"Really," said I, "you know a great deal of history."
"I should hope I do," said Mr Bos. "Oh, I wasn't at school at
Blewmaris for six months for nothing; and I haven't been in
Northampton, and in every town in England, without learning
something of history. With regard to history I may say that few -
Won't you drink?" said he, patronizingly, as he pushed a jug of ale
which stood before him on a little table towards me.
Begging politely to be excused on the plea that I was just about to
take tea, I asked him in what capacity he had travelled all over
England.
"As a drover to be sure," said Mr Bos, "and I may say that there
are not many in Anglesey better known in England than myself - at
any rate I may say that there is not a public-house between here
and Worcester at which I am not known."
"Pray excuse me," said I, "but is not droving rather a low-lifed
occupation?"
"Not half so much as pig-jobbing," said Bos, "and that that's your
trade I am certain, or you would never have gone to Llanfair."
"I am no pig-jobber," said I, "and when I asked you that question
about droving, I merely did so because one Ellis Wynn, in a book he
wrote, gives the drovers a very bad character, and puts them in
Hell for their mal-practices."
"Oh, he does," said Mr Bos, "well, the next time I meet him at
Corwen I'll crack his head for saying so. Mal-practices - he had
better look at his own, for he is a pig-jobber too. Written a book
has he? then I suppose he has been left a legacy, and gone to
school after middle-age, for when I last saw him, which is four
years ago, he could neither read nor write."
I was about to tell Mr Bos that the Ellis Wynn that I meant was no
more a pig-jobber than myself, but a respectable clergyman, who had
been dead considerably upwards of a hundred years, and that also,
notwithstanding my respect for Mr Bos's knowledge of history, I did
not believe that Owen Tudor was buried at Penmynnydd, when I was
prevented by the entrance of Mrs Pritchard, who came to inform me
that my repast was ready in the other room, whereupon I got up and
went into the parlour to "box Harry."
Having dispatched my bacon and eggs, tea and ale, I fell into deep
meditation. My mind reverted to a long past period of my life,
when I was to a certain extent fixed up with commercial travellers,
and had plenty of opportunities of observing their habits, and the
terms employed by them in conversation. I called up several
individuals of the two classes into which they used to be divided,
for commercial travellers in my time were divided into two classes,
those who ate dinners and drank their bottle of port, and those who
"boxed Harry." What glorious fellows the first seemed!
