Twm remains at Ystrad Feen. The vicar of Llandovery. A famous run with the hounds. An enthusiastic hunter’s leap.

Twm took up his abode, for the time, at a tavern recommended by Mr. Rhys, where, being decidedly the hero of the day, he was surrounded by a large company, all anxious to minister to the bodily wants of so brave a fellow, and wishful to hear the details of his desperate encounter with the famous robber, from the lips of Twm himself. Cautioned by the worthy curate, however, his potations were rather limited; and urging his fatigue as an excuse for retiring, he soon left his admirers, and slept on a bed of roses.

At an early hour Mr. Rhys awoke Twm, and told him that they were invited 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 more acceptable to Twm, as he was exceedingly anxious to see so celebrated a character as the vicar of Llandovery; though no less for his pious than his 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.

Twm was desirous to change his country suit for something better, and commenced negotiations with Mr. Rhys, for the purchase of one of the latest clerical cut from him. The worthy curate, however, cut him short, and generously presented him with one a little the worse for wear, that as the mass of mankind were apt to judge by external appearances, an appropriate garb would aid even a man of merit in making a favourable 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, for a bell, to call the boys to school. 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 in skimming over some dusty old volumes of divinity, till the clock struck six.

The worthy vicar received his visitors with a few brief but courteous sentences, in which he quietly yet earnestly expressed his gratification at their presence. Breakfast was preceded by prayers; after which came in bowls of milk and hot cakes, with cold meat, butter and cheese, and ale. 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.

Their host compared the physical capacity and appearance of Twm to the well developed and robust figure of Dio the Devil, and 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.

All justice having been done to the good things before them, grace was said, and Twm received some excellent advice from the celebrated divine, who 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.

In an hour or so afterwards, Rhys and Twm prepared for departure to Ystrad Feen, the latter mounting the noble hunter which Dio the Devil had so lately bestrode in all his arrogant pride. The road was entirely over the mountains, through diversified scenery of much interest. At times it ran above the edge of a deep ravine; at others, hills overtopped them, in peaks of various, fantastic forms; till a length succeeded the tame and 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.

Passing through a small ravine at the base of a well-wooded hill, they emerged suddenly upon a view which embraces the rural chapel of Boiley, the ornamented estate of Ystrad Feen, the hill of Dinas, and a glimpse of the river Towey. The ancient mansion of Ystrad Feen they found most romantically situated, 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; and the background was occupied by an almost endless perspective of forest, vale and mountain.

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

They were expected, for the baronet and his lady were awaiting their arrival, and hastened, as they appeared, to give them hearty welcome. It wanted about a couple of hours to dinner time, which interim Sir George wished to fill up by introducing them to his fox-hounds and pigs, while his lady urged the superior attractions of the lawn and flower-garden, to the terror of the sporting baronet, who seemed to consider her taste not only questionable, but absolutely depraved. Sir George shook his comical head in a comical manner, inferring a protest against their choice, when the young men decided on seeing the garden first, and the kennel and pig-stye after; a preference that seemed to involve an absolute inversion of the order of things, apparently, to his thinking.

What a contrast there was between the lady of Ystrad Feen and her lord and master! Twm’s attention was almost entirely taken up with the sweet and unaffected grace of the lady; but we must be impartial and take some notice of her husband. Sir George was a spare and somewhat tall figure, the erectness of which was frequently disturbed by what at first appeared some constitutional fidgetiness—a habit of perpetually drawing up, and letting down, his right shoulder; while he conversed in jerking short sentences, never standing still an instant when speaking. These peculiarities, at first sight, gave him the appearance of a man afflicted with St. Vitus’s dance; and affected the observer with the repulsive sensations endured by those who, from delicacy towards the afflicted, aim to conceal their notice of a personal blemish or deformity.

But this strange habit had its source in a fox-hunting accident that occurred in a chase wherein Sir George, in the heat and ardour of the pursuit, leapt down a terrific precipice in which the fox had sought cover. His noble hunter, named Dare-devil, was killed by the achievement of this feat, his own neck nearly broken, and his shoulder so dislocated and otherwise injured, that no surgical skill could cure him of the nervous affection which caused the continual restlessness alluded to.

Sir George, however, gloried in his dearly-bought triumph, and boasted like a veteran detailing the particulars of a famous battle in which he had figured; winding up his narrative with—“glorious and remarkable hunt—the world never saw the like—and I was solus in at the death—in a hell-hole that none but myself dared approach.”

His face was no less curious than his figure. He was rather small featured, with very light blue eyes; indeed so exceedingly light that they were often described as literally white; and when he gazed, with the wildness of imperfect consciousness, caused by indulgence in the potent cup, might give no inapt idea of Pygmalion’s marble statue, on its first wild stare when imbued with inward light and life; although his merry neighbour, Squire Prothero, summed their description up, less classically, as the nearest approach to a boiled salmon’s eyes, or the lack-lustre dullness of a couple of baked gooseberries. His face was fair, and much freckled in the upper part; while a shock head of closely-curling red hair, and white, or rather sandy eyebrows, concludes the description of this strange piece of eccentric manhood.

The walk through the garden was by no means to his taste. He did not understand flowers, and could not restrain his expression of impatience, protesting that there was nothing worth seeing there. “Besides,” added he, with the gravity of a philosopher who aimed to eradicate a vulgar error, and instil a superior principle, “flowers are bad—a great evil—showy nuisance—bank of violets often a snare to the hounds—like beauty to the boy, to lure him from the paths of duty;—but come and see my kennel—finest dogs in the world—no false charms there—they say truth’s hid in a well—all a mistake—she’s hid in the snouts of my fox-hounds;—strong as bulls, and swift as hell—a cannon ball’s a fool to them—deadly as the doctor wherever they rush—but what’s your name, my young CÆsar of the Welsh mountains, hey?”

Twm was too busy with the lady of Ystrad Feen to listen to the rattling tongue of Sir George, and Mr. Rhys hastened to give the story of Twm’s parentage, dwelling with much emphasis on the cruel neglect of his father, Sir John Wynn of Gwydir; and, in conclusion, he said his friend’s name, derived from his humble mother as well as from his stately father, was Thomas ap John a Catty, familiarized into Twm Shon Catty; but that which he intended to adopt, and desired to be known by, was Thomas Jones.

The promenade had, in the fox-hunter’s opinion, been unreasonably prolonged, and he hailed with delight their approach to his sanctum sanctorum, the dog-kennel, where he anticipated the delight of his visitors, when—how shall we express the intensity of his disappointment!—a voice struck on his ear, like the croak of the bird of ill-omen with the intelligence of “dinner waits!”

Fain would he have horse-whipped the intruding messenger, and expatiated with his friends on the absurdity of eating dinners, when the sublimer pastime of entering a kennel of fox-hounds was offered to them. But before he found words to his purpose he had the mortification to see his auditors accompany his lady wife into the house, where, musing on their questionable taste, he followed them.

We need not dwell on the delicacy of the viands, the rarity of the wines, the jocularity of Squire Prothero, the laughing magistrate, who dropped in and joined them after dinner; the beauty and fascination of Miss Meredith, the lady’s companion, who almost made a conquest of the heart of poor Rhys—and, above all, the captivating sweetness of our heroine, the young hostess! and other interesting details. But we must find space to say that a short hunt was got up, contrary to usual custom, in the evening, to save the baronet from dying of chagrin for his failure of exhibiting his animal treasures to his guests before dinner.

A young fox being started, our hero acquitted himself so amazingly to the satisfaction of his host by the most daring feats of leaping and yelling out, in the fox-hunter’s strain, “yoy, yoy, hark forward, wind him Juno!” and many other such expressions, that Sir George in the ecstacy of his feelings almost wept in the contemplation of such a promising genius, vowing that a year’s tuition under his first whipper-in would make him a truly great man, and a fit companion of princes. Grasping his hand with the tenacity of a blacksmith’s vice, he vowed that from that moment he had engrossed his name upon his heart, high on the list of his most choice friends.

Sir George was not one who limited his friendship to profession only; and, having learned from Twm his position in life, he became desirous to aid him permanently, and put him on the road to fortune, knowing right well that if he had only a glimpse of it, that he was wide awake enough never again to lose sight of it. He lost many nights’ rest in striving to settle this knotty point, and at last determined that he should live with him on the footing of a friend; indeed so necessary had he become to him in his hunts, that he at length declared it was impossible to part with him.

Thus, as an inmate of Ystrad Feen, Twm spent some of the happiest days of his life, for the best part of this, and the following year. Alternately hunting with the baronet and reading with his lady, who called him her hero, and made him an absolute show lion among her friends, Twm could not but feel this, as a remarkable contrast to the wretched life passed at the house of Morris Greeg.

Twm also enjoyed many happy hours with his staunch friend Rhys, at the houses of the surrounding rural potentates, where, on account of his brave reputation, and for his ready wit, so unsparingly lavished by him wherever he went, he speedily became a favourite. We shall close this somewhat long chapter with the relation of one of these adventures which gave universal satisfaction to his friends, and became the subject of remark and wonderment for many a year.

Llandovery was just at this time honoured by a visit from a London buck, who, thoroughly convinced of the utter darkness and benighted state of that retired district, had charitably come to reside amongst the miserable inhabitants thereof, that they might know and understand what civilization meant, as evinced in his own proper and illustrious person. He took a very ungracious way of teaching the important fact, for he did nothing but boast of the immense superiority of everything appertaining to his glorious self, and depreciate that which belonged to others.

Mr. Tomkins (that was his euphonious title) insisted that his gun, his fishing tackle, his boots, the cut of his coat, and everything that was his, was better than those belonging to any body else. But if there was one object above all others that engrossed his volubility, it was the praise of his horse; daily did he ring the changes on his wonderful animal, his feats, his beauty, blood, and pedigree, at every house where he visited.

One day after dinner at Ystrad Feen, in company with the baronet, Squire Prothero, our hero, and the ladies, he rudely asserted the superiority of his own horse to any in that country, when both our baronet and the squire seemed nettled at his disparaging remarks, which, had he not been his guest, it is probable Sir George would have resented.

He offered to wager fifty pounds that his horse should surpass the best of theirs in running or leaping, be the given feat what it might. Great and gratifying was their surprise when our hero, with much emphasis cried “done!” Adding, “I have a mare of no very splendid exterior that shall perform a feat, with myself on her back, that you and your boasted hunter dare not follow for your lives.”

“Done! for fifty pounds,” cried the London buck; “I’ll back him for a hundred, without knowing what he is at,” exclaimed the baronet; “And so will I,” roared and laughed the excited Squire Prothero. With unusual alacrity up rose all four, bent on having the bet lost or won instanter. “Now hasten all together up the hill towards Craig Ddu, and I will be with you in the cracking of a whip,” said Twm, as he hurried off in another direction. The two neighbours looked at each other, and wondered what would be the upshot of this adventure; but, having all faith in Twm, they attended the boastful Londoner to the place appointed.

The summit of Craig Ddu (the Black Rock) was soon reached, where they waited Twm’s arrival. The town-bred buck expressed impatience at the delay; adding with great complacency, “I intend, gentlemen, to teach this youngster a lesson that he will not forget as long as he lives.” “Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the portly Squire Prothero, “take care that he does not teach you one!” Scarcely were these words uttered when our hero appeared among them; but what was their dismay, and the sneers of his antagonist, when they beheld him mounted on a sorry old blind mare, scarcely worth a dozen shillings!

“You’ll do as I do?” asked our hero, addressing the Londoner, “or forfeit fifty pounds?” “That I will, and something more too!” cried the buck, vauntingly, “in which case the forfeit of that sum will be yours.”

“Agreed!” replied Twm; and gradually facing his animal towards a rising sward or ditch, that had been raised to prevent the cattle from falling over the almost perpendicular side of a deep ravine; “Now for it then,” cried he, imitating the sound of a trumpet, and spurring his sorry jade, “neck or nothing for the fifty pounds!” and at the word the blind mare reached the ditch, and obedient to the spur and rein, sprung over, and was out of sight in an instant.

“Good God, he has gone to a sure death!” cried Prothero; the stout heart of the baronet (accustomed as he was to such mad freaks,) seemed to have leapt to his throat and choked his utterance, as he expanded his singular white eyes in a chalky stare towards the spot of his disappearance. The party rode forward, and, with the most thrilling anxiety looked down the precipice.

Down at the bottom of the ravine, lay the poor old mare, evidently having concluded a hard life by an equally hard death. But they had no time for sympathy with the unfortunate beast; they were too anxious about its daring rider to waste much consideration on it. Their phrenzied eyes at length rested on the object of their search; scarcely six feet beneath their standing place lay the redoubted son of Catty, sound in wind and limb!

The baronet yelled a terrific view halloo that made the old rocks echo with his dissonance, and the kind-hearted old Prothero was so over-joyed at his safety that he actually failed to laugh. Our hero, who had dexterously thrown himself off at the critical instant that the mare sprung over, and fell, as he had calculated, on a projecting ledge, which was thickly covered with a mass of heath and long grass; so that, although rather stunned, he was but little hurt. An instant’s delay in throwing himself off would have precipitated him to the bottom, and the fate of the poor mare would have been his own.

Great was the delight of his friends to see him rise, and wave a handkerchief in token of his safety, and in a few minutes he stood before his disconcerted antagonist, who had calculated, from the appearance of the ground, that a race was the thing in contemplation; but when the feat here narrated took place, the pallid hue of his countenance evinced his inward feelings. “Now, sir, it is your turn,” cried our hero, bowing courteously to Mr. Tomkins, who looked paler and paler as he peered down the declivity; and as his eye for a moment rested on the dead mare in the bottom, his teeth chattered, and he turned away shuddering.

“I have no notion of such mad doings,” muttered the crest-fallen Mr. Tomkins. “Then you lose the bet,” cried Prothero; “which I can afford to pay, as well as any one here,” replied the Londoner, in a tone of haughty sulkiness, as he witnessed the applause bestowed on our hero by the admiring baronet and his friend the squire.

Mr. Tomkins rightly arguing that he had lost caste by this little transaction, had sense enough to leave the district and take his departure for town, dispensing with the ceremony of bidding farewell to any of those country friends, of whose hospitality he had so often partaken.