Twm’s eccentricities. His rural adventures with the two sheep, the white
ox, and the grey horse. Teaches the farmer how to pound the squire’s
trespassing pigeons.
WHEN our hero arrived at Llandovery, his sorrows were augmented on
learning that his faithful friend Rhys the curate was no longer to be his
comforter, though much needed under his present mental depression; it was
no small satisfaction to him, however, to be informed that he had been
inducted into a good living in a distant part of the principality. The
life he led at Llandovery, although lodging at an inn, was, for some
days, that of a solitary; _days_! alas for the consistency of the
lover,—days, we repeat, and not weeks or months, much less years, of
seclusion from his kind. He soon illustrated the Shakspearian adage,
“Men have died, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.” But by him
every thing was to done by strokes of boldness; to banish his cares, he
plunged at once into intemperance; and from merely tolerating a little
cheerful company, he entered the society of the greatest topers and
madcaps to be found, till he emulated and outdid the highest, and became
the very prince of wags and practical jokers. He was, of course,
recognized as the capturer of the tremendous highwayman Dio the Devil,
and the acknowledged preserver of the lady of Ystrad Fîn, which, with his
relations of many freaks and vagaries in England, together with the
assured fact that he had been once in London, and spent a year there,
gained him no inconsiderable share of celebrity. One day, while the
landlord of the Owen Glendower inn was trumpeting forth the humorous fame
of his lodger, among a parlour full of country squires, who were dining
together, after the business of Quarter Sessions was over; a merry
magistrate named Prothero said, that he was certain he had a servant, a
shrewd fellow, whose wits never slumbered, whom he would back in a bet
against the vaunted cleverness of Twm Shôn Catti, in any feat of
dexterity that could be named. To come to the point, he said, he would
lay a wager of five pounds that Twm could not steal a sheep from shrewd
Roger, his ploughman, who the next morning should carry one to the
village of Llangattock. Twm was sent for; and being invited to sit among
these rural nobles, appeared as complete a high fellow as the best of
them. Without the least hesitation, he accepted Mr. Prothero’s wager,
and deposited five pounds with the landlord, as the merry magistrate had
already done. Early the next morning shrewd Roger rose, and shouldered
his sheep, vowing before his grinning fellow-servants, who grouped round
to crack their jests on him, that the wild devil himself should not
deprive him of his burthen. As he proceeded along a part of the high
road, up a slight ascent, he discovered with surprise, a good leathern
shoe lying in the mud. A shoe of leather, be it known, in a country
where wooden clogs are generally worn, is no despicable prize. The
shrewd servant looked at the object before him with a longing eye; but
reflecting that one shoe, however good, was useless unmatched with a
fellow, spared himself the trouble of stooping, for troublesome it would
have been with such a weight on his shoulders, and passed on without
lifting it. On walking a little further, and pursuing a bend in the
road, great was his surprise on finding another shoe, a fellow to the
former, lying in the sledge-mark, which, like the rut of a wheel,
indented the mud with hollow stripes. In the height of his joy he laid
down the sheep, with its legs tied, beside the shoe, and ran back for the
other; when Twm Shôn Catti, watching his opportunity, sprang over the
hedge, and seized his prize, which he bore off securely, won his bet, and
ate his mutton undisturbed.
Prothero, although the most good-humoured of country gentlemen, was
rather angry with shrewd Roger, whose shrewdness became rather
questionable. It was admitted, in excuse, that the most cunning, at
times, may be accidentally overreached by his inferior in wit: on this
plea the merry magistrate was conciliated, and induced to enter into
another wager, precisely like the former, when a similar sum, against our
hero, and in favor of his servant was laid and accepted. The man of
shrewdness, as before, determined to use the utmost vigilance and caution
to preserve his charge and redeem his reputation. He grasped his load,
which was a fine fat ewe, most manfully, and swore violent oaths in
answer to his master’s exhortation to chariness, that human ingenuity
should never trick him again; but
“Great protestations do make that doubted,
Which we would else right willingly believe.”
In his way to Llangattock, he had to pass partly through a wood, which he
scarce entered when the bleating of a sheep attracted his attention, and
he came to a dead stand, as he intently listened to what he conceived a
well-known voice. “Baa!—baa!” again saluted his ear: a sudden conviction
rushed across his mind that this was the very sheep he had before lost,
which he imagined might have been concealed by Twm in the rocky recesses
of that woody dingle. What a glorious chance, thought he, of recovering
his lost credit with his master, and depriving his antagonist at the same
time, of his hidden prey, and the laurels achieved in the winning of it.
He instantly deposited his burthen beneath a tree; and eagerly forcing
his way through the copse and bushes, he followed the bleating a
considerable way down the wood, when to his great dismay it ceased
altogether. A thought now struck him, though rather too late, that the
bleating proceeded from no sheep, but a most subtle ram, in the person of
Twm Shôn Catti: he hurried back in a grievous fright, and found his
surmises but too true—the second sheep, and his high reputation for
shrewdness, had both taken flight together.
On being confronted with shrewd Roger, in his master’s parlour, Twm
recognized in him an old acquaintance, and no other than the clever youth
with whom he had exchanged his feminine attire at Cardigan fair, and made
off with his coat. On being reminded of that affair, and told by Twm
that he was the fair ballad-singer with whom he was so deeply captivated,
the poor fellow was absorbed in wonderment. He then related to his
master the whole of that adventure, with the episode of the parson tossed
in a blanket for a bum-bailiff, in such a manner as to excite the most
immoderate laughter on the part of the jest-loving Prothero, who
good-naturedly assured his man that he lost but little credit with the
sheep, when it was considered that he stood opposed to an arch wag of so
much celebrity.
Fortune was not so scurvy a stepmother to Twm as to confine him long to a
diet of mere mutton, but took occasion to vary it very agreeably with a
change of beef.
Determined to have more mirth with our hero, at the hazard of some loss,
Prothero offered to oppose to his cunning, the collective vigilance of
his husbandmen and maidens; laying a bet with him that he should not
steal a white ox, which, with a black one, was to be yoked to the plough.
The plough to be held by Roger and driven by another servant; while two
girls, driving each a harrow, should also be on their guard to prevent
his aim if possible.
Twm accepted the bet, and obligingly undertook to convey away the white
ox, and eat the gentleman’s beef, provided it turned out sufficiently
tender; protesting, with a half yawn and the perfect ease of a modern
Corinthian, that he was absolutely tired of mutton, which he had too long
persisted in eating, against the judgement and advice of his physician.
The day arrived, the great, the important day, big with the fate of the
white ox. The plough was guided and the cattle driven, while the two
bare-footed maidens giggled and laughed till the rocks echoed, as they
whipped the horses and ran by their sides, till the harrows bounced
against the stones, and sometimes turned over; their mirth was excited by
the idea of Twm’s folly in accepting such a bet, and thinking to steal
the white ox from under their noses, the impossibility of which was so
evident. The two servants at the plough also cracked and enjoyed their
joke at the thoughts of our hero’s temerity, at the same time keeping a
wary eye in every direction, armed against surprisals, and exulting in
the thought that for once, at least, the dexterous Twm would be baffled
in his aim. Time passed on; the day waned away towards evening, and as
their fatigue increased, their vigilance gradually lessened.
A Llandovery-man, known to them all, passing through the green lane by
the field, now addressed these husbandmen, laughing at their caution, and
assuring them that Twm had given up the idea of outwitting such a wary
and clever party, and was at that moment drinking his wine with their
master, whom he had allowed to win the wager. “Allowed, indeed!” quoth a
sharp-tongued lass, as she stopped her harrow to listen, “pretty
allowing, when he could not help himself.” “Aye,” cried the other girl,
“so the fox allowed the goose to escape, when she took to flight and
escaped his clutches.” Roger and the plough-boy exulted in their
anticipated reward of a skin full of strong beer; thus the whole party
was excited to a high pitch of triumphant mirth. The Llandovery-man was
of course a decoy, and his report had really the effect of throwing them
off their guard, which another circumstance contributed to aid. The
rural party had rested, sitting on their ploughs and harrows, at one end
of the field, while they listened to their informant; and now were about
to resume their labours, when a hare started from an adjoining thicket,
crossing the ground towards the opposite hedge. Suddenly the halloo
arose, away ran the ploughmen and girls, and away ran the yapping
sheep-dog, amid the clamour of shouting and barking; but still stood the
wondering oxen, whose grave looks of astonishment gradually changed to a
more animated expression of alarm on the arrival of Twm Shôn Catti.
Having loosed his captive hare to decoy the clowns, he availed himself of
their absence to dress the black ox in a white morning gown,—that is to
say, a sheet, which became him much, and contrasted with his complexion
amazingly; and the white ox he attired in a suit of mourning, formed of
the burial pall, which he had borrowed of the clerk of Llandingad church
for that express purpose, and having loosened his fair friend from the
yoke, they suddenly disappeared through a gap in the hedge. Although
busily engaged in the gentlemanly pastime of the chase, the husbandry
worthies now and then glanced towards the plough, but seeing, as they
thought, the white ox safe, returned to it at a leisurely pace, till
quickened as they neared it by the singular sight before them: and their
petty vexation at losing the hare was now swallowed up by the terrible
circumstance of the loss of their especial charge. A suitable
lamentation followed of course, which was succeeded by fear and
trembling, from a conviction that Twm Shôn Catti dealt with the devil;
and that the hare which they had chased was no other than the foe of man
in disguise. This reasonable and self-evident assumption quite satisfied
their merry master, who deemed himself well compensated for his loss by
the hearty laugh he enjoyed.
Twm entered Llandovery, leading his white ox in triumph; having tied
together several silk handkerchiefs of various colours and thrown them
across its horns, while the head and neck were adorned with a gay
garland, formed of a profusion of wild flowers. Loud were the huzzas and
laughter with which he was received by the juvenile part of the
population of Llandovery; not one of whom enjoyed the sight more than the
good-humoured Prothero, who cheerfully paid the bet, and from a tavern
window had a full view of the scene, which he declared excited his
laughter till his heart and sides ached with the agreeable convulsion.
Our hero loved variety; without altogether alienating his affections from
beef and mutton, he evinced a very ardent passion for horse-flesh; and
pursued it with all the fiery zest of a first-love, when impeded by
difficulties the most insurmountable. The lady of Ystrad Fîn still
sitting on his heart like a night-mare, and pinching it with pain,
rendered him, however amusing to others, miserable enough within himself.
Lassitude, chagrin, and bitterness, often betrayed themselves in his
countenance and manners, and were only transiently removed by the
hilarity of the company with which he mixed, or the freaks which he
played in his ill-combined humours of mirth and sorrow. Reckless of
consequences, he now entered into follies less innocent than hitherto
detailed, led to them more by a spirit of youthful wildness than any
really criminal intention.
Being one day at Machynlleth, Montgomeryshire, he saw his old enemy,
Evans of Tregaron, riding into the town on a fine grey horse; he
determined in an instant that he would deprive him of a property which he
deemed too good for such a churl; and as self-will was with him the sole
ruling power that claimed either his attention or obedience, the affair
was at once settled. Off rode the dauntless Twm, on the parson’s horse,
to Welshpool fair, where he soon found a purchaser for it, and received
the amount in hard cash. The new proprietor of the grey steed was well
pleased with his bargain, and Twm took a generous pleasure in making him
still happier, by descanting further on the noble creature’s merits,
which, certainly, was very generous, as he was not interested in vaunting
its qualities. “I protest to you, in honesty and truth,” said he with
much earnestness, “you have a greater bargain than you imagine; as I was
not at all anxious to sell him, I have omitted to inform you of half his
good points: he is capable of performing such wonderful feats as you
never saw or heard of.” “You don’t say so!” exclaimed the elated
purchaser, staring alternately at his horse and in the face of our hero.
“A 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 Jemmy Green of past days. 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 his new friend by his disappearance. The “green one” had
to confess with bitterness of heart that the jockey had certainly kept
his word, as he shewed him such a trick as he never before saw or heard
of.
Twm had scarcely been seated at the Owen Glendower, on his return to
Llandovery, when a person called upon him, who described himself as a
small farmer living in the neighbourhood, his name Morgan Thomas, and
having heard so much of his cleverness, he came to consult him on an
affair of great weight. He had been sadly annoyed, he said, by the
continual trespassing of a certain squire’s pigeons on his ground, which
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
four last 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—ned, if he
liked, when he would pay the alledged 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 the fame of performing 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 rum to the
farmer’s, next morning, and steeped in it a peck of wheat, 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 toss-pot in Carmarthenshire; and, like the said
fraternity, incapable of returning home, they fell in a 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.