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Updated: June 28, 2025
His name was Thomas Edwards, but he generally called himself Twm o'r Nant, or Tom of the Dingle, because he was born in a dingle, at a place called Pen Porchell, in the vale of Clwyd which, by the bye, was on the estate which once belonged to Iolo Goch, the poet I was speaking to you about just now.
"Oh yes," said he, "both Welsh and English." "What have you read in Welsh?" said I. "The Bible and Twm O'r Nant." "What pieces of Twm O'r Nant have you read?" "I have read two of his interludes and his life." "And which do you like best his life or his interludes?" "Oh, I like his life best." "And what part of his life do you like best?"
"Famed for anything else?" "Oh yes! famed for great man, clever thief, Twm Shone Catti, who was born there." "Dear me!" said I; "when did he live?" "Oh, long time ago, more than two hundred year." "And what became of him?" said I; "was he hung?" "Hung, no! only stupid thief hung. Twm Shone clever thief; died rich man, justice of the peace and mayor of Brecon."
Ebben Owens leant more on Gwilym and Ann, and Twm took his own way more, but further than this there was no difference in the daily routine of work.
"I will come with you," said Gwilym Morris, for they seldom let the old man go alone. "I can see about Will's coat, and I want some books. Come on, Ann, come with us; 'twill be a lively fair, I think." "Very well, I'll come and look after you both." "That's right," said the old man, rubbing his knees. "Twm will drive the yearlings. Art coming, Will?"
The old gentleman concluded by saying that he had never read the works of Twm O'r Nant, but he had heard that his best piece was the interlude called "Pleasure and Care." The Treachery of the Long Knives The North Briton The Wounded Butcher The Prisoner. ON the tenth of September our little town was flung into some confusion by one butcher having attempted to cut the throat of another.
I have seen the cave myself, which is still called Ystafell Twm Shone Catty. Very queer cave it is, in strange situation; steep rock just above it, Towey River roaring below.
John was a highly-intelligent lad, spoke Welsh and English fluently, could read, as he told me, both languages, and had some acquaintance with the writings of Twm o'r Nant, as he showed by repeating the following lines of the carter poet, certainly not the worst which he ever wrote: "Twm or Nant mae cant a'm galw, Tomas Edwards yw fy enw,"
That Tom was about five feet eight inches high, lusty, and very strongly built; that he had something the matter with his right eye; that he was very satirical and very clever; that his wife was a very clever woman and satirical; his two daughters both clever and satirical, and his servant-maid remarkably satirical and clever, and that it was impossible to live with Twm O'r Nant without learning to be clever and satirical; that he always appeared to be occupied with something, and that he had heard him say there was something in him that would never let him be idle; that he would walk fifteen miles to a place where he was to play an interlude, and that as soon as he got there he would begin playing it at once, however tired he might be.
Said the preacher: "Heavy was the punishment of the Big Man on Twm Cwm, persons, because Twm speeched against the capel. Was he not put in the coffin in his farm trowsis and jacket? And do you know, the Big Man cast a brightness on his buttons for him to be known in the blackness of hell." It is no miracle that we are religious.
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