“In Pentré Dwr,” said she. “This house and those yonder,” pointing to the cottages past which I had come, “are Pentré y Dwr. There is, however, another Pentré Dwr up the glen yonder,” said she, pointing towards the north—“which is called Pentré Dwr uchaf (the upper)—this is called Pentré Dwr isaf (the lower).” “Is it called Pentré Dwr,” said I, “because of the water of the brook?” “Likely enough,” said she, “but I never thought of the matter before.” She was blear-eyed, and her skin, which seemed drawn tight over her forehead and cheek-bones, was of the colour of parchment. I asked her how old she was. “Fifteen after three twenties,” she replied; meaning that she was seventy-five. From her appearance, I should almost have guessed that she had been fifteen after four twenties. I, however, did not tell her so, for I am always cautious not to hurt the feelings of anybody, especially of the aged. Continuing my way, I soon overtook a man driving five or six very large hogs. One of these, which was muzzled, was of a truly immense size, and walked with considerable difficulty, on account of its fatness. I walked for some time by the side of the noble porker, admiring it. At length a man rode up on horseback from the way we had come; he said something to the driver of the hogs, who instantly unmuzzled the immense creature, who gave a loud grunt on finding his snout and mouth free. From the conversation which ensued between the two men, I found that the driver was the servant, and the other the master. “Those hogs are too fat to drive along the road,” said I at last to the latter. “We brought them in a cart as far as the Pentré Dwr,” said the man on horseback, “but as they did not like the jolting we took them out.” “And where are you taking them to?” said I. “To Llangollen,” said the man, “for the fair on Monday.” “What does that big fellow weigh?” said I, pointing to the largest hog. “He’ll weigh about eighteen score,” said the man. “What do you mean by eighteen score?” said I. “Eighteen score of pounds,” said the man. “And how much do you expect to get for him?” “Eight pounds; I shan’t take less.” “And who will buy him?” said I. “Some gent from Wolverhampton or about there,” said the man; “there will be plenty of gents from Wolverhampton at the fair.” “And what do you fatten your hogs upon?” said I. “Oatmeal,” said the man. “And why not on barley-meal?” “Oatmeal is the best,” said the man; “the gents from Wolverhampton prefer them fattened on oatmeal.” “Do the gents of Wolverhampton,” said I, “eat the hogs?” “They do not,” said the man; “they buy them to sell again; and they like hogs fed on oatmeal best, because they are the fattest.” “But the pork is not the best,” said I; “all hog-flesh raised on oatmeal is bitter and wiry; because, do you see—” “I see you are in the trade,” said the man, “and understand a thing or two.” “I understand a thing or two,” said I, “but I am not in the trade. Do you come from far?”