Transcribed from the 1828 John Cox edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
THE
ADVENTURES AND VAGARIES
OF
TWM SHÔN CATTI,
DESCRIPTIVE OF
LIFE IN WALES:
Interspersed with Poems.
BY T. J. LLEWELYN PRICHARD.
Mae llevain mawr a gwaeddi
Yn Ystrad Fîn eleni
A cherrig nadd yn toddi ’n blwm
Rhag ovn Twm Shôn Catti.
In Ystrad Fîn this year, appalling
The tumult loud, the weeping, wailing,
That thrills with fear and pity;
The lightning scathes the mountain’s head,
The massy stones dissolve like lead,
All nature shudders at the tread
And shout of Twm Shôn Catti.
ABERYSTWYTH:
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR, BY JOHN COX.
1828
CHAP. I.
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.
CHAP. II.
A glance at Twm’s grandfather. Squire Graspacre. Sir John Wynne. The adventure that foreran our hero’s birth.
Catti, the mother of Twm, lived in the most unsophisticated manner at Llidiard-y-Fynnon, with an ill-favored, hump-backed sister, who was the general drudge and domestic manager, and who at other times assisted at her usual daily avocations. Their mother had long been dead, and their father, the horned cattle, a small farm and all its appurtenances, had been lost to them about two years. This little farm was their father’s freehold property, but provokingly situate in the middle of the vast possessions of Squire Graspacre, an English gentleman-farmer, who condescendingly fixed himself in the principality with the laudable idea of civilizing the Welsh. The most feasible mode of accomplishing so grand an undertaking, that appeared to him, was, to dispossess them of their property, and to take as much as possible of their country into his own paternal care. The rude Welsh, to be sure, he found so blind to their own interests, as to prefer living on their farms to either selling or giving them away, to profit by his superior management. His master-genius now became apparent to every body; for after ruining the owners and appropriating to himself half the country, the other half also became his own with ease, as the poor little freeholders found it better to accept a small sum for their property, than to have all wasted in litigation, and perhaps ultimately to end their days in prison. Twm’s maternal grandfather was the last of those who daringly withstood the desires of the squire, but at last, after having triumphantly gained his cause, being unable to pay the costs, he was arrested by his own attorney, and died a prisoner in Cardigan county gaol, as the neighbours said, of a broken heart. The philanthropic improving squire, then, of course, gained his end. The old farm-house, alienated from the land, became the residence of the old farmer’s two daughters; not exactly a gift, indeed, as they paid the annual rent of two guineas, which was generally considered about one too much.
It was soon after this admirable settlement of his affairs, that the squire had a grand visitor to entertain at Graspacre Hall, who was no less a personage than Sir John Wynne, of Gwydir, in North Wales, whose sister our deep-scheming squire had lately married, with the politic view of identifying himself with the Cambrian principality, and becoming one of the great landed proprietors in the country. One day, after a long ride with his noble guest, over his far-spreading hills and vales, it was poor Catti’s lot to be observed by these lordly sons of affluence. She was spinning wool at the cottage door, a work which she seldom performed without the accompaniment of a song; and at that time was giving utterance to a mournful ditty, as the recent death of her father had naturally attuned her mind to melancholy, and cast a cloud over her usual cheerfulness.
The great men stopped their horses: “a fine girl, Sir John,” cried the squire.
“Very!” observed the baronet; “I wonder if she is come-at-able?”
“How can you wonder at any such thing, my dear Sir John?” quoth the improvement-loving squire: “the girl’s as poor as a rat, and has lately lost her father. It would really be a charity, my dear Sir John, if you were to call and comfort her. Improvement, Sir John, is my motto, and I fancy this poor girl’s state is very capable of improvement.”
The latter part of this amiable suggestion, given with a significant leer, was perfectly well understood. The amorous baronet amply availed himself of the honorable squire’s hint, and called several successive evenings at Llidiard-y-Fynnon; but some doubts may be entertained of the improvements he introduced there. The sequel of the adventure soon grew notorious, and the maiden Catti became the mother of our redoubted hero, thence, with an allusion to his father, named Twm Shon Catti.
CHAP. III.
Early indications of Twm’s antiquarian propensities. His mother becomes the very paragon of schoolmistresses. The originality of her system. Twm becomes her pupil.
As the period of early infancy rarely contains incidents worthy of the recording pen of history, we shall bring our hero at once to his fourth year. The biographers of great men have generally evinced a predilection to present their readers with certain early indications of the peculiar genius that has distinguished their heroes in after life; and far from us be the presumption of deviating from such a popular and legitimate rule, by any radical attempt at innovation or improvement. Pope’s lispings in numbers, West’s quaker daubings in childhood, with many such instances, not to mention Peter Pindar’s waggery on Sir Joseph Banks’s spreading spiders on his bread and butter, are cases in point, which are familiar to every reader; and it will not appear strange to those already acquainted with his fame, that we have to add to these eminent names that of our long-neglected hero. It is true he became neither a poet, a painter, nor a natural historian, but, according to the unbiassed opinions of geniuses of the same caste with himself, who could not be suspected of either egotism or partiality, a superior character to either—an eminent antiquary—to which may be added, though perhaps it ought to take the lead—a no less eminent thief. Such is the prejudice of these degenerate times that the latter designation has grown unpopular; but according to Bardolph’s hint, it might be profitably exchanged, on the score of respectability, to “conveyancer:”—
“Steal! a fico for the phrase!
The wise call it convey.”
It is to be hoped that none of our readers will be infidels enough to doubt the fact, when they are assured, on the indubitable testimony of his mother, that our hero’s earliest propensity was to grub up old trash and trumpery from the gutters of Tregaron—“filth,” as his parent wisely observed, “which had better have been left alone;” and we may safely appeal to any candid mind, and boldly ask whether this trait did not in the most decided manner bespeak the future antiquary. Not a puddle could be found but its depth and contents were duly examined by the indefatigable Twm; and the curious urchin was always distinguishable from the rest of his playmates by certain crusts of mud that adorned his tiny woollen garb from top to bottom. As in these little fancies he spent the greater part of his time, it became a wonder to his mother that he seldom ran home for food; but it was soon discovered that he had a mode peculiar to himself of raising contributions on the little public of which he was a member, by forcing them to part with a portion of their bread and butter—a praiseworthy act, and trebly commendable, as in the first place it shewed his filial piety, in saving his mother the expence of his victuals; in the next, it taught courtesy to the churlish, who in time anticipated his demand by voluntary offerings; and thirdly, it engendered the principle of honesty in their tender minds, by marking the propriety of paying for their curiosity in gaping over the treasures of his puddles and gutters. This, it will also be observed, was another feature that announced his future character, which, it will be seen, “grew with his growth, and strengthened with his strength.”
Here we must return again to our hero’s mother. On learning the event of his amour, Sir John Wynne bought of the squire, and gave to Catti as her own for ever, her paternal cottage of Llidiard-y-Fynnon. This fortunate circumstance gave her no small importance in her neighbourhood. As the house was large, and not overstocked with inhabitants, it occurred to the good people of Tregaron, that a day-school might be established within its walls; and having with their own consent found a school-room, by the same indisputable right they fixed on Catti for its mistress, and instituted her governess, to rule their tender progeny. Catti, with a huge grin of approbation at her unexpected promotion, immediately ratified their election, and declared both her house and self ready for the reception of pupils at the moderate terms of a penny a week. Her ill-favored sister clouded her brow, and elevated her hump on the occasion, and asked very indignantly, who was going to clean the house every day after such a grubby fry. Catti made no reply, but in the pride of her heart hummed a gay song, scratched the mud off her boy’s clothes with an old birch broom, which being hardened by sweeping the house, answered the purpose better than a brush, and had some old coffers converted into benches for the service of her scholars. She then, with singular alacrity, proceeded to cut from the hedge, with her own fair hand, one of the most engaging looking birch rods that ever was wielded by rural governess. This premature display of the sceptre of severity was far from fortunate, and nearly ruined the undertaking at the outset. The tender mothers of Tregaron were startled at so unexpected a proceeding, and pathetically declared they had rather that their dear babes should be brought up like the calves and pigs, in the most bestial ignorance, than have knowledge beaten into them at the nether end with a birch rod. Catti immediately quieted their fears, by protesting that she entertained the utmost abhorrence of the flagellation system, and that the bunch of birch was cut and bound together for a very different purpose, namely, to be suspended as a sign over her door. After a debate of some hours among the amiable matrons, however, it was decided that the birch should not be exalted even as an external symbol, over the door of the school, as the very sight of it might strike a terror into the little lubberly loves, and frighten them into fits. As Catti was all compliance with their requisitions, every thing was set to rights; and without more ado children were sent from every house where the affluence of the inmates enabled them to give their offspring the first rudiments of education. The mother of Twm became the very pink and paragon of schoolmistresses. ’Tis true, the noise and uproar in her school was so great, that the curate’s wife, who rode an ill-tamed horse, was thrown headlong into the well, when passing the academy, from the animal taking fright; but that was no fault of Catti’s; people should break in their horses properly, and curates’ wives should learn to ride and keep their seats better. Besides, the alledged uproar was the greatest evidence in her favor, as it proved the tenderness of her heart in not correcting her scholars—a quality more valued by their maternal parents than any other that could possibly be substituted; and in their appreciation of this prime desideratum, they omitted to enquire too minutely into her other qualifications for a governess. Fastidious parents, to be sure, might have insisted that she could read, at least; while others more lenient, would have suggested the necessity of being able to spell, or at any rate, to know her letters: but poor Catti could not have passed such a rigid ordeal in either instance, had she been put to it. Yet that very deficiency which might have troubled a weaker mind, was to her a great source of satisfaction, as she always hugged herself warmly in the gratifying recollection that no person could accuse her, in the words of Festus to Paul, “Too much learning has made thee mad:” and with unexampled liberality she determined that the rising generation entrusted to her care, should participate to the utmost in these her negative felicitous attainments.
Many of Catti’s pupils had been taken by their wise and considerate mothers out of the curate’s school, fearful that his severity would break their hearts; and having there learnt their letters and a little spelling, they kept possession at least of what they had acquired, by teaching other children, which flattered their childish vanity, while it served their mistress, who, like a sage general that stands aloof from the broil of battle, takes to himself the credit of success, while the real operators are forgotten. Thus, in time, with the powerful support of the matrons of Tregaron, who took the lead of their spouses, and directed the taste and opinions of the clod-hopping community, Catti’s school became an alarming rival to the curate’s.
Teachers, like all other scientific persons, must have their own systems; and as our heroine’s was very original, though perhaps not entirely peculiar to herself, with a view of communicating a benefit to others less enlightened, who follow her avocations, we shall treat the reader, once for all, with a solitary specimen of her method.
“Come here, little Gwenny Cadwgan,” said Catti one day, “Come here, my little pretty buttercup, and say your lesson, if you can, but if you can’t never mind, I won’t beat or scold you.” Gwenny came forward, bobbed a curtsey, and, while her mistress broomed the mud from little Twm’s breeches, and combed his head on the back of the bellows, began her lesson.
Gwenny.—a, b, hab.
Catti.—There’s a good maaid!
Gwenny.—e, b, heb.
Gwenny.—o, b, hob.
Catti.—There’s a good maaid!
Gwenny.—i, b,—I can’t tell.
Catti.—Skipe it, child, skipe it—(meaning “skip it.”)
Gwenny.—u, b, cub.
Catti.—There’s a good maaid! Twm, you little wicked dog, don’t kick the child. Go on, Gwenny vach.
Twm.—(who had been struggling for some time to get from under his mother’s combs,) I want to go a fishing.
Catti.—Lord love the darling child! You’ll fall into the river and be drowned.
Twm.—Oh! no, mother; I always fish in the gutters.
Dio Bengoch.—I want to go home for some bread and butter.
“And I! and I! and I!” squalls every other urchin in the school; and out they would run in a drove, on perceiving the independent exit of master Twm, without waiting for the permission of his parent and governess.
CHAP. IV.
The bad effects of scholarship among servants. The opinions of a fine lady on the subject. A horse milliner. Jack o Sîr Gâr, a very original character. His manufacture and merchandize. His tender interview with Catti. A suspicion of her coquettings.
Perhaps our modern governesses who possess the vain accomplishment of reading and writing, may feel disposed to undervalue the acquirements of our rural Welsh governess. But let them not triumph; and be it recollected that tastes differ, and that many of our living patricians, as well as wealthy plebians, who are considered the great, the mighty, and the respectable of the land, deprecate with becoming vehemence the prevailing mania for educating the poor. We have heard ladies, and great ones too, attired in silks and velvets, pall and purple, and “that fared sumptuously every day,” declare most positively they never knew a servant good for anything, that could read and write. No sooner were they capable of wielding a goose quill, than the impudent hussies presumed to have a will of their own, and in their opinions mounted a step nearer to the altitude of their mistresses. And on men, they said, education had a worse effect, as thereby they became the idle readers of books, and newspapers, which made them saucy to their superiors, and sometimes the most villainous cut-throat radicals. Now it will be readily admitted, we should think, that there was but little danger of Catti’s scholars ever becoming such pernicious characters; and therefore, let not illiberal envy withhold from her the well-merited meed of applause. Alas for the good old days—we see no such schoolmistresses now-a-days! those days of the golden age of simplicity are gone for ever. Days approved of by the great, and therefore good; when the humbler sons of industry looked up to them as gods, and they returned the compliment by looking down on their worshippers as good and well-taught dogs, that earned their bones and scraps.—Days when country squires handled a pitchfork better than a pen—when good boys learnt their catechism and read their bible against their will, and forgot it as soon as possible after leaving school.—Days when “simplicity and harmlessness” were the names that dignified boorish ignorance and passive stupidity—when a sycophantic subserviency paved the way to wealth and honors—when the gross vice of manly independence was unknown, and no class acknowledged among men, but the high and low, or the rich and poor.—Days that—(to finish this retrospective eulogy,) that, alas! are no more.
Although our hero’s mother could not be called a woman of letters, she certainly possessed qualities more original than generally fell to the lot of persons in her station. At carding wool or spinning it, knitting stockings or mittins, the most envious admitted her superiority to every woman in Tregaron. She moreover had gained no small consideration in another character, which her jealous neighbours satirically denominated a hedge milliner, whose province it was to make hedging gloves and coarse frocks for ploughmen, to darn the heels of their stout woollen stockings, and also to make and mend horses’ collars; the latter branch of her occupation, which required a delicate hand to cut the slender sewing thongs from the raw bull hides, caused her to be called a horse milliner, which after all, was not much more applicable than if she had been described as a bull tailor. This malignant waggery, however, was unable to disturb the tranquil soul of Catti; she loved horses, and in her juvenile days had often whiled away her mornings and evenings in the rural pastimes driving of them, both in the plough and barrow, while carolling some rural ditty, till the rocks and mountains echoed with the cadence of her harmony.
It will not be a matter of much wonder that with all these accomplishments Catti should be importuned in the way of courtship, notwithstanding the injury her fame had suffered from the adventure with Sir John Wynne. But the schoolmistress, elated with the success of her academy, turned a deaf ear to all the praises and protestations of the swains, until, as the village sages say, the right man came. Like all her amiable sex, she professed the utmost abhorrence of mercenary motives in marriage, though many insinuated that she learnt the value of property from never having possessed any. It was observed that she treated with indifference, if not aversion, those unprofitable lovers who had nothing but their goodly persons to recommend them. Certain inuendoes were even thrown out respecting a suspicion of her coquettings with one of the most ugly, miserly, and repulsive of clowns;—one who was not only a clown, but a red-haired one;—not only red haired, but knock-kneed;—not only knock-kneed, but squint-eyed;—not only squint-eyed, but a woman-hater; and worse than all, a foreigner!—being a native of a distant part of the adjoining county of Carmarthen, and known only by the nick-name of Jack o Sîr Gâr, or Carmarthenshire Jack. This amiable and interesting personage certainly possessed all those graces here enumerated, with many others, which were attached to peculiarities of character that rendered him so far like our great national hero Owen Glendower, that he “was not in the roll of common men.” He was at this time the chief husbandman and bailiff at the squire’s, an office which, as he had others under his command, did not aid his personal recommendations to much popularity in the squire’s kitchen. Perhaps no being that ever breathed had so fair an excuse for becoming a misanthrope. His coarse and repulsive exterior, with his churlish manners, and one unchangeable suit of old patched ill-looking clothes, combined to make him an object of distaste to the girls, to whom, and the young men, he became a general butt of ridicule yet only among themselves, for they were fully aware, that it would be a less dangerous experiment to catch a mad bull by the horns, than to rouse the choler of Jack o Sîr Gâr. The standing jest against him was, his qualifications as a trencherman, and his reputation as a “huge feeder” was certainly unrivalled. As there was not a single pastime under the head of amusement, that the ingenuity of man has ever devised for the entertainment of his fellows, save eating, that possessed a charm for him, it might be expected that this solitary recreation would be indulged in the proportion that he excluded all others. He not only performed all the functions of the gross glutton, but as the actors say, “looked the character” to perfection.
The reader, measuring him by other men, would make a very erroneous guess on the most prominent feature of his face, if he fixed on the nasal protuberance—no such thing—his nose was flat and small, but his large projecting upper teeth, like “rocks of peril jutting o’er the sea,” were ever bared for action, white as those of his only companion, the mastiff, and nobly independent of a sheathing lip.
Others more comely features might wear,
But Jack was famed for his white teeth bare.
As the squire’s lady was not the most liberal in supplying the servants’ table, those wags, male or female, who were in the habit of committing the silent satire of mimickry against Jack, were soon taught a severe lesson at the expence of their bowels. It was discovered that, whenever enraged at their treatment, instead of spending his breath in vain reproaches, or taking to the more violent proceeding of fisty-cuffs, Jack revenged himself by eating most outrageously, so that the scoffers, deprived of their shares, often found their stomachs minus. His power of mastication increased with his anger; and the flaming energy that was mentally inciting him to give an enemy a fierce facer, or a destructive cross-buttock, was diverted from his knuckles to his teeth; and in every mouthful which he ground in his relentless mill, he felt the glowing satisfaction of having annihilated a foe. Woe to those who were his next neighbours at table, and sat too close to his elbows at those hours of excitement; sly punches in the ribs, as if by accident, were among the slightest consequences; and those who were thus taught manners, to keep at a respectful distance, declared that the fear they entertained was only of his knife. That, it is true, was saying too much; Jack had no such bloody propensities, although the glare of his unequal eyes was enough, when much annoyed, to frighten them into such conclusions. Although a most unseemly clown, his worst enemies would confess that, unprovoked, he was a very harmless man. Squire Graspacre knew his value as a faithful and industrious servant, and therefore disregarded the constant tattle about his repulsive peculiarities.
Before methodism spread its puritanic gloom over Wales, and identified itself almost with the Welsh character, mirth and minstrelsy, dance and song, emulative games and rural pastimes, were the order of the day; and, as the country people worked hard all the week, it must be confessed that these sports often infringed upon the sanctity of the sabbath. Sundays were often entirely spent in dancing, wrestling, and kicking the foot-ball. The latter violent exercise, at this time prevalent in Cardiganshire, was performed in large parties of village against village, and parish against parish, when the country brought together its mass of population either to partake in the glories of the game, or to enjoy the success of their friends, as spectators. On these occasions Carmarthen Jack loved to be present, but only as a spectator, as he was never known to take a part in any game. While others were panting with the rough exercise, swearing at disappointments, hallooing their triumph, or wincing over a broken shin, Jack would be found seated on some rising tump that overlooked the field, busily employed with a scooping knife, hollowing out the bowls of spoons and ladles, or shaping out soles for wooden shoes, which at every moment that he could call his own, he manufactured out of the logs of birch, or more frequently alder, with which he amply provided himself during the week, and stored under his bed to dry. At fairs also, Carmarthen Jack would be equally punctual, and after having done his master’s business of buying or selling a horse or so, would be seen with a load of the merchandize of his own manufacture, wooden spoons, ladles, and clog soles, in abundance, which drew about him all the rural housekeepers far and near. “No milliner could suit her customers with gloves” in greater variety than Jack with spoons to please his purchasers. He had spoons for man, woman, and child, fashioned for every sort of mouth, from the tiny infant’s to the shark-jaws of the hungry ploughman, which, like his own, presented a gap from ear to ear. He had spoons for use, and spoons for ornament, the latter, meant to keep company with the showy polished pewter, were made of box or yew, highly polished and curiously carved with divers characters, principally suns, moons, stars, hearts transfixt with the dart of cupid, and sometimes a hen and chickens, which hieroglyphics of his own for fear of their being mistaken for a cat and mice, with other such misconstructions, Jack always explained at the time of bargaining, without any extra charge. Nothing could more emphatically prove the excellency of Jack’s wares, than the circumstance of his being personally unpopular among the women, and yet his wares in the highest esteem. The frowns of the fair, which threw a gloom on the sunshine of his days, may be traced to a source not at all dishonorable to him. The girls at the squire’s had played him so many tricks, that once, in the height of aggravation, Jack declared war against the whole sex, devoting to the infernal gods every creature that wore a petticoat, and vowing, from that day forward, that not one of the proscribed race should ever enter his room, which was romantically situated over the stable, with its glassless window commanding a full view of both the pigsty and dunghill. The consequence of this terrific vow caused him, at first, some trouble, as, to keep it he was obliged thenceforward to be his own chambermaid, lawndress, and sempstress, offices that accorded ill with his previous habits. The laudable firmness of his nature, however, soon overcame these petty difficulties; and so far was he from backsliding from his previous determination, that he vowed to throw through the window the first woman who entered his chamber, which the satirical hussies called his den—a threat which effectually secured him from further intrusion. Sometimes, indeed, when he would be sitting at the door of the cowhouse, or the stable, listening to the rural sounds of cackling geese and grunting pigs, while darning his hose or patching his leather breeches, or treading his shirt in the brook by way of washing it, these eternal plagues of his, the girls, would be seen and heard behind the covert of a wall or hedge, smothering their tittering, which at last would burst out, in spite of suppression, into a loud horse laugh, when one and all, they would take to their heels, while Jack amused himself by valiantly pelting their rear, in their precipitate retreat, with clods of earth, small stones, or anything that came in his way. Jack o Sîr Gâr, however, in time gained the reputation of being rich, by the success of his wooden-ware merchandize, and consequently one of the fair ones who had once been his tormentor, became suddenly enamoured of him, and incessantly endeavoured to gain his good will; but being one day thrown headlong out of the window into the dunghill below, as a gentle hint that she was not wanted, her milk of tenderness was turned into gall, and she became revengeful as a tigress. The first act of her resentment was to spread about the insidious report that Jack o Sîr Gâr was a woman-hater—an insinuation that at first rather preyed on his mind, as he dreaded the effect such an unmerited stigma would have upon his private trade. But innocence is ever predestined to an ultimate triumph; and an event soon happened that proved the falsehood of those prevalent tales to his discredit, and convinced his greatest foes that he possessed a heart, if not overflowing with human charity, at least penetrable to the blandishments of beauty, and quick with sensibility to female merit.
On one auspicious market-day, Carmarthen Jack appeared in the street of Tregaron where the market is held, loaded with his usual merchandize, which he spread on the ground, and sat beside them; but not meeting with a ready sale, and disdaining even momentary idleness, began with earnestness to cut and scoop away at a piece of alder, gradually forming it into a huge ladle, to correspond with the largest size three-legged iron pot. On this eventful morning Catti had occasion to perambulate the fair, to purchase a new ladle, her cross-grained sister having broken the old one, by thumping with it on the back of an overgrown hog, whose foraging propensities led it to investigate the recesses of the school-room. The reputation of Jack’s ware, and the general supposition that he had saved money, soon reached the ears of our prudent schoolmistress; and the pardonable ambition of wishing to conquer the stern heart of one who despised her whole sex was supposed to be the secret object of her present walk; and evil tongues were not wanting, to insinuate that she broke the ladle herself, which was only cracked before, for an excuse to introduce herself to Jack o Sîr Gâr, by buying another. Be that as it may, she sought and found him in the fair, and fell in love with him and his ladle at the same instant. After an effort to conquer her native bashfulness, and to look as lovely as possible, she accosted him with such uncommon civility as utterly astounded the poor clownish misanthropic bachelor. She examined the ladle in his hand, and though not half finished, declared it the handsomest ever her eyes beheld, and paid for it without seeking the least abatement in the price. Jack gaped at her, with open mouth and staring eyes, and thought her a very interesting woman, though his first impression was, that she was mad, as he had asked double the real selling price, on purpose to abate one half, according to a custom immemorial in Welsh dealings. She next purchased half a dozen common birch-wood spoons, and as many ornamental ones made of box, to adorn her shelf, and, as before, paid him his own price. Jack thought her very lovely, and when she made another purchase of a pair of clog soles, quite irresistible!—her ready money opened his heart like the best manufactured key, and he was almost ready to offer them as a present, but for a fear of wounding her delicacy. As she found he had no further variety, she ordered half a dozen more common spoons, and Jack, with all the amiability that he could possibly throw into his hard features, presented her with one of his most finished articles of box. She received it with that peculiar smile with which a lady accepts a welcome love-token, and replied in the softest tone imaginable, “indeed I will keep it for your sake John bach!”—Jack had nothing to do but wonder—he never had been called John in his life before; at any other time he would have thought she mocked him—and the endearing term of “bach” too, was equally new to his ears, which seemed to grow longer as they tingled with the grateful sound. This interesting scene was closed by Catti’s asking him to her house to partake of a dinner of flummery and milk, which he accepted with the best grace imaginable, and trudged off with his wares on his back and dangling from his arms and button holes; and thus gallanting her in the most amatory style, he walked by her side to Llidiard y Ffynnon. Unaccustomed to kindness in either word or deed, poor Jack o Sîr Gâr met her condescensions and advances with a sheepish sort of gratitude. A cordial invitation on the part of Catti to repeat his visit as soon, and as often, as possible, affected him almost to tears; and as a proof of his unbounded confidence, he left in her care his whole stock of ready-made spoons and ladles, and almost blubbered when he shook her hand at parting.
As a proof of the beneficial effect of kindness on a churlish nature, and the contrary, of ridicule and persecution, we need but contrast this rugged man’s previous character and conduct with what followed, after the tenderness of Catti had melted the frost of misanthropy which formed a crusty coat round his heart. The adventure of the day produced a most extraordinary revolution in his habits. None of the servants at the hall, male or female, could conceive what it portended, when Jack condescended to ask one of his fellow husbandmen to trim his hair; and while the fellow clipped his rough red locks with his sheep-sheers, he was surprized at his questions about the price of a new pair of leathern breeches, and a red neck-cloth. Greater still was the astonishment of the whole house when, in a few days after, he appeared in those very buckish articles of dress, and while he thought nobody saw him, endeavouring to cut a dancing caper on the green, which they mistook for an imitation of a frisky bullock. His walking as well as dancing steps, were now watched; and when it was found that the former led to the house of Catti, the nods, winks, horse-laughs, and innuendoes, mentioned in the commencement of this chapter, took place, and gave food for scandal to the whole gossiping circle of the town of Tregaron and its vicinity for many miles around.
Flummery and milk, named here as the food on which these lovers regaled themselves, has been considered in Wales a very popular national mess, common, but still a favorite among high and low, and might be seen on the board of the lord lieutenant of the county, as well as on that of the humblest cottager. The lofty of the land whose pampered stomachs have turned with loathing from more dainty food in sultry seasons, have welcomed the simplicity of milk and flummery, as the advocate of native charms would greet the smilings of a rustic beauty, when the meretricious fair of fashion would be passed by, neglected. The English reader will not be offended if I dilate a little in praise of my favorite food, while I explain to him its nature; and if he is a bloated son of affluence, overflowing with bile and spleen, he will thank us, after adopting our recommendation of feeding on it often during his rustication among our mountains. Medical men also recommend it as very effective in promoting an increase of good clear healthy blood. Flummery is made of the inner hulls of ground oats, when sifted from the meal, some of which still adheres to it, by soaking it in water till it acquires a slight taste of acidity, when it is strained through a hair sieve and boiled till it becomes a perfect jelly. When poured from that picturesque prince of culinary vessels, the large three-legged iron pot, into a vast brown earthen dish, it presents a smooth smiling aspect of the most winning equanimity, till destroyed by the numerous invading spoons of the company, that plunge a portion of it, scalding hot, into their bowls of cool milk. Thus much of its descriptive history is given, to illustrate the following ode in its immortal praise, with which we shall now close this long chapter.
MILK AND FLUMMERY.
Let luxury’s imbecile train,
Of appetites fastidious,
Each sauced provocative obtain,
The draught or viand perfidious;
But oh! give me that simple food,
So dear to the sons of Cymru,
With health, with nourishment imbued,
The sweet new milk and flummery.Let pudding-headed English folks
With boast of roast beef fag us;
Let Scottish Burns crack rural jokes,
And vaunt kail-brose and haggis;
But Cymru’s sons! of mount and plain,
From Brecknock to Montgomery,
Let us the honest praise maintain,
Of sweet new milk and flummery.On sultry days when appetites
Wane dull, and low, and queasy,
When loathing stomachs nought delights,
To gulp thee flumm’ry! ’s easy:
Dear oaten jelly, pride of Wales!
Rude child of the vales of Cymru;
On thee the ruddy swain regales,
And blesses milk and flummery.’Tis sweet to stroll on Cambrian heights,
O’erlooking vales and rivers,
Where bird-song sweet, with breeze unites,
Each, sunshine rapture givers!
To crown their gust the light repast—
So cool—can never come awry,
Oh sweet! to break the mid-day fast
On sweet new milk and flummery.
CHAP. V.
An essay on courting in bed. Our hero removed to the curate’s school.
The scene so lightly touched upon in the last chapter, between our schoolmistress and her beau, called forth the mischievous talents of little Twm Shôn Catti, who, while they sat side by side at the goodly oak table, fastened them together by the coat and gown with a peeled thorn spike, which, before the introduction of pins, was used by the fair sex to join together their various articles of attire. When his mother rose suddenly to help her spoon-merchant with more spoon meat, she rather surprized him by carrying away, with his heart, the greater part of the tattered skirt of his old coat, so that Jack might have said, with Tag the author,
“The lovely maid on whom I doat,
Has made a spencer of my coat.”
The wicked urchin who caused this unsanctioned union, set up a loud laugh, and Catti’s grumpy sister Juggy, for the first time in her life, astonished them with a grin on the occasion. Twm received a severe rebuke from his parent, and the hapless Jack, with the view of propitiating an evil spirit that might prove troublesome to him hereafter, made him a present of a new spoon, which, because it was merely a common one, he ungratefully threw into the blazing turf fire, which glowed on the hearth in a higher pile and wider dimensions than usual, and demanded one of his best box-wood ware. Jack would have given it to him immediately, but for the intervention of his mother, who forbade the indulgence. No sooner, however, was he gone than Twm watched his opportunity and purloined as many of the better sort as he could conveniently take away unperceived, and sold them at the cheap rate of stolen goods, to an old woman named, or rather nick-named, Rachel Ketch, from some supposed resemblance in her character to that of the finisher of the law, so surnamed, although some persons roundly asserted that she was in fact a relict one of those celebrated law officers, one John Ketch esquire, of Stretch-neck Place, Sessions Court, Carmarthen. As no further consequence followed this act of unprovoked delinquency, it was scarcely worth mentioning, except that it stands as the first of the kind on record; and when discovered, Twm’s over affectionate mother did not punish him for it,—an omission much censured by rigid people, who construed this petty act into the slight root from which sprung the huge tree of his after enormities;
“But maudlin mothers, all, have tender hearts,
Too kind to root an early shoot of vice
By wholesome chastisement. The little darlings!
Who could punish them, whate’er their faults?”
We come now to an era in this history when our hero entered another scene of life, in that of a new-school, which event was ushered in by unlooked for circumstances that must be first narrated.
It may not be unknown to our readers that there has existed a custom, in some parts of Wales, time out of mind, of courting in bed; this comfortable mode of forwarding a marriage connexion prevailed very generally at Tregaron, to the great scandal and virtuous indignation of the lady of Squire Graspacre. It was amazing to witness with what energy this good gentlewoman set about reforming the people, by the forcible abolishment of what she was pleased to call, this odious, dangerous, blasphemous, and ungodly custom. Her patronage was for ever lost to any man or woman, youth or maid, of the town or country, who was most distantly related to, or connected with any person who connived at bed courtship. There was not a cottager who called at the great house for a pitcher of whey, skim milk, or buttermilk, as a return for labour in harvest time, but she closely examined on this head; and woe to the wretch who had the temerity to assert that there was no harm in the custom; or that that the wooers merely laid down in their clothes, and thus conversed at their ease on their future plans or prospects; or who denied that such a situation was more calculated for amorous caresses and endearments than sitting in the chimney corner. Mrs. Graspacre was certainly, most outrageously virtuous—a very termagant of decorous propriety! if any person dared, in her presence, to advocate this proscribed and utterly condemned mode, disdaining to argue the point, she would settle the matter in a summary manner, peculiarly her own, by protesting she would have any woman burnt alive who would submit to be courted in bed. To such a fiery argument no reply could possibly be made; and in time she found her account in this silencing sort of logic which gave her her own entire unimpeded way in every thing, which wonderfully restored her equanimity, and saved both time and temper to the parties concerned, who otherwise might have spent their precious hours, and more precious patience, in idle and irritable discussions on the subject.
In the course of two years there were no less than four young men, and twice as many damsels turned away from her service for courting in the hay-loft; and on those occasions the poor girls never escaped personal violence from the indignant and persevering Mrs. Graspacre. In her flaming zeal for decorum, the tongs, the poker, the pitchfork, or the hay-rake, became an instrument of chastisement; a double advantage was discovered in the terror thus created, the dignity of her sex being in the first place asserted and supported, and in the next, the offenders preferred running away without payment of wages, to standing the chance of having their heads or arms broken with a poker, or their bodies pierced by the terrible prongs of a pitchfork.
All the lowly dependants of Mrs. Graspacre found it their interest to become her spies, who soon vied with each other in giving the earliest intimation of any amorous pair who committed this most diabolical offence; and those who were least forward in bringing intelligence on this score, immediately sunk in her esteem, and were mulct of their allowance of skim milk and blue whey. But in time the old hen-wives of the neighbourhood discovered the virtue of sycophancy, and the efficacy of a little seasonable cant; and when they were not warranted by real occurrences, they contrived to conciliate their patroness by drawing upon their own fertile inventions; or at other times hinted their suspicions of certain offending parties, always taking especial care to echo her language and blazon their abhorrence of all those imps of the devil who made love beneath a rug and blanket.
Not satisfied with these auxiliaries in the cause of virtue, the zealous Mrs. Graspacre enlisted on her side a very powerful champion, in the person of the reverend Mr. Evan Evans, the curate of Tregaron. Great was her mortification to find her attempts on the rector fail of success, as he declared it dangerous to interfere with the peculiarities and long established customs of the people; especially as he conceived it was rarely that any bad consequence ensued from the mode in question: but when the evil really occurred, if a faithless swain delayed making due reparation, a gaol, exile from his native place, or a compelled marriage, held the young men in terrorum. “Besides,” quoth the worthy old rector, with a hearty laugh, “that was the very way in which I courted my own wife, and many persons who are no enemies of virtue, consider it the best mode in the world, and were I young again, ha, ha, ha! egad I think I should pursue the same fashion.” “And I too!” cries Mr. Graspacre, “as I have no objection in the world to the custom.” Had the foe of man appeared at that moment, as popularly identified,—in sooty nakedness, with bloodshot eyes, and arrayed with hoofs and horns,—the stare of horror which distinguished the amiable countenance of Mrs. Graspacre, could not be more strongly marked. “You, Mr. Graspacre! you! I’m astonished, but”—(with a severe glance at the rector) “when the shepherd goes astray, no wonder that the silly sheep follow his example;” with that she bounced out of the room, and slammed the door in a high fit of indignation, aggravated by the calm looks of the rector, and the provoking tittering of her own liege lord.
The rector’s honest dissent from her scheme of reformation, Mrs. Graspacre considered as a direct declaration of hostilities, and therefore, by her peculiar creed of morality, she felt herself bound to vilify his name, and most piously longed for his death, that the cause of virtue might be supported by the talents of her favorite curate, who was now, she said, on a poor stipend, which he increased by keeping a school in the church.
The reverend Evan Evans, the curate, played with his cards well; he was a harsh-featured man, lowering brows and a complete ploughman’s gait; insolent to his poor parishioners, and a very awkward cringer to the great. But flattery, direct or covert, does much, and in time completely won him the favor of the great lady. She encouraged his patience by assuring him that the vicar, in his declined state of health, could not possibly live long; and his death, happen when it might, must appear, to all unprejudiced christians, as a judgement, for advocating, or not prosecuting, that execrable custom, courting in bed. As the living had long been promised to him, the hopes and expectations of Mr. Evan Evans were very sanguine; and as he was no less ambitious than sycophantic and imperious, he looked forward with confidence to the period when he should give up school-keeping, and strut forth in a fire-shovel hat, as vicar of the parish, and a magistrate in the county. Notwithstanding that the living was promised him by the lady, he was aware that she was not always paramount, and therefore lost no opportunity of insinuating himself into the squire’s favor. With the most ludicrous efforts to humanize those harsh features of his, and to twist them into frequent grins, he would laugh loudly to the injury of his lungs, at his most vapid jokes; praise the beauty of his snub-nosed children, and his pointers; tell him where the prettiest lasses in the parish were to be found; with many such honorable civilities, that Squire Graspacre at length discovered him to be a very useful sort of person. When Sir John Wynne of Gwydir paid his before-mentioned visit, his sister introduced and recommended our curate, as a right worthy divine who deserved preferment; and the baronet promised to remember her recommendation, if anything turned out, within his power, to benefit him. Much time had elapsed, and nothing followed this agreeable promise; but Mister Evans persevered in his sycophancy, and if the labour and dirty work be properly estimated, he certainly earned a good living—in his majesty’s plantations! to which he ought to have been inducted at the expence of government.
He soon saw the weak side of his lady patroness, and ever anxious to strengthen his influence by promoting her views, he gave great encouragement to those boys in his school, who brought him the most piquant tales of their grown up brothers and sisters. Much scandal was at this time afloat respecting the loves of Carmarthen Jack and Catti of Llidiard-y-Fynnon; and right anxious was he to learn in what manner it was carried on; but as this interesting pair met only at those hours when bats and owls were on the wing, and no human witnesses abroad, his wishes were difficult of attainment. At length his wily brain hit upon a notable expedient, that offered fairly to increase his good footing with the squire’s lady.
Little Twm Shôn Catti, being the natural child of Sir John Wynne, was of course the illegitimate nephew of the great lady; a relationship which she, however, disdained to acknowledge: but the cunning curate took the liberty of observing one day, it was a great pity that the slightest drop of the noble blood of the Wynnes, however perverted and polluted, should be suffered to run to waste and be neglected. Proceeding in his drift, he insinuated that if the boy Twm Shôn Catti were removed to his school, he should not only be instructed and improved, but that he, the curate, might thereby learn from the youngster something of his mother’s proceedings; and especially, whether she entertained her lover in the legal, or the proscribed manner. This was striking on the very string that made music to her busy, meddling, troublesome soul;—she of course warmly approved of his idea, and put it into immediate execution. Thus, the very next day, in her own and her brother’s name, little Twm Shôn Catti was ordered for the future to be sent to the curate’s school, which of course, was complied with accordingly.
CHAP. VI.
Twm improves in the curate’s school. His wit saves him from a flogging.
The great success of Catti’s school excited the ill will of Parson Evans, although he had far more scholars than he could possibly attend to. His indignation at his wife’s fall from her horse into the well, while passing his humble rival’s seminary, together with the humiliating consideration that many of the most juvenile deserted his rule, to submit to her’s, wounded this consequential personage to the quick. With an awkward attempt at a smile, he feigned to consider the seceders as a good riddance, and that it was not worth his while to teach babies to walk as well as to instruct them in their letters; this in fact, ought to have been the case, but it was not; for Evans, “like the turk, could bear no rival near the throne.” This new arrangement respecting Twm, they thought could not but be vexatious to Catti, and therefore Mistress Evans felt herself avenged for the tittering that she heard in her school, on her fall into the well as before mentioned. But far different was the case, from what they anticipated, for Catti no sooner heard the order, than in the simple sincerity of her heart, she exclaimed, “Thank God! the boy will learn something from the parson, but I could teach him nothing.”
Little Twm was now in his seventh year, and as refractory a pupil as ever was spoiled by a dawdling mother. Kept aloof from his dear duck-ponds and puddles, and compelled to explore the mysteries of the horn-book, this first change in his life was acutely felt. Self-willed and stubborn, he conceived the utmost abhorrence of horn-books, cross curates, and birch-rods; he wept and sulked, struck the boys who mocked him, stayed away from school, and was flogged so often, that at length he found it much easier to learn his book, than endure the consequence of neglecting it. Once arrived to this happy mood, and being one day praised by his master, a new spirit possessed the boy; emulation was kindled, and he resolved to revenge himself on those youths who formerly had made him their butt of ridicule, by getting the start of them in learning. The horn-book was shortly thrown by; the reading-made-easy and spelling book soon shared a similar fate; and the pride of his young heart sparkled in his eyes when his great lady aunt, on hearing a good account of him from his master, presented him with a bible, on the inside of the cover of which was the following couplet,—
“Take this Holy Bible book,
God give thee grace therein to look.”
These lines were not only written by her own fair hand, but actually of her own composition; and as poor Catti shewed the book to all her friends and neighbours as a proud proof of the good footing on which her son stood at Graspacre Hall, the great lady’s lines procured her the general fame of being a great poetess.
Notwithstanding his rapid advancement in book learning, Parson Evans was far from being satisfied with his pupil, nor was his main end answered in having brought him to his school. Twm loved his mother, and felt no great affection for his master, nor gratitude for the floggings which had enforced so much learning into his head; and never could the generous boy be brought to tell any tales to her disadvantage. The curate’s severity increased, and no longer praised or encouraged, Twm became not only indifferent to his tasks, but wanton and unjust severity had the effect of blunting his feelings and making him stubborn and revengeful; and at length he arrived at such an extremity of youthful recklessness as to study tricks for the annoyance of his master and fellow scholars.
In the eleventh year of his age some decisive shoots of character made their appearance; a taste for sharp sayings, and skilful trickery in outwitting his opponents, appear to have been his striking peculiarities, as well as boldness and resolution on the play ground, where none could surpass him in robustuous or violent exercises. Wat the mole-catcher, his constant instructor when out of school, among other accomplishments had taught him to play at cudgels, and not a boy in the school could stand before him at the quarter staff. His pre-eminence in this ancient and national art was often exemplified by the loud cries and broken heads of his defeated schoolfellows. A catastrophe of that kind one day, even in school time, brought the enraged master out, who severely asked Twm what he meant by such conduct; “Why sir,” cried the little rogue, “you always say that you never can beat anything into that boy’s head, so I tried what I could do with the cudgel, that’s all!” A few days after, his master sent him from the school to his house, for a book which he wanted. Twm found the mistress and maid were out, the first at the hall, and the last had made a present of her little leisure to her sweetheart, Wat the mole-catcher. On entering the parlour he saw there a fine bunch of grapes, which his great lady aunt had sent his master; as this was a fruit hitherto unknown to him, he deliberately tasted two or three, to discover whether they were eatable. Having diminished the bunch by a repetition of this experiment, he found a difficulty in quitting while any remained, so resolved to finish it, and lay the blame on the cat, if charged with the theft; as to dividing the spoil, and leaving a portion for the owner, the scheme was impracticable, so he decided to abide by his master’s maxim, “that it was not decent for two to eat from the same dish.” So lifting up the remains of the luscious bunch with affected ceremony, he exclaimed in a lofty tone, mimicking his master, “I publish the banns of marriage between my mouth and this bunch of grapes; if any one knows just cause or impediment why they should not be joined together, let him now declare it, or hereafter forever hold his peace!” and as no dissentient voice intervened, he abruptly cried “silence gives consent,” and hastily consummated the delicious union. No sooner had he gulped the grapes than his master made his appearance—suspecting the cause of his delay, he had followed after, and witnessing the imposing ritual, he stood, rod in hand, surrounded by his scholars, whom he had called; when all was in readiness he exclaimed, “I publish the banns of marriage between my rod and your breech; if any one knows just cause or impediment why they may not be lawfully joined together in hot wedlock, let him now declare it.”
“I forbid the banns!” roared Twm Shôn Catti; “For what reason?” cries the awful pedant, flourishing his rod in eager preparation; “Because,” cries the waggish urchin, “the parties are not yet agreed.” Although Evans was generally too crabbed and selfish to enjoy and estimate a witty reply in any one except his superiors, who seldom possessed a legitimate claim to his applause, it is but justice to him to record, that this unexpected and ingenious answer procured Twm a remission of his flogging, when on the very brink of execution.
CHAP. VII.
The squire favors Welsh customs and female costumes. Offended with his lady. Protects the system of bed courtship. An eulogy on the ale of Newcastle Emlyn. Toping rats.
At this time a warm altercation one day took place between the squire and his lady, that terminated in consequences little expected by either. Notwithstanding the prejudice which Squire Graspacre’s harsh conduct had given birth to, on his first settlement in Cardiganshire, he had about him certain saving points, that not only reconciled them to his rule, but really gained their esteem. He was a plain, bold, sensible man, and although entertaining a most exalted opinion of English superiority, generally, in particular instances he had the liberality to confess that he found many things in this nation of mountaineers, highly worthy of imitation among his more civilized countrymen. Unlike any of the half-bred English gentlemen who literally infest Wales, and become nuisances and living grievances to the people—building their pretensions to superiority and fashion, on a sneering self-sufficiency, and scorn of customs and peculiarities merely because they are Welsh—he gave them all credit for what was really estimable.
He had formerly expressed his disapprobation of a custom prevalent among Welsh farmers of leaving their corn long on the ground after being cut, instead of housing it as soon as possible; but experience taught him that they were right and himself in error; as, among the corn was a large quantity of weeds which required to be dried before it could with safety be brought to the barn or rick, otherwise the grain was sweated and literally poisoned with the rank juice. He found the Cardiganshire mode of chopping the young mountain furze, and giving it as food for horses and cattle, worthy his attention, and after various trials, decided on its efficacy so far as to adopt it for the future; and actually set Carmarthen Jack to gather the seed of that mountain plant, which he forwarded to England to be set on his Devonshire farms. The planting of flowers on the graves of deceased friends, he eulogized as a beautiful and endearing custom, forming an agreeable contrast to the clumsy English tombstones with barbarous lines, often setting truth, rhyme, and reason at defiance. The Welsh harp he declared the prince of all musical instruments, and Welsh weddings the best contrived and conducted in the world, and proved his sincerity by giving something always at the Biddings of the peasantry, and patronizing all those who entered that happy state. Above all things he admired the female costume in Wales, and protested, with much truth, that the poor people in England were not half so well, or so neatly, clothed. His lofty lady, although a Welshwoman bred and born, entertained a very different set of ideas on these subjects. Whenever her husband related the anecdote of Polydore Virgil’s extacy on his first landing in Britain, when he beheld the yellow-blossomed furze, which gave a golden glow to the swelling bosom of the hills—how he knelt on the ground beside a bush of it, fervently worshipping the God of Nature, that beautified the world with the production of such a plant; she would instantly reply, “The man was a fool! for my part I see nothing in the nasty prickly things to admire, but wish the fire would take them all from one end of the mountains to the other.” “And yet, my dear,” would he answer, “Polydore Virgil was a native of no rude soil, but came from the land of the laurel, the cypress, and the vine, the orange, the lemon, and the citron, and many other splendid plants, the very names of which you perhaps never heard of; yet he had the liberality to admire what he justly deemed beautiful, even in a northern clime, and a comparatively harsh mountainous district.” As to the harp, whenever he praised its melody, she declared it odious and unbearable, and gave preference to the fiddle, the bagpipes, or even the hurdy-gurdy; and the Welsh female costume she protested still more loudly against, and asked him with a sneer if he did not conceive it capable of improvement. “Oh, certainly, my dear,” would he reply, “for instance, I would have the Glamorganshire girls wear shoes, and soles to their stockings; and convert their awkward wrappers into neat gowns; the Cardiganshire fair ones should doff their clogs, and wear leathern shoes; and the Breconshire lass, with all others who followed the same abominable habit, should be hindered from wearing a handkerchief around the head; but I know of no improvement that can be suggested for the Pembrokeshire damsel, except one—which, indeed, would be equally applicable to all Welsh girls—namely, to throw off their flannel shifts, and wear linen ones.”
Now this good gentlewoman, whose leading weakness it was to suspect her husband’s fidelity when away from home, kindled with rage at this remark. “Shifts, Mr. Graspacre,” exclaimed the angered lady, “what business have you to concern yourself about such things? You ought, at least, to know nothing about such matters, but I dare say know too much.” Anxious as a seaman to turn his bark from the direction of a dangerous rock, he mildly replied, “Surely, my dear, I may exercise my eyes, when the washed clothes are hanging on a line;” and then adding in the same breath, “indeed, if I were you, my dear, I would make some improvements, such as your good taste will suggest, among our own maids; taking care, however, not to destroy the stamp of nationality on their garbs at any rate.” This was a well-judged hit on his part, and had the effect of averting the impending storm.
It should have been mentioned before, that the squire, soon after his marriage, had made a tour of South Wales, and, as his lady expressed it, taken a whim in his head of engaging a maid servant in every county through which he passed; so that in Graspacre Hall there were to be found maiden representatives in their native costumes, of all the different shires of South Wales, except Radnor, in which, the squire said the barbarous jargon of Herefordshire, and the paltry English cottons, had supplanted the native tongue and dress of Wales. There might you see the neat maiden of Pembrokeshire, in her dark cloth dress of one hue, either a dark brown approximating to black, or a claret colour, made by the skill of a tailor, and very closely resembling the ladies’ modern riding habits,—a perfect picture of comfort and neatness, in alliance with good taste. There would you see her extreme contrast, the Glamorganshire lass, in stockings cut off at the ankle, and without shoes; and, although a handsome brunette with fine black eyes, dressed in a slammakin check wrapper of cotton and wool, utterly shapeless, and tied about the middle like a wheat-sheaf, or a faggot of wood: possessing, however, the peculiar conveniences that it could be put on in an instant, without the loss of time in dressing tastefully, and that it would fit every body alike, as it is neither a gown nor a bedgown, but between both, and without a waist.—There would you see the young woman of Breconshire, with her pretty blushing face half hidden in a handkerchief which envelopes her head, that at first you would fancy the figure before you to be a grandmother at least.—Her long linsey gown is pinned up behind, each extreme corner being joined together in the centre, and confined a few inches below her waste; she has her wooden-soled shoes for every day, and leathern ones for sunday, or for a dance, which, with her stockings, she very economically takes off should a shower of rain overtake her on a journey; and when it ceases, washes her feet in the first brook she meets, and puts them on again. This fair one takes especial care that her drapery shall be short enough to discover a pretty ankle, and her apron sufficiently scanty to disclose her gay red petticoat with black or white stripes, beneath, and at the sides. Then comes the stout Carmarthenshire lass with her thick bedgown and petticoat of a flaring brick-dust red, knitting stockings as she walks, and singing a loud song as she cards or spins. Lastly, though not the least in importance, behold the clogged and cloaked short-statured woman of Cardiganshire. She scorns the sluttish garb and bare feet of the Glamorganshire maiden, and hates the abominable pride of the Pembrokeshire lass who is vain enough to wear leathern shoes instead of honest clogs; proving at the same time that her own vanity is of a more pardonable stamp, while she boasts with truth, that her own dress cost twice as much as either of the others. The Cardiganshire women’s dresses, in fact—generally blue, with red stripes, and bound at the bottom with red or blue tape—are entirely of wool, solidly woven and heavy, consequently more expensive than those made of linsey or minco, or of the common intermixture of wool and cotton, and presenting an appearance of weighty warmth more desirable than either a comely cut or tasty neatness.
It was one of the squire’s fancies never to call these girls by their own proper names, but by that of their shires, as thus, “Come here little Pembroke, and buckle my shoe; and you Carmarthen, bring me a bason of broth: Cardigan, call Glamorgan and Brecon, and tell them they must drive a harrow apiece through the ploughed part of Rockfield.” On his return to dinner, a few days after the suggestion about the dresses of the maids, he was astonished to find that Mrs. Graspacre had used this privilege with a vengeance; having, with decided bad taste, put them all, at their own expence, to be deducted from their wages, into glaring cotton prints. The girls were unhappy enough at this change, as well as at the expence to which they were put, and they never could enter the town without experiencing the ridicule of their friends and neighbours; the Cardiganshire maid, who considered such a change in the light of disowning her country and like a renegade putting on the livery of the Saxon, in something of a termagant spirit, tendered her resignation to her master rather than comply with such an innovation. This ungenerous invasion of his harmless rules, roused his indignation; and after venting a few “damns” a la John Bull, against draggle-tail cotton rags, without a word of expostulation with his rib, he desired the girls to bring all their trumpery to him, which they gladly did, and he made them instantly into a bonfire in the farm yard. He then in a firm under tone of subdued resentment, gave strict injunctions that no further liberties should be taken with their national costume; to which his lady made the polite and submissive reply, that the girls might all walk abroad without any dress at all if he chose, and go to the devil his own way.
At this juncture little Pembroke came in with rosy smiles, and told her master that Carmarthen Jack wanted to speak to him very particularly, on which the squire laughed, and asked her on what important matter. “Why sir,” said the rustic beauty, while arch smiles and blushes contended in her sweet oval face, “Parson Evans has found out that he has been courting in bed, with Catti the schoolmistress, and he has run here before the Parson to say it is all a falsehood.” “There’s an impious rascal for you!” cries the lady of the house, “to charge the clergyman with falsehood; but I am sure ’tis true, for I long suspected it.” “The less you interfere in these matters, the more it will be to your credit Mrs. Graspacre,” said the squire in a quiet tone, but accompanied with an emphatic look. “I insist,” cried the imperious dame, “that he be put in the stocks, and she ducked in the river.” “Neither shall be done,” said he, firmly, “and from henceforward, no person shall be annoyed and persecuted on that score, but every one shall court as he or she pleases.” “What!” cried the indignant lady, “would you fill the country with bastards?” “No madam,” was the reply, “but with as happy a set of people as possible.”
Encouraged by the turn which affairs had taken, the Cardiganshire maid now asked her master for her discharge; as her mistress she said, had thrown a slur on her brewing abilities, which had almost broken her heart: “for” said she, with a ludicrous whimper, “she says my brewing is unfit for the drinking of christian people, and hardly worthy of the hogs!—but”—cried the sturdy little wench, raising her voice to an accusatory pitch, and at the same time a tone of triumph, “I come from Newcastle Emlyn, the country of good beer, the very home where the Cwrw da of Hên Gymru is bred and born! and I would rather die than be told that I can’t brew.”
“Indeed Cardy,” said the squire, with a smile, “though your mistress may have been too severe in her censure, I must say your two last brewings were unequal to the first.” “A good reason why sir; who can brew without malt and hops? though I am told some of the town brewers are mighty independent of those articles—but their brewings won’t do for us at Newcastle Emlyn! and your wheat sir, which has grown by being out in the wet harvest, so as to be unfit for bread, is but a poor make-shift for malt—it may do for the wish-wash paltry ale of Haverfordwest and Fishguard, but our plough boys would turn up their noses at such stuff at Newcastle Emlyn!” “Damn Newcastle Emlyn!” cried the squire, provoked by her continual reference to her native place. “Master! master!” cried the girl, as if rebuking him for the greatest impiety conceivable, “don’t damn Newcastle Emlyn, I had rather you should knock me down than damn Newcastle Emlyn! it is the country of decent people and good ale! the country where”—
“You brewed good ale from the grown wheat the first time,” said the squire, not deeming it necessary to notice her observations.
“Good! was it?” retorts the girl struggling between respect for her master and contempt for his taste, in the matter of malt drink; “good was it! I tell you what master, you are a good master, and I have nothing to say against mistress, for it would not be decent, but you never tasted beer like ours at Newcastle Emlyn! the real hearty cwrw da! which I could make you to-morrow, if you would give me good malt and hops, and let it stand long enough untapped.”
“But let me ask you my good woman,” said the squire, “what is the reason that your two last brewings were so far inferior to the first, when you had the same materials to work on?”
“’Twas better sir! ten times better! the first would have turned the devil’s stomach, had he known what was in it.” “Explain yourself,” said the squire, surprized. “I will sir, if I was to be hanged for it,” cried the girl in a tone of confidence; “it seems the rats love beer as well as any christian folks, and can get drunk and die in drink, as a warning to all sober-minded rats; but that is neither here nor there, and I hate to tell a rigmarole story; the long and short of it is, that when I came to wash out the barrels after the first brewing, I found three rats in one, and two in the other.”
“You found what?” asked the squire and his lady at the same time.
“I found three rats sir, that had burst themselves with drinking beer, and afterwards fell in and were drowned—they were then putrid, and it was that, it seems, that made the ale so palatable; there were no dead animals in the last brewing, but if I knew your taste before, I would have killed a couple of cats, to please you.”
This explanation excited a titter among the girls, and a loud laugh from the squire, while the lady evinced the shock which her delicacy had sustained, by making wry faces, and snuffing violently at her smelling bottle, to avoid fainting.
The squire then good humoredly addressed the girl, “now Cardy, you are perfectly right in the praise you bestow on your own country ale, and I promise you shall have the best of malt and hops for your next attempt, when I expect it to be equal to the best cwrw da of Newcastle Emlyn—and, do you hear? we shall dispense with either rats or cats in it for the future.”
This amicable settlement of differences set every one in good humour, except the haughty mistress, who embittered with her double defeat, retired in gloom, while her husband went to give audience to Jack o Sîr Gâr. Cardy stayed behind a full quarter of an hour longer, to edify the servants while treating, in her cackling style, of the extraordinary merits of the fat ale of Newcastle Emlyn.
CHAP. VII.
A Welsh wedding, with all its preliminaries, and attendant circumstances. The Bidding. The Gwahoddwr. The Ystavell. Pwrs a Gwregys. Pwython. In which Twm Shôn Catti and Wat the mole-catcher play conspicuous parts.
Carmarthen Jack had not been long waiting for his master, before little Pembroke, full of glee, ran to inform him that the embargo had been taken forever off bed courtship; and that he was now free, whether guilty or not. This happy news affected him so well that he met his master with comparative ease; and after some struggles with his native bashfulness, an important secret came out—that he was going to be married to Catti the schoolmistress; and wished to know whether he should be retained in the squire’s service after that event. Now this was a circumstance exactly to the squire’s taste; as a Welsh wedding pourtrayed many national features in the character of the peasantry, that pleased him; and, as he was generally a donor on these occasions, his vanity was flattered by being looked up to as their patron. He of course acquiesced in his servant’s request, and after a little jocular and rough rallying, proposed that the Bidding should be immediately commenced.
A Bidding was another of the excellent customs peculiar to the Welsh, but of late years confined exclusively to the lower classes, which the squire so much admired, and considered worthy of imitation, he said, throughout the world. It signifies a general and particular invitation to all the friends of the bride and bridegroom elect, to meet them at the houses of their respective parents, or any other place appointed. Any strangers who choose to attend are also made welcome. It is an understood thing that every person who comes contributes a small sum towards making a purse for the young pair to begin the world with. They have a claim on those persons whose weddings they had themselves attended; and at these times their parents and friends also make their claims in their favor on all whom they may have at any time befriended in a similar manner. These donations are always registered, and considered as debts, to be repaid, on the occurrence of weddings only; but there are many contributors, especially the masters and mistresses of the parties, that of course require no repayment. These returns, being made only by small instalments, and only at the weddings of their donors, are easily accomplished; and the benefit derived from this custom is very great, where the parties are respected. [56] Another agreeable feature in the rural festivities on these occasions is the appointment of a Gwahoddwr, or Bidder, whose business it is to go from house to house, bearing a white wand decorated with ribbons, and his staff of office; while his hat, and sometimes the breast of his coat, is similarly adorned. Thus attired, he enters each house with suitable “pride of place,” amidst the smiles of the old people, and the giggling of the young ones; and taking his stand in the centre of the house, and striking his wand on the floor to enforce silence, announces the wedding which is to take place, sometimes in rhyme, but more frequently in a set speech of prose.
The banns were immediately put in, and every preparation made for the wedding. Wat the mole-catcher, as the greatest wag in the parish, was appointed by the squire to the enviable office of Gwahoddwr. The following homely lines are a literal translation of those which were written purposely for this occasion, by the reverend John David Rhys, a young poetical clergyman, at this time on a visit with Squire Graspacre.
List to the Bidder—a health to all
Who dwell in this house, both great and small;
Prosperity’s comforts ever attend
The Bride and the Bridegroom’s generous friend!
His door, may it never need a latch;
His hearth a fire, his cottage a thatch;
His wife a card, or a spinning wheel;
His floor a table, nor on it a meal!
On Saturday next a wedding you’ll see,
In fair Tregaron, as gay as can be,
Between John Rees, called Jack o Sîr Gâr,
And Catherine Jones, his chosen fair.
Haste to the wedding, its joy to share!
Mirth and good humor shall meet ye there;
Come one, come all! there’s a welcome true
To master and mistress and servants too!
Stools shall ye find to sit upon,
And tables, and goodly food thereon,
Butter and cheese, and flesh and fish
(If we can catch them!) all to your wish.
There many a lad shall a sweetheart find,
And many a lass meet a youth to her mind,
While nut-brown ale, both cheap and strong,
Shall warm the heart for the dance and song.
Oft at a wedding are matches made,
When dress’d in their best come youth and maid,
And dance together, and whisper and kiss,—
Who knows what weddings may rise from this?
Whoever may come to the Bidding, note,—
There’s thanks to the friend who brings three groat;
And ne’er may they hobble on a crutch
Whoe’er give the lovers twice as much!
Whatever is given, as much they’ll restore—
One shilling, or two, or three, or four;
Whenever in similar case ’tis claim’d,
Else were defaulters ever shamed. [57]
So haste to the wedding, both great and small,
Master and mistress, and servants, and all!
Catti’s at home, Jack’s at sign of the Cat;
Now God save the king and the Bidder, Wat.
During these preparations for his mother’s wedding, little Twm Shôn Catti, by the squire’s orders given at the bridegroom’s request, was gratified by a whole week’s absence from school; and Wat the mole-catcher took the happy youngster along with him, during his pleasant excursion, to every house where he had to perform the functions of the Gwahoddwr. Here the boy was in the height of his happiness, and soon bedecked himself as a mock Gwahoddwr; having cut and peeled a willow wand, and attached to the end of it a bunch of rush flags and carpenter’s shavings, in the place of ribbons, thus grotesquely accoutred, he sallied forth with his protector, and winking to his companions who were lookers on, burlesqued every action and peculiarity of the mole-snarer. It was on this occasion that he sported the first effusions of his virgin muse, as it is said, to the following effect, although it has been suspected that the delivery only was his own. Like a little clown mimicking the adroit performances of the harlequin, his speech each time followed the more important oration of Wat.
Who’ll come to the wedding of Catti my mother?
Come mother, come daughter, son, father, and brother,
And bring all your cousins, and uncles, and aunts,
To revel and feast at our jolly courants,
Haste, haste to the Bidding ye stingy scrubs!
And out with your purses, and down with your dubs.Come Gwenny and Griffith, and Roger and Sal,
Morgan, Meredith, and Peggy and Pal;
Come one, come all, with your best on your back,
To see mother married to spoon-making Jack;
He’s a spoon for his pains! as ye all shall see soon.
But lucky in finding a bowl to his spoon.Haste, haste, to the bidding! and friends, if ye please,
For lack of white money bring good yellow cheese,
And butter, but not in your pockets alack,
Bring bacon or mutton well dried on the rack;
So endeth my story; come, haste we friend Watty,
Now God save the king, and his friend Twm Shôn Catti.
Twm’s delivery of these lines excited much mirth and laughter, and, added to those of the real Gwahoddwr, drew more than ordinary attention to this Bidding. Many of the children of the different houses had been Twm’s school-fellows, and the pupils of his mother, which had the effect of influencing them, and became a sort of tie, to claim their presence at her Bidding. As Jack’s friends were in Carmarthenshire, another Gwahoddwr was appointed by his master to go with him to call on his friends at his own native place; and so liberal was the squire on this occasion, that he sent them both, mounted, on horses of his own.
Jack and his Bidder had no great success, as his friends reproached him for his perverse intention of marrying a strange woman in a far land; and therefore finding but little pleasure in the subject or manner of their lectures, he made a precipitate retreat. Blushing for his countrymen, and ashamed to own his failure in his own land, he bribed Ianto Gwyn the harper, who was his Bidder, to silence; and brought with him to Tregaron, in a hired cart, the common contribution of a bridegroom—namely, a bedstead, table, stools, and a dresser. These, he feigned to have bought with his Bidding-money, received at Carmarthen. Friday is always allotted to bring home the Ystavell, or the woman’s furniture; consisting generally of an oaken coffer, or chest; a featherbed and blankets; all the crockery and pewter; wooden bowls, piggins, spoons, and trenchers; with the general furniture of the shelf: but as Catti was already provided with every thing of this kind, she had but little to add to her stock.
The landlord of a public house originally called “the Lion,” but with a sign resembling a more ignoble animal, causing it to be ultimately known by no other designation than that of “the Cat,” offered Jack his parlour to receive his Cardiganshire friends in. Accordingly, on the Friday before the wedding, he was busily employed in receiving money, cheese, and butter, from them, while Catti was similarly engaged at her residence, with her partizans, which were not a few. This custom in Welsh is called Pwrs a Gwregys, or purse and girdle; and is, doubtless, of very remote origin.
At length the long-looked for, the important Saturday arrived; a day always fixed upon for the celebration of hymeneal ordinances, in Wales, from the sage persuasion that it is a lucky day, as well as for the convenience of the Sabbath intervening between it and a working day—a glorious season of sunshine to the children of labour.
Contrary to Jack’s expectations, a considerable number of his Carmarthenshire friends, mounted on their ponies, made their appearance this morning, and honorably paid their Pwython; that is to say, returned the presents which he and his relatives or friends had made at different weddings. Jack’s resentful and sudden disappearance, it seems had a beneficial effect on the feelings of his friends and countrymen; and a jealousy of yielding the palm for liberality to a neighbouring county stirred a spirit of emulous contention among them, which ended in a resolution that a party should attend the wedding, and bear with them the Pwython of the others, who had an aversion to travel such a very distant journey.
After depositing their offerings, and partaking of a little refreshment, twelve of the bridegroom’s friends, headed by Ianto Gwyn the harper, mounted their ponies and called at Catti’s house, to demand the bride; and Wat the mole-catcher and Gwahoddwr, who added to these functions the character of father to Catti, expecting their arrival, at length heard without appearing, the following lines, delivered by the merry harper, from the back of his poney.
Open windows, open doors,
And with flowers strew the floors.
Heap the hearth with blazing wood,
Load the spit with festal food.
The chrochon [62] on its hook be placed,
And tap a barrel of the best!
For this is Catti’s wedding day;
Now bring the fair one forth I pray.
On which Wat, with the door still closed, made this reply without appearing.
Who are ye all? ye noisy train!
Be ye thieves, or honest men?
Tell us quick what brings ye here,
Or this intrusion costs you dear.
Ianto Gwyn then rejoins,
Honest men are we, who seek
A dainty dame both fair and meek,
Very good, and very pretty,
And known to all by name of Catti;
We come to claim her for a bride;
Come father! let the fair be tied
To him who loves her ever well:—
Wat, still within, answers,
So ye say, but time will tell;
My daughter’s very well at home,
So ye may pack and backward roam.
Ianto Gwyn resolutely exclaims,
Your home no more she’s doom’d to share,
Like every marriageable fair
Her father’s roof she quits, for one
Where she is mistress: woo’d and won.It now remains to see her wedded,
And homeward brought and safely bedded;
Unless you give her up we swear
The roof from off your house to tear,
Burst in the doors, and batter walls,
To rescue her whom wedlock calls.
Another of the bridegroom’s party then called aloud in a tone of authority,
Peace, in the king’s name here! peace!
Let vaunts and taunting language cease;
We, the bridesmen, come to sue
The favor to all bridesmen due,
The daughter from the father’s hand,
And entertainment kindly bland.
Now the important ensnarer of moles, with the air of an ancient chieftain who throws wide his castle gates for the hospitable reception of his retainers, opens the door, struts forth, and with a smiling face gives the welcome, while, with his party, he assists them to alight. After taking a little more refreshment, consisting of newly-baked oaten cakes, with butter and cheese, washed down with copious draughts of ale, they all remounted, and were joined by the rest of the bridegroom’s party; the whole rustic cavalcade making their way towards the church. A motley assemblage, in truth it was, but withal picturesque, and agreeable to contemplate, for every face was happy; save when now and then a cautious damsel, mounted behind her father or brother, would exhibit a touch of the dismals in the length of her features, on discovery that the cwrw had any other effect than that of rendering her protector steady in his seat on the saddle. Almost every sort of animal, large or small, lame or blind, good or bad, seemed to have been pressed into the service, and reduced to the levelling system, and without regard to either size or quality, doomed to carry double. And thus they went on at a walking pace, while the loud chat of many seemed drowned in the louder laughter and calling of others, till now and then rebuked by some of the elders; who, however, to little purpose, vociferated the words decency—propriety—sobriety—sober purpose—&c. &c. the tendency of which seemed but little understood. Jack was doomed to bestride a wretched begalled Rozinante which the dogs could scarce pass without anticipating their approaching feast, and looked like an equestrian knave of clubs ill mounted; and if not very merry himself, was certainly “the cause of mirth in others.” Elevated behind her temporary father on a fleet horse of the squire’s, poor Catti was doomed to present purgatory to contrast her enjoyment of future happiness, for, unprovided with a pillion, she sat on the crupper, holding fast by Wat’s coat. The quiet pace which commenced this little journey was soon changed into rough horsemanship, for the mad-cap mole-catcher turning his steed into the Cardigan road, gave him the spur, and commenced an outrageous gallop; the wedding partly followed with all the might of their little beasts, and like valiant villagers in chase of a highwayman, strove their utmost to rescue the bride. Ianto Gwyn the rural bard and harper, ever ready with an extempore, produced one on this occasion.
Lost, stray’d, or ran away
This moment from the king’s highway,
A tall and sightly strapping woman,
A circumstance not very common;
’Tis said a murderer of vermin
On her abduction did determine;
Whoe’er will bear to gaol th’ offender,
The lost one to her owner render,
Shall be as handsomely rewarded
As can be readily afforded.
Having considerably distanced his pursuers, he stopped at length, at Catti’s request, who complained sadly of being sorely bumped upon the buckle of the crupper. Dexterously turning to a bye-road towards the church, he was soon perceived and followed by the party, and altogether they soon arrived at their journey’s end, and alighting, they entered the sacred fane with due decorum. Evans the curate, to enhance his own services and increase his importance, took care to damp their hilarity by keeping them waiting full three quarters of an hour, before he made his appearance; and when he came, his looks and demeanor partook more of the rigid priest of Saturn, than of the heart-joining, bliss-dispensing Hymen. Although the conduct of every individual was perfectly decent, he very sternly rebuked their smiles and happy looks, and actually threatened not to perform the marriage ceremony, until, alarmed at the menace, and indignant at his conduct, they all became perfectly joyless, and most orthodoxically gloomy. The indissoluble knot was soon tied; and no longer dependant on the good offices of the magisterial churchman, their spirit of joyousness burst forth, while in the churchyard the mellow harp of Ianto Gwyn was playing the sprightly air of Morwynion Glân Meirionydd, or the Fair Maidens of Merionethshire; while many of the party joined in the words which belong to that beautiful and animating tune. Suddenly changing the air, the eccentric harper struck up “Megen has lost her garter,” which was succeeded by “Mentra Gwen,” and a string of such national melodies, equally gay and appropriate. After the marriage, they returned in much the same order, or rather disorder; with the difference that the bride sat behind her husband, instead of her father: the harper playing the whole time, and many sweet voices joining in the words of the airs. They soon entered Catti’s house, where her sister Juggy had provided a good dinner, of which all partook, cost free, except that every one had to pay for their own ale, the females of course being treated. In the course of the evening, jigs, reels, and country dances, were successively gone through with much spirit. Catti danced with considerable agility; but Jack, pressed on all sides, and at length compelled to make one, in a country dance, shewed every indication of this being his virgin attempt at “the poetry of motion;” and alternately stumping and blowing, while copious streams ran down his rugged forehead, as they every instant corrected his erratic course, and literally pushed him down the dance, he vowed that this his first, should also be his last exhibition on the “fantastic toe.” Young Twm, who had been playing at sweethearts, with little Gwenny Cadwgan on his knee, to the great mirth of his seniors, soon brought her out to try her foot in the dance with him. The poor little wench, blushing scarlet deep, made her first essay with one equally young and inexperienced as herself; and the juvenile pair were by many good naturedly instructed in the figure of the dance, and they contributed not a little to the general harmony. Juggy, the sister of Catti, absolutely refused to sport her figure among the dancers, and treated Wat the mole-catcher with a hard favor in the face for attempting to drag her in perforce. At length, fatigued with dancing, and alarmed for the state of their inebriated friends and companions, many, especially the females, turned their serious thoughts towards home. It was now drawing towards the hour of retiring for the night, when the usual trick was played of concealing the bride from the bridegroom. Poor Jack, whom nature had not favored with a great share of facetiousness, and who never mixed with such a company before, began to be seriously alarmed. Great was the mirth of the party, while, with a strange expression of countenance, he sought her up and down in every corner of the house. At length he discovered a part of her red petticoat sticking out from under the bottom of the straw armchair, and soon drew her out from the place of concealment. The parting hour was now arrived; then came the general shaking of hands, and serious expressions of good wishes among the sober; while the tipsy folks vented their wit in jocular allusions to their conjugal felicity: some offering themselves for godfathers and godmothers to their future offspring, while others far gone laid bets on the probability that the first child would be either a boy or a girl. At this time considerable surprize was excited by the conduct of an individual who had been remarkably unsocial the whole evening, no person having heard him speak a word; and when asked a question, or in answer to a health being drank, he merely nodded in a hurried manner, and immediately drew hard at his pipe, and puffed forth volumes of smoke, as if to envelope himself in a cloud of invisibility. Every one was too much engaged with his own pleasures to give him much attention, and thus he remained till the moment of departure, when he was observed to stagger as he rose from his seat; somebody then observed, that it must have been the smoke and not the beer that affected his brains, as he drank but little: a remark that imputed niggardly and curmudgeon propensities to him. Determined to give him something of a roast, a young farmer asked him, with a defying air, whether he had paid his Pwython; “No!” roared the hitherto silent man, “but here it is—take it Catti my girl, and much good may it do you!” on which he put five guineas into her hand. With emotions of wonder and gratitude, while catching an eager glance at his face, Catti involuntarily exclaimed “the squire!” when he darted out, mounted his horse, as did the rest of the party, and disappeared.
CHAP. VIII.
Twm’s great improvement under his new master. His attachment to Welsh literature. Wat’s freak. Twm is taken from school, and sent as a parish apprentice to a farmer in the Cardiganshire mountains.
Determined to witness the humble festivities of the “lowly train,” thus Squire Graspacre had been among them the whole evening, disguised like a rough mountaineer husbandman, and was heartily gratified, although his apparent incivility of conduct had nearly subjected him to harsh treatment from the jovial ale-fraught rustics, who of course, but little relished his strange behaviour. His deficiency in the Welsh language had been concealed by alternately feigning deafness and drunkenness, which, with the aid of the pipe, left him free of further suspicion. The morning of Sunday after the wedding, which is called Neithior, being come, the happy pair stayed at home, receiving their friends who called with their good will, which was manifested by the payment of Pwython. The day was drank out, but not as before, as in every other respect, save the diminishing of ale, each seemed to recollect it was the Sabbath, and tossed off their cups in quietness. It was not till late on Monday evening that the drink was exhausted, when Jack and Catti cast up the sum of their wedding donations, which they found amounted to twenty seven pounds eight shillings and sixpence, besides fourteen whole, and twenty-two half cheeses, the greater part of which they soon turned into cash. In these days, when the value of money has been so much decreased, the amount of the Pwython and presents at a Welsh wedding has been known to reach more than treble the sum here stated; especially when the friends of the parties have been numerous, and headed by the patronage of a wealthy and liberal master and mistress, who generally enlist their friends and visitors under the hymeneal banners of a faithful servant, the architects of whose humble fortunes they become, by laying, themselves, the corner stone.
As, from this part of our history, the hero will rise in importance, those who have hitherto stood forward, must proportionably draw back, to give him place; especially Jack and Catti; the grand drama of whose lives has been closed by a matrimonial union; whence, henceforth, they must sink into inconsiderable personages.
In consequence of the squire’s liberality on the celebration of Catti’s wedding, and a general report prevailing that he was well inclined towards the Welsh, a protector of their customs, and no scorner of their languages or peculiarities, a general good will towards him was manifested by the country people. When he gave his opinion in favor of the female national costume, they considered him, for an Englishman, a very reasonable man. When he eulogized the Welsh harp, and gave, in addition to various pieces of silver at different times, a guinea to Ianto Gwyn for his performances at Jack and Catti’s wedding, he gained a few steps more into their good opinion. But when he declared that bed courtship should not be abolished, there was a burst of enthusiasm in his favor in every breast, especially among the females. During this new impulse given to the reign of happiness, the great lady of the hall and her favorite curate hid their diminished heads; the former declaring that it was utterly impossible that the world could last many months, while such immorality and ungodliness was practised under the auspices of a declared patron. Whether it was the influence of this alarm, or the bitterness of baffled malignity, that preyed on her mind, certain it is, she was soon thrown on a sick bed, and considered seriously indisposed. The squire, to his honor be it said, although unfortunately married to a very disagreeable woman, allowed a sense of duty to supply the place of affection, when his attentions were so indispensably needed. During her illness the worthy old rector who had been ill but a single week, died: and Squire Graspacre, against his own judgement and feelings, well knowing that such an arrangement would be agreeable to his wife, inducted the curate, Evans, into the vacant living. In a fortnight after, however, she died herself; a circumstance perhaps, that gave no real sorrow to any creature breathing.
The general report of a liberal English squire in Cardiganshire, who patronized and upheld the customs of the Welsh, penetrated to the very extremities of the principality; and became at last so strangely exaggerated, that, he was represented as the patron of the learned: consequently many of the humbler sons of the church took long journeys to be undeceived. Of the many who called upon him with a view of seeking his patronage of their literary undertakings, one especially took his fancy; a young clergyman named John David Rhys, before named as the author of the Bidder’s song. But poetry was not his forte; his energy and perseverance in the favorite study of Welshmen, British antiquities, and systemizing his native language, deserved encouragement and applause. He was then composing a Welsh grammar, and had actually commenced a dictionary. As he spoke English very well, the squire soon understood the merit of his undertakings, and promised his patronage and good offices; in the mean time requesting him to remain on the footing of a friend beneath his roof, till something could be done for him. This excellent person he now fixed upon to succeed Evans in the school and curacy; stipulating, that for his fulfilment of the latter, he was to have thirty pounds, and for the former ten pounds a year. Fortunate for Rhys would it have been had the old rector outlived the squire’s lady, in which case it is more than probable he would have filled the living instead of Evans, whom the squire never liked. This change in the mastership of the school was a fortunate event for young Twm Shôn Catti, who had caught the mania for rhyming, among the wandering harpers and bards, as they called every rhymester who could manufacture verses in either of the four-and-twenty legitimate Welsh measures. When he found his new master a kind young man, an historian, antiquarian, and something of a poet, the “homage of the heart” was immediately paid him. Twm thought him the wisest man in the world, when he heard him speak of the battles fought by the Britons in ancient times, against the Romans, Danes, and Saxons. This was to him a knowledge the most estimable, and he longed to be enabled also, to talk about battles and to write patriotic songs. Having now his information from a better source, he soon learned to despise the jargon and misstatements of Ianto Gwyn, with whom he argued strongly, and proved to him that Geoffrey of Monmouth was a fabulist, and no historian; that it was not Joseph of Arimathea who christianized Britain; and that the Britons were no descendants of Brute, nor of Trojan origin; with various other such knotty points. The great deference which he paid his master, his attention to every word which fell from his lips, with his close and successful application to his lessons, gained him the esteem and admiration of Rhys, with whom he became a great favorite. This amiable young clergyman found much satisfaction on discovering a youngster with taste sufficient to appreciate his favorite pursuits; and took pleasure in explaining to him every subject of his enquires. A thirst for information possessed the boy; and he rummaged the most dry and tedious works connected with Welsh antiquities, with an avidity that was astonishing even to his master.
Well would it have been for Twm had he continued his diligence in this honorable course, but in his breast the love of learning was shared by his love of mischief, and his admiration of his master divided with his predilection for the comical vagaries of Wat the mole-catcher: and in the end, his acquaintance with that worthy proved anything to him but fortunate. About eighteen months after Rhys’s appointment to the school, one evening in the Christmas holidays, Wat asked him if he would take a share in a freak that would keep them up the greater part of the night. Twm immediately assented, without enquiring its nature; enough for him that it was a scheme of merry mischief, in the prospect of which his heart ever bounded. This idle whim of Wat’s was nothing more than to pull down the signs of all the public houses and shops, which being few, was easily done, but the greater difficulty was to suspend them from, or attach them to, the tenements of others, in which they however succeeded. This trick elicited some humour; and a satirical application was discernible in the new disposal of the boards. When the light of day discovered their handy-work, great was the astonishment of the alehouse-keepers and others, to find their signs vanished, and gracing the fronts of their neighbours’ houses; and the anger of the reverend Evan Evans was boundless, on perceiving the “Fox and Goose” over his rectory house door, with the words proceeding from the mouth of Reynard, “I have thee now;” and under the pictorial figures “Good entertainment for man and horse.” A crowd was in consequence collected about his door, and the provoking laughter of the people stung him to the bitterest degree of resentment. Squire Graspacre, from indolence or dislike to all business except farming, declined being in the commission of the peace himself, and put the parson in his stead. Having now attained the summit of his ambition, as rector and justice of the peace, his overweening presumption and conceit become daily more conspicuous; and therefore this slur upon his consequence became intolerable. The actors in this simple freak became at length known, in consequence of the secret being intrusted, a very common case, to a confidential friend.
Although the twenty shillings reward which the parson offered could not induce the poorest to be base enough to become an informer, yet an idle spirit of tattling among the women brought it at length to the ears of Mistress Evans, and her husband soon became possessed of the whole particulars. He instantly made his complaint to the squire against both Twm and Wat, who merely reprimanded, cautioned for the future, and dismissed them.
The circumstances under which young Twm Shôn Catti was educated, now suddenly occurred to him. “What the devil is to become of that mischievous young rascal?” said he, one day, to Rhys the curate, whom he then informed of the particulars of his birth, and of his deceased wife’s whim of having him well educated, in consequence of his being a slip of Sir John Wynne’s. That connexion being entirely closed by the death of his wife, he no longer felt himself bound or inclined to notice him. When Rhys gave so good an account of his proficiency, he was surprized to hear the squire exclaim “I am sorry for it, for he has no prospect in the world but labour or beggary. As he has already had too good an education for his circumstances, he must be instantly dismissed from school. Since Sir John does not think proper to protect his son, I don’t see why I should.” Twm and his master parted with mutual regret, for latterly they were more like companions than master and scholar; and the generous Rhys could not restrain a tear on beholding a youth of so much promise destined to the uncertain wilderness of a hard and cold world, especially after having evinced a superiority of taste and intellect, that under favorable auspices, would have enabled him to shine and flourish in his day. Twm remained awhile at his mother’s, a big boy of fifteen, idling away his days without any view to the future. Greatly concerned on his account and her own inability to support him, Catti went one day to the squire’s, and implored him to do something for her son; and he at last generously decided to send him as a parish apprentice to a farmer, whose grounds were situate in the neighbouring mountains.
CHAP. IX.
Twm’s new master and mistress, with their daughters. His pranks and buffetings at Cwm du. This humorous-beginning chapter ends tragically.
The farmer to whom Twm had been assigned, was named Morris Grump, who possessed a considerable farm, freehold property, consisting of small fields occupying either side of a deep narrow mountain dingle, the centre of which was threaded by a large brook, that in winter aped the boisterousness of a river, and was, near the farm, crossed by a fallen tree, answering the purpose of a rustic bridge, worn flat by the feet of passengers. This cultivated defile extended about three miles, and, with the farm, was called Cwm du, [77] signifying the Black vale, or dingle, from the deep shade which the acclivious sides of the mountains threw over it, a great part of the day. This lonely ravine was poorly wooded, but many objects combined to array it with a hue of the romantic. Instead of thorn, or other coppice, the hedges were of furze, always green, and in summer with a rich yellow blossom, intermixed, here and there, with the purple-flowered heath, which in Scotch literature has been immortalized as the mountain heather. The trees were stunted, of stubby, dwarfish, yet fantastic growth, with the heads generally snapped off in the winter storms, and the branches spreading afar. The large loose stones, that had parted from their parent rocks, and rolled to the banks, and into the bed of the brook, were covered, or rather patched, with a grey and yellow lichen, as were the bare hungry-looking ribs of the mountains, which, unfleshed with soil, shewed, repulsively gaunt; strongly contrasting with the small corn fields and green meadows below. The brook, on a continual descent, was broken by many small, and some large, falls, down its rocky bed, chafing to a white foam against its various impediments, and roaring with the futile rage of a petty torrent.
At the upper end of Cwm du stood the farm house, so called, of Morris Grump, with its barn, ricks, and the group of outhouses usually appertaining to such a place. At the further extremity, the dingle terminated in a vast flat patch of black mountain marsh, where all the people of the neighbouring country repaired to cut their turf for firing. All else, on either side the valley of Cwm du, was mountain—a wild uncultured wilderness; the surface of which was diversified with pretty lakes or alpine pools, on which floated various aquatic fowl; flocks of sheep; long-maned untamed horses; furze and heath; quarries; caves; gulfs; intersecting brooks; and the horizon closed with the distant mountain peaks, one above another, strangely but most grandly clustered.
In this secluded place, with a wife, six grown-up daughters, and one man-servant, Morris Grump lived, in the most penurious manner, scarcely allowing himself or family the common necessaries of live. This was to Twm a most grievous change, where he was continually compelled to embrace his antipathies, and disconnect himself from all the felicities most dear to him. He loved books, rural festivities, rambling, and all those modes of passing his time which were most allied to idleness; but in this house not a book was to be seen, nor the sound of mirth, harp, or song ever heard; nothing but work, hard work, seasoned with the shrill tones of scolding women, and the deep growls of the farmer. The state of a slave, in a more agreeable climate, was enviable compared to poor Twm’s.
It has been complained that the improvements in modern cookery have caused the human race to devour more than twice the quantity of food requisite or beneficial; Molly Grump, the mistress of this mountain mansion, had no idea of inflicting such an evil on her kind, and therefore as an antidote to gluttony and intemperance, took care that her food and drink should be neither too savory nor gustful. Her habits were, to bake a large quantity of bread at once, so that it might soon get hard and mouldy; steep an immense portion of the matter for flummery, until as sour as verjuice; mix water with the milk, buttermilk, and whey; and make the cheeses for home consumption hard enough to answer the purpose of cannon balls, in case the felicities of Cwm du should ever tempt our foreign enemies to invade it.
Our hero, however, had a bold heart, and if a little better fed, would have endured all, and with that indifference and vein of whim which were natural to him, turned Misery herself into a scarecrow of mirth rather than terror. His wretched scanty meals did much to tame him, and he ate his breakfast of highly-watered milk porridge, with a hungry, and at the same time loathing, stomach. His dinner was either of very sour flummery and skim-milk watered, or for variety, broth, made of rusty bacon, or equally rusty dried beef or mutton; which being made in large quantities, was generally warmed and served up three or four succeeding days: and when Twm and his fellow servant (a half idiot lout,) vainly hoped that this species of drenching was over, they had the mortification to find a quantity of water added, to spin it out for another meal. When spared from out-door work, Twm became a drudge for the women; after the work of the day was over, and each resting in the chimney corner, there was always a job for him, of some kind or other. By the time he had been there six months, it was pitiable to see him, in the depth of winter, in his wooden clogs without stockings, and his happy laughing face rendered pale and sorrowful. Yet with all these drawbacks he preserved his turn for mirth, and in the evening would recite either ghost-stories or war-tales of old times, which he had heard from Ianto Gwyn or his master Rhys, that astonished and amused his auditors, at least part of them, for Molly Grump told him ’twas more fitting he should mind his work than give his time to telling lies and idling; and her eldest daughter Shân always echoed and imitated her mother, both in scolding and uttering wise saws.
The employment which they found for him in-doors, sometimes gave him an opportunity of repairing the deficiency of his stomach and warming his icy hands. One day, having brought in some turf and furze which he had chopped for baking plank, or bakestone, bread, while Shân had turned her back a little, he snatched up the last cake taken from the fire, and doubling it up, thrust it into his breast, and attempted to make a hasty retreat to devour it. The great heat against his stomach, however, gave him infinite pain, which, like the Spartan boy he had determined to endure rather than be detected; but not having been favored with so stoical an education, he at length gave way to nature, and roared most loudly as he ran out and across a field, while Shân and her two younger sisters followed in full chase, to rescue the bread which the former immediately missed. Twm soon gained the mountain, when the girls gave up the pursuit, and he sat down and ate his bread undisturbed, hiding what remained beneath some stones, for a future meal, determined to abide the consequence of his theft rather than that of starvation. A severe thrashing from the farmer, some blows from his wife, much scolding from both as well from the echo Shân, with deprivation from dinner, were the attendants of this feat; and instead of being permitted to sit with the rest, to partake of a meal, he was ordered to give some hay to the cows: “and mind,” cried Farmer Grump, “that you give more hay to the cow that yields you most milk, than to the cow that gives but little.” “I will, be sure of it!” said Twm, pointedly and in a sulky tone; and immediately carried his two arms full of hay and threw it under the water spout. “There!” cried he, as the farmer came out and looked with astonishment, “that is the cow which gives me most milk, for your cursed broth and porridge is almost wholly made from this never-failing udder.” This cost him another beating, but it was the last, for the farmer received a hint that it would not be safe to repeat the experiment, as Twm vowed to his fellow servant, that if again struck he would fell his assailant to the ground, like an ox: while his resolute and altered look convinced him that he meant to keep his word.
In the early part of the next summer, that dreadful malady, the small pox, made its awful visitation to Morris Grump’s house, and like a terrific fiend laid its talons alike on young and old, and remorselessly swept them off to the grave. The two younger daughters were the first infected; and in a few days after, two more were taken ill, and Morris’s house presented the appearance of an hospital. Morris’s wife, as well as himself, from the excessive anxiety natural to parents in such unhappy circumstances for the preservation of her offspring, took, like thousands of others, the wrong course, and literally killed them with kindness; while the humbler inmates of the house, who had no share in her affection or concern, were as truly saved by absolute neglect. Thus, while without judgement or advice, except of those who were as ignorant as herself, she sought every delicacy to indulge and pamper the appetites of her own afflicted ones, giving them spiced ale sugared, and even wine, in her terror of losing them, she suffered the poor apprentice Twm, who was also deep in the small pox, to languish unattended, without enquiring after him, or sending him the common necessaries of life, utterly indifferent whether he lived or died.
On the first appearance of this disorder, the farmer’s ploughman left him and went home, so that except Grump’s own family, there were none in the house but Twm, who, if preserved from the small pox ran great danger of starvation. His bed was an old hop-sack half filled with oat-chaff, and his covering an old tattered blanket and a musty rug, which had filled similar offices for the horses. His bed-chamber being a portion of the hay-loft, poor Twm remained hours and days without food, groaning away his time, and until blinded by his malady, amusing himself by counting the number, and pondering on the formation, of the cobwebs that hung like sorrow’s garlands from the mouldy beams and rafters, while the squeaking of the mice in the rotten thatch, served for music. At other times, somewhat nerved by the cravings of his stomach, his weak hands would rustle in some pease-straw that happened to be placed there, and now and then, to his infinite joy, find an unbroken pea-shell that had escaped the searching of the flail, which, in spite of the soreness of his hands and mouth, he would open, and with avidity devour its contents.
As in those days there were none who knew how to treat this disorder, in general it was looked upon as the certain harbinger of death, when the terror and confusion which took place on its appearance, was deplorable in the extreme. Two of the farmer’s children, which had first been taken ill, now died; and a third in a day after, when Morris himself was discovered to be infected. Loud cries and lamentations became incessant day and night; and some of the neighbouring old cottage wives who offered their services came there to assist—and this to some of them was a welcome office, as on such occasions as watching the sick, or laying out the dead; feasting is as prevalent as at weddings.
Among these old hen-wives and grannies, tales of superstition prevailed in abundance; some spoke of the corpse candles seen by them previous to the deaths of the young women of the house; others dilated on the awfulness of a spectral burial, where shadows of the living supported the bier of the departed towards the churchyard.
One night, between twelve and one, while the three coffins and their contents presented a woeful sight, lying side by side on the long oak table, Morris, afflicted as he was, assisted his wife in supporting his fourth daughter, whose death they also deeply dreaded, as an old cottage woman, while she basted a loin of mutton roasting before the fire, dwelt much on the certainty of supernatural appearances, illustrating her convictions by instances of her own experience. All at once, the current of her discourse was arrested by a shudder that overcame and struck her dumb, on hearing a rumbling and irregular noise, as of falling furniture, which also terrified the group about the fire. The noise increased, and at last seemed as of somebody stumbling in his way in the dark; groans, mutterings, and approaching human steps succeeded:—some shrieked, some rose and ran to remote corners, covering their heads with their aprons, while others sat breathless, as if nailed to the bench, and dissolved in streams of perspiration, their eyes starting from their sockets—when a figure with the air and rush of a maniac darted in, tore the roasting meat from the string, and disappeared with it, uttering in a dismal hollow tone “O God, I am famished by these wretches!” The consciences of the farmer and his wife were dreadfully wrung, as they now recollected the poor apprentice boy Twm, whom they had left in the depth of the malady which had deprived them of three of their children, to live or die, as he might; nor would Morris allow anybody to rescue the meat, but snatching a loaf from the shelf, he entreated Twm to come in and eat his fill at the fire: but the youngster had entered his hay-loft, and with the ravenousness of a starved hound devoured his half raw prey in darkness. While yet the farmer, with tears of real penitence, was calling out to him, a loud scream from his wife convinced him that his fourth child was also dead. With wild agony that seemed to have humanized his hard heart by the bitter arrows of affliction, Morris fell on his knees, and with interrupting sobs, exclaimed “I see the hand of God in this, and a judgement, a heavy judgement has befallen us for our cruelty to the poor boy; but he will live! he! the lad whom we treated fouler than the beast! he will outlive this pest, while me and mine will perish!”
The suffering of the unhappy man was pitiable and heart-rending to witness; and on the very day of his children’s burial, with loud cries of remorse and sorrow he expired.
Twm recovered, according to the farmer’s prophecy, which was further verified, inasmuch that the remainder of his children did not live to see the end of the year; and his wife, losing her senses, was ever after a wretched moping idiot.
CHAP. X.
Twm returns to his mother’s at Tregaron. His reception there, and amongst his old friends and cronies. Enters the service of Squire Graspacre, and lives in clover. Becomes a great reader, hates servitude, and grows melancholy and romantic.
After setting out early in the morning, and walking hard all day over a rugged mountain road, the heart of Twm Shôn Catti thrilled with delight, and the tears filled in his eyes when, late in the evening, his own native place, the humble town of Tregaron appeared before him; and although his feet were so blistered that he could scarcely move, he attempted to make his limbs partake of the new vigour which sprung up in his heart, and essayed to run, but failing in his aim, fell down completely mastered by exhaustion and fatigue. Whether, like Brutus, he was re-nerved by breathing awhile on the bosom of his mother earth, or that the thoughts within, of home and its associations, gave him strength, he rose much refreshed, but with considerable pain continued the short untraced portion of his journey.
Entering the town, at length, just as the darkness began to veil every object, he came to his mother’s door, which was open, and cast an enquiring look before he entered. Catti had long dismissed her scholars, and sat in the chimney corner with her back towards the door, while her husband occupied the other side, and sat silently busy in scooping out the bowl of a new ladle. Twm’s merry, trick-loving soul was not to be subdued by his troubles; having drawn his flat-rimmed old hat over his eyes, he leaned over his mother’s hatch, and in a feigned voice begged for a piece of bread and cheese, saying that he was a poor boy, very hungry and tired, who was making his way home to Lampeter. “We are poor folk ourselves, and have nothing to give,” said Carmarthen Jack, rather gruffly. “Stop!” cried Catti, “he’s a poor child Jack, a bit of bread and cheese is not much, and somebody might take pity on my poor Twm, and give as much, if he should ever need it.” The affectionate heart of Twm could no longer contain itself, but opening the hatch he burst forward, dashing his hat on the ground, and falling on her neck, giving ardent utterance to merely the word “mother;” and after the tender pause of nature’s own embrace, he cried, with streaming eyes, “My good kind charitable mother! you shall never want bread and cheese, while your poor Twm has health and strength to earn it.” Warmly returning his embrace and kisses, Catti long clasped her boy, and was quite terrified to see his pale lean cheek, and altered look. Ashamed of the exposure of his pitiless nature, Jack now came up, shook hands and condoled with him, but Twm had seen the man, and loved him not. After being refreshed, Catti eagerly enquired of all that happened to him since he left home, and wept much as he detailed his narrow escape from starvation and the small pox. By twelve o’clock next day, his tale was known to every body at Tregaron.
The catastrophe at Morris Grump’s, of course, was considered as a judgement from heaven for his miserly propensities; and Ianto Gwyn wrote a pathetic ballad, to the great edification of the old women and tender-hearted damsels, giving a true and particular account of the whole affair; to which was attached a moral, on the cruelty of mal-treating parish apprentices, and stuffing them with mouldy bread and sour flummery. This interesting ballad was daily sung by Wat the mole-catcher, to the English tune of Chevy Chase, which gained him the good will of all those old crones, who had taken deep offence at his numerous tricks.
Carmarthen Jack, although so careful of his bread and cheese, was determined not to be outdone on this occasion, but brought the graphic art to perpetuate his stepson’s tale; that is to say, he carved on a wooden bowl the figures of four beings, well attended, in bed, with the scythe of Death across their throats, while in the distance a meagre boy was snatching a joint of meat from the fire; the idea, it is true, was better than the execution; but altogether it gained Jack very great applause.
Right glad were all Twm’s cronies to see him again at Tregaron; but dearer than all to him was the welcome of the curate Rhys, with whose books he was again permitted to make free, while he profited by his instructions and conversation. He had now been at home about three months, and recovered his health, strength, and spirits to perfection, when his mother fancied he had become an eye-sore to her husband, who she thought looked at him with the scowling brow of a step-father, which Twm’s conduct, he might imagine, justified, as his behaviour towards Jack had been very unconciliating, ever since the bread and cheese adventure. With this impression, Catti once more waited on Squire Graspacre to solicit that some place or employment should be found for her boy, as she could not afford to keep him in idleness. The tale of his sufferings at Cwm du, interested the squire in his favor; and he felt some reluctance to send him as a parish apprentice; particularly as Catti declared he would rather die than be such again. The worthy curate, Rhys, had also spoken a kind word in his pupil’s favor; and Carmarthen Jack, gaping hand in hand, looked as if he would say much to get rid of his stepson, could he hit on words to his purpose. Amused by his simplicity and awkward gestures, the squire asked him, “Well Jack, what would you advise me to do with Catti’s boy?” This plain question met as blunt an answer, “Make him your servant boy sir, if you please.” “And so I will old hedgehog,” cried the squire, slapping him on the shoulder, “Your oratory has settled the matter.” Accordingly, our hero next appears as the squire’s man at Graspacre Hall; this was an agreeable change in life to him, where he lived, as they say, in clover; and by his good temper and turn for mirth, he gained the good will and admiration of his fellow servants, particularly the girls, with whom he became an especial favorite. Behold him now then, in the seventeenth year of his age, with the looks and habits of twenty, gay, happy, and as mischievous as an ape; kissing and romping with the girls, caring for none of them but shewing attentions to all, while he jeered and mocked the cross-grained and disagreeable, and whenever he could, raised a laugh at their peculiarities. His employments at the squire’s were various, among which, waiting at table every day, neatly dressed, and carrying his master’s gun and attending him during his shooting excursions, formed the principal. To these, Squire Graspacre, who since the death of his wife was ever wench-hunting, aimed to add the office of pimp. Twm, however, had been swayed too long by the counsels of Rhys the curate, to lend himself to any such unworthy services; and having by his conversations with him, and by the tenor of his readings, imbibed a taste for romantic honor, he was not without a secret hope, if not presentiment, that his great father might some day own him, and destine him to a very different sphere in life. These ideas were no sooner born than they daily expanded in his breast, and filled his imagination so far as to induce him to seize every opportunity to improve his mind, and qualify himself for the best chances of Fortune. With the growth of these notions, rose in his mind a distaste for servitude, and an ardent longing to shine in a sphere allied to literature and respectability.
By the time he had been a twelvemonth in his situation, from a merry happy youth he became pensive, and sometimes deeply melancholy. His bed-room was over the lawndry, a building detached from the house; in which he had shelves put up to hold his books, a small stock, but which he continually increased by laying out every farthing which he received from visitors, or saved from his wages, in the purchase of more. On retiring at night, his habits were to cover closely his window, to conceal the light of his candle, while he generally sat up more than half the night luxuriating over his darling volumes; and as he was directed in his choice of them by Rhys, who made him presents of many, he soon acquired no inconsiderable share of information: this blessing, however, became partially a curse to him, for, as he could not be persuaded to give his attention to books of a religious tendency, the light that gleamed upon his mind had the effect of shewing him his destitution, and making him discontented with his lot in life. Sometimes, he talked to his late school-master on the subject of travelling to England to seek his fortune, which wandering predilections that worthy man always discouraged, but events soon occurred to shew our hero in a new character, in which most men appear at some period of their lives—that of a lover.
CHAP. XI.
Twm Shôn Catti falls in love, and preserves his mistress from the squire’s clutches. The adventures of Farmer Cadwgan’s she ass. Twm escapes from the squire’s.
The squire and his man Twm returning one evening from grousing on the hills, on their descent towards the valleys had to pass by a small farm house, inhabited by a tenant of the former, who whispered Twm, “This is the keep, the close, that contains better game, and can afford livelier sport than any I have had to day.” Twm by his silence testified his ignorance of his drift; but he resumed “what you don’t understand me? haven’t you seen this farmer’s plump partridge of a daughter, the pretty Gwenny Cadwgan, you young dog! I am determined to have that bird down, some way or other, and you must help me.” Before Twm could reply, the squire alighted and entered the cottage, at the door of which the farmer and Gwenny Cadwgan, now grown a fine and blooming young woman, met and welcomed their landlord. Some oaten bread, butter and cheese, and a cup of homely ale was put before him; and while he ate, the pretty Gwenny carried a portion to Twm, as he held the horses in the yard. While he received the welcome food from the hand of the happy smiling girl, he perceived the blush with which she gave it, and felt in his breast certain sensations no less new than agreeable; thus, while each made brief allusions to their days of childhood, a tear started in the eyes of Twm, on seeing which the bright eyes of Gwenny were also suffused, till the pearly drops over-ran her fresh ruddy cheeks. Her father then calling her in, she suddenly shook hands with, and left our hero, who in that hour became a captive to her charms, while the innocent girl herself then felt the first shootings of a passion that daily grew, in sympathy with his own.
The squire having finished his hasty lunch, he remarked to his tenant Cadwgan in a hurried manner, that he should have company, the next day to entertain at his house, and would thank him to let his lass come to the hall to assist in attending on them. The farmer of course assented, in words, for what small farmer would dare to deny his landlord such a favor, though his heart might tremble with apprehension?
After the squire’s departure, Cadwgan became deeply distressed at the predicament in which he found himself; to deny his landlord, was probably to lose his farm; and to assent to his specious proposal, was to endanger, if not utterly ruin the innocence of his darling daughter; as, since the death of Mistress Graspacre, more than one of the neighbouring damsels had to rue their intimacy with the squire. He passed a sleepless night of bitter reflection, and saw daylight with an agonized spirit; but the active mind imbued with honorable ideas, never fails in due season to work its own relief. When Twm appeared next morning on horseback before his door, with a pillion behind, for the reception of Gwenny, Cadwgan’s terrors had vanished, his indignation at the premeditated injuries intended him, was roused, and with braced nerves, and a firm heart, he determined to deny the squire, and abide the consequences, be what they might. But honest Nature was elsewhere at work in Cadwgan’s favor, and unknown to him, had raised a friend to save him from those impending perils, to the preservation both of his farm and his more precious daughter, in the person of young Twm Shôn Catti.
On his journey home the last evening, while listening to his master’s commands, and hearing his plans to inveigle the innocent Gwenny, Twm was silent and meditative, mentally engaged in seeking some mode to preserve her from his clutches; and at length heroically determined to save the object of his admiration, even at the risk of losing his place and being cast again on the wide world. He fed his fancy all night in dwelling on her beauty, and the merit of preserving her, while he ardently enjoyed in anticipation, the sacrifice he was about to make for her sake; considering he should feel himself amply repaid if favored by the sweet girl with a smile of approbation.
The morning came, and the squire gave the dreaded order, “Take the horse Dragon, put a saddle and pillion on him, and bring the farmer’s lass behind you here; tell Cadwgan not to expect her back to-night, but she shall be brought home to-morrow.” Although Twm had been preparing himself to give a doughty reply, and so commence the heroic character he had modelled, yet when the moment came, his resolution failed him, and the high-sounding words were not forthcoming; although the determination to disobey remained as strong as ever. He rode off, through Tregaron, and up the hills, in a melancholy mood, and without any settled purpose, except that of straight-forward resistance to the orders he had received. As he jogged on listlessly, he was suddenly roused from his reverie by the braying of Cadwgan’s ass, that was grazing in a green lane which he was about to enter. Such an animal being a rarity in that country, Twm, with surprise, audibly muttered, “What the devil is that?” An old woman at that moment opening the gate, which she civilly held for our hero to pass into the lane which she was leaving, hearing his words, replied “It is only Cadwgan’s ass.” Twm, whose thoughts ran entirely on the farmer’s fair daughter, mistaking what she said, rejoined “Cadwgan’s lass, did you say?” “You are very ready with your mocks and pranks, Master Twm,” cried the old woman, slamming the gate against the buttocks of the horse, “but you know very well that I said Cadwgan’s ass, and not his lass, for I should be sorry to compare the good and pretty Gwenny Cadwgan to such an ugly ill-voiced animal.” Twm laughed at his mistake, made his apology, and rode on with revived spirits, having now, from this very ludicrous circumstance, hatched the trick which he intended to play off on his master.
The farmer’s mind being made up, as before observed, to refuse the attendance of his daughter at his landlord’s, he was astonished to hear Twm say, “Master Cadwgan, it was squire Graspacre’s order to me, that I should saddle this horse, come to your house, and with your consent, bring your ass to him, on the pillion behind me.” Cadwgan stared doubtfully, and Twm resumed “I hope you are too sensible to question or look into the reasonableness of his whims, and will be so good as to catch the strange animal, which I passed on the road, that we may tie him across the pillion.” Cadwgan immediately concluded this to be a providential mistake of the young man’s, that might have the most desirable effect of relieving him from his apprehended troubles, and with a ready presence of mind said, laughing, “To be sure it is no business of mine to look into the oddness of his fancies, and he shall have my ass by all means.” “Put an L to ass, and ’twill be lass,” said Twm seriously, and with emphasis, “and such is the squire’s demand: but,” said the youth with rising enthusiasm, “I would risk my life to save your daughter from his snares, and will feign that I thought he said ass instead of lass, to be brought on the pillion.” Affected by this instance of generosity, the farmer, as well as his lovely daughter, burst into tears, thanking and blessing him; the former assuring him, that if in consequence of this undertaking, he should be dismissed from his place, his roof, hearth, and table should be at his service.
While Cadwgan went out to catch the long-eared victim, Twm spent a delicious half hour in the company of the fair Gwenny; and took that opportunity to protest the ardor of his affection for her, and vowed that when Fortune favored him with the means of getting a livelihood independent of servitude, it would be the glory of his life to come and ask her to be his own. The maiden heard him with streaming eyes and passion-heaving breast, nor withdrew her cheek when her lover imprinted on it affection’s first kiss; which she considered a sacred compact, the seal of true love’s faithful covenant, never to be broken by the intrusion of another.
Cadwgan at length returned, with his charge in a halter, grumbling and abusing the beast at every step, in consequence of having been led a pretty dance in chase of her; for, as if conscious of her coming troubles, the moment he approached, she scampered off through the lane, and right through the river, nor stopped until fairly fast in a bog, from whence, with much trouble, the farmer roughly rescued her. With the assistance of Twm and a neighbouring cottager, he now tied the animal’s legs and lifted her into the seat of the pillion, a situation that her struggling and resistance indicated to be more elevated than comfortable. Twm, however, rode on slowly with his grotesque companion, without the occurrence of an accident till they arrived at Tregaron; when the whole town, men, women, and children, came out to enjoy the strange sight, amidst roars and shouts of laughter. Whether the principal figure in the group felt her dignity hurt, or her modesty offended, by such an exhibition of her charms to the rude ribaldry of a mob, or whether instigated by the rational motive of seeking ease by change of position, it may not be an easy matter to determine, but certain it is, that straining every nerve to liberate her captive limbs, she at length succeeded, bursting the cord by which she was fastened to the pillion, and tumbled in a heap to the ground, where, as if inspired by the genius of perseverance she again struggled hard and soon shook off every remnant of her hempen gyves; and in all the pride of high achievement and newly acquired freedom, ran with all her might through the town, brandishing her heels to right and left, whenever any person approached to impede her career, till through a long narrow lane she reached the mountains. Here she seemed to defy her numerous pursuers, but after a long chase which lasted till dusk, she was surrounded, secured, and placed in her former situation behind our hero on the pillion. At length he reached Graspacre Hall, and made his approach at the back of the house. His stepfather assisted both him and his companion to alight, leading the latter to the stable, while Twm went to inform his master of his arrival, and the cause of his long delay. A sudden terror arrested his steps awhile, he felt himself in a peculiar dilemma, out of which he would have been right glad to be delivered; but after his fit of apprehension had lasted a few minutes, he plucked up his courage and his breeches at the same time, exclaiming, “Well! he can’t kill me for it, a beating and a dismissal will be the worst of it:” and thus self-comforted he entered the house.
The squire at this time was seated at the head of the table, pushing about the bottle among his friends, principally formed of the neighbouring gentry. In the course of the day he had sent several times to know whether Twm had arrived. When little Pembroke at length went in to announce his return, he desired he should be immediately sent in, and Twm approached him with a burning cheek and an agitated heart. He questioned the youngster in an under tone, asking if he had brought her, and where he had been so long; to which Twm replied “Yes sir, I have brought her, and much trouble I had with her, for she didn’t like to come, thinking perhaps you meant her foul play; and once she escaped off the pillion into the mountain.” “The devil she did!” cried the squire, “but you caught her again?” “Oh yes sir, after losing much time, I have brought her here at last, and she is now much tamer than at first.” “A good lad Twm, a good lad, remind me to give you a guinea for this day’s work; but what have you done with her? where is she?” “Why sir,” cried Twm, “I tied her up to the manger and locked the stable door, to prevent her escape.” “Shame Twm, shame, you ought not to have done that, for she will think it was by my orders, and hate me perhaps for cruelty,” quoth the squire, thinking all the time that Cadwgan’s lass, and not his ass, was the subject of discussion. “No sir,” replies Twm, “but it is likely though, that she will have an ill will towards me, as long as she lives, for it.” “Well well,” said his master hastily, “take her from the stable into the housekeeper’s room, and tell Margery to comfort her and give her a glass of wine.” This was too much for Twm, and the smothered laugh burst out in spite of his efforts; on which, his master, with a severe brow, asked how he dared to laugh in his presence. “Indeed I could not help it,” cried Twm, “but I don’t think she ever drank a glass of wine in her life, and perhaps might not like it.” “Why that’s true; then tell the butler to give out a bottle of the sweet home-made wines for her—let it be a bottle of the cowslip wine, and say that I am very sorry for the trouble and vexation she has had.” “Yes sir,” cried Twm, who made his bow, and retired to the servant’s hall, where he made them acquainted with the squire’s freak of having Farmer Cadwgan’s ass brought there on a pillion behind him; and that it was his master’s orders that she was to be brought into the housekeeper’s room, and a glass of wine given to her, and that Margery was to make her comfortable.
They were all aware of their master’s occasional eccentricities, and that he was as absolute in demanding obedience to his wildest whims as to the most important matter in the world; and therefore, one and all, they assisted in bringing the ass from the stable, and with much trouble forcing her into the housekeeper’s room, where Glamorgan Margery spread a small carpet for her to lie down on, and amidst the side-aching laughter of the servants, offering her a glass of wine, which no persuasions could induce her to accept.
The squire had given orders that no person was to answer the bell the rest of the evening but Twm, and as it was now rang, in went our hero, when he was asked “How is she now?” “Rather fatigued sir; she doesn’t like wine, nor would she touch a drop of it.” “Well well,” said the squire, “if she likes ale better, let her have some, with a cold fowl, and something of the nicest in the house, though perhaps she would prefer a cup of tea to anything. After she has taken the refreshment she choses, tell Margery to put her to bed, in the green chamber, then lock the door and bring me the key.” Here Twm’s risible faculties were again oppressed to bursting, but a look from his master checked him.
Squire Graspacre now secretly anticipated the completion of his scheme, anxiously waiting for the departure of his guests, who by their noisy hilarity had long given notice that a very little more devotion to the bottle would lay them all under the table. The wily squire however desisted, before he had passed the boundary of what topers call half and half, considering in the mean time, that his plan would best succeed by not appearing before Gwenny Cadwgan till midnight, when all his household would be asleep, and himself supposed to have retired to his room.
After some trouble, which was heightened by forced suppression of laughter, that, however, broke out in spite of them, the servants got the donkey up stairs, having previously fed her with bread, oaten cakes, and oats, on her rejection of ale, wine, fowl, and tea, which to their own great amusement they had successively offered in vain. Having brought the poor animal into the green room, the best chamber in the house, and kept only for particular guests, they placed her on the fine handsome bed; the legs being already tied, they fastened them also to the bed posts. Twm heightened the drollery of the scene by cutting two holes in a night cap, drawing through them the ass’s ears, and slitting it at the edge, he drew the cap down towards the eyes. Thus secured and accoutred, they bade her good night, locked the door, and gave the key to their master.
The guests at length dispersing, they all rode off as well as their muddled heads would let them, to their respective homes; the squire, as was his custom, locked the door himself, and saw every light in the house out before he retired himself. At length he gained his chamber, and all was still in Graspacre Hall. The amorous squire, chuckling at his luck as he thought of the fair lass in the green chamber, grew too impatient to wait till the proposed hour of midnight, and leaving his candle on his own table, took off his shoes, and softly approached the casket, that he deemed contained his precious jewel. Applying the key, he opened the door very gently, and cautiously approaching the side of the bed, said in a whisper towards the pillow, “Don’t be alarmed Gwenny, my dear, ’tis I, the squire; fear nothing my girl, this will be the making of your fortune my dear; and if you are as kind and loving as I could wish you to be, you may soon become the second Mrs. Graspacre.” Hearing no reply, he considered that according to the old adage, silence gives consent, and proceeded to bend his face down to kiss the fair one, when a severe bounce inflicted by a toss of his incognita’s snout, knocked him backwards off the bed to the floor, and set his nose a-bleeding. After recovering himself a little, though labouring under the delusion that the blow had been struck by the hand of a fair maiden, he exclaimed in an under tone, “You little vixen, how dare you treat me in this manner?” Proceeding more roughly again towards the bed, he was completely horror-struck at the loud bray which the terrified ass sent forth; while the poor animal, after a hard struggle, liberating her limbs, struck him a severe blow on the forehead with her hoof, and getting off the bed, made a terrible clatter with her shod feet over the boards of the room. The unfortunate squire, although hitherto a loud decrier of superstition, now felt a thrill of the utmost horror pervade him, while he deemed himself ensnared by the enemy of man, as the punishment of his guilty intentions; and after a clamorous outcry fell senseless on the floor.
The servants, having but concealed the lights, expecting some denouement of this sort, now rushed in, and saw their fallen master ghastly pale, with streams of perspiration running over his forehead, while his wildly-staring eyes alternately looked at and turned from the monster of alarm. When he had sufficiently recovered to learn the real stand of the affair, from little Pembroke, who had been made Twm’s confidante in this matter—how that wight had brought the farmer’s ass according to his orders behind him on the pillion, although he had been in some doubt whether he had said Cadwgan’s ass, or Cadwgan’s lass, the squire’s rage was boundless. Exasperated at the trick put upon him by a mere youngster, and a menial, and scarcely less provoked at the exposure he had made of himself before his servants, down he rushed into the hall, and snatched a heavy horse-whip, unlocked the door, and made his way towards our hero’s chamber over the lawndry; but when he reached the bed-side, prepared to inflict the severest punishment that the thong of a whip was capable of, how great was his mortification to find the bird flown! his chagrin and resentment were anything but lessened, when he took up a sheet of paper off the bed, on which in a large hand were written these pretty lines.
If from lass you take the letter L,
Then lass is ass if I have learnt to spell;
Yet ass and lass methinks are coupled ill,
Though human asses follow lasses still;
An ass were I too—one yclept a ninny—
If now I stay’d to claim my promised guinea.
CHAP. XII.
Carmarthen Jack’s churlishness to Twm. His mishap in consequence. Squire Graspacre reforms his conduct. Sends for his son and daughters home. A delicate Devonshire lady, Twm’s satire on the cook. Gives the young squire a thrashing, and runs away. Visits Rhys and Cadwgan. About to be married to Gwenny. A dreadful adventure on the hills that ruins all his prospects.
Twm reached his mother’s at Tregaron about one o’clock in the morning, and alarmed her greatly by the account he gave of his flight from the squire’s, and the cause which led to it. Jack made the best of the affair, in his own manner, by assuring his wife that her son had been the absolute ruin of both himself and her, unless they did their utmost to conciliate the squire by turning Twm adrift, and refusing him a temporary shelter. While Jack beneath the bedclothes was grunting these suggestions of worldly wisdom, Catti, half-drest, was making up a bed for her son, who, the while, was sitting dejectedly in the chimney corner. Having caught the drift of his father-in-law’s mutterings, he rose abruptly, snatched up his hat, and while striding towards the door, cried, “Good night mother.” Alarmed at his precipitate movement, and the tone with which he spoke, “Where are you going Twm?” said Catti. Turning round, while he held the door in his left hand, he replied, “Any where mother—the world is wide—and I’ll go headlong to the devil rather than stay here, when I am not welcome.” With that he closed the door, and was in a moment out of sight, notwithstanding the cries and entreaties of his mother, who ran after, and earnestly sought to bring him back.
Catti, with a bitter consciousness, now found that her son had a stepfather, and she a husband, who was a rude and churlish tyrant. The severity of this reflection preyed heavily on her mind; nor could she be persuaded to go to bed again, but sitting at the fireless hearth she loudly wept and lamented her hard fate. To give him his due, Jack was far from being regardless of her sorrow, but shewed the tenderness of a husband in comforting her, in the manner most natural to himself. “What signifies crying for such an imp of the devil as that,” said this kind stepfather, “if he starves in the field by being out to-night, it will save him from dying at the gallows, where he would be sure to come some day or other.” This tender-hearted speech had the unexpected effect of immediately curing Catti’s grief, which turned to a desperate fit of rage, and without a word to signify the transition wrought by his oratory, she snatched up a stout broom-stick from the floor, and be-laboured him with all her strength, as he lay beneath the bedclothes, till he roared like a baited bull: had she taken a wager for thrashing a given quantity of corn in a certain number of minutes, she could not have laid on her blows more briskly or vigorously. When the strength of her arms failed, the energy of her tongue commenced, and after rating him soundly, she concluded her harangue with eloquent pithiness, hoping that she had left him a shirtful of broken bones; after which exertion she thought proper to disappear.
Jack although he received some hard blows, by dodging under the bedclothes, escaped better than his help-mate intended he should; he soon rose, dressed himself, and went to his master’s, sauntering sullenly about the outhouses till daylight, when a servant informed him, after narrating Twm’s trick on his master, that he was to take Cadwgan’s ass home.
Squire Graspacre, since the death of his wife, gave such free range to his licentious pleasures, as placed him, especially at his years, in a most unseemly light. His only son had been two years at Oxford, returning only occasionally during vacations; while his two daughters, on the death of their mother, were sent to a boarding school at Exeter. Thus in his own family he had no witnesses of his vices and follies. He soon found, however, that in Wales, his offences against religion and morality were not to be committed with impunity. The respect in which he was formerly held by the country people gradually declined, while those who had daughters became extremely shy, and sent their female inmates out of the way whenever he approached. Never deficient in penetration, he was not long in discovering this change in the bearings of his tenants and neighbours, which to a mind like his, proud, fond of domineering, and being looked up to as the superior—the grand central luminary of his sphere, round which all others moved as silent and respectful satellites—was a very hell. The minds of men, however, his knowledge of mankind told him, were not to be over-ruled, and with a wisdom rare as effective, he immediately resolved, as the only mode of re-establishing his credit and happiness, to retrace his steps—to which end he sent for his daughters home, at a time when his son was about to return from Oxford—and thus, by the presence of his children, place a restrictive guard upon his future conduct. With this change in his ideas, it will be no wonder that Twm Shôn Catti was again taken into favor, and replaced in his former situation.
At length the merry bells of Tregaron announced the arrival of the heir, and the young ladies of Graspacre Hall, which mansion soon became a scene of festivity. The meeting of the squire with his daughters was ardently affectionate; but his son Marmaduke had nothing of cordiality in his nature. His figure was tall and spare, with loose joints and ill-knit bones, while his countenance indicated both phlegm and a fidgetty, nervous peevishness. A curious eye might also discover in it decisive marks of late hours and dissipated habits. Proud, rash, and self-sufficient, his dislike of Wales and Welshmen surpassed his father’s partiality for them. He condescended, however, to say, that until he could get a clever English servant, in the place of the last, who ran away from him, he must put up with one of the Welsh savages. Accordingly, our hero was appointed to be his temporary valet, and ordered to attend exclusively on the young squire.
With the ladies came their aunt, the squire’s younger sister, a very affected fantastical spinster from Exeter; who gave every fashion its full Devonshire latitude in her conformation to it, carrying the mode to an extreme that left London absurdity far in the back ground. The Misses Graspacre were neither imitators nor very ardent admirers of their aunt, whose silly affectation of excessive delicacy became their standing point of ridicule, which they put in practice on the very evening of their arrival. The hearty girls wanted something substantial for their supper, after travelling their long journey; but their aunt intimated her desire to have something that would be light on he stomach: but great was her dismay on finding a duck and green pease brought to the table. She resolved however, even on this fare, to shew her superior Devonshire breeding; and while the young ladies lifted their pease from their plates to their mouths in half-dozens or more at a time, she, delicate soul, cut every pea in four, and swallowed a quarter at a time! This display of refinement excited stares of wonder from the squire and some of his friends, whom he had invited on the occasion, but in her nieces, nothing but smothered laughter.
Another circumstance of note happened at this supper, which, as it relates to our hero, must be here told. It seems that during Twm’s disgrace, and consequent absence from the hall, the servants there indulged themselves and one another in making remarks on his conduct, and its probable consequence. This discussion displayed their various dispositions; some spoke of him with charity, and dwelt upon his rare qualities of good nature and cheerfulness; while others took a malignant pleasure in speaking of his satirical and mischievous propensities. Among the latter was the cook. Twm, on his return, heard of her kindness, and determined to take the first opportunity of shewing his sense of the obligations she had laid him under. On the removal of the remains of the duck and its accompaniments, the company having just been helped round with tart or pie, their attention was suddenly arrested by the voice of Twm, in the passage, who loudly sung the following distich.
“Apple pie is very rich,
And so is venison pasty,
Our cook has got the itch,
And that is very nasty.”
Ye gods! what sounds for ears polite! The young ladies laughed immoderately on perceiving the distress of their aunt, who shewed a wry-faced consciousness of having partaken of food prepared by unclean hands; her countenance underwent various contortions, which terminated in the grand climax of a shriek and a fit. The squire’s anger was instantly kindled against Twm, probably from an unquenched spark of his former resentment, which he evinced by telling his son to “give that rascal a good thrashing.” Proud of the commission, out ran Marmaduke, and finding Twm in the hall, ran up and struck him a blow in the face, but great was the amazement of the servants to see the young man turn upon him like a lion, and with the most dexterous management of his fists overpowering their young master in an instant, whom he left groaning with pain, and covered with bruises, and then made a precipitate retreat.
While walking to Tregaron, it occurred to Twm, that for that night at least, he might be favored with a lodging by his constant friend, Rhys the curate. Thither he went, and found the worthy man by his parlour fire, with a book in his hand, and papers before him, busily employed in preparing for the press a new edition of his Welsh Grammar. He was received by him with his usual kindness; and when Twm had told him his tale, with the important addition that he must leave his native place for ever, and immediately, he shewed the goodness of his heart by assuring him of a retreat for the present, and a little pecuniary aid on his departure. He however gave him a friendly lecture on the impropriety of his conduct; observing, that if he must be satirical, he ought to choose the subjects for his lash from the infamous among the great and wealthy, and not the puny and defenceless, to attack whom, he said, evinced a paltry and most dastardly spirit; concluding with the pithy injunction, “while you live, whatever your state while on earth, act the generous and manly part; and never, never, either manually or with the lash of satire, war with the weak.” These words were never forgotten by Twm, and however reprehensible his erratic courses in after life, they were much less so from his reception of this noble sentiment, which became his standing rule of conduct. Had it been Twm’s lot to have lived in a loftier sphere and in the days of chivalry, he would doubtless have had inscribed on his shield those words so deeply written on his memory “War not with the weak.” Our hero was heartily pleased with his preceptor, inasmuch, that amidst all its observations and lectures he imputed to him but slight blame for his retaliation on young Graspacre; but when he vowed further vengeance, should he ever meet him alone in the mountains, remonstrated with him on the risk he ran, urged the necessity of self-preservation, and advised him not to endanger himself needlessly.
The next morning Rhys assured Twm that he had reflected on the peculiarity of his case, and found it by no means so bad as he had imagined. “As to leaving this place,” said he “I see no necessity; merely keep out of the way awhile, and in due time make your submissions to the squire, and as he is by no means a hard man, I have no doubt but all will speedily be well again.” Twm in a manner adopted this idea, though he ill stomached the thought of submission, or asking pardon for an act of manliness which he would on a similar case of aggravation repeat. Thus matters rested for the present; and in the dusk of evening he crossed the hills towards Cadwgan’s, and soon had the grateful satisfaction of seeing once more his beauteous mistress, sitting by her father before a cheerful fire. Her mild kind face was unusually pale, but brightened on his approach, and when he related his new mishap, and that he thought of immediately quitting the country in consequence, her cheek assumed an ashy paleness, and she nearly fainted in her father’s arms. Cadwgan dissuaded him from the thought of quitting his native place for such a trifle, and advised him by all means to follow up the worthy curate’s suggestion; and when the fair Gwenny repeated her father’s wishes as her own, Twm at once acquiesced, and resolved not to quit.
Cadwgan daily witnessed the affection of the young pair, and at length thus addressed the young man. “You are a brave and generous lad; you love my daughter—” “In my heart and soul I do,” said he, enthusiastically interrupting him; “And I am sure my Gwenny is not behind hand with you in affection: are you my girl?” Poor Gwenny blushed deeply, then shed tears, and sobbed heavily, in the midst of which, she gave her hand to her lover, which he pressed, shed tears upon, and kissed ardently. Cadwgan continued “And therefore my boy, as nobody deserves her so well, you shall have her before the best in the county; and you know how many sweethearts she has refused for you.” Twm grasped his hand in silence, and before an hour had expired since the commencement of this discourse, the wedding day became the subject of discussion, but which could not be fixed until Twm had made his peace with the squire. Thus time passed on pleasantly, for some days, when our hero, who was constitutionally formed for active life, felt the effect of being immured day and night within doors, and said he longed exceedingly for a day’s coursing on the neighbouring mountains. Cadwgan remarked that as the squire had shown no desire to seek or pursue him, as he had heard at Tregaron, he conceived there would be no danger; and in accordance with his opinion, he lent him his dog and gun, both great favorites, and never before entrusted to any one breathing. He advised him to confine his excursion to a certain remote hill called Twyn Du (Black hill) which being rugged of ascent and marshy, seldom invited the steps of the sons of pleasure in the character of sportsmen.
Thus with dog and gun, and accoutred with a shot-belt, our hero felt himself another and superior being to what he had ever been before, especially as Gwenny assured him that the sportsman’s paraphernalia became him exceedingly. Flattered with the joint encomiums of the father and daughter, and with a consciousness that they were not without good foundation, in full health and high spirits, with an eye sparkling with happiness, he shook Cadwgan’s hand, kissed the lips of his fair mistress, and gallantly sallied forth; having gone a few yards, he turned his face back to assure them, as they looked anxiously after him, that he should soon return, and well loaded with game.
While the buoyancy of youth uplifted his gay heart, and dazzled his perception with bright dreams of the future, little thought he of the sorrows so soon to overtake him, or that the sombre hill of Twyn Du was to colour with its gloom the closing scene of his innocent hopes, and form the most important epoch of his life.
Twm had been on Twyn Du about an hour and a half, and in that time had killed several birds, when the report of his gun attracted others to the spot. He could see several persons on the hill contiguous, and one well mounted, descending into the deep dingle, that, like a gulf, yawned between the two hills, and making his way up the steep side of Twyn Du. He now felt a presentiment that this visit portended him no good, but scorning an ignominious flight, he carelessly paced the brow of the hill till the sportsman approached, when, to his great amazement, who should present himself before him but his inveterate foe, Marmaduke Graspacre. He approached Twm with the fury of a demoniac, asking how he dared fire a gun on those grounds, and after a few harsh words of abuse, which our hero returned with interest, he took an aim at Cadwgan’s pointer, and instantly shot him on the spot.
Aware of the regard in which Cadwgan held his excellent dog, this outrage drove Twm furious, and he was further aggravated by the young squire’s demanding his gun and laughing the while at his distress and rage. The youth was not formed of stuff so tame as to endure his insolent triumph; snatching up his loaded gun with desperate rapidity, he in a moment lodged the contents in the head of the squire’s fine hunter, on which his enemy sat taunting him. No sooner had Marmaduke reached the ground, disengaged himself from the fallen horse, and stood up, than Twm flew at him, and disregarding his threats, with his dexterous fists inflicted the most perfect chastisement; leaving him in a far worse predicament than after their first encounter.
By this time the men who attended the young squire, hearing the report of the guns, and fearing that their young master had fallen in with poachers, made the best of their way down across the dingle, and up the sides of Twyn Du.
Roused by their shouts, he left his vanquished foe groaning on the ground by the side of the dead hunter, and darting down the opposite side he made a safe retreat.
CHAP. XIII.
A hue and cry after Twm. He conceals himself in a wood. Ventures to Cadwgan’s house and is kindly received. Sought there by Parson Evans. Escapes, disguised as a woman. Affectionate parting with Cadwgan and his daughter.
No sooner was Marmaduke Graspacre taken home, and the affair made known by him to his father, with some little exaggeration against the assailant, such as the trifling mis-statement that the blows inflicted on him were by the butt end of the fowling-piece, instead of the fist, than the squire’s indignation was roused. “As this is not his first offence, and my forbearance has encouraged his atrocious conduct, I am now determined to make an example of him,” said he, and immediately sent a servant for Parson Evans, who, in his capacity of magistrate, was ordered to take cognizance of the affair, and send constables in all directions to arrest the culprit. This was an office that well accorded with the feelings of this malignant man, and well pleased was he to set the myrmidons of justice abroad to hunt an unfortunate young man, whom he hated for the trifling offences of youth, that at a distant period, it seems, stung his consequence. The hue and cry instantly was raised and spread abroad, and excited as great a commotion throughout the country, as if a convicted murderer was chased through the land. All Twm’s known haunts were searched, especially his mother’s and Farmer Cadwgan’s; in each of which places there was heaviness and wailing for his misfortunes; and Parson Evans, who went there in person, took care to assure them, that when caught, all the world could not save him from the gallows, as he had attempted to murder the young squire of Graspacre Hall. But with all the vigilance of his enemies, Twm’s retreat remained undiscovered, and those who were friendly disposed towards him, began to wonder among themselves what could have become of him. Some thought that in a fit of despondency he had drowned himself, and others that he had escaped into the neighbouring counties of Pembroke, Carmarthen, or Brecon, or shipped himself in some vessel at Aberaeron or Aberystwyth, and got off in safety. The constables, however, had visited each of these places, and at length, like heavy war-ships that vainly chaced a smart privateer, returned without any further intelligence than that their journey had been in vain.
While the search had been most hot, our hero had concealed himself in a small patch of marshy underwood, a spot on which the keen eye of suspicion had never glanced, his pursuers having passed the edge of it several times, without a thought occurring of seeking him there. In this retreat he fed himself on nuts and blackberries, and in the night roved about for recreation, but returned to his green-wood shelter before daylight. This continued four days, when exceedingly tired of his solitude, he one midnight ventured to Cadwgan’s door, and both surprised and gratified the kind farmer and his kinder daughter, when they heard the lost one’s voice once more. They rose and let him in immediately, made a fire, gave every necessary refreshment, and then persuaded him to go to bed.
Twm remained hidden here a week, when suspicion fixed upon Cadwgan’s house, although searched before, as the probable place of his concealment. One day, Gwenny, in a fright ran in to tell her father to conceal Twm immediately, as the constables, headed by Parson Evans were coming. Twm started up and said, “Bolt the door for ten minutes, and I shall be safe.” Gwenny said they could not be there in that time, as they were then descending the opposite side of the Cwm, which was three long fields off, and they approached slowly, with fox-like cunning, so as to excite no suspicion of their purpose. With that, at Twm’s request, they both went up stairs with him, for a purpose he was there to explain to them, as neither of them could conceive in what manner he was going to preserve himself. They all remained above, till the loud summons of authority, in the raven voice of old Evans, brought Cadwgan down, when the cleric magistrate told him, in no gentle terms, that there was a suspicion attached to his house, as the place where the young villain, Twm Shôn Catti was concealed. The farmer replied, “I must say this is very hard usage, as I have nobody with me but my daughter and my eldest sister, who has come on a few week’s visit. But as you are come, you may search and welcome.” After a brief scrutiny below, they all went up stairs, where sat, busily employed at their needles, the fair Gwenny Cadwgan and the ingenious Twm Shôn Catti, excellently disguised in the dress of Cadwgan’s late wife, which, having been the property of a tall woman, fitted him very well; his face was slightly coloured with the juice of blackberries; beneath his chin was pinned a dowdyish cap, which, in the scant light of a small window, by the aid of a pair of spectacles he appeared a complete old granny. On the entrance of these amiable visitors, he turned his full spectacled face on Parson Evans, muttering in the tone of an old woman, which he mimicked well “lack a day! lack a day! this is sad usage,” then whispered Gwenny, who took his hint, and while they were searching, laid some hog’s-lard on different part of the stairs, so that on their descent the precious party, with their rascally leader, fell headlong down from top to bottom, to the great amusement of those above. On being charged of this contrivance, each denied all knowledge of it, and the quick-witted Gwenny, accounted for the cause of their accident by saying they had been carrying butter and lard to the store, up stairs, the whole morning.
They were no sooner gone than Twm assured Cadwgan, that he saw there was no safety for him, except in flight, which must take place that very night. His plan, he said, was matured, that he had no fear but he should do well, and that his only regret was in parting with them. He purposed, he said, to make his way towards Carmarthenshire, or perhaps further, and seek employment among the farmers; or what was more agreeable to him, he might, perhaps, get to some village, where he might set up a school: so that after saving a sum of money, to begin life with, he might return, and make Gwenny his wife. With tearful eyes Cadwgan expressed his admiration of this plan, while poor Gwenny wept herself almost into fits, at the thought of his perils, and sudden departure. “At any rate, my boy, thou shalt not go pennyless to wander the wide world,” said Cadwgan, and put an old pocket book containing three guineas and near twenty shillings in silver, which Twm reluctantly took, promising its return doubly, when fortune favored him. “I have two favors more to ask,” said he, “the first is, that you will make the best of my affair when you tell my poor mother and the worthy Mr. Rhys of my flight, and my future plans in life; and my next request is, that you will give me this old woman’s dress, with the red cloak belonging to it, as it will answer for a disguise, should I be troubled before I get far enough off.” Cadwgan kindly acquiesced, though he smiled at the latter whimsical fancy. At length, thus attired, to avoid observation, with his own clothes in a bundle, he took an affectionate and affecting leave of them, and made a hasty departure from their friendly door.
CHAP. XIV.
Twm ventures to Tregaron in the night. Frightens Wat the mole-catcher. In danger of being betrayed by him. Outwits Wat, Parson Evans, and his wife. Escapes, with the Parson’s horse, great coat, and money.
It was a dull heavy night, in which fog and darkness contended for precedence, and the moon gleamed dimly as if about to retire altogether, when Twm Shôn Catti shaped his course over the mountain, in the direction which led to Lampeter: he looked instinctively towards his dear native town, which a fashionable tourist would perhaps have called the most wretched village in the universe; but to him it was full of sweet associations, and recollections the most agreeable, the scene of his childhood, the home of his mother;
Dear to all their natal spot,
Although twere Nature’s foulest blot.
He stopped, and looked wistfully towards Tregaron; the lights were glistening in their various humble casements, and he fancied that among them all, he could distinguish his mother’s—his kind fond mother, whom perhaps he was never to see again—and now he recollected many instances of her tenderness, which had long slumbered in his recollection. His eyes filled with tears, and the softness of his heart was put at once into mournful harmony, from thus accidentally touching its first string, thrilled by reminiscences of maternal tenderness. He sat on a stone and gave his excited feelings full vent, till at length his heart-pangs subsided to a calm and sensitive melancholy. A sudden thought, no less eccentric than daring, now took him, that thus disguised, he might safely pass through Tregaron, and perhaps see his mother before his departure. This idea was no sooner started than acted upon; and before an hour had expired, he found himself once more in the long, and almost only street in Tregaron. His mother’s door was closed for the night, and he durst not call to her, as Jack was not to be trusted. He moved on, looking earnestly to every door, but saw no signs of people being up, any where; the whole street seemed still as death, except that various snores here and there, reminded Twm of the sweet sleep enjoyed by others, though denied to him. He sauntered slowly along, meditating on the circumstances that made him alone a watcher, till opposite to the cottage of his old companion and elder brother in mischief, Wat the mole-catcher. Wat had long lived with a widowed mother, who had recently died, and now sojourned alone in her solitary hut; it was even reported that he had forsaken all his wicked merry ways, grown serious, and was consequently likely to do well. It occurred to Twm that he had often heard Wat deny the existence of ghosts and hob-goblings, to the great horror of the elect, who considered such a declaration scarcely less impious than the denial of his creed; and vaunt that nothing of that description could in the least frighten him: and now, thought he, I’ll put his courage to the trial. Peeping through the casement, he saw Wat in bed, at the further end of the cottage, and the fire burning through the peat heaped up to preserve it for the night, so that the white walls within were brightened by the gleams cast on them from the hearth. Such a wonder as a lock, or even a bolt, Twm knew was rarely to be found in Tregaron, and therefore softly lifting the latch, he opened the door, entered, and walking quietly towards the hearth, sat on a three-legged stool, took up the old snoutless bellows, and blew the fire with all his might. Wat awoke in extreme terror, and seeing the figure of a tall woman in the chimney corner, deeming it no other than his mother’s spirit, his fright increased, trembling and almost dissolved in perspiration, he at last burst out into a roar of “Lord have mercy on me! oh mother’s dear spirit pity me!” Twm laughed out and ran to his bed-side to stop his roaring cries, exclaiming, “Silence man, ’tis I, Twm, your old friend Twm Shôn Catti.”
Convinced, at length, of his identity, and having heard of our hero’s story, he said, “Twere better you were at the bottom of a river Twm, than here, for I have been compelled by Parson Evans to make oath that if you came here I would immediately either send or run myself to inform him of your arrival, and I can’t break an oath, Twm, for any body.” “I did not think,” said our hero, coolly, “that you, who have broken so many laws, would scruple much, about breaking a forced oath; but old companionship pleads weakly opposed to the reward that will be given for my apprehension; and I thought, though the whole town might turn against me, that you Wat, would have been my friend, for you have led me into many troubles, and I never laid a jot of blame to your charge, but took all to myself, and have often suffered on your account.”
Wat, who by this time, had nearly dressed himself, was affected by this appeal, and said, “No Twm, I will never betray you, but if I was known in the least to favor you, it would ruin all my hopes of success in life. I am next week to be married to Bessy Gwevel-hîr, Parson Evans’s maid, that I have courted these ten years; and the Parson has promised to do great things at the bidding: and more than that, I am to be parish clerk and grave-digger, when old Morgan Meredith dies, and he can’t live long, as I have made him a present of a good churchyard cough by breaking a hole in the thatch right over his bed, by which he has gained a great hoarseness, and nearly lost his voice; so that I expect to be called in to officiate for him next Sunday.” “I see you are still my friend,” said Twm, who had been lost in a reverie during part of Wat’s remarks, “and I give you joy of your fair prospects, which I would not destroy on any account; you shall serve me, and at the same time keep your oath. You know my talent at mimickry, and see how well this dress becomes me; aye, I become the dress equally as you shall see. Had I not already disclosed myself, I could have discoursed to you a whole hour at mid-day, fearless of a discovery, but let us see how this cloak becomes you Wat.” With that he took off the cloak, and put it on Wat, and after a little jesting on the subject, Twm suddenly exclaimed, “Only sit down here with the cloak on your shoulders for ten minutes, while I step out, and with the assistance of my bundle I will astonish you with my transformation.”
All this was uttered with the gay rapidity of an anticipated freak, and Wat being taken by surprise, immediately acquiesced, without knowing what he was about. Twm ran immediately to the Rectory House, and making a great clatter, roused Parson Evans, who opened the window and asked what was the matter; when, assuming Wat’s voice, he said hastily “Mister Evans! Mister Evans! make haste, Twm Shôn Catti is now in my cottage, dressed in a cloak, and sitting at the fire.”
Delighted with this intelligence, Evans wakened the whole house, especially two strapping fellows whom he called his bull-dogs, sometimes employing them as husbandry servants, and at others, on account of their large size and muscular power, as constables. Both these fellows were first sent to saddle his horse, in case he should have to take Twm to Cardigan gaol, and then to attend him to Wat’s cottage, where the trio soon went. Peeping through the casement, Evans discerned a tall figure wrapped in a cloak, as described. “There he is sure enough,” quoth he, in a whisper, “now get your cords ready for binding his hands, and stay here till I call you in; be sure that you watch the door well.” With that he lifted the latch and went in. Wat, who in the interim of our hero’s absence, had made up a good fire now stood up, and as he saw the clerical magistrate before him exclaimed, with a hearty laugh, “Well done Twm, my boy! I now give you credit; well, well, well, this is indeed strange, a wonderful disguise? you look the old rascal to the life: if you had not told me before-hand of your intended transformation, I could have sworn you were old Evans himself; you look now just as he did when he promised to make me parish clerk.” Evans remained dumb with astonishment till the last words, when he replied, “Parish devil! you infernal scoundrel, have you roused me out of my bed at midnight to hoax and insult me? but you shall dearly repent your insolence.” Wat stared with wonder, and replied, “Well, well well! I did never hear such a thing in my life, you have just the old villain’s voice and swaggering way, I wish I may die, if you don’t frighten me, and I could almost swear the spiteful old Evans stood himself before me; hang him, I hate his very looks, and I am only holding the candle to the devil, in hopes of the parish clerkship, by seeming so civil to him.” Evans thought him certainly either mad or drunk; and without any further explanation he called the two men in, and ordered them to secure him. The light at length broke on Wat’s mind; Twm’s trick on him, and the real state of the case appeared: and he struggled hard before the fellows could secure him. At length he cleared up his confused and chagrined countenance, and said in an undaunted tone, “Well, well, well, I see the worst, farewell to mole-catching, farewell to parish-clerkship, and Bessy Gwevel-hîr; and you, you evil-minded old scourge, may bid farewell to all hopes of having me to father your brat, of which your maid Bessy is big, I’ll make the country ring with the stories of your rascalities, if you dare to send me to the round-house; but if you liberate me at once, I shall leave Tregaron forever in the course of a few days, and go abroad to see the world and seek my fortune.”
To the great surprise of the men, and perhaps of Wat himself, Evans seemed awed by his threats, and after a little shew of parleying, gave him that freedom of which he had no legal right to deprive him. Leaving him alone in his cottage, he shuffled home, accompanied by his worthy followers.
While Wat’s cottage became the theatre of the above-described scene, Twm Shôn Catti had a performance of his own elsewhere—a dance if you will—to which the same reverend gentleman was doomed to pay the piper. Having watched the party to Wat’s door, Twm hastened to the parson’s, calling loudly, in the assumed voice of one of the fellows who accompanied him, “Mistress Evans! Mistress Evans! make haste, make haste, and send master his pocket-book with his money, immediately; Twm Shôn Catti is taken, and we are going off with him to Cardigan gaol.” Mrs. Evans sleeping in a front room, heard him instantly, and with unusual alacrity jumping out of bed, she soon threw down the pocket-book, which was caught by Twm, and asked him, “Doesn’t he want his weather-proof great coat also?” Our hero replied “Yes, but dear me I did forget that,” and immediately received the great coat also, Mrs. Evans wishing them safe home from Cardigan, shut the window. The saddled horse was already at the gate, and Twm, well coated and cashed, instantly mounted and rode off, glorying in his triumph over his old rancorous enemy.
CHAP. XV.
Twm’s remorse and terror on the perpetration of his first crime. Determined to make restitution of the stolen property. Stopped by a highwayman and robbed. His reflections. Robbed again by a gypsy and ballad-singer, at Aberayron. Determined to sing ballads at Cardigan fair.
Twm took a circuitous route over the mountains towards Lampeter, and when he felt himself secure from pursuit, his first thought was to change his feminine attire for his own, as more convenient for riding, which was soon accomplished, and the suits changed places in the bundle. In his ignorance of the world, he scarce knew where to direct his course after reaching Lampeter, where he arrived between one and two o’clock in the morning. He recollected that this was a central place, from which different roads led to Aberystwyth, Llandovery, Carmarthen, Aberayron, and Cardigan; but found a difficulty in deciding which way to take. It suddenly occurred to him that there was to be a fair at Cardigan the next day, and he determined to go there to sell the parson’s horse. The whole town being wrapped in slumbers, he was now at a stand, not knowing the road which led through Aberayron to Cardigan, but rousing a cottager, he soon gained the necessary information and proceeded on.
The distant roaring of the sea gave him notice of his approach to Aberayron, and the awful sound struck an indescribable dread into his mind, that seemed unaccountable. Severe self-accusing reflections on the atrocity of his last act, succeeded the triumphs of enmity that had at first given a gust to its perpetration: consciousness of gilt and terror of punishment at once assailed him, for he was yet young in crime. To give immediate ease to the agony of his mind, he determined on dismounting and leaving the parson’s horse behind, and to return him, by the first opportunity, his coat and money.
While these first, and consequently bitter, agitations of remorse and terror were racking his breast, the clatter of a distant galloping horse increased his terrors; and the day beginning to break he discerned both horse and rider, and making briskly towards him. Strange as it may appear, notwithstanding the opposite quarter from whence the danger proceeded, in the wildness of his apprehensions he conceived it could be no other than Squire Graspacre, Parson Evans, and their party. He was actually glad when made to understand that the horseman was a highwayman. When the desperado approached within a few yards, he stopped his horse, levelled a pistol, and commanded him, with a tremendous oath, to surrender his money to “Dio the devil!” [129] or take his death at once.
The name of this terrific freebooter, who had among many other descriptions of persons, robbed half the farmers in the country, and was supposed to have committed more than one murder, had its full effect on Twm. He instantly resigned the Parson’s purse, assuring him it was all he possessed, and begged that he would allow him to retain one guinea; these terms the robber in a manner, acceded to, giving him two guineas, but in return, insisting on having his horse and great coat, which Twm gave up. Dio the devil, then insolently bade him good morning, rode off towards Lampeter, holding the parson’s horse by the bridle.
No sooner had the highwayman disappeared, than Twm was struck with a full conviction of the folly of the fears he had entertained, which, by depressing his mind, he thought, led to confusedly yielding his property too easily: vowing to himself, after some reflection, that if possessed of a pair of pistols, no highwayman in the world should make him stand. His thoughts taking their course through this channel, wandered and diverged, till his mind rested on new, but perilous prospects. “What a life,” thought he, “this Dio the devil leads—a gentleman of the road—the terror of wealthy scoundrels, who are themselves the terror of the hapless poor that are starved into crime—famed, feared, and maintained at the general cost, while many an honest fool toils like the galled drudge-horse, crawls through the world half starved, and is despised for his meanness.” Thus he pondered and soliloquised, and after being silent for a while, he continued “Let others do as they please, but for me, I have no taste for buffetings or drudgery, and had I but a good horse and pistols—” At this moment a countryman was about to pass him on the road, in whose hand he recognized his bundle, containing his feminine attire, which in his terror he had dropped, and it rolled from the side of the road, it seems, into the ditch, previous to the halt of the highwayman. Twm immediately claimed his property, but the fellow seemed but little disposed to attend to him, until vehemently insisting on his right, he evinced an inclination to battle with him; when satisfied with this very convincing sort of logic, the clown made restitution.
With his mind full of pistols and highwaymen, he trudged on at a slow ruminating pace, till he reached a humble public house at Aberayron. This lowly tavern he found so full that he could scarcely get a seat. With the exception of two or three fishermen and other sea-farers, these were people who made a temporary halt on their way to Cardigan fair, low booth-keepers, fruit and gingerbread sellers, and such like. Twm called for beer and refreshment, and while eating, observed the habits of these strange people with much curiosity. He had contrived to squeeze himself into a window seat between two females who sat apart and civilly made room for him, and pressed his acceptance of the place. This act of good-breeding won upon him amazingly, and he could not help contrasting their politeness with the rude indifference of the rest of the party; nor was his opinion of them changed when one turned out to be a fortune-telling gypsy, and the other a ballad singer. He could not do less he thought than ask them both to partake of his cup, and they felt themselves bound in honor, in their great devotion to his health, to return it empty each time he handed it to them full. Such gallantry on one hand, and confidence and affability on the other, begot a sudden friendship between them; the gypsy insisting upon telling his fortune gratis, and the ballad singer on his acceptance of two or three favorite songs, while our hero, not to be behind-hand in disinterested kindness, insisted that they would continue to partake of his cup.
While Twm was busily employed in looking over the bundle of ballads, among which he met many old friends, which he had frequently sung, one of the friendly nymphs was beckoned to, by a man at the opposite end of the kitchen, with whom she went out, and the gypsy soon followed them.
Our hero having selected the songs that pleased him, waited impatiently for the return of the damsels. Having waited about an hour and a half, by which time all the fair people had dropped off, he discovered some symptoms of surprise, and asked the landlord if he knew what had become of the young women. He said he did not know, but that the whole party had paid him and gone off, and that he had no further business with them. Twm thought the ballad singer a singular good natured young woman, as she had left her bundle of melody with him, doubtless as a present, and merely taken herself away thus modestly, instead of ostentatiously proclaiming her gift, and receiving his thanks. Putting his hand into his pocket to settle his account, he was confounded on finding his two guineas gone; his terror, agony, and confusion was manifested to the landlord, by his sudden change of manner and appearance, who declared that his face was turned as white as the wall. Having searched every pocket over and over, at length the doleful tale came out that he had lost his money, and could not tell how. “Why as to that,” said the landlord with cool bitterness, “if it is any satisfaction to know how you lost your money, I can tell you; it was by sitting between two thieves—a gypsy and a ballad singer, and what could you expect else from mixing with such cattle?” Poor Twm remained silent in a miserable mood, with his elbows resting on the table, and his temples in the palms of his hands for a full half hour, when the landlord disturbed his meditations by asking payment for his fare; good-naturedly adding, “If you have no money, I don’t wish to be hard with you, you can merely leave your jacket with me instead.” “My jacket!” quoth he indignantly, “why, that is ten times the value of what I owe you.” “May be so, but if you can’t pay you must leave it, and be thankful that I condescend to take it instead of cash;” replied the old gruffy. The fishermen in the mean time passed on him their rough jokes, one observing “You can sing ballads without a jacket, so I advise you to go on to the fair at Cardigan, where you may perhaps meet your old friends.” This advice, given in ridicule, Twm at once determined to take in earnest, and literally sing the ballads so as to turn them into money. So without more ado he took off his jacket and gave it to his host, muttering a curse on his cruelty, and commenced his journey to Cardigan. The dress of Cadwgan’s wife was again put on, not only as a fit disguise for his minstrel vocation, but as a more perfect guard against the weather than his own, since deprived of his upper garment; and in this garb, very low in spirits, and with no cheering prospects before him, he trod the miry road towards the county town.
CHAP. XVI.
Twm, disguised as a woman, sings ballads at Cardigan fair. Is alarmed on seeing an unexpected person. Takes a sudden departure from thence.
Twm at length reached the end of his dreary journey, the latter part of which was rendered more cheerful from having fallen into company with a party of drovers, who gallantly treated the apparent fair one with bread and cheese and ale. Thus he entered Cardigan in comparative good spirits, and prepared to commence his whimsical new vocation. Although naturally bold, and more full of confidence than beseemed the modesty of youth, it was not without considerable efforts in struggling with some remains of diffidence that he at length ventured to sing in the public street; but the beer which he had drank was strong, and his voice he knew was almost unequalled in the county of Cardigan; and with this persuasion he thought it foolish to hesitate. He fixed himself in rather an obscure part of the fair, but his musical voice and humorous execution of a comic song soon drew a crowd about him, and put his ballads in speedy request.
According to the general custom with street melodists, he introduced each song with a whimsical argument of its matter, in a strain of drollery that set the grinning rustics in high glee: “Here my merry men and maidens,” quoth he, “is a pretty song about a young damsel, who was taken in by a false lover, that courted her only for what he could get, and having wheedled her out of her heart and money, then ran away and left her to wear the willow.”
THE SLIGHTED MAID’S LAMENT [134]
1
In comfort and in credit
By the side of Pen-y-vole
I liv’d;—all knew and said it,
None could my will controul;
Until a worthless lover
Did try my heart to move,
Ah soon my joys were over,
I listened to his love.2
From far he travell’d to me,
Full many and many a night,
I thought he came to woo me,
My heart was all delight:
My cash he thought of gaining,
It was not me he sought,
E’er moaning and complaining
For clothes—and clothes I bought.3
A pair of shoes I placed him
Between his soles and ground,
With stockings then I graced him,
With hat his head I crown’d;
Red garters then I bought him,
At fair the best I saw,
To bind his hose, od rot him!
Instead of bands of straw.4
I bought him leather breeches
Strong as a barley sack,
And laid out half my riches
To clothe the beggar’s back:
I gave him money willing,
(Vexation now ubraids!)
With which the thankless villain
Soon treated other maids.5
When thus he had bereft me
Of cash, and ah! my heart,
The cruel rover left me
It grieved me then to part:
Those clothes will rend in tatters,
They cannot last him long,
A curse attend such matters,
False lover’s curse is strong!6
His coat will rend in creases,
His stockings break in holes,
His breeches go to pieces,
His shoes part from their soles:
His hair, like garden carrot,
Full soon will want a hat,
How soon, indeed I care not,
The devil care for that.
This pleased his auditors so well that he was soon left without a copy of it, on which, he began another, preluding it with the observation “Now this my friends is about a Welsh boy, who was so foolish as to leave old Cymru and go to London, from which, I warrant you, he would have been glad enough to return, as they have neither leeks, flummery, nor anything else there fit for a christian people.”
When a wild rural Welsh boy I ran o’er the hills,
And sprang o’er the hedges, the gates, brooks, and rills.
The high oak I climb’d for the nest of the kite,
And plung’d in the river with lively delight!
Ah who then so cheerful, so happy as me,
At I skipp’d through the woodlands and meads of Brindee.How oft have I wander’d through swamp, hedge, or brake,
Fearful of nought but the never-seen snake,
And gather’d brown nuts from the copses around,
While ev’ry bush echoed with harmony’s sound;
Oh gladness then thrill’d me! I bounded as free
As a hart o’er the lawn through the meads of Brindee.Whenever I wander’d to some neighb’ring farm,
How kindly was tender’d the new milk so warm,
O’er her best loaf as butter or honey she’d spread,
The farm wife so friendly would stroke my white head,
And sue that she shortly again should see me
Whenever my rambles led forth from Brindee.How of I have I run with my Strawberry wreath [136a]
To rosy young Gwenny of fair Llwyn-y-neath,
And help’d her to drive the white sheep to the pen, [136b]
Oh! I still think how joyously sung little Gwen
The old folks oft chuckling, vow’d sweet-hearts were we,
The Llwyn-y-neath maiden and boy of Brindee.At the fair of Dyvonnock, o’ertaken by night,
Returning, I’ve dreaded the corpse-candle light,
The wandering spirit, the hobgobling fell,
Of which cottage hen-wives so fearfully tell:
I’ve ran, with my eyes shut, ghosts dreading to see
Prayed, whistled, or sang as I flew to Brindee.Pleasure and innocence hand in hand went,
My deeds ever blameless, my heart e’er content,
Unknown to ambition, and free from all care,
A stranger to sorrow, remorse, or despair;
Oh bless’d were those days! long departed from me,
Far far’s my loved Cambria! far far is Brindee.
This was not so successful as the former, but Twm, nothing daunted, sung the following which he called a sequel to the last.
ROSY GWEN.
Rosy Gwen, rosy Gwen,
Beloved of maids, beloved of men!
Aye, dearly loved of grave and gay,
Of sire, sage, and matron grey!
In youth’s early day—ah what cheer’d me then!
’Twas her voice so sweet,
Her person neat,
Her form so sleek,
Her spirit meek,
And the cherry-merry cheek of Rosy Gwen.Gentle girl, gentle girl,
Coral lipp’d, with teeth of pearl,
On either cheek a vivid rose.
And raven tresses graced thy brows!
Ah thou wert my love and my playmate then:
Happy lass of smiles,
Unversed in wiles
Of guileless breast—
Of minds the best,
Oh my cherry-merry cheek’d young Rosy Gwen!Years have flown, years have flown,
And Gwenny thou’rt a woman grown.
While Time, that bears for most a sting,
Has fann’d thy beauties with his wing;
Yet brighter, thou canst not be, than when
O’er the mountain steep
Thou drov’st thy sheep
And sang in glee
A child with me.
Oh my cherry-merry cheek’d young Rosy Gwen.
He gave them next a love canzonet, of two verses; the first slow and mournful, and the last with contrasting animation and cheerfulness.
Her cheek was a rose lowly crush’d by the dew,
Now bleach’d by despair to the lily’s pale hue
For the death of young Morgan the brave;
Fame widely reported sea-mews scream’d his knell.
As in a dread sea-fight with glory he fell,
And was buried beneath thy salt wave.But false was the tale, for a victor was he,
Triumphant return’d from the wild roaring sea,
Now to seek with his dear maid repose;
He flew to his Sina with extacy’s zest,
Enraptured he press’d the lorn maid to his breast.
And then kiss’d off the dew from the rose.
The two last were but tolerated, and the singer soon found that a merry strain was most congenial to their fancies. He therefore gave them the old and popular duet of “Hob y deri dando,” rendered more comical by his singing alternately shrill and gruff, for male and female’s parts.
HOB Y DERI DANDO [138]
Ivor. The summer storm is on the mountain,
Hob y deri dando, my sweet maid!Gweno. And foul the stream, though bright the fountain,
Hob y deri dando, for the shade.Ivor. Let my mantle love protect thee,
Gentle Gweno dear;Gweno. Ivor kind will ne’er neglect me,
Faithful far and near:Both. Through life the hue of first love true,
Will never never fade.
Ivor. The rain is past, the clouds are gone too,
Hob o’r deri dando, far they spread;Gweno. The lark is up, and bright the sun too,
Hob o’r deri dando, on the mead;Ivor. Thus may the frowns of life pass over,
Happy then our lot,Gweno. And the smile of peace be bright as ever
In our humble cot.Both. Through life the hue of first love true
Will never never fade.
Having sung the last thrice over, he sold about a dozen ballads; and was about to treat his auditors with the old and national song of Nôs Galan, or New Year’s Eve, when, to his great surprise, the malignant visage of Parson Evans presented itself before him.
Judging of our hero’s sex by his assumed attire, several young men in the course of the day, offered their treats of cake and ale, some of which was accepted; and presuming on that circumstance, they amusingly put in their claims to further notice, and seemed inclined to quarrel, as for a sweetheart.
Thus possessed of beaux and champions, Twm resolved to employ them in a new scheme of vengeance on the unpopular parson. “You see that old fellow in black,” said he, directing their attention to him as he passed, “he is a bum-bailiff, and the greatest villain in all the country I come from; and at this very moment I’ll be bound for it, he is hunting out some poor fellow to put him in prison. He wanted to be a lover of mine, but only intended to ruinate me; but if he loved me ever so much I would not have had him if his skin was stuffed with diamonds. The villainous old catchpole! it is to him that I owe all my misfortunes; refusing him for a sweetheart, he grew as spiteful as a snake, and by telling a parcel of falsehoods he got me turned out of my place without a character, so that I am now brought to this—to sing ballads in the street.” Here, assuming a whimpering tone, Twm was compelled to smother a powerful fit of laughter, which emotion was taken for sobbing, and consequently drew much on the sympathy of those now addressed; but suddenly withdrawing the apron that veiled his features, he exclaimed, with the vehemence of a young termagant, “I’d give the world to see that old fellow tossed in a blanket!” Mark Antony’s effort of eloquence to rouse the Roman citizens to avenge the death of Cæsar, was not more effective than our hero’s appeal.
With a natural hatred to a bailiff, and as natural a predilection for the smiles of a handsome young woman, being “full of distempering draughts” and ripe for a freak, their zeal became inflamed to a ferment, each felt himself the leading hero to avenge the wrongs of the fair ballad singer, in the manner suggested by herself. One of the young men, a native of the town and son to the innkeeper, immediately procured a blanket, when, watching their opportunity as the supposed bailiff passed along, one tripped up his heels, while the rest received him in the extended blanket, and tossed him most vigorously in the air for about ten minutes. Exhausted at length with their labours, and allured by the fair handful of silver displayed by their victim, they accepted his bribe and desisted, each venting his jest on the crest-fallen Evans, “hoping it would be a warning not to persecute a poor friendless girl again.”
The knot of swains now separated, and ran in different directions to avoid being recognized as the perpetrators of the “freak,” but soon met again at an appointed place at the back of the town, where they had left our hero, between the empty carts of the ware venders.
Great was their dismay on discovering, after a long search in various parts of the fair, that the fair ballad-singer was no where to be found. Here was a general smelling of a trick put upon them, and consequent “curses on all jilting ballad-singers” uttered by the unlucky clods.
It occurred to one bright youth named Johnny Wapstraw, that he had entrusted his best holiday coat to the custody of the injured damsel, that he might toss the “catchpole” with the greater vigour; but on ascertaining the precise spot where he had left her, he found her complete feminine attire made into a bundle and fastened to a cart with a band of straw, left as a love-gift for him, while she kept his coat as a similar token of affection; having inscribed with chalk on the side of the cart “An exchange is no robbery.”
CHAP. XVII.
Twm escapes from Cardigan. Meets Parson Rhys at Lampeter. The tragical tale of the heiress of Maes-y-velin and the flower of Llandovery.
Having thus possessed himself of a coat without the tediousness and expence of giving measure to a tailor, and no more fastidious about a dressing room, retired to a stable, and soon came out fully dressed in his male attire; of which, a coat only was before wanting. Bent on a precipitate retreat, as the urgency of his case demanded, he bolted down St. Mary’s Street, and soon found himself on the turnpike road, with the good town of Cardigan some miles behind him. In little more than two hours he reached the small town of Dinas Emlyn, now called Newcastle-in-Emlyn, on a romantic part of the Teivy dividing the counties of Cardigan and Carmarthen, and occupying its banks on either side. Entering a small public house, he regaled himself on the fine potent ale for which that place has been so famous. Being refreshed with a little rest and food, he now, for the first time, began to enquire of himself whither he was going, and what his aims were to be; questions which he found very difficult to be resolved. Although the most serious cogitations on the subject might have availed little or nothing, chance very unexpectedly decided him, and relieved his apprehensious for the present.
Perceiving a very loquacious beer-inspired pig-drover, who vaunted his successful sale at Cardigan fair, preparing to depart, he suddenly determined to take the same route wherever it might lead, and on inquiry, found he was going to Llandovery.
Glad of company, the pig-drover received Twm’s information that he was also going to the same town with a hearty shake of the hand and a welcome to become his fellow traveller. About ten o’clock that night they arrived together at Lampeter, which Twm now visited for the second time. The geography of the country being but little known to him, he felt some alarm on finding himself so contiguous to his own native place.
While drinking a quiet pint with his companion at a tavern, and thoughts of danger occupying his mind, a friendly face appeared in smiles before him, and dissipated every feeling of unhappiness; it was the worthy Rhys the curate, who had spied him from the little parlour where he had been sitting before his arrival, and now cordially welcomed him to partake of his supper which was then preparing.
Our hero bade a merry farewell to his friend the drover, who had endeavoured to initiate him into the mysteries of pig-dealing, the latter declaring his resolution to travel all night until he reached Llandovery. Supper ended, and having heard as many of Twm’s adventures as he chose to relate, newly modelled, to suit his peculiar ear, Mr. Rhys informed him that he had also left Tregaron forever, disgusted with the treatment he had met with from old Evans, and was on his way to Llandovery to take possession of the curacy of Llandingad, to which he had been just appointed by the vicar, the reverend Rhys Prichard. The good-natured Rhys could scarce forbear smiling, when Twm informed him of the circumstance that had first led his thoughts to visit Llandovery also, and that he was determined to go there to seek his fortune, and felt a sort of presentiment that he should be successful: “Well,” said he, “your fortunes are altogether romantic, and fortitude such as yours is a virtue that becomes us all. Whatever I can do to get you into employment, when you are there, rest assured shall not be wanting.” With this understanding Twm’s hopes were buoyed up to the highest pitch, and, to his sanguine mind, became already certainties, which presented themselves in dreams of various felicitous shapes.
Rhys rose with daylight, and rousing Twm, they both sallied forth, the former leading his horse by the bridle, to be more on a par with his more humble companion. They had nearly reached the top of Pen-y-garreg hill, over which the road leads from Lampeter to Llandovery, while a bright prospect of the newly-risen sun attracted their mutual attention, when the clergyman thus addressed his companion. “We are now on a spot to be yet immortalized, perhaps, by the legendary muse, for a deed of blood perpetrated here in our own times; when the banks of the impetuous Teivy, now before us, became the scene of a lamentable tragedy. Yonder stands what remains of the once goodly mansion of Maes-y-velin, the fair seat of the ancient family of the Vaughans, once of considerable note in this part of the principality. Ten years ago, a young lady and her three brothers, the last of that race, were its possessors. The lady, named Ellen, was exceedingly beautiful, and beloved by the son of the venerable Rhys Prichard, the present Vicar of Llandovery, whose curate I am now become.
“It was customary with the young man whenever he reached this spot, to tie his hankerchief to the end of a rod, that he held as a flag-staff, which was immediately seen by the heiress of Maes-y-velin; and when she could succeed in getting her brothers out of the way, the signal of love was answered by hoisting her own kerchief to the branch of a tree above the house, on which, both ran down from their respective hills, till they stood face to face on either side of the Teivy, when the fond lover soon dashed into the river, crossed over and caught the fair one in his arms. But as these things sound better perhaps in verse, I shall submit to you a specimen of my skill at Ballad writing, in one that I have written on this occasion.” With that they took their seat on a huge stone on the side of the hill, when Rhys drew a manuscript from his pocket and read to his attentive auditor.
THE HEIRESS OF MAES-Y-FELIN,
AND
The flower of Llandovery.
What is amiss with the maiden fair,
What is the sweet one ailing?—
Why pale her cheek, and her spirits low,
And why up the hill doth she daily go,
The heiress of Maes-y-velin?—Why are the brows of her brothers dark?
Nor mother nor sire hath Ellen;—
Her brothers whisper—her steps they watch—
The heart of her mystery eager to catch,
The maiden of Maes-y-velin.The parents of Ellen her merits knew,
And frown’d on her brothers’ vices;
Her brothers are disinherited,
And Ellen is heiress in either’s stead;
Thereat all the land rejoices.Her brothers one day went out to hunt,
And alone at home left Ellen;
She watched them away, then flew to her bower,
And cried “oh now for Llandovery’s Flower!
Right welcome to Maes-y-velin.”She hoisted her silken kerchief red
To the highest branch of her bower,
To Pen-garreg hill then strain’d her eyes,
And the flag of her hope was seen to rise,
’Twas thine, oh Llandovery’s Flower!Long had he watch’d—the faithful youth!
His wish each day unavailing,
At length, he sees with a wild delight,
His true love’s signal, the lady bright,
The heiress of Maes-y-velin.That signal was chosen between the twain,
When absent her stern proud kindred;
And then would they rush from either hill,
The lover’s true with a right good will,
Till the waters of Teivy sunder’d.Now as erst they rush’d, and as erst they paused,
When arrived on the banks of Teivy,
They gazed on each other across the stream,
And gestured affection’s high glow supreme,
And gayer their hearts, long heavy.In plung’d the youth with most anxious speed,
The Flower of fair Llandovery,
The maiden is trembling with wild alarms—
She brightens—she sinks in her true-love’s arms,
Deem’d lost to her past recovery.Oh Nature hath many warm generous glows—
But they say love’s joys are fleeting;
Most dear to the mother her new-born son,
And sweet is the fame that’s fairly won,
To the blind restor’d oh the summer’s sun’s
Less sweet than the lover’s meeting.Sweet to the donor the generous deed,
That serves merit’s child, unweeting;
Healing is sweet to the gash’d by the sword;
To the wounded heart, the benevolent word;
Oh sweet is the breeze to the sick restored!
But sweeter true lovers’ greeting.Each flower that flaunts in vanity’s cap,
And sets youthful hearts a gadding,
Has its charms, its zest,—but the whole above,
Is the magical thrill of sweet woman’s love,
That drives heart and brain a madding.And fondly they loved, this youthful pair,
The heiress of Maes-y-velin,
And he whom they called Llandovery’s Flower;
Oh frequent their meeting and parting hour,
Their moments of joy and wailing.Once when they met on the Teivy’s banks,
Canopied o’er by the wild wood,
Mid fragrance of flowers that graced the shade,
The youth sung this song, of true lovers betrayed,
An ominous song—that drew tears from the maid,
For her heart was as simple as childhood.“‘Oh come to the banks of the Teivy with me,
To the deep woodland glade, ’neath the shady green tree,
Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,
In the face of the day and the bright eye of light,
That God and his angels may witness our troth,
That God and his angels may favor us both.’“‘I’ll go to the green-wood,’ the lady replied,
‘Fore God and his angels be fairly affied,
Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,
In the face of the day and the bright eye of light;
That God and his angels may witness our troth,
That God and his angels may favor us both.’“So sung a young chief to his dear lady love,
At the base of her tower—she answered above—
Vile vassals espied them, and flew to their lord,
The lady’s true lover soon fell ’neath his sword:
She threw herself headlong, fulfilling her troth,
And Death was the priest that united them both.”PART II.
Over the hill of Pen-garreg, the road
Is seen that leads from Llandovery,
Maes-y-velin’s green hill is opposite,
The mansion below—oft on either height
The lovers are making discovery.—But envious eyes were on the watch,
And the genius of evil hover’d;
The brothers, who wish’d their sister unmatch’d,
For any approach of a lover watch’d,
At length their two flags discover’d.They have hatch’d a scheme to enmesh the youth,
And see him at length on the mountain;
His flag they answer—he runs down the hill—
Now forth rush the wretches resolved to kill,
And waste his young heart’s warm fountain.Like prey-beasts they hide on the Teivy’s banks
In the covert of thick-leaved bushes;
The youth, he dashes across the river,
And ardent to meet his fond receiver
He seeks her fair form in the rushes.—He deems she plays him at hide and seek,
Her heart he knew was gayful—
“Oh come from thy covert my Ellen dear!
Oh come forth and meet thy lover here!”
He cries in soft accents playful.No Ellen appears—rustling steps he hears—
Perhaps some perfidious stranger;—
He stops in the rushes, and steals to a copse,
But there not an instant for breathing stops
Peril’s presentiment suddenly drops,
And he flies for his life from danger.He knew not his foes, up the hill he goes,
With the speed of a hart that’s hunted;
The brothers pursue, till fatigued they grew,
To Maes-y-velin his course they knew,
And eager revenge is blunted.—They saw him enter—“the foe is snared!”
Exclaim’d then the elder brother;
“To kill him surely be firmly prepared
Accurst be the arm by which he is spared!
Let’s stab him, or drown, or smother.”“Let’s do him dead and no matter how,
And our sister’s fortune is ours;
No brats of her’s shall supplant our hope:
Prepare we a dagger, a sack, and rope,
For brief are the stripling’s hours.”Now rush’d the youth through the mansion door.
And fell at the feet of Ellen;
Ere he could speak the brothers appear,
The maiden shrieks with terrific fear,
The heiress of Maes-y-velin.—She fell in a swoon, the brothers soon
Gag his mouth and proceed to bind him,
His hands they fasten’d behind his back,
And over his head they drew a sack,
They jump on his body—his rib bones crack,
Till a corse on the ground they find him.Oh God! ’twas a barbarous bloody deed;
’Twas piteous to hear his groaning:
A demon’s heart might relent to hear
The sobs of death and convulsions drear—
Oh Christ! is no merciful angel near,
Call’d down by this woeful moaning?—Oh murderous fiends! the eye of God
Hath flamed on this heartless murther!
They grasp at his throat to check his breath—
With knees on his breast—oh merciful death!
Thou sav’st him from anguish further.And dead in the sack his body they bore,
And sunk in a pool of Teivy;
After many days when the body was found,
No tongue could tell was he smother’d or drown’d,
Or crush’d by men’s buffets heavy.Thus fell in his bloom the blameless youth;—
Insanity seized on poor Ellen,
The lovely maniac! with bosom bare,
And eyes of wildness, and streaming hair,
Roved frantic o’er Maes-y-velin.She said he was thrown in the Teivy’s stream,
The Flower of fair Llandovery;
She cross’d o’er the hills to his father’s town,
And he bless’d the maid like a child of his own;
But Ellen was past recovery.Rhys Prichard wept long o’er his murder’d son,
And buried the hapless Ellen;
He cursed her brothers—the land of their birth
He cursed their mansion, its hall and hearth,
And the curse is on Maes-y-velin.Strong was the curse on the savage race,
The murderers and their kindred;
Their bosoms possess’d by the furies of hell,
Oft vented the scream, the curse, and the yell:—
All men stood aloof and wonder’d.They quarrell’d and stood forth in mortal strife,
Each one opposed to the other;
They never, oh never! are doom’d to agree,
While dividing poor Ellen’s property—
Two murder their elder brother.And yet the murderers still are foes,
Furious and unrelenting;
Each coveting all his sister’s share:
At length one falls in the other’s snare,
Ere yet of his crimes repenting.Now lived the survivor, a man forbid,
For murder his brow had branded—
Shunn’d by all men, none bade him God speed,
But solitude work’d wild remorse for his deed,
In madness he seized on a poisonous weed,
And a suicide’s grave was commanded.Maes-y-velin became a deserted spot,
The roof of the mansion tumbled;
The lawns and the gardens o’er-ran with weeds,
And reptiles, vile emblems of hellish deeds,
Bred there—and the strong walls crumbled.—They crumbled to dust, and fell to the earth,
And strangers bought Maes-y-velin;
Vain, it is said, their attempts to rebuild,
Vain was their labour in garden or field,
Snakes, toads, baneful weeds alone they yield,
Not a stone to another adhering.The possessors fled, and oft others came,
But all their aims unavailing;
The peasants protest that at midnight hour
The spirit of Ellen is seen in her bower,
While on Pen-garreg hill stands Llandovery’s Flower,
And shrieks burst from Maes-y-velin.
When Rhys had finished reading his ballad, Twm riveted his eyes on the ruins of Maes-y-velin, the two hills, the banks of the Teivy, and scenes now subordinate to the modern grandeur of the new college at Lampeter: and still remaining silent, seemed, by the force of his imagination, to bring before his eyes the whole action of this domestic tragedy. Rhys assured him that all the particulars of the murder, as narrated in the ballad, were well authenticated, both by the evidence of the unhappy young lady herself, and that of a countryman who beheld the murderers bearing the body by night, and who distinctly saw, as the moon shone upon them while in the act of casting their burthen into the river, the shining spurs of the murdered youth, projecting from the end of the sack which contained his body. But in so disordered a state was the country at the time, from the civil wars between the king and the parliament, that no cognizance was taken of the atrocious circumstance. The cursing of Maes-y-velin, and the perpetrators of the bloody deed, by the youth’s father, he said was no fiction; it was set forth in a pathetic and nervous poem, in his volume of Divine Carols, entitled “Canwyll y Cymry, or the Welshman’s Candle,” one of the most popular books ever published in the Welsh language. With this explanation they both rose from their stony seats, and pursued their way to Llandovery.
CHAP. XIX.
A discourse on mountains. Turf-cutters, and Moor haymakers. Twm rescues the lady of Ystrad Ffîn, and captures a highwayman, whom he brings in triumph to Llandovery.
Having travelled together a few miles further into the mountain, Twm expressed his wonder at seeing the turf-cutters and haymakers following their avocations almost side by side in this wild district. “Well,” cried he, “I know that much has been said, sung, and written, in praise of mountain scenery; and where ’tis truly romantic as well as wild, I am a great lover of it myself; but this before us is my aversion. Here no sound salutes the ear but the lonely cry of a few melancholy kites, hungry enough to prey upon one another; and no objects strike the eye but the flat tame desert, and a few wretched cottages thinly scattered over this desolate region, whose inhabitants are miserably employed in scooping peat from the marsh for their fires, or cutting their bald thin crop of hay from the uninclosed mountain—the gwair rhos cwtta, or moor hay, which, dispensing with the incumbrance of a cart or sledge, the women carry home in their aprons, as the winter maintenance of a half-starved cow. Even the shepherds and their flocks are wise enough to keep from this gloomy seat of starvation; but the dull plodding turf-cutters are numerous enough. To me there is nothing that associates more with squalid poverty than turf fires: the crackling faggot and the Christmas log, have their rustic characteristics; coal has its proud and solid warmth; the clay-and-culm fires of Cardigan and Pembrokeshire, formed of balls, and fantastically arranged by the industrious hands of fair maidens, are bright and durable, revealing the gay faces of the cheerful semicircular group—and above all, the smokeless cleanly stone coal: but turf, smoky, ill-savored, ash creating, dusty turf—recals the marsh and moor, rain-loaded skies, and fern-thatched cottages, whose battered roofs swept by the blast, discover the rotten rafters grinning like the bare ribs of poverty; and worse than all, the joyless faces of the toil-bowed children of the desert. I heartily agree with the sentiment of the old Pennill [152a]
“How gay seems the valley with rich waving wheat,
Fair lands and fair houses, with shelters so neat;
While the whole feather’d choir to delight us conspires,
There’s nought on the mountain but turf and turf fires.”
“And let me add,” cried Twm, with vivacity, “as indicative of my own taste on the subject, a Triban [152b] of my own composition.—
Three things—to my mind each with loveliness teems:
A vale between mountains that’s threaded by streams;
A neat white-wall’d cottage mid gardens and trees;
And a young married pair that appreciate these.”
“The mountains, like the plains and vallies,” replied Rhys, “have of course their rough and unsightly portions; but so very dear to me are the sensations connected with our Mountain Land, that I could kiss the sod of its dullest region, when I remember how it came the refuge of our war-worsted forefathers in the days of old, as the waned star of liberty seemed to have vanished forever from our sphere.” Rhys’s patriotic enthusiasm rose as he proceeded. “I could as soon twit my beloved mother with the furrows which time has ploughed on her brows, as censure the homeliest part of our dear mountains, hallowed of old by the tread of freemen, when the despot foreigner usurped the vallies.
“Freedom, amid a cloudy clime,
Erects her mountain throne sublime,
While natives of the vales and plains
Are gall’d with yokes and slavish chains;—
Then shrink we ne’er, unnerved as bann’d,
In the cloudy clime of the Mountain Land.Turban’d in her folds of mist
Our Mountain Land the sky hath kiss’d
While on her brow the native wreath
Of yellow furze and purple heath;
The rural reign her vales command,
And the freemen’s swords of the Mountain Land.”
Twm felt the observations of the curate as a rebuke for his flippancies, and was about to clear himself from all suspicion of lack of nationality; but the latter at that moment looking up at the sun, declared the day so far advanced that he must of necessity instantly mount his horse and ride with speed, so as to meet the vicar of Llandovery at the place appointed; on which, directing Twm in the route he was to take, he rode off and left him to pursue his way at leisure.
After thus parting with Mr. Rhys, Twm made his way alone, wrapped in thought, and looking neither to the right or left, for several miles, but was at length brought to a stand by the discovery that the way he trod had ceased to be either a road or beaten path; and that he was actually pacing the trackless mountain, with the disagreeable conviction that he had gone wrong, without a clue to recover the right way.
Observing a bwlch, or gap, parting the mountains in the distance, where they rose to a considerable elevation, he naturally concluded that the road ran through it. Acting on this opinion, he hurried on, and was much gratified to find his conjecture realized, as a good beaten road presented itself to him. He entered it, and hastened on with the utmost alacrity, till he came to a cottage on the road side, opposite to which was an immense rick of turf, that at a distance looked like a long black barn. He called at the cottage, and asked if he was right in his route to Llandovery, “Right!” squeaked a thin old man who met him at the door, “God bless you young man, you could not be more wrong, as your back is to Llandovery, and you are making straight for Trecastle.”
This was mortifying intelligence; and the old man seeing Twm’s chagrin, asked him to walk in and rest himself, an invitation that he gladly accepted. “What, I suppose you thought to be at Llandovery to hear the great preaching there to day?” said the man’s wife, a little fat woman who was carding wool by the fire. “No,” replied Twm, “I never heard of any preaching that was to be there.” “That’s very odd,” rejoined the old man, “as the whole country has been crowding there, to hear the good Rhys Prichard, the great vicar of Llandovery.” “I have heard he is very popular,” said Twm. “Popular!” screamed the weazon-faced old man, as if indignant of the coldness of our hero’s eulogy, “he is the shining light of our times, and hardly less than a prophet; wisely has he called his divine book the Welshman’s Candle, for it blazes with exceeding brightness, and men find their way by it from the darkness of perdition. When it is known that his health permits him to preach, the country hereabouts is up in swarms, to the distance of two score miles and more. Then, the farmer forsakes his corn-field, the chapman his shop, and every tradesman and artizan quits his calling, to listen to the music of his discourse. Infirmity alone has kept me from going to hear him to-day; but my wife is no better than an infidel, and would rather listen to a profane fidler, or a vagrant harper, than to the finest preacher that ever breathed out a pious discourse.”
Here the little round woman retorted on her spouse, assuring Twm that he was a miserable dreamer, whose brains had been turned by the ravings of fanatical preachers; that some months ago he ran three miles, howling, thinking he was pursued by the foul fiend, when it turned out to be only his own shadow: and that when a patch of the mountain furze was set on a blaze to fertilize the land, nothing could convince him that the world was not on fire, and the day of judgement come, till he caught an ague by hiding himself up to the chin in the river for twelve hours.
All this the old man very indignantly repelled, and vowed that his courage was equal to that of any man breathing.
At this moment the violent galloping of a horse attracted their attention, and in an instant a horse and rider passed the door, but suddenly checking his speed he returned, and calling at the cottage door, asking in a tone of authority if a lady had passed that way towards Llandovery within the last half hour. The old man, trembling as he spoke, protested that no lady had passed for many hours; on which the bluff horseman told him as he valued his life, neither he or his wife should appear on the outside of the cottage door, till he gave them leave. The old man assured him of his entire obedience, when the fellow quietly crossed the road, and effectually concealed himself and horse behind the opposite turf-rick.
Twm, unseen himself, caught a full view of this burley horseman, and instantly knew him. He felt a conviction that in a few minutes a scene was to be acted, in which he was determined to perform himself a conspicuous, if not a principal, part. He asked the timorous old cottager if he possessed such a thing as a long-handled hedge bill-hook, to which the poor dotard, his teeth chattering the while, replied in the negative. On searching the cottage, with the assistance of his mistress, to its great vexation he could find no weapon, but a blunt old hatchet, and a rusty reaping-hook.
The canter of a light horse now struck his ear; his heart caught fire at the sound, and with almost fierce vehemence he called to the people of the cottage, “Give me some weapon in the name of God: to defend you and myself from having our throats cut;” but it only increased their terror and confusion.
In an instant, a lady on a slight white horse was opposite to the cottage, when the horseman, darting forward from behind the turf-rick, and producing pistols, demanded her money. The lady protested, in the most piteous and earnest tone, that she had accidentally left her purse behind, and must be indebted to a friend at Llandovery, should she fail to meet her husband there, for some small change. “I’ll not be disappointed for nothing,” cried the ruffian, “Dio the devil is not to be fooled, and my pretty lady of Ystrad Fîn, I have depended on a good booty from you to-day, so that unless in two minutes you strip, and give me every article in which you are clothed, a pistol bullet shall pass through your delicate body.”
The lady, with tears entreated him to be merciful, promising a future recompence; but the scoundrel laughed scornfully in her face, and cocked his pistol, on which she uttered a loud scream and fainted, when he immediately approached to strip and rifle her.
Our hero, whose blood was boiling with honest indignation, now started up from behind the lady’s horse, and stood on a small bank raised to separate the cottage yard from the road, struck the highwayman an astounding blow on the temples, with a stout hedge-stake grasped with both hands, and repeated the violent action till it brought the desperado senseless, and covered with blood, to the ground. After the first terrible blow, confounded as he was, he instinctively presented his pistol at random, but Twm struck him heavily on the extended arm, which caused it to fall, and swing dead by his side, like a withered oak branch smote by the thunderbolt.
The good woman of the cottage bathed the lady’s temples and soon brought about her recovery; and great was her surprize and satisfaction to witness the result of our hero’s courage and dexterity. While tears of gratitude suffused her beautiful eyes, and ran down her bright ruddy face, Twm in the gentlest manner assured her of her entire safety, and that he would have the happiness of conducting and protecting her to Llandovery, where he intended to bring the highwayman dead or alive, and deliver him, with an account of the whole affair, to the magistrates.
The lady of Ystrad Fîn, smiling as she spoke, uttered many expressions of her gratitude, and admiration of his courage, assuring him that her husband, Sir George Devereux, would not allow him to go unrewarded for such a signal piece of service: “but for my own part,” continued she, “as I truly assured the merciless highwayman, I am at present without my purse, having left it accidentally at the house of a poor sick person, whom I visited, relieved, and stayed with, many hours this morning, by which I have missed hearing the sermon preached to-day by the rev. Rhys Prichard.” Twm declared he did not in the least feel himself entitled to any reward, sufficient for him was the approval of so beautiful and amiable a lady; but that he had another gratification in the action he had performed, as it was his fortune to have punished the very man who had once stopped him on the highway and robbed him of his little all.
It was in vain that Twm summoned the old man of the cottage to assist in placing the robber on horseback, as he had hid himself beneath the bed, roaring all the while “Oh lord! oh dear! I shall surely have my throat cut.” The lady of Ystrad Fîn, however, alighted and lent an active hand in binding the thief, still insensible, with old halters contributed by the fat woman of the cottage, who also gave all possible assistance; so that with their united aid Twm soon got him across his own horse, like a sack of barley, and secured him by tying him neck and heels under the horse’s belly. Our elated hero leaped into the saddle, and rode side by side with the lady of Ystrad Fîn, and conversing freely with her, unincumbered with his former bashfulness, till they reached Llandovery.
They entered the town just as the sermon was over, and the dense swarm, as they issued from Llandingad church, stopped and gazed with astonishment at the sight presented to them. At the same instant that Sir George Devereux came up and assisted his lady to alight, Mr. Rhys the curate approached Twm, and each in a few minutes was in possession of the whole story. The baronet eagerly grasped our hero by the hand, and assured him of his protection and favor to the utmost of his power; declaring at the same time that no possible reward could equal his deserts or repay his services.
As soon as it was known among the farmers that the terrible Dio the devil, who had robbed many of them at different times, was captured, a subscription was immediately raised, to reward the captor; so that our hero was soon in possession of a sum little less than ten pounds, in addition to five more that the county awarded for the taking of a highwayman.
Sir George and his lady invited our hero and Mr. Rhys to dine with them the next day at Ystrad Fîn, where the baronet said they would discuss in what manner he could repay the services of the brave deliverer of his lady.