CHAPTER XX.
Twm is robbed by a highwayman. His meditations. Again is despoiled by a gipsy and a ballad-singer at Aberayon. He adopts the musical profession at Cardigan Fair.
Twm took a circuitous route over the mountains towards Lampeter, and, when he felt himself secure from pursuit, his first thought was to change his feminine attire for his own, as more convenient for riding, which was soon accomplished, and the suits changed places in the bundle. In his ignorance of the world, he scarce knew whither to direct his course after reaching Lampeter, where he arrived between one and two o’clock in the morning. He recollected that this was a central place, from which different roads led to Aberystwith, Llandovery, Carmarthen, Aberayon, and Cardigan; but found a difficulty in deciding which way to take.
It suddenly occurred to him that there was a fair at Cardigan the next day, and he determined to go there and sell the parson’s horse. The whole town being wrapped in slumbers, he was now at a stand, not knowing the road which led through Aberayon to Cardigan; but, rousing a cottager, he soon gained the necessary information, and proceeded on.
As he approached Aberayon, for the first time in his life, the distant roaring of the sea struck upon his ear, still increasing as he neared the ocean side. Wonder, awe, and even terror, were the successive sensations that agitated our hero. The saddening sobs of the mighty waters as they retreated from the shore, and the fearful fury of their rallying and re-assaulting the repulsing beach, with their successive wailing retreats, to gather the powers of the advancing tide, came on his soul like an accusing spirit that seemed to reproach him for his late misdeeds.
Severe self-accusing reflection on the atrocity of his last act, succeeded the triumphs of enmity that had first given a gust to its perpetration. Consciousness of guilt and terror of punishment at once assailed him, for he was yet young in crime. On the impulse of the moment, he determined to leave the parson’s nag behind him, and then return his cash and coat as early as possible.
While these bitter agitations were racking his breast, the clatter of a galloping horse increased his terrors, and he discerned both horse and rider making briskly towards him. Strange as it may appear, notwithstanding the opposite quarter from where the danger proceeded, in the wildness of his apprehensions he conceived it could be no other than Squire Graspacre, Parson Evans, and their party. He was actually glad when made to understand that the horseman was a highwayman. His unwelcome assailant quickly approached him and presenting his pistol, with a loud oath, to oblige “Dio the Devil” with all his cash and valuables, or prepare for immediate death.
The name of this terrific freebooter, who had, among many other descriptions of persons, robbed half the farmers in the country, and was supposed to have committed more than one murder, had its full effect upon Twm. He instantly resigned the parson’s purse, assuring him it was all he possessed and begged that he would allow him to retain a single angel; these terms, the robber, in a manner, acceded to, doubling his quest by giving two; but in return insisted on having his horse and great coat, which Twm gave up. Dio (whose name, by the way, is a familiar diminutive of David,) then with sarcastic politeness wished him good morning, and a pleasant journey! and galloped off in the direction of Lampeter, having the rein of the parson’s horse over his left arm.
No sooner had the highwaymen disappeared, than Twm was struck with a full conviction of the folly of the fears he had entertained, which by depressing his mind, he thought, led to confusedly yielding his property too easily: vowing to himself, after some reflection, that if possessed of a pair of pistols, no highwayman in the world should make him stand. His thoughts taking their course through this channel, wandered and diverged, till his mind rested on new, but perilous prospects.
“What a life,” thought he, “this Dio the Devil leads—a gentleman of the road—the terror of wealthy scoundrels, who are themselves the scourge of the hapless poor, that are starved into crime—famed, feared, and mained at the general cost, while many an honest fool toils like the gulled drudge-horse, crawls through the world half-starved, and is despised for meanness!” The weight and magnitude of his reflections were such as for a few moments to reduce him to absolute silence, when recovering himself, he continued, “What does it matter to me what others do? I shall please myself, and I don’t like hard work, nor do I care for coarse fare, and still less for great folk’s abuse and buffets; and if I had a pistol, why, I shouldn’t mind if—”
At this moment a countryman was about to pass him on the road, in whose hand he recognized his bundle, containing his feminine attire, which in his terror he had dropped, and it rolled from the side of the road, it seems, into the ditch, previous to the halt of the highwayman. Twm immediately claimed his property, but the fellow seemed disinclined to attend to him, until vehemently insisting on his right, he evinced an inclination to battle with him; when satisfied with this very convincing sort of logic, the clown made restitution.
His little affray with the would-be-dishonest countryman, had not obliterated the thought of our hero with respect to highwaymen, and their independent style of existence, and with his mind still occupied, with the gentlemen of the road, he came to a small public-house near Aberayon, but which was so inconveniently crowded that he could scarce find a seat.
With the exception of two or three fishermen and other seafarers, these were people who made a temporary halt on their way to Cardigan fair; low booth-keepers, fruit and gingerbread sellers, and suchlike. Twm called for beer and refreshment, and while eating, observed the habits of these strange people with much curiosity. He had contrived to squeeze himself into a window-seat between two females who sat apart and civilly made room for him, and pressed his acceptance of the place.
Twm was delighted with his new position, and he was not a little surprised with the contrast which the kindness and affability of his fair companions offered to the rude gestures and uncouth speech of the remainder of the party. He did not think worse of them when he discovered that one was a gipsy fortune-teller, and the other a ballad-singer. He could not do less, he thought, than ask them to partake of his cup, and they found themselves bound in honour, in their great devotion to his health, to return it empty each time he handed it to them full.
Such gallantry on the one hand, and confidence and affability on the other, begot a sudden friendship between them; the gipsy insisting upon telling his fortune gratis, and the ballad-singer on the acceptance of two or three favourite songs; while Twm reciprocating in the warmest style, their affectionate attentions, ordered indefinite supplies of “nut-brown,” on which he and his fair ones regaled to their hearts’ content.
While Twm was busily employed in looking over the bundle of ballads, among which he met many old friends, which he had frequently sung, one of the friendly nymphs was beckoned to, by a man at the opposite end of the kitchen, with whom they went out, and the gipsy soon followed them.
Our hero having selected the songs that pleased him, waited impatiently the return of the damsels. No sign of their re-appearance being visible, and all the fair people having left one by one, until Twm found himself quite alone, he inquired of the landlord if he knew where the young women had gone to. He said he did not, but that the whole party having paid him were gone off, and he had no further business with them.
Twm thought the ballad-singer a singular good-natured young woman, as she had left her bundles of melody with him, doubtless as a present, and merely taken herself away thus modestly, instead of ostentatiously proclaiming her gift, and receiving his thanks. His opinion was slightly changed, when wishful to pay the landlord, he found he had not a halfpenny in his pocket. His vexation and confusion were evident to mine host, who declared that his face was turned as white as the wall. Having searched every pocket over and over, at length the doleful tale came out that he had lost his money, and could not tell how.
“Why, as to that,” said the landlord, with bitter coolness, “if it is any satisfaction to know how you lost your money, I can tell you; it was by sitting between two thieves—a gipsy and a ballad-singer and what could you expect else from mixing with such cattle?” Poor Twm remained silent, in a miserable mood, with his elbows resting on the table, and with his temples in the palms of his hands, for a full half hour; when the landlord disturbed his meditations by asking payment for his fare; good-naturedly adding, “If you have no money, I don’t wish to be hard with you, you can merely leave your jacket with me instead.” “My jacket!” quoth he indignantly; “why that is ten times the value of what I owe you.” “That’s just as people think; but those are my terms, and you should be glad that I’ll take it in place of good hard cash,” was the reply of the uncompromising old fellow. The fishermen in the mean time passed on him their rough and scurvy jokes, one observing, “You can sing ballads without a jacket, so I advise you to go to the fair at Cardigan, where you may perhaps meet your old friends.”
Twm was too despondent to be much effected by these feeble attempts at wit, but he determined to accept the suggestion of the last speaker, and make his first appearance as a public vocalist in Cardigan, so without more ado he took off his jacket and gave it to the host, muttering a curse on his cruelty, and commenced his journey. The dress of Cadwgan’s wife was again put on, not only as a fit disguise for his minstrel vocation, but a more perfect guard against the weather than his own, since deprived of his upper-garment; and thus equipped he once more took to the road, his late experience having completely sobered him, and left him depressed in spirits, as he glanced at the scene in which he had been thoroughly victimized.
CHAPTER XXI.
Twm’s appearance as a “fair” ballad singer at Cardigan. A sudden alarm. Poor Parson Inco. Twm’s hasty flight.
“The longest lane has a turning,” and the weariest journey has an end, and at length Twm found himself in Cardigan, and prepared himself at once to commence his whimsical vocation. Although naturally bold, and more full of confidence than beseemed the modesty of youth, it was not without considerable efforts in struggling with some remains of diffidence that he at length ventured to sing in the public street; but he had fortified himself with a draught of strong beer, and his voice, in his own opinion, being almost unequalled in the country, he thought it foolish to hesitate. He fixed himself in rather an obscure part of the fair; but his musical voice and humorous execution of a comic song soon drew a crowd about him, and put his ballads in speedy request.
Adapting the usual gait and manner of street-vocalists, holding his hand to his mouth to secure increased power, he introduced each song with a whimsical description of its matter, in a strain of drollery that set the grinning rustics in high glee; “Here, my merry men and maidens,” quoth he, “is a pretty song about a young damsel, who was taken in by a false lover, that courted her for what he could get, and having wheedled her out of her heart and money, ran away and left her to wear the willow.”
THE SLIGHTED MAID’S LAMENT. [149]
In comfort and in credit,
By the side of Pen-y-vole
I lived:—all knew and said it,
None could my will control;
Until a worthless lover
Did try my heart to move:
Ah, soon my joys were over!
I listened to his love.From far he travelled to me,
Full many and many a night,
I thought he came to woo me—
My heart was all delight:
My cash he thought of gaining,
It was not me he sought,
E’er mourning and complaining
For clothes—and clothes I bought.A pair of shoes I placed him
Between his soles and ground,
With stockings then I graced him,
With hat his head I crown’d;
Red garters then I bought him,
At fair the best I saw,
To bind his hose, od rod him!
Instead of bands of straw.I bought him leather breeches
Strong as a barley sack,
And laid out half my riches
To clothe the beggar’s back;
I gave him money willing,
(Vexation now upbraids!)
With which the thankless villain
Soon treated other maids.When thus he had bereft me
Of cash, and ah, my heart!
The cruel rover left me,
It grieved me then to part;
Those clothes will rend in tatters,
They cannot last him long:
A curse attends such matters,
False lovers curse is strong!His coat will rend in creases,
His stockings break in holes,
His breeches go to pieces,
His shoes part from their soles;
His hair, like garden carrot,
Full soon will want a hat;
How soon, indeed I care not,—
The devil care for that!
His listeners appreciated his first song so much that all his copies were soon disposed of; so he selected another, before singing which he said: “Now this, my friends, is about a Welsh boy, who was so foolish as to leave old Cymry and go to London, from which place, I warrant you, he would have been glad enough to return, as they have neither leeks, cheese, nor flummery, nor anything else there fit for a Christian people.”
When a wild rural Welsh boy I ran o’er the hills,
And sprang o’er the hedges, the gates, brooks, and rills,
The high oak I climb’d for the nest of the kite,
And plung’d in the river with ardent delight!
Ah, who then so cheerful, so happy as me,
As I skipp’d through the woodlands and meads of Brandee?How oft have I wander’d through swamp, hedge, or brake,
While fearful of nought but the never-seen snake,
And gather’d brown nuts from the copses around,
While ev’ry bush echoed with harmony’s sound!
Oh, gladness then thrill’d me! I bounded as free
As a hart o’er the lawn through the meads of Brandee.Whenever I wander’d to some neighb’ring farm,
How kindly was tendered the new milk so warm,
O’er her best loaf as butter-or-honey she’d spread,
The farm wife so friendly would stroke my white head,
And sure that she shortly again would see me
Whenever my rambles led forth from Brandee.How oft have I run with my strawberry wreath
To rosy young Gwenny of fair Llwyn-y-neath,
And help’d her to drive the white sheep to the pen!
Oh! still I think how joyously sung little Gwen!
The old folks, oft chuckling, vow’d sweet-hearts were we,
Then Llwyn-y-neath maiden and boy of Brandee.At the fair of Devynnock, o’ertaken by night,
Returning, I’ve dreaded the corpse-candle light,
The wandering spirit, the hobgoblin fell,
Of which cottage hen-wives so fearfully tell:
I’ve ran, with my eyes shut, ghosts dreading to see,
Prayed, whistled, or sang as I flew to Brandee.Pleasure and innocence hand in hand went,
My deeds ever blameless, my heart e’er content,
Unknown to ambition, and free from all care,
A stranger to sorrow, remorse, or despair;
Oh bless’d were those days! long departed from me,
Far, far’s my loved Cambria! far, far is Brandee!
This did not take so well as the first, but Twm, now thoroughly interested in his new vocation, commenced a fresh ditty, which he announced as a sequel to the last.
ROSY GWEN.
Rosy Gwen, Rosy Gwen,
Beloved of maids, beloved of men:
Aye, dearly loved of grave and gay,
In youth’s early day—ah, what cheer’d me then?
’Twas her voice so sweet,
Her person neat,
Her form so sleek,
Her spirit meek,
And the cherry-merry cheek of Rosy Gwen.Gentle girl, gentle girl,
Coral lipp’d, with teeth of pearl,
On either cheek a vivid rose,
And raven tresses graced thy brows!
Ah, thou wert my love and playmate then!
Happy lass of smiles,
Unvers’d in wiles,
Of guileless breast—
Of minds the best.
Oh my merry-cheek’d young Rosy Gwen!Years have flown, years have flown,
And Gwenny thour’t a woman grown,
While Time, that bears for most a sting,
Has fann’d thy beauties with his wing;
Yet brighter thou canst not be than when
O’er the mountain steep
Thou drov’st thy sheep,
And sang in glee
A child with me,
Oh my cheery-merry-cheek’d young Rosy Gwen.
As the last was but tolerated, the singer soon found that a merry strain was most congenial to their fancies. He therefore gave them the old and popular duet of “Hob y deri dando,” rendered more comical by his singing alternately shrill and gruff, for male and female’s parts.
HOB Y DERI DANDO. [153]
Ivor. The summer storm is on the mountain,
Hob y deri dando, my sweet maid!Gweno. And foul the stream, though bright the fountain,
Hob y deri dando for the shade.Ivor. Let my mantle love protect thee,
Gentle Gweno dear;Gweno. Ivor kind will ne’er neglect me
Faithful far and near;Both. Through life the hue of first love true,
Will never never fade.
Ivor. Thus may the frowns of life pass over,
Happy then our lot,Gweno. And the smile of peace be bright as ever
In our humble cot!Both. Through life the hue of first love true
Will never never fade!Ivor. The rain is past, the clouds are gone too,
Hob y deri dando, far they spread;Gweno. The lark is up, and bright the sun too,
Hob y deri dando, on the mead!
He sang the last three tunes, and sold a dozen copies; but just as he was going to favour his audience with Nos Galan, the malignant face of Parson Evans presented itself before him.
As our hero wore petticoats, many gallant swains offered their treats of cake and ale, some of which was accepted; and presuming on that circumstance, they amusingly put in their claims to further notice, and seemed inclined to quarrel, as for a sweetheart.
With this phalanx of protectors, beaus, and chaperons, Twm resolved to employ them in a new scheme of vengeance on the unpopular parson. “You see that old fellow in black,” said he, directing their attention to him as he passed, “he is a bumbailiff, and the greatest villain in all the country I come from; and at this very moment, I’ll be bound for it, he is hunting out some poor fellow to put him in prison. He wanted to be a lover of mine, but only intended to ruinate me; but if he had loved me ever so much I would not have had him, if his old yellow skin was stuffed with diamonds. The villainous old catchpole! it was owing to refusing him for a sweetheart, that he grew as spiteful as a snake, and by telling a parcel of falsehoods he got me turned out of my place without a character, so that I am now brought to this—to sing ballads in the streets.”
Here, assuming a whimpering tone, Twm was compelled to smother a fit of laughter, which emotion was taken for sobbing, and consequently drew much on the sympathy of those now addressed! but suddenly withdrawing the apron that veiled the features, he exclaimed, with the vehemence of a young termagant, “I’d give the world to see that old fellow tossed in a blanket!” Mark Antony’s effort of eloquence to rouse the Roman citizens to avenge the death of Cæsar, was not more effective than our hero’s appeal.
Every one of those swains manifested the usual predilection for the smiles of a handsome young woman; being “full of distempering draughts” and ripe for a freak, their zeal became inflamed to a ferment; each felt himself the leading hero to avenge the wrongs of the fair ballad singer, in the manner suggested by himself.
One of the young men, a native of the town, and son to the innkeeper, immediately procured a blanket, when, watching their opportunity as the supposed bailiff passed along, one tripped up his heels, while the rest received him in the extended blanket, and proceeded to the work-like play of giving the Black Kite an airing; or as Ready Rosser, a cunning clod of the party, expressed it, playing the wind-instrument to the tune of the Bumbailiff’s courante. The athletic employments of grasping the plough-handles, as they guided it through a stubborn soil, and the no less powerful exertions of wielding the axe, or hedge-bill, had their due effect in nerving the brawny arms of those youths of the farm and woodlands for this rough exercise.
Drawing the extended blanket as tight as a drumhead, with their united efforts, up they tossed, re-tossed, and received into what threatened to be his winding-sheet, the quivering and terribly-frightened body of the Rev. and very worshipful Inco Evans. Whatever it might be to the parson, (and we do not venture to assert that it was agreeable to him,) the spectator of this singular and unexpected entertainment could not but enjoy it for the comical revolutions of the right rev. gentleman were, to say the least of them, very mirth-inspiring. As he flew upward, all legs and wings, and descended in the same sprawling style, one compared him to a cat shot from a cannon; another to a staked toad tossed in the air; while the hapless victim of their frolic foamed at the mouth with rage, and uncouthly floundered in his attempt to grasp the blanket in his fall. If for a moment he seized its edge, and shouted his threats of vengeance, a terrific bump against the stony street loosened his hold, and up he bounced, again like the rebounding ball, struck on the flag-stone by the eager hand of a merry schoolboy.
Wearied by their arduous labours, and tempted by the shining handful of silver which the woe-begone parson eagerly offered as a conciliatory bribe, they at length desisted, each venting his jest on the crest-fallen Evans, “hoping it would be a warning not to prosecute again a poor friendless girl.” Inco answered not; but finding himself unable to walk, he was carried to the Inn, where he remained some days before he was able to remount his horse.
The knot of swains now separated, and ran in different directions to avoid being recognized as the perpetrators of the “freak;” but soon met again at an appointed place, where they had left our hero, between the empty carts of the ware vendors.
On their arrival at the place, they searched in vain for their enchantress, in whose service they had wrought so gallantly, but no traces of the fair one could they find. There was a general smelling of a trick put upon them, and consequent “curses on all jilting jades, and biting ballad-singers,” uttered by the unlucky clods.
A brilliant idea suddenly struck Ready Rosser. He had taken off his coat and left it in the careful custody of the injured damsel. Where was she? Could she have disappeared? All doubts were soon removed, for on ascertaining the precise spot where he had left her, he found her complete feminine attire, made into a bundle and fastened to a cart with a band of straw, left as a love-gift for him, while she kept his as a similar token of affection; having inscribed with chalk on the side of the cart.—“An exchange is no robbery;” a motto in which our rustic could not see, in its present application, any principles of justice whatever.