ook in my dream to be the slap on my
shoulders by the Wolverhampton gent.

The day of the fair was dull and gloomy, an exact counterpart of the
previous Saturday. Owing to some cause I did not go into the fair till
past one o'clock, and then seeing neither immense hogs nor immense men I
concluded that the gents of Wolverhampton had been there, and after
purchasing the larger porkers had departed with their bargains to their
native district. After sauntering about a little time I returned home.
After dinner I went again into the fair along with my wife; the stock
business had long been over, but I observed more stalls than in the
morning, and a far greater throng, for the country people for miles round
had poured into the little town. By a stall on which were some poor legs
and shoulders of mutton I perceived the English butcher, whom the Welsh
one had attempted to slaughter. I recognised him by a patch which he
wore on his cheek. My wife and I went up and inquired how he was. He
said that he still felt poorly, but that he hoped he should get round. I
asked him if he remembered me; and received for answer that he remembered
having seen me when the examination took place into "his matter." I then
inquired what had become of his antagonist and was told that he was in
prison awaiting his trial. I gathered from him that he was a native of
the Southdown country and a shepherd by profession; that he had been
engaged by the squire of Porkington in Shropshire to look after his
sheep, and that he had lived there a year or two, but becoming tired of
his situation he had come to Llangollen, where he had married a
Welshwoman and set up as a butcher. We told him that as he was our
countryman we should be happy to deal with him sometimes; he, however,
received the information with perfect apathy, never so much as saying
"thank you." He was a tall lanikin figure with a pair of large,
lack-lustre staring eyes, and upon the whole appeared to be good for very
little. Leaving him we went some way up the principal street; presently
my wife turned into a shop, and I observing a little bookstall went up to
it and began to inspect the books. They were chiefly in Welsh. Seeing a
kind of chap book, which bore on its title-page the name of Twm O'r Nant,
I took it up. It was called Y Llwyn Celyn or the Holy Grove, and
contained the life and one of the interludes of Tom O' the Dingle or
Thomas Edwards. It purported to be the first of