Chapter V: Part 5

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.

The constables were now called to bring their hand-cuffs, and take possession of the robber, but in vain;—for when he was uncorded and taken from the horse, it was discovered he was dead.

CHAP. XX.

Twm visits the vicar of Llandovery. Visits also at Ystrad Fîn. Fortune smiles on him. Undertakes to bear a sum of money to London for Sir George Devereux.

TWM retired that evening to a tavern which he had been directed to by Mr. Rhys; and many of the good people of Llandovery eagerly sought the company of the wonderful young man who had had the courage to attack and conquer a highwayman; evincing their kindness by insisting on their right to treat him with whatever liquor he might be inclined to drink, on account of the benefit conferred by him on their community. Cautioned by the worthy curate, however, his potations were very limited; and urging his fatigue as an excuse for retiring, he soon left his admirers, and slept that night on a bed of roses.

Rather early in the morning he was awoke by his friend Rhys, who said that, by appointment, they were both to breakfast with the rev. Rhys Prichard, who had expressed a desire to see the brave young man that had captured the highway robber. This invitation was the most acceptable to Twm, as he was exceedingly anxious to see so celebrated a character as the vicar of Llandovery; though less for his pious than poetical celebrity, and more especially the association of his name with his own family calamity, in the death of his son Samuel, poetically called the “Flower of Llandovery,” at the murderous hands of the young men of Maes-y-velin, as before related.

Ashamed of the rustic cut of his coat, Twm proposed to purchase a clerical one from his friend Rhys, who willingly made him a present of his second best; observing that this was the day of his entrance into the world, and as the mass of mankind were apt to judge of all by the external appearance, an appropriate garb would aid even a man of merit in making a favorable impression.

The house of the vicar of Llandovery was among the best in the town; a well-built strong mansion, distinguished from all others by a neat small cupola on the top, within which was a bell, formerly used to call the boys to school, but now useless, since the reverend gentleman had long discontinued teaching. Twm and Rhys waited in the breakfast parlour about half an hour, filling up the time by noticing and remarking on the well-waxed oaken floor and furniture, that, with the prints of some of the English martyrs, with which the room was hung, gave it something of a gloomy appearance; and skimming over some dusty old volumes of divinity, till the clock struck six.

Punctual to the moment, in came the worthy vicar, who received the pair courteously, but with very few words. Breakfast was preceded by prayers; after which came in bowls of milk and hot cakes, with cold meat, butter, cheese, and ale; of which, after grace, each was desired to take his choice. Twm looked at his venerable host with awed reverence. This eminent character was of a tall, stately figure; his hair white as wool, his face pale, and rather long, with a countenance beaming with sedate benignity. He regarded Twm for some time with silent attention, and afterwards made a few enquiries respecting his recent feat, which, when answered, he indulged in some pious ejaculations on the fortunate event.

In the comparison suggested by the slight figure of Twm opposed to the bluff rotundity of the robber, whose corpse he had seen the night before, he referred to the scriptural records of the combat between David and Goliah; strictly charging the fortunate youth to take no credit to himself for the achievement, as he was but an humble instrument in a mighty hand, and for a special purpose, unknown to the actors of the scenes themselves.

After a long grace, and a profusion of good counsel to our hero, the visitors rose to depart; but ere they left, the worthy churchman placed twenty shillings and a copy of his “Welshman’s Candle” in the hand of Twm, and after shaking him warmly by the hand, he saw the pair to the door and bade them farewell.

About nine o’clock Rhys mounted his nag, and Twm, the noble hunter, which had become his property by the right of conquest, and rode towards the fair mansion of Ystrad Fîn. The road was entirely over the mountains, through diversified scenery of much interest. At times the road ran above the edge of a deep ravine of perilous declivity; at others, hills overtopped them, in peaks of various fantastic forms; till at length succeeded the tame flat moorland, abounding with wild ducks and various aquatic and mountain fowl. These scenes were soon left behind, and others of a different character, succeeded, tamed to softer beauty by the indefatigable hand of industrious man.

On reaching the cultivated lands, they passed through a wood at the base of a hill, on leaving which, the rural chapel of Boiley, the ornamented estate of Ystrad Fîn, the hill of Dinas, and a glimpse of the river Towey, were the clustered objects before them. The ancient mansion of Ystrad Fîn, they found most romantically situate, terminating a sloping descent from the mountain, with a roaring alpine brook falling headlong through its rocky bed, at the back; while the high conical hill of Dinas stood, an object of singular beauty, in front.

They entered the extensive farm-yard, which occupied one side of the house, in which stood several large elms and oaks, with, here and there, a huge hollow yew, that associated well with the antique appearance of the house.

The baronet and his lady, who had been waiting their arrival, gave each a friendly welcome. It wanted about a couple of hours to dinner time, which interim Sir George determined to employ on their immediate business; to that end, accompanied by his lady, he introduced them into the lawn and garden, where they conversed awhile on different subjects. At length he began by declaring he had not yet learned the name of his lady’s preserver; on which, Mr. Rhys told the whole story of his parentage, dwelling with much emphasis on the unprincipled and cruel neglect of his father, Sir John Wynne of Gwydir; and in conclusion, he said his friend and late pupil’s name, derived from his mother, was Thomas Jones: but that from his childhood he was familiarly called Twm Shôn Catti.

On the baronet’s inquiry respecting his views and prospects in life, Twm, with becoming frankness said, that prospects he had none, but he would be happy to undertake any employment which was not of a menial description; adding, that as he had some little scholarship, he thought himself qualified to become a tutor of children in a genteel family, or to take a preparatory school in some town. The baronet smiled, and replied, that he had no children, or he would be most happy to engage him in the former capacity. “But,” cried he, with a sudden turn of jocularity, “allow me to remark, young man, you surprize me much by your choice of an occupation; I should have thought that a spirited young fellow like you, would be more in your element with a commission in the army.” Twm glowed at the mention of a soldier’s life, and replied with ardour, “You have named, sir, the dearest sphere on earth in which I would desire to move; but, friendless and unknown as I am, the very thought of such a thing would be worse than vain.” “I make no specific promise _now_ on that head,” returned Sir George, “but I shall not forget your predilection for a career of arms, nor when communicating with those in power, shall I ever fail to promote your interests, to the utmost of my power: but I have now a proposal to make to you, which you can either accept or reject as you may feel disposed. Were it not for my consciousness that I speak to a youth of tried courage, animated by a brave enterprising spirit, I should never think of naming it, but as it is, thus the affair stands. The roads between Bristol and London are sadly infested by highway-robbers; I want to send a considerable sum of money to the metropolis; and I conceive that a lad of mettle and address like you might bear it in safety, while absolute veterans in the ways of the world would fail. I would give you a sufficient sum to bear your expenses; and on your return here, after accomplishing your undertaking, reward you handsomely, and do my utmost to place you in a situation agreeable to your wishes, where you may gain an honorable livelihood.”

Twm, in a moment, agreeably to the decision of his character, acceded to the proposal, and declared he was ready to commence his journey to London next morning. While the baronet was about to reply, a servant came to the garden gate, and announced dinner; to which the party paid immediate attention, and entered the hospitable dinner parlour of Ystrad Fîn.

CHAP. XXI.

Twm made a shew lion among the great. Benefits flow to him. Commences his journey. The adventure of the pack-saddle. Outwits a highwayman and rides off with his horse.

RHYS slept the first night after his arrival, at Ystrad Fîn; but his avocations calling him to Llandovery, he took his leave next morning, after an affectionate parting with his former pupil, wishing him all possible success in his journey to London. Twm, at the particular and pressing invitation of his host and fair hostess, continued there, enjoying their hospitalities, many days. Indeed he became a kind of shew lion, and was daily exhibited by Lady Devereux to her friends, male and female, whom she invited by scores to see her hero, as she called him. The importance thus attributed to him by others, our hero soon took to himself; and as many of the simpering lady visitors declared him to be no less handsome than brave, he felt no difficulty in persuading himself that there was more truth than flattery in the eulogies.

Previous to the day of his departure, the baronet evinced his liberality by presenting him with the sum of forty pounds; and gave him as much more in payment for the hunter taken from the freebooter; while his lady took from her neck a golden chain, and placed it on his, as a token, she said, of her gratitude for the preservation of her life, and of her sense of her preserver’s merit. Twm accepted these favors with a grace little to have been expected from his previous habits of life; but he possessed an innate pride and self consideration that soon burst through his native bashfulness, and his mind ever rose with his good fortunes, nay, sometimes even took the lead, so that he would boldly look Success in the face, and wonder that the sum of his congratulations was not greater.