Twm’s exploits at Brecon. The adventure of the ducks, the crow’s nest,
and the crockery ware. His successes at the Eisteddvod, the Races, and
the Ball. His singular marriage with the lady of Ystrad Fîn, and various
other matters. Conclusion.
OUR hero awoke by sun-rise, after a refreshing sleep; but his mind was
far from being cheered by the bright beams of morning. Unable to account
fairly 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 her vows, but had yielded to the persuasions of her
haughty relatives, and become a renegade both to love and honor. He was
now, however, so near her residence, he could 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 his 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.
At Ystrad Fîn 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 former sojourning here, 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 “shrewd Roger.” He had
been enabled to commence this humble merchandize by the success he met
with in the sale of the greater portion of the roll of flannel, received
from our hero the day before, with the produce of which he purchased the
stock of an old Neath hawker, whom illness had detained at Llandovery.
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, and
had since lived in great poverty; and therefore our hero’s bounty was a
great lift in life to the lowly pair. After some jests on the feats of
the fair day, Twm spurred on, but not before he had purchased the whole
of Roger’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 the preference, on account of the sign
being the armorial bearings of the celebrated David Gam, the hero of
Agincourt.
The town, although continually filling, seemed now as full as on a fair.
While our hero looked out at the window to observe Roger, 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, and had received the various small sums which he had sent her
at different times, and was in daily hopes of burying her churl of a
husband. Wat the mole-catcher was arrested in London by young Graspacre,
who sent him down to Cardigan, where he was hanged two months before.
Rachel Ketch was dead; having broke her heart for the loss of her money,
which had been stolen by Wat. 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 had 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 up stairs, and, after
dining together, began coquetting with the harp, which, with the hand of
a ready player, he tickled 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 raptures, protesting that he could not
fail to win the harp, if he chose to be a candidate. Our hero, having
practiced 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-board 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.
Each of the Breconians was well acquainted with Twm’s celebrity, and
found unusual satisfaction in this meeting. Being all high lads of the
turf, the practice of betting was familiar to them; and the lawyer
offered at once 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 the angler’s paraphernalia, he repaired with them to the bridge; and
had the upper side of it assigned to him, while Phillips took 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 was 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 bye-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 said nothing in 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 and laughter of the numerous spectators.
Powell now held up his watch, and declared that the stipulated half hour
was just up. Phillips, as the conscious winner, produced a goodly shew
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 stared 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 trout should
be cooked at his house for their supper, in which Phillips acquiesed.
They were promenading, soon after this, in the agreeable walks of the
Priory Grove, where there was a large rookery, almost every third tree
being crowned with the nest of one of these sable and clamorous children
of the air. “Let us try,” said Hughes, who was also much addicted to
betting, addressing our hero, “which can the most completely take one of
those nests, you or I.” “Done, be the bet what it may,” cried the
Tregaron wag. It was agreed that this boyish feat was to be for a wager
of five pounds, and Phillips to be the umpire. Hughes observed to his
opponent, “I propose that we accompany each other up our respective
trees, to be satisfied that nothing but fair play is used,” to which Twm
assented, and gave him the first chance and choice of his nest. The pair
were soon at the top of a lofty oak, and the merry parson took out the
eggs, one at a time, placing them in his coat pocket, and afterwards
removed the nest, and brought it down with him. Twm then went to a
distant tree, and climbed to the top with the utmost caution, before his
opponent had reached the lower branches, and, with good management, that
proved him an adept in this idle business, placed his hat on the top, and
thus secured the old bird. Fastening the hat and nest together, he
descended with them both. Hughes was the first to declare his antagonist
the winner; but the umpire requiring him to produce the amount of his
adventure, his surprise was great, on finding that he had nothing more to
shew than the empty nest; our hero having slipped his pen-knife through
the bottom of his pocket, and received the eggs in the palm of his hand,
in the same order that they were taken from the nest. On this discovery,
Hughes declared that Twm Shôn Catti would never meet his match, till
Satan himself became his opponent.
While sitting with the aforesaid trio, some time after, paying their
devotions to the bottle, at the Three Cocks, our hero contrived to bring
Powell, who had hitherto fought shy, into a bet with him. He declared
that a stranger as he was, at Brecon, he firmly believed he could
command, and be obeyed there, with greater promptitude than himself,
although a justice of the peace and 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 one of those people opposite.” “Let it be on yonder
crockery-ware man, 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 Roger, “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. Roger repeated his former answer; and
when the magistrate increased his threats, he burst out into a rude
laugh, and, without further deference, 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 Shôn
Catti?” “Yes,” replied Roger, “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 thy crockery.” “With all
my heart, if _you_ order it, for I should dread to disobey Twm Shôn Catti
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
down 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 surely come to pass in thy favour, my Cardiganian hero.”
These words, uttered in a very pointed manner, and with a significant
expression of countenance, could not but excite surprise in him, to whom
they were addressed; but on parting with the other gentlemen, after the
jovial supper at the magistrate’s, he found, to his utter amazement, that
Powell was in the whole secret of his affairs with the lady of Ystrad
Fîn. “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.
The next morning was ushered in with the ringing of bells, firing of
guns, and every demonstration of the gaiety that prevails on a gala day;
and this was an especial one, to be honored successively by the
Eisteddvod, the Races, and a grand Ball. Between eleven and twelve
o’clock, our hero, with many 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 hall, which was handsomely decorated, now shone with the presence of
a vast number of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen; in fact, it was a
bright assemblage of the beauty and fashion of the town, and surrounding
country, sitting in anxious expectation of the commencement. 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
copiousness, energy, and expression; that, like a perpetual living
miracle, kept its firm stand in this solitary nook of country, the
principal vestige of our national characteristics;—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 sacrifices on the
altar of Taste; that with their incense appeased the rugged Genius of the
cold and stern realities of life.” Penillion singing succeeded; in which
the minstrels of Merionethshire excelled. The rest went on in rotation,
minutely according with the description given by the ever-faithful
Michael Drayton. {245a}
—“Some there were bards, that in their sacred rage
Recorded the descents, and acts of every age;
Some with nimble joints that struck the warbling string;
In fing’ring some unskill’d, but used right well to sing
To other’s harp; of which you both might find
Great plenty, and of each excelling in their kind,
That at the Stethva {245b} oft obtain’d a victor’s praise,
Had won the silver harp, and worn Apollo’s bays;
Whose verses they deduced from those first golden times,
In sundry forms of feet, and sundry suits of rhymes.
In Englyns {245c} some there were that in their subject strain;
Some makers that again affect a loftier vein,
Rehearse their high conceits in Cowyths; {245d} other some
In Owdels {245e} theirs express, as matter haps to come.
So varying still their moods, observing yet in all,
Their quantities, their rests, their measures metrical;
For to that sacred art they most themselves apply,
Addicted from their birth to so much poesy,
That in the mountains those who scarce have seen a book,
Most skilfully will make, as though from art they took.”
Among the given subjects for a Cowydd, or Poem, was “Govid,” or
Affliction, for which it turned out that there was but one who had
written on it, and, to Twm’s unutterable surprise, he heard his own poem
of that title recited, and more than all, a prize awarded to it by the
umpires. Lady Devereux, 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 with dignity, and said with
some emotion, that the poem so highly honored; 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.
But why should we prolong, by intermediate detail, the ultimatum so
easily inticipated by the reader? Our hero won also the miniature silver
harp, and the gold cup at the races; the admiration of the ladies at the
ball, and withal, the wonder and esteem of the Breconians. But alas! the
buoyancy of spirits, and exultation of heart, which owed their evanescent
existence to these distinctions, was soon doomed to give way to feelings
of contrasting 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.
Meeting Miss Meredith in the walks soon afterwards, he sought an
explanation with much earnestness, but she only burst out into laughter
at his “serious sad face,” as she called it, and made her escape from his
importunities. This confirmed the worst construction which he had put on
her conduct, and the “vile caprice and inconsistency of woman,” became
the subjects of his bitterest railing. 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 outwitting her, and perhaps the right one.
Disguising himself in a heavy great coat, and a rough hairy travelling
cap, which had always been his treasury, in preference to a pocket, in
case of being at any time overpowered by numbers on the road, as no
suspicion would attach of money being there concealed; 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 a firm 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, while placing 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, grasped his cap and its whole contents,
laughing aloud as she galloped away from him, she cried, “thus the widow
outwits and triumphs over Twm.”
Here was our hero, at length, in a deplorable dilemma;—shorn of his
laurels, and at once a bankrupt in love and fortune; as the cap contained
the whole of the money brought with him to Brecon, as well as what he had
gained there. This inauspicious adventure, although it damped his
spirits for the 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, that, however, required the aid (which was offered
to him) of Powell and his two friends. Twelve o’clock the next morning
saw him dismounting at the door of Ystrad Fîn, accoutred in a military
costume, intended as a disguise, to gain immediate admittance as a
stranger. To his great dismay, instead of finding the door fly open to
his knock, as he expected, it appeared to have been barricaded against
him. The lady of the mansion, with pompous formality, appeared at the
window, like the warder of a fortress holding a parley at an 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 with but an ordinary degree of grace,
and, in a bowed spirit, intreated 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 to break 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 at 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 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 Fîn. Twm, with increased
boisterousness, resumed, “On your answer will depend whether, for the
remainder of your life, you will have a single, or a pair of hands—for on
the pronouncing of a negative, this hand, this soft white hand, beautiful
as it is, will instantly fly, severed from the wrist.” “I would not so
much care,” cried the lady of Ystrad Fîn, “but for your horrid name; I
could not endure to be called Mrs. Twm Shôn Catti.” “I have protested
bitterly, and will not be forsworn,” cried Twm, “that here, even here,
with your hand thus stretched through the window, the marriage ceremony
shall be performed; and so your answer at once without evasion.” “The
parson of our parish is gone to a christening,” said the lady of Ystrad
Fîn. “Yes or no!” roared the terrific Twm, menacing the threatened blow.
“Well then, as I could not handle a knife and 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 extacy, and eagerly kissed the
captured hand. With his left hand 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 without further ado commenced the
marriage ceremony, Twm the while holding her hand through the window.
The wedding service had been more than half gone through, when four
windows of the first floor were suddenly opened, and several persons put
their heads out, while, with the most sideshaking peals of laughter, they
looked down on 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 forgiveness for her latter conduct, while Twm intreated
the same for himself. Squire Prothero had been the author of many good
offices to 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 well received by more than one stranger—namely, Sir
John Price, and his own father! On the following day their public
wedding took place in Brecon, when our hero’s friend Powell was also
united to the amiable Miss Meredith. These parties being made happy,
little remains to be added. Evans of Tregaron, had soon after, to add to
his other losses, that of his clerical gown, on account of a fine
chopping boy affiliated on him by the luckless Bessy Gwevel hîr; and his
magisterial functions were also numbered with “things which were, but are
not.”
The annals of those times evince that our hero filled various civil
offices of the first rank in the good town of Brecon, with great ability;
and “Thomas Jones, Esq.” shines conspicuously on the list of its mayors
and sheriffs; but no where more honourably than in the pages of his early
friend Rhys—the Doctor Rhys—whose undoubted testimony crowns him with the
fame of an accomplished herald and antiquary. A single anecdote,
illustrative of his good humour in late life, shall close this book.
“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 having married you.” “I don’t wonder,” replied
the hero of these adventures, “for I always laugh when I think of it
myself.”
* * * * *