That any person in the perilous predicament of our hero should venture on such an expedient, will doubtless astonish the common-place man of weak nerves and prudent views; 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 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 obtained his purpose, while the generality of men would be analysing 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 his laughter-loving friend Prothero, whose ruddy happy round face had deprived law itself of all its terrors. Before him, among others, 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 which he had played him, by stealing his grey horse at Machynlleth.—How he had cheated a purchaser of the stolen horse at Welshpool; and how the said 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 creditable witnesses. This recapitulation of Twm’s tricks tickled the gravity of Prothero amazingly; and at every close which Evans made in his narration, he was answered by the loud “ho, ho, ho!” of the sitting 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 Shôn Catti.—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—did me out of two sheep and a white ox, ho, ho, ho!—I wish him joy of them, 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 that than lose all.” Mr. Powell immediately acceded to this arrangement, but the unaccommodating Evans insisted on having the horse without any 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