout, is sometimes used in Wales

instead of malt in brewing beer.

{55} In addition to the _Gwahoddwr’s_ address, there is another mode

prevalent in the present day, of inviting to the Bidding, by a printed

circular, which in some parts of the principality supersedes that merry

personage altogether, a thing to be regretted, as it deprives the rural

Welsh wedding of one of its most pleasing features, and cuts off its

alliance with romance, and the manners of _oulden tyme_. The following

is a specimen of a Bidding circular.

_October_ 183–.

As we intend to enter the matrimonial state, on Saturday, the 10th

November next, we are encouraged by our friends to make a Bidding on

the occasion, the same day, at the young woman’s house, called

Tynant, at which place, the favour of your agreeable company is most

respectfully solicited; and whatever donation you may be pleased to

bestow upon us then will be thankfully received, and cheerfully

repaid whenever called for on the like occasion.

Your obedient Servants, A. B.

C. D.

*** The parents of the young man, and his brothers and sisters,

desire that all gifts of the above nature due to them, be returned to

the young man on the above day, and will be thankful for all favours

granted. Also, the young woman’s parents and her brothers and

sisters, desire that all gifts of the above nature due to them, be

returned to the young woman on the above day, and will be thankful

for all favours granted.

{58} A large three-legged iron pot used for cooking.

{72} Havod un-nôs, signifies _one summer night_. A poor wandering

family pitching their tent on a common, building a hearth, and boiling

their pot thereon, in the course of one Summer’s day and night, claimed

from ancient usage their right to the spot. Thus a hut so built, was

gradually made into a decent cottage; the surrounding ground, from a mere

yard of scant dimensions, would become a yard and a garden; and patch

after patch being cribbed and inclosed, in the course of a few years a

little farm was created, in the midst, or on the margin of a dreary

common. These practices were often _winked_ at by the parish, in favour

of a poor industrious large family, who were thus provided for, instead

of becoming objects of parochial relief. If the intrusion remained

unnoticed for sixty years, it became a freehold property!

{140} Anglice, Bessy Blubberlip.

{149} Translated from a very popular Welsh ballad, by John Jones, of

Glangors, author of many humorous songs in the same language.

{153} Hob y deri dando signifies “away my herd to the oaken grove.” Mr.

Parry, for whose Welsh Melodies the modern words were written, remarks,

“There is something very quaint and characteristic in this ancient air,

and it is popular in Wales.”

{165} The victim of the sons of Maes-y-velin was Samuel, the son of Rhys

Prichard, the celebrated author of “Canwyll y Cymry,” (the Welshman’s

candle,) a volume of religious poems, the most popular, and said to have

done the most good, of any that ever was printed in the Welsh language.

To this favourite son the pious author addressed many of his poems,

exhorting and directing him, by name, to the most minute acts in his

devotion. On hearing of his murder, the old man is said to have burst

out in the wildest strain of prophetic phrenzy, with the following CURSE

on the murderers of Maes-y-velin.

Melldith Duw a fyddo’n dilyn

Pob rhyw ach o’ Vaes y Felin,

Am daflu blodeu plwyf Llanddyvri

Ar ei ben i Deifi foddi.

The translation of which runs thus—

May God with heavy curses chase

All Maes-y-velin’s villain race,

Since they have drown’d in Teivy’s tide

Llandovery’s flower—Cymry’s pride!

{203} In the original—

“Nid twyll twyllo twyllwr,

Nid brad bradychu bradwr;

Nid lladrad mi wn yn dda,

Lladrada or ladratwr.”

{210} Should it be asked why this trick (a similar one being related of

the Friar of Gil Blas) is attributed to Twm Shon Catty, his Editor can

attest that this is not the only incident of the kind that he would

willingly have related if he had dared. But as this, and others, have

long been on record, both in the memories of the country people, and in

the Welsh Jest Books, any omission of incident or anecdote on the score

of being property claimable by others, would be scouted, as a

poor-spirited compromise of their rights: it being utterly out of the

pale of possibility that the said good things could have belonged

originally, to any other than their own redoubted Twm Shon Catty! This

explanation, once for all, must answer every similar objection on the

part of the English reader.

{264} Signifying “_The Poem of Affliction_.” The original Welsh Poem,

in recitative measure, of which the above is rather a condensed

paraphrase of the late Mr. Jenkins, of Llwynygroes, Cardiganshire.

{269} Between these rivers, before they unite, is an angular slip of

lowland, being the last of Cardiganshire; Dinas, and all the interesting

height here described, are in Carmarthenshire; while the boundary of

Breconshire is about half a mile off. The reader, who if a Welshman,

will hence recognize the etymology of Ystrad Fin, which signifies, “The

vale of the boundary.”