Twm progresses at the opposition school. Flogging made easy. Out of the frying-pan into the fire. Sports at Whirligoogan.

The great success of Catty’s school excited the ill-will of parson Inco; 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 hers, wounded this consequential personage to the quick. Like the fox and the grapes, he sneered at that which was out of his reach, protested that the “room” of those scholars who had deserted him was much better than their company.

This new arrangement respecting Twm, they thought could not but be vexatious to Catty, 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 Catty no sooner heard the order, than in the 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 at this happy mood, and being one day praised by his master, a new spirit possessed the boy; 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 soon thrown by; the Reading-made-easy and Spelling-book shared a similar fate; and the pride of a 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.”

A specimen of poetry which was considered by everybody to be the index to a master-mind. Mount Parnassus was scaled, and that by an inhabitant of Tregaron! Poor Catty proudly showed the book and the poetry to all her neighbours, who sagely declared Mrs. Graspacre’s bounty and poetry equally fine.

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; until at length he arrived at such an extremity of youthful recklessness, as to study tricks for the annoyance of his master, and the scholars whom he found unfriendly.

In the eleventh year of his age, some decisive shoots of character made their appearance; a taste for sharp sayings, a skilful trickery in outwitting his opponents, appear to be his striking peculiarities, as well as boldness and resolution on the play-ground, where none could surpass him in robust or violent exercises. His faithful ally and constant instructor, Watt the mole catcher, taught him many useful and striking lessons when the pedagogue had done with our hero for the day. Twm, under his tuition, soon became proficient in the use of cudgels and quarter-staff.

More particular in the latter he excelled; and his superiority in this ancient and national exercise was 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 the head of Peter Penddwl, so I tried what I could do with the cudgel, that’s all!” For this he was booked for a future flogging. 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 out, the first at the Hall, and the last had made a present of her little leisure to her sweetheart, Watt 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 gradually seen the bunch grow “beautifully less,” it seemed a pity to separate the lovely fruit, so Twm thought they should all go the same way.

He therefore 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, he decided to abide by his master’s maxim, “that it was not decent for two to eat from the same dish.” 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 wedlock, let him now declare it.”

“I forbid the banns!” roared Twm Shon Catty; “For what reason?” cried the awful pedant, flourishing his rod in eager preparation.

“Because,” cried the waggish urchin, “the parties are not agreed.” At this moment a servant from Graspacre Hall brought a message from the lady of that mansion, that she wished to see the Reverend Mr. Inco Evans immediately; on which Twm obtained a remission of his flogging. History does not furnish us with satisfactory particulars as to whether Twm was liberated on account of his ready wit, or because necessity demanded it, the pedagogue being in a hurry.

The boys were now thrilled to ecstasy with that magic word, a “holiday!” and away scampered each and all to their respective amusements. Briefly, however, was their gust of enjoyment, for parson Inco’s voice was soon heard, vociferating his wrath in no gentle terms; and now he appeared in his shirt sleeves, his best Sunday sable coat in his hand, divested of every button.

His face at no time prepossessing, was now terrible to look on, inflamed with anger, with a slight tint of blue-black over his native strong ground of turkey-red. Great was the terror of the poor enslaved scholars as he howled out “What villain has cut off all the buttons from my coat?” A general whimper of, “it was not I, sir,” passed among the shivering train. And upon Mr. Inco’s threat to flog them all round unless the culprit was instantly discovered, one blue-nosed wretch, upon whom Evans had seized to commence his vengeance, roared out that it was Twm Shon Catty. “Where is the young catiff?” roared the Reverend Mr. Inco Evans.

“Playing at whirligoogan on the horseblock.”

“I’ll whirligoogan him with a vengeance,” roared the Tyro, at the same time snatching up his terrific bunch of birch which he had facetiously christened the tree of knowledge. Either from having a foreboding of the cause of this bustle, or being timely warned of the approaching danger, Twm had now made good his retreat, wisely considering that “Discretion was the better part of valour,” and that “He who fights and runs away, may live to fight another day.” So that at the precise moment when the curate thought Twm’s presence desirable, that happy individual, not the least afraid, was busy sketching a caricature of his master.

The materials were blank wall, a piece of chalk, and an extensive imagination, whilst he took care to place this artistic production within the precincts of a small house never visited except when absolutely necessary, but where he knew the curate would be able to study the fine arts at his leisure, though possibly it might turn out to be the “pursuit of knowledge under difficulties.” On the horse-block, however, was found his stock of whirligigs, which the Welsh boys called the whirligoogans. These were no other than the identical button moulds, which our hero had cut from the best gala-day coat of the Reverend Inco Evans, with pegs driven through each centre hole, so that when twirled between finger and thumb, on the surface of the horse-block, they became the puerile pastime of the younger scholars, who preferred “Whirligoogan” to the more robust exercise of the ball or bandy.

Baffled in his present vengeance, parson Inco shuffled off towards the house, and covered his buttonless coat with his gown and cassock, vowing inwardly, as he adjusted his dress, future chastisement, in the superlative degree, against our hero. Unfortunately at this luckless moment, a perverse hog that seemed to enter into the spirit of this disastrous hour, having risen from his bed of mud in the horse-pond, where he had dreamed and philosophised away the whole morning, was making his way towards the feeding trough, when a lean and sour household cur which appeared to envy him his swinish beauty, and easy-life rotoundity, maliciously bit him in the breech, and drove him snorting between the legs of the newly-dressed curate; so that the reverend gentleman was thrown headlong into the mass of muck, uniting the nature of matter and fluidity.

“The son of Catty shall pay for all,” muttered the enraged Inco Evans, as the servant cleansed his soiled sables. Thus when poor Twm was flogged next morning, with the leniency that the tired arm of the pedagogue alone afforded, he had to answer for the sins of the hog and the dog as well as his own—and all for playing whirligoogan with the parson’s buttons!