Twm becomes a pedestrian. Adventures of Wat the mole-catcher. The Cardiganshire lasses. Tragic relation. Stalking Simon murdered. Twm is stopped by a footpad, whom he out-generals and shoots. Arrives in London.

Twm was not so fortunate with this steed as the former, which, being white, and otherwise very remarkable, he had the precaution to have cried next morning, when a wealthy attorney of Reading came forward and claimed it. On hearing Twm’s story, he very handsomely made him a present of ten pounds, partly in consideration of the loss of his own beast, which he had sustained by the adventure.

Being now within eight-and-thirty miles of London, he resolved to throw off his rustic disguise, and walk the rest of his journey. Accordingly, he bought a neat suit of clothes at Reading, in which he concealed his money and a pair of small pocket pistols; and thus provided, he resumed his journey to the metropolis. Having gone twelve miles further, which brought him to Maidenhead, the first person that he met in the street was Wat the mole-catcher, who had sold his pigs to great advantage to a London dealer; and was now sauntering about from tavern to tavern, spending money that was not his own. Twm at first thought of commissioning him to be the bearer of some cash to his mother, but soon found sufficient reason for banishing such an idea. On asking him when he intended to return to Tregaron, the mole-catcher with strong emphasis exclaimed “never!” adding that he had made the place too hot ever to hold him again. On being pressed to relate his adventures since our hero left him at Tregaron, he ran them over in the following off hand strain. “When you were a child, Twm, I was a merry happy lad; and you know, had the reputation as the funny fellow of Tregaron, a distinction that it was my highest ambition to attain. The comical tricks and humorous sayings of Wat the mole-catcher, made mirth at every farmer’s hearth, and their tables were spread with food for me whenever I called. As I grew older, my pleasures and antipathies acquired a stronger cast; and there were but few in our adjoining parishes who were subject either to execration or ridicule, but dreaded my satire and exposure. I formed attachments more than once among the daughters of the farmers whom I had frequently entertained at the social evening hearth; but although my jests were relished, my overtures were rejected. In short, I found that while mirth, innocence, and harmless wit were my companions, parents generally disposed of their daughters to young men of characters directly opposed to mine—the stupidly grave, and knavish. My eyes were at length opened; and I found that the funny man however amusing as an acquaintance, was by none as coveted as a relative, but considered as a merry unthrift, a mere diverting vagabond at best. Well, thought I, as I saw the world in the nakedness of its opinion, this will never do, but since gravity is the order of the day, I will be grave and roguish as the most successful of my fellow men. Having once come to this conclusion, I studied knavery, that is to say, thrifty rascality, like a science. You had a specimen of my skill when you played me that pretty trick that lost me the parish clerkship, and the fair hand of Bessy Gwevel-hÎr. As a first step I went immediately to my grandmother, who had often exhorted me to quit my sinful mirth and become serious, when I assured her of my conversion, in token of which, I threw myself on my knees, and entreated her blessing. She afterwards took me to a puritanic chapel, and in that assembly, where I had often pinned the skirts and gown-tails of the elect together, the poor old doting soul in the pride of her heart exhibited her young convert to the gaze of the saints; but neglected to inform them that I had robbed her that same evening, of half the contents of her pocket, as she lay asleep. I was not long in discovering that a sedate aspect was a goodly mask for the most profitable villainy, and therefore determined to wear it for life. Laughter, jest, and mirthful humour, and all those thriftless indications of the light and harmless heart, I abjured forever. I now gave a respite to the rats and moles, and set up as a butcher at Tregaron; and for one sheep that I bought of the farmers, I stole three, and slaughtered them either by moonlight on the hills, or by candle in my own cottage. Although I daily bettered my condition, I considered this but a slow and creeping course to thrift; and therefore, as conscience no longer stood in my way, I meditated some bolder way of leaping into property at once. You know that wrinkled old she-usurer of Tregaron, Rachel Ketch; in the bitterness of my heart, after losing all hope of a fair girl, whom I had long doated on, I went to the old Jezebel and sought her hand in marriage; aye, and would have taken her were she ten times as loathsome, in the anxious hope of her speedy death and of succeeding to her golden hoards. I strove to recommend myself by assuring her I was the most finished scoundrel in existence; and that when gain was my object, theft, perjury, and even murder, however hideous to silly innocents, had no power to scare me from my pursuit. This avowal of my noble qualifications I thought would have won her heart forever, but I was mistaken. The keen-eyed hag, who never was seen to smile before, laughed outright at my proposal. ‘What, you want the old woman’s gold, master cut-throat of the muttons, do you? to cut her throat also, and make away with her in a month after marriage, like a troublesome old ewe!’ screamed she, as her spiteful broken snags grinned defiance, and her shrill tones broke out in laughs of mockery. I never saw mirth so damnable before! I felt myself the butt of her ridicule, humbled and degraded; and as my anger rose against the beldame, I resolved that since I could not wed her, to rob her would answer my purpose full as well. An opportunity was not long wanting; the little boys who had formerly been my favorites, and who in their innocence failed to recognize my altered character, I found it difficult to drive from me. A neighbour’s child one day asked me to lift him up to Rachel Ketch’s thatch, to take from it a wren’s nest which he had long watched, and said he was sure that the young ones were on the eve of flying. It was a winning little urchin that made the request, and I could not refuse him. The moment that I had raised him to a standing posture on my shoulders, he eagerly thrust his little hand into the thatch, and cried, ‘Dear dear, how cold!’ when a snake which he had felt, that had destroyed the young birds, and coiled itself round in the nest, darted out in his face, and the youngster shrieked and fainted in my arms. I carried him home, where he soon died of the fright, for it appeared he was not stung. I suspected there was a nest of those detestable reptiles in the old rotten straw thatch, and therefore poked it in all directions with a long hooked stick, and at last felt something attached to it; as I drew it forward and examined it, to my great astonishment I found it to be an old woollen stocking, closely stuffed with various golden coins. Here was a discovery! I felt myself a made man forever! The old woman was at this time in Carmarthenshire, where she had gone to enforce her claims to certain debts among her former neighbours; and therefore having no fear of detection, I pushed back the golden prize and went away, intending to return for it at night. As I anxiously watched the hours and minutes pass away, reflecting the while on my newly-acquired wealth, a raging savage spirit of avarice so possessed me, that I determined to plunder old Rachel’s cottage of all the money I could find. Night came, and with breathless haste I made an entrance through the thatch on the side furthest from the street, and at midnight went away with a heavy booty, the greater part of which, I buried beneath the floor of my own cottage, determined to seek the first opportunity of quitting Tregaron forever. Fortune seemed to favor me beyond my hopes; Squire Graspacre having a numerous herd of unusually fine hogs, engaged me to drive them to England and sell them at a good price; I have done so, and pocketted the cash, not one farthing of which will the squire ever handle. To relate all my rogueries since I became a grave man would take too much of your time, so here ends my story.”

Twm’s observations on this remarkable narrative were very brief. “I know my own numerous faults too well to blame you highly for anything you have done, except robbing the poor helpless old woman: that was a villainous affair Wat, and will not stand the test of my friend Rhys’s noble precept—War not with the weak. I have a mother, Wat, who is also an old woman, and who but a dastardly villain could ever think of robbing her.” “Very true,” replied Wat, “but she whom I plundered was a rich old woman; and to steal from her who had robbed hundreds by her over-reaching usury will never lie much on my conscience. Perhaps in time I may form a plan to recover the cash buried under my cottage floor; if not, I can make myself very happy with what I already have, in addition to the squire’s pig-money; so that I shall be quite safe and unmolested in England, and while I have money, nobody will dare to question my respectability.”

At this moment, a party of Cardiganshire lasses, who were making their annual journey to weed the gardens in the neighbourhood of London, passed opposite the tavern door, where our worthies were sitting; Twm recognized two Tregaron girls, and called to them by name, when they all went up together. The two rural damsels were right glad to see their long lost countryman; Twm ShÔn Catti, but their reception of Wat was very different, as it amounted to terror and abhorrence. They said he was charged not only with the robbery of Rachel Ketch’s cottage, but with murder; that the constables were out to search for him in all quarters, and that Squire Graspacre had sent out a man to supersede Wat in the care of his pigs.

Here Wat’s spirit of bravado entirely deserted him, and evident terror was depicted in his countenance, while his emotion was too great to make any remark on the information given by the girls.

After Twm had treated all the maidens with bread and cheese and ale, and dismissed them on their journey, Wat, in great agony of mind, exclaimed, “Oh God, where shall I fly! all my supposed security I find but a dream, and misery alone awaits me. When I told you the tale of my enormities, I kept back the relation of one crime, a dreadful one! which, lost as I am, I felt averse to acknowledge, and too heart-smote with the consciousness of its atrocity, to turn to it my most secret thought—’twas a deed of blood, the crime of murder. You remember a tall, thin, skeleton-like man, generally dressed in an entire suit of grey, who lived in a cottage on the mountain, in the neighbourhood of Tregaron, known by the nick-name of Stalking Simon the Moon-calf. This man was known to be a spy employed and paid by all the neighbouring farmers. His habits were, to sleep all day, and to spend the night on the hills, watching to identify the hedge-pluckers and sheep-stealers. Many poor persons who depended on their nightly excursions, for fuel, while they deemed themselves unobserved of any human being, cutting down a tree, or drawing dry wood from an old hedge, would suddenly find themselves in the presence of Stalking Simon. So instantaneous was his appearance, as to startle his victims with the idea of an apparition suddenly sprung up through the ground, as his approach was never seen till close upon them. ‘’Tis only me, neighbour,’ would be the hypocrite’s reply, ‘searching for my stray pony:’ but when two persons had been executed, and three transported, on his evidence, the nature of his employment became known, and he was execrated by the whole country. One moonlight night, as I was skinning a fine stolen wether, which I had suspended and spread out on an old storm-beaten thorn, in a field adjoining the mountain, easy in mind, and so fearless of danger that I whistled in a half-hushed manner, as I followed my illicit occupation, a circumstance took place that wrought a violent change in the tone of my mind. My thoughts ran on the whimsicality of the idea of selling a portion of this very mutton to the rightful owner, on the morrow, which was market day, and laughing inwardly at the thought; all at once, Stalking Simon, with a single stride, moved from behind a mossy elm, grey as his own suit, and stood before me. My blood curdled with the sudden transition from mirth to terror; but when the stone-hearted wretch made the old Judas-like reply, ‘It is only me neighbour, searching for my stray pony,’ I knew the amount of my danger, and my terror changed to savage ferocity against the vile informer who had ruined so many of my friends and neighbours. In the fever of my hatred I darted on him, grasped his collar with one hand, and with the other stabbed him to the heart.”

Thus ended Wat’s relation, when he again exclaimed “Oh God where shall I fly? I cannot return, for that road leads straight to the gallows, and in London I should be in hourly danger of being seen by somebody from the country. Since the perpetration of this deed of blood I have not known an hour’s peace, save in the madness of the intoxicating cup. Heaven is my witness, I could be content with slavery, and smile beneath the man-driver’s whip—could strip myself and wander the world in nakedness, or herd with beasts, to regain my former peace and innocence! Oh, I could labour till my bones ached, and my exhausted body dropped to the earth with fatigue, to be once more free from the keen stings of a guilty conscience.”

Wat was now a figure of the most heart-torn remorse; his reddened eyes were tearless, and seemed burning in their sockets; while large drops of sweat rolled down his sun-burnt cheeks, and his whole countenance exhibited the most intense agony. In such an hour as this, Twm was no comforter, although he was much affected, but merely listened in silence. A grey-coated man now approaching the tavern, brought dreadful associations to Wat’s terrified conscience, and in the utmost trepidation he darted out at the back door of the inn, and ran across the fields with the speed of a pursued murderer.Our hero, now a pedestrian, hurried off on his journey, determined to make up for the time lost at Maidenhead, by walking at a spirited pace; and without stopping a moment, he passed through Langley, Broom, and Colnbrook, hoping to reach Hounslow at least that night. He had travelled unimpeded till within two miles of the last named town, when he met a long-bearded man, who might have passed for the high priest of a Jewish synagogue. Twm stared at him with surprize, but passed on a few steps, when he heard the other at his heels; and turning round, he found him with a pistol aimed at his head, as he called out in the true slang of the road, “Your money or your life.”

Our hero, having now met a few rencontres of this kind, had lost his terror of them; he answered in a submissive style, declaring that he had no money of his own to resign, but it was true he had a considerable sum of his master’s: “I don’t see,” quoth he, “why I should lose or risk my life for any master’s service, though I should like it may appear that I made some resistance before I resigned his property; and therefore if you first fire your pistol through the lapel of my coat, you shall have all;” when the footpad immediately did as requested. “Now,” quoth Twm again, “another shot through the skirt on the other side.” “Very true,” replied the thief, and fired his other pistol as directed. “And now, for a finish,” said Twm, “before I give up to you this large sum, just fire a shot through my hat,” laying it down on the ground as he spoke. “I have no more shot,” cried the robber. “But I have!” exclaimed our hero, triumphantly, producing a pistol, “the contents of this you must take instead of the money I spoke of—a just reward for a shallow knave, whose length of beard is greater than of brains:” at which words, perceiving that the bearded thief aimed to escape, he fired his pistol and shot him dead. Tearing his false beard off, he bore it away as a trophy, and hastened onward.

Being now, as he was previously informed, in the very republic of highwaymen and foodpads, our hero, though greatly fatigued, resolved not to spend the night at Hounslow, but persevere in his route and go the additional nine miles, which would bring him to the great metropolis, and his journey’s end, before he rested. It was near one o’clock, when at length after many inquiries among the Watchmen, he found out the Bull and Gate inn, Holborn; where with blistered feet and sadly fatigued body, he joyfully took his supper and ordered his bed. Who but a pedestrian could enter into his feelings!