Twm assumes various disguises, and accomplishes many clever things at Llandovery fair. A strange scene in a court of justice. Twm flies and is pursued.

Twm set off to Llandovery fair with a fluttering heart and hopeful anticipations of seeing his mistress, and planned another little drama, in which he intended the grey horse should have an important part.

Much to their credit, the neighbouring gentry had recently opened a subscription for rebuilding between thirty and forty poor people’s houses, which had unfortunately been burnt down; and our hero resolved that every farthing henceforward gained by the grey horse, or otherwise, clandestinely, should be appropriated to this laudable purpose. It was no small satisfaction to him to find that, while it mortified the purse-proud vanity of the haughty squires to see so large a sum attached to his name, it had the good effect of increasing their contributions, resolved not to be outdone, in money matters at least, by so obscure a personage as Twm.

It was necessary for him to disguise himself thoroughly, for he intended, in the first place, to offer the horse for sale. He decided to dress as a country booby; and after he had finished, his most intimate friend would have been puzzled to recognize him. Twm Shon Catty, (we beg his pardon,) Mr. Thomas Jones was effectually concealed in the rough garb of a Welsh country ploughman. His feet got thrust into a very heavy pair of clogs, or wooden-soled shoes, which being stiff and large, maintained such a haughty independence of the inmates, as to need being tied on by a hay-band. His legs were enveloped in a pair of wheat-stalk leggings, or bands of twisted straw, winding round and round, and covering them from the knee to the ankle.A raw hairy cow-hide formed the material of his inexpressibles, which were loose, like trowsers cut at the knee; and his jerkin was of a brick-dust red, with black stripes, like the faded garb of the Carmarthenshire women. A load of red locks, straight as a bunch of carrots, hung dangling behind, but in front rather matted and entangled, quite innocent of the slightest acquaintance with that useful article, a comb; the whole surmounted with a soldier’s cast-off Monmouth cap, so highly varnished with grease, as to appear waterproof.

Without any apology for a waistcoat, he wore a blue flannel shirt, striped with white, opened from the chin to the waistband, to contain his enormous cargo of bread and cheese and leeks, which, as he was continually drawing upon his store, stood a chance of all becoming wholly inside passengers. Added to this, his booby gait and stupid vacant stare was such that he might have passed muster anywhere for what he pretended to be.

He took up his post on the outskirts of the town, preferring that position to elbowing his way through the busy crowd in the middle of the fair. He did not appear anxious for a customer, and munched his bread and cheese and onions with quiet perseverance. Many persons, in passing by, gazed with wonder at this piece of cloddish rusticity, and asked if the horse was for sale; but receiving such drivelling and dolt-like answers, that it became a matter of wonder who could have trusted their property to such an oaf.

When Twm had stood some time, patiently bearing the ridicule of many bystanders, who cracked jokes at his expense, a gentlemen, well-mounted on a chestnut-coloured hunter, entered the town, and cast an eager eye at the grey horse. Twm recognized him at a glance as a Breconshire magistrate, named Powell, one of the many rejected admirers of the lady of Ystrad Feen. Riding up to our hero, he asked if the horse was for sale. Twm answered in broken English, imitating the dialect of the lower class, “I don’t no but it iss, if I cann get somebody that is not wice, look you, somebody that was fools to buy him.”

“But why,” asked the gentleman, “don’t you take him into the horse-fair?”

“Why inteed to goodness,” answered Twm, “I was shame to take him there; for look you, he has a fault on him, and I do not find in my heart and my conscience to take honest people in with a horse that has a fault on him, for all master did send me here to sell him.”

“Well, and what is this mighty fault?” asked the stranger, smiling.

“Why inteed to goodness and mercy,” replied Twm, “it was a fault that do spoil him—it was a fault that—”

“But what is the fault?” asked the Breconshire magistrate impatiently: “give it a name, man.”

“Why inteed to goodness,” replied the scrupulous horse-dealer, “I will tell you like an honest christian man, without more worts about it; I will make my sacrament and bible oaths”—“I don’t ask your oath,” cried Powell, almost out of humour, “merely tell me in word, what ails the horse?”

“Inteed and upon my soul and conscience to boot, I can’t say what do ail him.” “You can’t?” cried Powell in an angry tone, and looking as surprised and wrath as might be expected from a proud Breconian; “Confound me if I do,” replied Twm, “but I will tell you why he was no good to master; it wass thiss—Master iss a parson, a gentleman parson, not a poor curate, one mister Inco Evans, rector of Tregaron, and the white hairs do come off the grey horse here, and stick upon his best black coat and preeches; and that was his fault.”

This was a curious reason for disposing of so good-a-looking animal as that Twm held by the bridle, and one that did not deter Powell from buying him without further parley, and paying for him there and then. He disappeared with his prize, wondering at the stupid dolt from whom his purchase had been made.Twm retired now to a small public-house, where having asked for a bed-room, he contrived, after making a total change in his garb, to slip out again unperceived, not wishing, for various reasons, to appear before his mistress in propria personÆ. He now wore a grey sober suit, shining black buckles, stockings of the wool of a black sheep, and a knitted Welsh wig, of the same, that fitted him like a skullcap, and concealed every lock of his hair. Thus arrayed, he presented the appearance of a grave puritanical farmer, from the remote district of Cardiganshire.

After gazing awhile at the motley crowd that constitutes a fair, in a Welsh country town, he noticed a well-known crone, who had the reputation of being exceedingly covetous. Lean, yellow, and decrepid, her ferret-eyes glanced eagerly about for a customer, as she held beneath her arm a large roil of stout striped flannel. Twm, unobserved, took his stand behind her, and dexterously stitching her bale to his coat, he, with a sudden jerk, transferred it from the old woman’s grasp to his own. Her wonder and dismay was unutterable.

Elbowed and tossed about by the bustling crowd who were passing to and fro, she knew not who to vent her spleen upon; but, in utter despair, set up a tremendous howl, as a requiem for her beloved departed. Instead of seeking the assistance of a light pair of heels, Twm scarcely moved a yard, but drew from his pocket a little black tobacco-pipe, and puffed a cloud with admirable coolness, while his right arm lovingly embraced the bale of flannel.

Roused by the old beldame’s outrageous expressions of grief and fury, he asked in a very pathetic tone, the cause of her sorrow, which she related with many curses, sobs, and furious exclamations. Shocked at her impiety, and want of resignation, Twm took upon him to rebuke her, and edified her much, by a discourse on the virtue of patience; assuring her she ought to thank heaven that she was not a neglected being. In conclusion, he remarked, that fairs and markets in these degenerate days were so sadly infested with rogues and vagabonds, that an honest person was completely encompassed by dangers.

“Now for my part,” continued he, “I never enter such places without previously sewing my goods to my clothes, which you ought also to have done, in this manner.”—showing at the same time, the roll beneath his arm, which he thought the old crone’s eyes had glanced on, with something like a light of suspicion, that instantly vanished, on this notable display and explanation.

Our hero’s appetite only grew by what it fed upon, and the taste of fun he had as yet been able to snatch only made him wish for more. He did not wait long for an opportunity; it was his habit to be so; he either met “opportunity” half-way or entirely created his chance, making circumstances, in a measure, contribute to his especial purposes.

Casting a sharp glance around, he saw making towards him, a man of the cadaverous aspect, one who was an entire stranger to substantial creature comforts, or, if not, one who “shamed his pasture” considerably.

On closer scrutiny, Twm saw it was his old friend Moses, whose hungry stomach had kept him hopelessly poor. Moses advanced and tried to bargain for a few yards of his flannel; but on reckoning his money found he could not come up to the price, as he said he had to buy a three legged iron pot, in addition to a winter petticoat for his wife: “and,” observed the man of tatters, with a grin of miserable mirth, “it will be better for her to go without flannel than our whole family to want a porridge pot.”

Twm liked Moses, but not his logic; which implied a want of courtesy and due deference to his better half, whose indisputable right to warm petticoats claimed precedence to all the pots, pans, and every earthly consideration.

“Here take this bale, take it all, for I have lost my yard and scissors, and pay me when you grow rich;—confound your thanks! away with you, bestow it safe, then return here; perhaps I may get thee an iron pot at as cheap a rate as the flannel.”

Moses did not want twice bidding to induce him to avail himself of his good fortune, but entering into the spirit of the scene at once, appeared to understand our hero’s joking propensities, although he had no suspicion that it was the veritable Twm himself. Off Moses ran with his enormous present, and immediately returned; when our hero accompanied him to the shop of an old curmudgeon of an ironmonger, whose face, hardly distinguishable behind his habitual screen of snuff and spectacles, seemed of the same material as his own hardware.

The man of rags was quite in luck, and as instructed, followed his benefactor into the shop in silence. Twm examined the culinary ware, with all the caution of an old farm-wife, asking the prices of various articles, and turned up the whites of his eyes in the most approved puritanic fashion, expressive of astonishment at such excessive charges. Old hammerhead repelled the insinuation, and swore that cheaper or better pots were never seen in the kitchen of a king. “Then you must mean the king of the beggars,” quoth Twm, “for you have nothing here but damaged ware.”

“Damaged devil! what do you mean?” roared the enraged ironmonger. “I mean,” replied Twm Shon Catty, with provoking equanimity, “that there is scarcely a pot here without a hole in it; now this which I hold in my hand for instance, has one.” “Where! where!” asked the fiery old shop keeper, holding it up between his eyes and the light: “if there is a hole in this pot, I’ll eat it: where is the hole that you speak of?” “Here!” bawls the inexorable hoaxer, pulling it over his ears, and holding it there, while Moses took the wink from his patron, and walked off with a most choice article, which he had selected from the whole lot.Here was a predicament for a respectable old tradesman! Our hero fairly held his sides with laughter as the old curmudgeon sprawled about, vainly endeavouring to free himself from the pot, in which his terrible shouts for help were entirely lost. Having tied his hands behind his back, Twm left him howling and sweating beneath his huge extinguisher, and made as he took his departure, this consolatory speech—“Had there not been a hole in it how could that large stupid knob of yours have entered such a helmet?”

Twm left the enraged ironmonger to get out of his dilemma as best he could, having very little sympathy with him in his distress. When once more in the street, he found that the people were all moving in one direction, and Twm discovered shortly that there was some unusual attraction at the Town Hall. As the assemblage increased, the way, like a choaked mill-dam, became more and more impeded, until the whole restless mass was consolidated, and stood still perforce.

Our hero had forced his way till near the entrance of the hall, where he ventured to ask what cause had drawn together such a crowd; but he got no immediate answer, as many came there, like himself, drawn by the powerful influence of curiosity.

At length he heard his own name buzzed about; one said that Twm Shon Catty whose humorous tricks were the themes of every tongue, was discovered to be a great thief: and that he who had fought against highwaymen, had at last become one himself, and committed all the robberies which had taken place in that country for years past. One said that he could never be taken; and a third contradicted that assertion, declaring that he was then fettered in the hall, and waiting to be conveyed to Carmarthen gaol. One assigned him to the gallows as his due, while another tenderly replied that hanging was too good for him. Opposing the sentiments and opinions of all these, more than one declared that the hemp was neither spun nor grown that would hang Twm; and pity it should, as he was a friend of the poor, and an enemy to none but the stupid, the cruel, and the oppressive.

The disputed argument was disposed of summarily by the appearance of an important functionary, resplendent in the gorgeous dress which he wore in virtue of his exalted office. This individual, who was the town crier, obtaining silence, informed the assembled multitude that the magistrates who were now sitting, required that any “person or persons” who might have been defrauded in the fair, should now come forward, so as to form a clue towards the identity of the robber, which it was generally believed was no other than the notorious Twm Shon Catty. The crier retired, and in a few minutes re-appeared, and read the court’s proclamation, offering a reward of twenty pounds to any person who would apprehend the said Twm Shon Catty; which was answered with loud hisses by the majority of the crowd, and effectually drowned the applause of the rest.

This was a most flattering ovation for Twm, and his spirits rose accordingly; while, at the same time, he felt himself aggrieved by this public proclamation concerning him by the authorities, who, he considered, had, in this instance, somewhat exceeded their vocation. He resolved to “beard the lion in his den,” or in other words, to enter the hall and give the lie to any base-minded cur who should dare to associate his name with common robbers and felons.

Softly, Twm, softly, my boy! On second thoughts he came to the conclusion that that would not be quite prudent—he would make his way into the Hall of Justice, and preserving his disguise, see how matters were progressing, and try if he could not secure a little personal entertainment for himself.

Daring Twm! thy genius adapted itself to circumstances; many people would be doubtless astonished that our hero should venture on such cause, but when enthusiasm, and the pride of achievement, even in a worthless cause, actuates the passion-fraught breast, supplanting the place of reasoning calculation, the wonder vanishes. The desperate outlaw, whose temerity is applauded, feels the gust of heroism in as warm a degree as the generous patriot whose claim to renown is better founded and graced with national approbation. Twm soon found himself in the hall; for it was his own native energies stood him in better stead than the fabled cap of Fortunatus: he wished, and obtained; hated, and was revenged; desired to tread a difficulty under foot, and gained his purpose; while the generality of men would be analyzing every shadow of obstruction that impeded their aim.

He took his stand in a conspicuous place near the bench, the “awful judgment-seat,” which was at this time filled by three magistrates including his laughter-loving friend Prothero, whose ruddy happy round face deprived law itself of half its terrors. Before him, he found his old friend Evans of Tregaron, who had been sputtering a confused account of our hero’s gracelessness from his childhood, to the last trick he had played him, by stealing his grey horse at Machynlleth. How he had cheated the heir of Graspacre-Hall of the horse at Welshpool; and how the same horse was traced into the possession of a simple fellow in straw boots and cow-hide breeches, who that very day had sold it to his friend Mr. Powell; which sale, he contended, could not stand good, as the stolen horse was his property to all intents and purposes, which he could prove by credible witnesses.

This recapitulation of Twm’s tricks tickled the gravity of Prothero amazingly; and at every pause which Evans made in his narration, he was answered by the loud “ho, ho, ho!” of that merry magistrate.

Mr. Powell then told his story, and, in conclusion, said he was in the commission of the peace in the town of Brecon. “Ho, ho, ho!” roared Prothero, “here we are, three magistrates, ho, ho, ho! three magistrates, and all fooled by Twm Shon Catty.—Clever fellow, ho, ho, ho! wild dog, ho, ho, ho!—means no great harm—never keeps what he steals—gives all to the poor fellows that want—ho, ho, ho! Never mind, gentlemen, the fun of the thing repays the loss, which can be shared between you. Let Mr. Evans take the horse, on paying Mr. Powell what he gave young cow-breeches, ho, ho, ho! better than lose all.”

Mr. Powell immediately acceded to the arrangement, but the unaccommodating Evans insisted on having the horse without the payment, and made some tart remarks on conniving at a rascal’s tricks and villanies. “For my part, I’d shoot him dead like a dog!” cried the reverend preacher of peace and concord; drawing at the same time, a pair of pistols from his pocket, and replacing them, in a fiery fit of passion. “Ho, ho, ho!” roared Prothero, “but you’d catch him first, brother, ho, ho, ho!—too cunning for you, for me, and all of us—might be here this moment, laughing in his sleeve at us, for what we know, ho, ho, ho!”

Twm thought it was now time to be taking a more active part in the scene, so taking out a small book, while appearing to be deeply absorbed in its perusal, he gave a deep groan as if much moved by what he read, and the mourning sound at once attracted notice.

Prothero, alive to everything allied to comicality, burst out into a loud ho, ho, ho! Evans arrayed his naturally gloomy brows in a magisterial frown, and Powell smiled, with an expression of wonder. “What are you reading, friend?” asked Prothero, chuckling as he surveyed the black Welsh wig. “The wisdom of Solomon,” quoth the man of solemnity, drawing the muscles of his face most ludicrously long; “but mark you, worshipful gentlemen, I mean not the Solomon of the scriptures, but our own Cambrian Solomon—that is to say, Catwg the Wise, the excellent and erudite abbot of Llancarvan, and teacher of the Bard Taliesin.”

“That’s all right enough. Catwg was doubtless a clever man, but why do you bring him here?” enquired Prothero, with a broad smile on his face. “Wherever I go, I have resolved to make his wisdom known, and to reprove all deviators from it, in the sage’s own words,” quoth Twm. “Poor man, poor man, he’s crazy, his brain turned, perhaps by too much study,” observed Prothero. “An impudent fellow!” cried Evans; “but you are strangely lenient here in Carmarthenshire; were I the king, I would have such fellows put in Bedlam.”

Twm looked at the clerical magistrate, then read from the book, “If a crown were worn by every fool, we should all of us be kings.” “Gentlemen, he calls us all fools!” cried Evans. Twm, without raising his eyes from the book, read on, “were there horns on the head of every fool, a good sum might be gained by showing a bald man.” “Gentlemen, he makes us all cuckolds!” cried Evans, in his usual sputter; “however it may fit you, gentlemen, I can safely say, that no disgrace as a horn belongs to my brow.”

Twm read on:—“If the shame of every one were written on his forehead, the materials for masks would be surprisingly dear.” “Ho, ho, ho!” roared Prothero, till the hall echoed with his loud laughter, which the Cardiganshire magistrate seemed to take as a personal affront, and sulkily observed, that this was no place for foolery, but for gravity, wisdom, and truth.

Twm read on:—“If no tongue were to speak other than truth and wisdom, the number of mutes would be astonishingly great.” The consequential Inco, mumbled something about his own mode of doing business at Cardigan, and declared that he would commit such a fellow to gaol for three months, at least, for disturbing a court of justice. Twm cut him short with another passage from Catwg:—“Were the talkative to perceive the folly of his chattering, he would save his breath to cool his broth.”

Here Powell of Brecon entered a little into the spirit of the scene, by quoting also from the well-known aphorisms of Catwg, applying the passage to Twm himself;—“If the buffoon were to see the vanity of his feat, he would leave it off for shame.” This feeble hit excited the applause of the good-humoured Prothero, who clapped the speaker heartily on the back, and, amid his eternal ho, ho, ho! exclaimed, “Well said, brother, well said; better silence him with wit than by authority; well done, well done.”

Twm was not slow in taking up the gauntlet which the Breconshire magistrate had thrown at his feet, and so turning pointedly to him, he read;—“If the lover were to see his weakness, terror would drive him to a premature end.” A general laugh at the expense of Powell, instantly followed. To him that passage was considered peculiarly applicable, as the unsuccessful woer of the gay widow of Ystrad Feen. It was a tender string to touch so roughly. Losing his ease and temper at the same instant, he cast a most ungracious frown at the utterer of proverbs, and said in an undertone of threatening energy, “Whoever you may be, it were not wise of you to repeat such conduct towards me again.” “Again?” said Twm, pretending to misunderstand him, “Oh, certainly, I’ll give you the passage again, or any other, to you; ‘If the lover—’” here Powell’s face blazed with anger, as he clenched his fist, and cried, “You had better not.”

Twm began again,—“If the lover—of war, were to see his cruelty, he would fear that every atom in the sunbeam might stab him as a sword.” The dexterous evasion, with the point given to the words “of war,” had its full effect in restoring the good humour, so suddenly disturbed; but that beautiful passage from the aphorisms of the old Welsh abbot failed to elicit the applause which its moral merits deserve.

At this moment the attention of all present was attracted by the noisy entrance of the ex-proprietress of the flannel, who almost deafened them by the vehemence of her complaints; which, however, were too incoherently expressed to be immediately understood.

“Oh! my roll of flannel, my fine, my excellent flannel! all of my own spinning too,—eight and twenty good yards, and a yard and a half wide—my wooden shoe too, that I lost in the crowd—and my poor corns trod off by the villains—my dear sweet flannel, all of my own carding and spinning—nobody but the devil himself, or his first cousin Twm Shon Catty, could have taken it in such a manner—it was whisked from me as if a whirlwind had swept it away.”

At length she paused for want of breath, and Twm approached her with the air of a comforter, and read from his book,—“Were a woman as quick with her feet as with her tongue, she would catch the lightning to kindle her fire in the morning.” It is probable that she did not perfectly hear this passage, as on perceiving Twm, she gave a shout of joy, and then as incoherently as before, appealed to the magistrate; “This honest man, your worship, knows it all. I told him, the moment I lost my flannel—this worthy man, your worship—a good man, a man who reads books, your worship, he can witness.”

This vehement outburst of eloquence was brought to a sudden termination, and the old woman’s wordy complaint effectually strangled by the laughter and applause which greeted the appearance of a more ridiculous applicant for justice and his right.

Supported by two constables, who rather dragged forward, than led him, came Twm’s friend the hardwareman, crowned with the identical iron pot before named, which the officers, as a matter of official formality, or to indulge their own facetiousness, refused to remove, till in the presence of a magistrate. When his laughter had a little subsided, Prothero ordered the pot to be removed, and his hands untied. The hardwareman then told his lamentable tale in a few words; in conclusion, he declared, that having overheard certain words between the robber and his accomplice, he had learned that the thief was no other than Twm Shon Catty. His eye now caught on the figure of our hero, and with a yell as astounding as if the eternal enemy of man stood before him, he cried, “There he is! there he is! As heaven shall save me, there stands the man, or devil, who crowned me with the iron pot, while his accomplice ran off with the other.”

“And who robbed me of my flannel!” roared the old woman, who now changed her opinion, as her earliest suspicions became thus suddenly confirmed.

“And who stole my grey horse!” bawled Evans of Tregaron.

“And who sold it to me when disguised in straw boots and cow-hide breeches!” cried Powell of Brecon, who had now closely examined his features.

Things looked desperate as far as Twm was concerned, as an attack was now made upon him by three or four of his most determined enemies; but Twm eluding their eager attempts to grasp him, sprang upon the table before the bench, and drawing a couple of pistols from his coat pockets, held one in each hand, and kept them all at bay, protesting he would shoot the first who would advance an inch towards him. Loud was his laughter when they all started back: but Prothero, now sat silently on the bench, alarmed for his safety, which he had thought to secure by giving him warning of his danger, in the feint of his proclaimed reward for his apprehension.

As he stood in this manner, with extended arms, watchful eyes, and grasping the pointed pistols with a finger to each trigger, Powell of Brecon exclaimed, “Thou art a clever fellow, by Jove, Twm! very clever for a Cardy; but wert thou with us, the quick-witted sons of Brecon, thou wouldst soon find thyself overmatched. I dare thee to enter Brecon, to trust to thy cunning—come there, and welcome, and thou shalt stand harmless of me, in the affair of the grey horse.” Twm smiled, and nodded, in token of having accepted his challenge.

Rather daunted by the failure of their first attempt to seize Twm, his assailants had held back awed by his resolute and defiant attitude, but recovering their courage on reflecting upon the odds against him, they now, headed by Evans of Tregaron, got behind him, and clung to his right arm, but with one violent effort Twm shook them away, as the mighty bull throws off the yelping curs that dare to attack him. Then, with a single leap, he sprang from the table into the crowded court, where a lane was formed for him, and rushed out of the door unimpeded, and pursued by his accusers. They soon lost sight of him among the moving multitude, some of whom dispersed from fear of accidents, while others followed him as spectators.

To the great astonishment of his pursuers they next caught a view of him mounted on that grand subject of contention, the grey horse. He took the route of Ystrad Feen, followed by several constables in the employ of Evans of Tregaron, and many disinterested persons from the fair. Loud were the shouts of the numerous riders; loud the tramp of galloping horses; and wild the disorder and terror created, as Twm at different intervals turned on his pursuers, and fired his pistols. This caused a powerful retrograde movement among them, by which the foremost horses fell back to those behind them, unhorsing some who lay groaning and crying with fright on the ground, and frightening others altogether from the pursuit.

It was on this occasion that a bard of that day wrote the stanza which appears on the title page, thus translated by the late Iolo Morganwg:—

“In Ystrad Feen a doleful sound
Pervades the hollow hills around;
The very stones with terror melt,
Such fear of Twn Shon Catty felt.”

Fortune still favoured Twm, who reaching the foot of Dinas somewhat in advance of his motley train of pursuers, dismounted, sprung from stone to stone, that formed the ford of the Tower, and climbed the steep side of that majestic mount, with the utmost ease. Like a prudent sea-captain, Twm was chased in his small boat by a fleet of rovers, till he reaches his own war-ship, and springs up her fort-like side, and treads his deck in the ecstasy of surmounted peril, conscious strength, and superiority.

Thus Twm now attained the summit of a prominent knoll, and waved his hand triumphantly, in defiance of his foes below. Evans of Tregaron, with his crew of catchpoles, made an attempt to climb also; Twm permitted them to advance about twenty yards above the river, when he ended the warfare, by rolling down several huge stones, that swept them in a mass into the bed of the river Towey, sadly bruised, but more frightened, from whence they were extricated by the amazed and terrified spectators.

Evans of Tregaron met with an accident, which during the remainder of his life reminded him of his hasty chase after Twm Shon Catty. In starting aside to avoid the dreadful leaping crags that threatened to crush him, his pistols went off in his pockets, and carried away, besides his coat skirts and the rear of his black breaches, a large portion of postern flesh, that deprived him forever after of that agreeable cushion which nature had provided.

Amusing to the population of Tregaron was the singular sight of their crest-fallen magistrate and his hated gang, brought home in woeful plight, as inside passenger of a dung-cart, which had been hired for the purpose; and more than all, that his discomfiture should have been caused by their long-lost countryman Twm Shon Catty.

Our hero was clearly in an unassailable position, and his enemies were not so stupid as to be entirely blind to that important fact. So, like a princely chieftain of the days of old, enthroned upon his native tower of strength, marking in his soul’s high pride the awkward predicament of his baffled foes, perceiving them all depart; leaving him the undisputed lord of his alpine territory, the glorious height of Dinas.

After witnessing, with his limbs stretched upon his mountain couch, the glorious beauty of the setting sun, he entered the cave, tore from its top a sufficiency of fern and heather to form his bed, threw on it his fatigued, over-exerted frame, and slept soundly until morning.