A sermon on mountains and country labourers. Twm retaliates upon Dio the devil, with whom he returns in triumph to Llandovery. The lady of Ystrad Feen, and Twm’s gallant service in her behalf.

As they advanced on their journey, which was amongst a most mountainous country, 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 is not to my liking—it is too dead in its deserted appearance for me. Here no sound salutes the ear but the lonely cry of a few melancholy kites, hungry enough to prey upon one another; and no object strikes 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 unenclosed 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. 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 semi-circular group—and above all, the smokeless cleanly stone coal; but turf, smoky, ill-savoured, ash-creating, dusty turf—recalls 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; worse than all, the joyless faces of the toil-bowed children of the desert. The old stanza is quite to my mind when it says—

“How gay seems the valley with rich waving wheat,
Fair hands 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 besides that,” added Twm, “I can give you a few rhyming lines of my own, bearing in the same direction. Here they are,

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.”

“Well,” replied Rhys, “do not let us find too much fault with these scenes, for the recollection of what our mountain land has been, would induce me to kiss the sod of its dullest region, when I remember how it became the refuge of our war-worsted fore-fathers in the days of old, as the star of liberty seemed to vanish for ever from our sphere.” The curate grew warm with his subject, and his eyes kindled with enthusiasm as he proceeded. “I could as soon twit my beloved mother with the furrows which Time has ploughed on her honoured brows, as censure the homeliest part of our dear mountains, hallowed of old by the tread of freemen, when the despot foreigner usurped the valleys.

“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 has kiss’d,
While on her brow the native wreath
Of yellow furze and purple heath
The rural reign her vales command,
And the freeman’s sword of the Mountain Land.”

Twm accepted the remarks of Rhys as rebukes, for his own depreciatory observations on his native country, and was about to clear himself from all suspicion of lack of nationality; when the latter, looking up at the sun, declared the day so far advanced that he must instantly mount his horse and ride with speed, so as to meet the vicar of Llandovery at the place appointed; on which, directing Twm on the route he was to take, he rode off and left him to pursue his way at leisure.

Thus left alone, Twm prepared for a lengthened walk, and pursued his way in thoughtful silence for many 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.

Taking a careful and critical view of the surrounding country, he came to the conclusion that there must be a road through bwlch, or gap, which he perceived dividing the mountains at some distance. 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.”

Twm’s face indicated his deep chagrin, as he listened to the response, and the old man seeing him vexed, 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 is 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 at 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 cornfield, 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 fiddler, or a vagrant harper, than the finest preacher that ever breathed out a pious discourse.”

This was too much for any woman to listen quietly to, without saying a word or two in reply, and his spouse assured 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 judgment come, till he caught an ague by hiding himself up to the chin in the river for twelve hours.

“Facts are stubborn things,” and as these were most unpleasant ones to be served up at his cost, for the entertainment of a stranger, the old man’s reply was angry and indignant, and the war of words seemed likely to degenerate into one of actual blows, when the violent galloping of a horse drew their attention, and in an instant a steed 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, that neither he nor 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-stack.

This scene had received all attention from Twm, who had recognized in the despotic horseman, his late dearly-remembered friend, Dio the devil. He suspected Dio’s intentions and prepared forthwith to take part in some approaching business in which his presence had not been reckoned upon. 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 his great vexation he could find no weapon, but a blunt old hatchet, and a rusty reaping hook.

While they were yet seeking, Twm’s ear, sharpened to the utmost by the excitement and impending danger, heard another horse approaching, 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.

As he still spoke, there stopped opposite the cottage, a lady on a beautiful white horse, and the horseman darted 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.

A momentary thrill, mysteriously strange and unaccountable, overcame our hero, as he caught a view of the lady’s face, and recognized one that he felt certain he had seen before; and when, or where, he could not recollect; and the enquiring thought was checked in its birth by the consideration of her present danger. “I’ll not be disappointed for nothing,” cried the ruffian, “Dio the devil is not to be fooled, and my pretty lady of Ystrad Feen, 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 fair and delicate body.”

The fair horseman begged for consideration, and promised a liberal reward for any mercy shown to her. 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 dismount, strip, and rifle her.

Our hero whose blood was boiling with honest indignation, now started up from behind the lady’s horse, and struck the highwayman an astounding blow on the temples, with a stout hedge-stake grasped with both hands, and repeated that delicate treatment till it brought the desperado senseless to the ground. After the first terrible blow, confused as he was, he instinctively presented his pistol at random, but Twm struck him heavily on the extended arm, which caused it to fall like a withered oak branch smote by the thunderbolt.

In a few minutes the lady began to recover under the kind and attentive treatment of the old woman, who bathed her face with water. How Twm was rewarded by the deeply grateful expression on her countenance! Truly he had delivered her from peril, but into what a difficulty had he brought himself! He was in love; over head and ears. The fair one appeared to be still in dread of other dangers, but 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 magistrate.

Poor Twm! The lady praising his courage, informed him that she was the wife of Sir George Devereaux, and that her husband would not allow his services to pass without pecuniary reward. Poor Twm! in love with another man’s wife, and that man with an aristocratic handle to his name. “For my own part,” continued she, “as I 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 relieved, and stayed with many hours this morning, by which delay 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 man who had once stopped him on the highway and robbed him of his little all. Our hero felt quite sure he had seen the lady before, and in endeavouring to remember where, he fell into a silent reverie; from which, however, he was suddenly roused by the loud groaning of his wounded captive.

The fears of the old man had driven him beneath the rickety old bedstead, and no threat nor offer of reward could induce him to leave his retreat, where he lay exclaiming, “Oh Lord! oh dear! I shall surely have my throat cut.” The lady of Ystrad Feen, 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 Feen, and conversing freely with her, no longer embarrassed with his former bashfulness, till they reached Llandovery.

The good people of the town were just leaving Llandingad church, and were considerably astonished with what they saw, and Twm and his fair companion were soon surrounded by a large and curious crowd. Sir George Devereaux, a ruddy and hearty fox-hunting Baronet, 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 favour to the utmost of his power; declaring at the same time that no possible reward could equal his deserts or repay his services.

All were delighted to hear of the defeat and capture of Dio the Devil, as, with very few exceptions, the farmers of that district had suffered from the highwayman’s depredations, and a subscription was immediately raised, to reward the captor; so that our hero was soon in possession of a sum of no less than ten pounds, in addition to five more that the county awarded.

Twm and Mr. Rhys received an invitation to dinner for the following day, at Ystrad Feen, where Sir George promised them good entertainment, and added that they would decide in what manner our hero’s gallant service could be best repaid. As for Dio the Devil, when the constables advanced to unloose him, it was discovered that he was dead. “Dead as a fox within the jaws of Juno!” exclaimed Sir George, as the lifeless robber fell heavily on the ground, amid the crowd of spectators.