Watt, the mole-catcher, in a pleasant mood. Twm hears of his old love, Gwenny Cadwgan. Tom Dorbell, and his feats. Another adventure with a knight of the road.

Twm had reason to be satisfied with his progress on his road to London, for he had met danger, and his wit and ingenuity had proved equal to any emergency. But success did not make him over-confident, and consequently careless; but, on finding himself yet seventy-four miles from his journey’s end, he prepared for more trials of his skill and courage. He was sent for next morning by the mayor of Marlborough, who had heard of his adventure, and required to bring the horse with him, which he had so adroitly won.

Many gentlemen having assembled at the entrance to the town-hall, our hero appeared in all the pride of a conqueror, mounted on his goodly steed; although so humbly clad, their hats were doffed, and loud shouts of applause were immediately given. It was soon ascertained by the mayor and the gentlemen present, that the horse was regularly bred to the road, and instructed by a highwayman, therefore, not, as at first conjectured, the property of any person deprived of it by one of these free-faring gentry; consequently, his worship, with many comments on his cleverness and courage told our hero that the horse was his own by right of conquest; but that if he were inclined to part with it, he would give forty pounds for it Twm directly assented; and the money was paid to him the same morning.

Being now in want of an animal on which to continue his travel, Twm determined to walk on to Hungerford, and purchase one nearly like the one he had set out upon at the commencement of his journey, as he was still of the same opinion, that the less temptation in his outward appearance to the gentlemen of the road, the less likely were they to interfere with him.

About three miles out of Hungerford, he saw before him a pig-drover, with a large herd of porkers, that he alternately cursed in his ancient British tongue, and cut up with a whip; while at intervals between these amusing recreations he loudly sang, or roared, certain scraps of Welsh songs. Twm’s ear was quick in recognizing the well-known voice, and he soon stood side by side with his old friend Watt the mole-catcher. After mutual expressions of wonder and congratulation, Twm immediately asked him how his mother was, as well as farmer Cadwgan and his daughter Gwenny.

Watt replied that his mother and her husband were well; but instead of answering the latter question, enquired his adventures since he left Tregaron. Twm, with animated vanity, ran over that bright portion of his history, occasionally heightening the colour of events, according to the general practice of story-tellers, from time immemorial; dwelling particularly on his fortunate preservation of the lady of Ystrad Feen, and the benefits which accrued to him in consequence, from the liberality of Sir George Devereaux, whose confidential agent he then was, on business of the utmost importance, to London.

These extraordinary events were intended by Twm to astonish the sulky-looking mole-catcher, Watt, who was not in an impressionable mood; but Twm, nothing daunted, still ran on, saying, in allusion to his “friend” Sir George,—“Well, Watt, were he ten times as rich and happy as he is, I should never envy him any thing he possessed, but one lovely piece of property.” “And what might that be?” asked Watt. “Why,” replied the other, “could I once forget poor Gwenny Cadwgan, which I never can, I should envy him the possession of his charming young wife, the beautiful lady of Ystrad Feen—the finest, the handsomest, and cleverest woman I ever saw! and although now married to a second husband, she is little more than one-and-twenty years of age. But I was asking of my old sweet-heart Gwenny, poor Gwenny Cadwgan.”

“Poor Gwenny Cadwgan indeed!” echoed Watt.

The sneering manner in which the mole-catcher spoke this, alarmed our hero; “What of her, Watt?” cried he eagerly; “is anything the matter? tell me quickly, for Heaven’s sake!” Watt replied evasively, that great trouble had come to both her and her father, in consequence of their having harboured him when the hue and cry was up. That fact, he said, was discovered a few days after his disappearance, by old Rachel Ketch, who sold the secret to the Squire for the highest price she could get; and would have sold her own soul on similar terms to the Devil himself.

Twm observed Watt writhing as he spoke, and struggling inwardly, with some terrible feeling, that for awhile deprived him of utterance. He noticed with regret the deep furrows of worldly care on his cheek, so lately ruddy and mirthful; and thought he observed a sinister expression in his sunken eye and trembling lips, that now were paler than his sallow face. Fiercely resenting the closeness of our hero’s scrutiny by an assumption of rude abruptness, he said “but why do I waste time in talking here, when—but I must be off—good-bye!”

“But you have not told me of Gwenny and her father,” quote Twm, in amazement at his demeanour.

“That is soon told,” replied Watt, pettishly; “the squire turned him out of his farm, and made so many claims one sort or other, that Cadwgan was beggared, and left him so poor that he could scarcely take a cottage for himself and daughter. If I hadn’t let him mine, he would have had none.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed Twm, “thy hovel for farmer Cadwgan and the gentle Gwenny!”

“Why not?” replied Watt, with a lowering brow; “is he not a day labourer? it served me when I was one, for many a bitter day. His daughter too, the dainty Gwenny, she was too good for me—turned with scorn from poor Watt the mole-catcher—but never mind! she was a bit of a sweet-heart of thine too, Twm, I remember; but set thy heart at rest, lad, if she won’t be mine, she will never be thine, at any rate.”

All this was uttered in a tone of bitter sarcasm, that both surprised and enraged our hero; especially when he thus learned from his own mouth that Watt had sought to win the affections of the fair and generous Gwenny Cadwgan. He replied—“Well, the devil take thee when he will, for he must have marked thee for his own, long since, or thou wouldst never have had the impudence to court Gwenny Cadwgan!”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Watt, with a bitter snarl; “she will never be thine nor mine! so don’t burden thy memory with one who has already forgotten thee. Farewell! and better luck with thy next sweet-heart!” With that he cracked his whip and drove on his herd of swine, with an air of excited fierceness that was actually fearful to witness.

So much hurt was Twm at the bearing and conduct of Watt that he allowed him to go without asking more questions. His sorrow to hear of the change in the fortunes of Cadwgan and his lovely daughter, threw a heavy cloud over his mind; and he regretted that his remittance to him, by the hand of his friend, was so small. He felt rather relieved by the reflection that however small the sum was, it would be deemed a “God-send” to them under present circumstances; and at the same time prove to friends that he was not unmindful of them, nor ungrateful for their boundless kindness in his dark days of peril. However, he felt somewhat embittered by the insinuations of Watt, that the fair Gwenny’s regard for him was on the wane, if not altogether given to another; and right glad would he have been to learn the exact bearing of the whole affair, at which the mole-catcher’s hints but darkly hinted.

Twm was detained at Hungerford for some days, by starving weather; and while looking about for another animal, was taken by an old pedlar, down a green lane, to a creature of his, left there to graze. He was not a little surprised to find it to be his own pony, left in exchange with the highwayman, having on his back the identical pack-saddle in which he had formerly concealed his money. Twm made a purchase of both, and the next morning took his departure from Hungerford.

His enforced leisure at Hungerford had not been unprofitably spent, for he had listened attentively to the conversation of the different drinking parties at the tavern where he stayed; and found the dangers of the road to be the general theme. The great hero of the turnpikes at this time, was a certain knight of the road called the Gallant Glover, alias Tom Dorbell, originally a leather-breeches maker and glover. It appeared that he was a man who, by his shrewdness in general, as well as particular instances of cunning, combined with his dauntless daring, had become so much an object of admiration to those who had nothing to lose, as of terror to the men of money, who had become the victims of his audacity.

The following anecdote of him, told by one of these tavern worthies, interested our worthy much, and had the effect of putting him on his mettle, in case of an accidental meeting with him during his journey.

It seems, a gentleman’s son was taken for robbing on the highway; and as he had been formerly pardoned, he despaired of mercy a second time. Upon this, Tom Dorbell opened a treaty with his wealthy relatives, and undertook, for five hundred pounds, to bring him off. It was stipulated and agreed to, that one half of that sum be paid in hand, and the other half when the deliverance was effected. On the trial of the young gentleman, he was found guilty; but just as the judge was about to pass sentence, Tom Dorbell cried out “Oh! what a sad thing it is to shed innocent blood!” and continuing to reiterate the expression, he was apprehended, and the judge asked him what he meant by such exclamations, he answered,—“May it please your Lordship, it is a dreadful thing for a man to die wrongfully; but one may see how hard-mouthed some people are, by the witnesses swearing that this gentleman now at the bar robbed them on the highway, at the time stated in the indictment, when, indeed, my Lord, I was the person who committed that robbery.”

Accordingly the “Gallant Glover” was taken into custody, and the young gentleman liberated. Being brought to trial the following assizes, to the astonishment of the court, he pleaded not guilty. “Not guilty!” exclaimed the judge in a voice of thunder, “did you not at the last assizes own yourself guilty of the robbery in question?”

“I don’t know,” replied Tom Dorbell, as meek as a mouse, “how far I was guilty then, but, upon my word, I am not guilty now; therefore, if any person can accuse me of committing such a robbery, I desire them to prove the same.” No witnesses appearing, the Gallant Glover was of course acquitted.

What Twm had heard about the Gallant Glover and his achievements, warned him that fresh trials on the road awaited him; but he was no “Bob Acre,” and, “screwing his courage to the sticking-point,” he manfully resumed his journey.

He had got within ten miles of Reading, in Berkshire, anxiously hoping to reach it without disaster, when the sudden discharge of a pistol, close to his ear, convinced him that he was in the centre of danger. Instantly a horseman, well mounted, rode fiercely down a lane that entered the road, and ordered him to stop and deliver in a minute, or have his brains scattered on the hedge beside him.“Catch a weasel asleep!” You might do that, but to surprise Twm Shon Catty when he had reason to be on the alert, was almost impossible. Assuming an air of clownish simplicity, he replied, “Lord bless ye master, I ha gotten nothing to deliver but an old testament, a crooked sixpence, and a broken fish-hook, and—and—” “And what, you prevaricating young scoundrel!” roared the highwayman. “Why, this purse,” continued Twm, “which uncle Timothy gave I to market for him, and pay his bills at Reading to-morrow;” producing at the same time an old stocking, which he had stuffed with old nails and cockle shells, in order to make a jingle. [210] The robber made a grasp at the supposed well-stocked purse, which Twm dexterously evaded, and flung it over the hedge into the adjoining field, riding on; while the former instantly alighted, blustering out a string of oaths and threats as he made his way to the field to search for the coveted treasure.

Twm was, of course aware that as soon as the robber had discovered how he had been tricked, that he would doubtless ride after him, and in his rage, shoot him on the spot. As Twm’s poor pony would have no chance in a race with the highwayman’s high-spirited charger, he determined that a daring act, if carried out successfully, would both ensure his safety and prove profitable to him likewise. The knight of the road, when he alighted, had thrown his bridle over a hedge-stake; so Twm, abandoning his pony for the second time, watched the robber into the field, crawled along the ditch till he reached his horse, which he instantly seized by the bridle, mounted and rode off in a hot gallop, till he got safe into the ancient town of Reading, as the clear-toned bells of St. Lawrence were chiming their last evening peal.