The popularity of Twm Shôn Catti’s name in Wales. The resemblance of his
character to that of Robin Hood and others. An exposition of the
spurious account of our hero in the “INNKEEPER’S ALBUM,” and in the drama
founded thereon. The honor of his birth claimed by different towns. A
true account of his birth and parentage.
THE preface to the once popular farce of “Killing no Murder” informs us,
that many a fry of infant Methodists are terrified and frightened to bed
by the cry of “the Bishop is coming!”—That the right reverend prelates of
the realm should become bugbears and buggaboos to frighten the children
of Dissenters, is curious enough, and evinces a considerable degree of
ingenious malignity in bringing Episcopacy into contempt, if true. Be
that as it may in England, in Wales it is not so; for the demon of terror
and monster of the nursery there, to check the shrill cry of infancy, and
enforce silent obedience to the nurse or mother, is Twm Shôn Catti. But
“babes and sucklings” are not the only ones on whom that name has
continued to act as a spell; nor are fear and wonder its only attributes,
for the knavish exploits and comic feats of the celebrated freebooter Twm
Shôn Catti, are, like those of Robin Hood in England, the themes of many
a rural rhyme, and the subject of many a village tale; where, seated
round the ample hearth of the farm house, or the more limited one of the
lowly cottage, an attentive audience is ever found, where his
mirth-exciting tricks are told and listened to with vast satisfaction,
unsated by the frequency of repetition: for the “lowly train” are
generally strangers to that fastidiousness which turns, disgusted, from
the twice-told tale.
Although neither the legends, poetry, nor history of the principality,
seems to interest, or accord with the queasy taste of our English
brethren, the name of Twm Shôn Catti, curiously enough, not only made its
way among them, but had the unexpected honor of being woven into a tale,
and exhibited on the stage as a Welsh national dramatic spectacle, under
the title, and the imposing _second_ title, of Twm _John_ Catti, or the
Welsh Rob Roy. The nationality of the Welsh residents in London, who
always bear their country along with them wherever they go or stay, was
immediately roused, notwithstanding the great offence of substituting
“John” for “Shôn,” which called at once on their curiosity and love of
country to peruse the “Innkeeper’s Album,” in which this tale first
appeared, and to visit the Cobourg Theatre, where overflowing houses
nightly attended the representation of the “Welsh Rob Roy.” Now this
second title, which confounded the poor Cambrians, was a grand expedient
of the author’s, to excite the attention of the Londoners, who naturally
associated it with the hero of the celebrated Scotch novel; the bait was
immediately swallowed, and that tale, an awkward and most weak attempt to
imitate the “Great Unknown,” and by far the worst article in the book,
actually _sold_ a volume, in other respects well deserving the attention
of the public. “It is good to have a friend at court,” is an adage no
less familiar than true; and Mr. Deacon’s success in this instance
clearly illustrates this new maxim—“it is good to have a friend among the
critics,” by most of whom his book has been either praised, or allowed
quietly to pass muster, adorned with the insignia of unquestionable
merit.
Great was the surprise of the sons of the Cymry to find the robber Twm
Shon Catti, who partially resembled Bamfylde Moore Carew, Robin Hood, and
the humorous but vulgar footpad, Turpin, elevated to the degree of a
high-hearted, injured chieftain;—the stealer of calves, old women’s
flannels, and three-legged pots, a noble character, uttering heroic
speeches, and ultimately dying for his _Ellen_ {3a} a hero’s death!
“This may do for London, but in Wales, where ‘_Y gwir yn erbyn y byd_’
{3b} is our motto, we know better!” muttered many a testy Cambrian, while
he felt doubly indignant at the author’s and actors’ errors in
mis-writing and mis-pronouncing their popular outlaw’s “sponsorial or
baptismal appellation,” {4} as Doctor Pangloss would say: and another
source of umbrage to them was, that an English author’s sacrilegiously
dignifying a robber with the qualities of a hero, conveyed the villainous
inference that Wales was barren of _real_ heroes—an insinuation that no
Welshman could tamely endure or forgive. In an instant recurred the
honored names of Rodri Mawr, Owen Gwyneth, Caswallon ab Beli, Owen
Glyndwr, Rhys ab Thomas, and a vast chain of Cambrian worthies, not
forgetting the royal race of Tudor, that gave an Elizabeth to the English
throne; on which the mimic scene before them, and the high vauntings of
Huntley in the character of Twm Shôn Catti, sunk into the insignificance
of a Punch and puppet show, in comparison with the mighty men who then
passed before the mental eye.
If the misrepresentation of historical characters, re-moulded and
amplified, to suit the fascinating details of romance, be a fault
generally, it is particularly offensive in the present case, where the
being treated of, is so well known to almost every peasant throughout the
principality; so that a real account of our hero, if not exactly useful,
may at least prove amusing, in this age of inquiry, to stand by the side
of the fictitious tale; and if this detail is found also to partake
occasionally of the embellishments of fancy, it will at least be
characteristic. Little, it is true, of his life is known, and that
little collected principally from the varying and uncertain source of
oral tradition. Some anecdotes and remarks respecting him have of late
years been committed to record, in the writings of Theophilus Jones, the
Breconshire historian, and in the “Hynafion Cymreig,” (Cambrian Popular
Antiquities,) which Dr. Meyrick has quoted in his “History of
Cardiganshire;” but his rover’s exploits and vagaries I met with
principally in a homely Welsh pamphlet of eight pages, printed on
tea-paper, and sold at the moderate price of two-pence.
Twm Shôn Catti was the natural son of Sir John Wynne, of Gwydir, bart.
author of that quaint and singular work, the “History of the Gwydir
Family,” by a woman whose name was Catherine. Of her condition little
has hitherto been made known; but as surnames were not then generally
adopted in Wales, her son became distinguished only by the appellation of
Twm Shôn Catti; literally, Thomas John Catherine, though it implied
“Thomas the son of John and Catherine.” {5}
Like the immortal Homer, different towns have put forth their claims to
the enviable distinction of having given our hero birth; among which
Cardigan, Llandovery, and Carmarthen, are said to have displayed
considerable warmth in asserting their respective pretensions. A native
of the latter far-famed borough town, whose carbuncled face and rubicund
nose—indelible stamps of bacchanalian royalty—proclaimed him the
undisputed prince of topers, roundly affirmed that no town but
Carmarthen—ever famed for its stout ale, large dampers, {6} and
blustering heroes of the pipe and pot—could possibly have produced such a
jolly dog. It is with regret that we perceive such potent authority
opposed by the united opinions of our Cambrian bards and antiquaries, who
place his birth in the year 1590, at Tregaron—that primitive, yet no
longer obscure, Cardiganshire town, but long celebrated throughout the
principality for its pony fair; and above all, as the established
birth-place of Twm Shôn Catti. He first saw the light, it seems, at a
house of his mother’s, situate on a hill south-east of Tregaron, called
Llidiard-y-Fynnon, (Fountain Gate,) from its situation beside an
excellent well, that previous to the discovery of other springs, nearer
to their habitations, supplied the good people of Tregaron with water.
That distinguished spot is now, however, more generally known by the more
elevated name of Plâs Twm Shôn Catti, (the mansion of Twm Shôn Catti,)
the ruins of which are still pointed out by the neighbouring people to
any curious traveller who may wish to enrich the pages of his virgin tour
by their important communications.
And now, having given our hero’s birth and parentage with the fidelity of
a true historian, who has a most virtuous scorn of the spurious
embellishments of fiction, a more excursive pen shall flourish on our
future chapters.