"Well," said Mr Bos, "it may be so, but I can't conceive how any person, either gentle or simple, could have any business in Anglesey save that business was pigs or cattle.""The truth is," said I, "I went to Llanfair to see the birth-place of a great man - the cleverest Anglesey ever produced.""Then you went wrong," said Mr Bos, "you went to the wrong parish, you should have gone to Penmynnydd; the clebber man of Anglesey was born and buried at Penmynnydd, you may see his tomb in the church.""You are alluding to Black Robin," said I, "who wrote the ode in praise of Anglesey - yes, he was a very clever young fellow, but excuse me, he was not half such a poet as Gronwy Owen.""Black Robin," said Mr Bos, "and Gronow Owen, who the Devil were they? I never heard of either. I wasn't talking of them, but of the clebberest man the world ever saw. Did you never hear of Owen Tiddir? If you didn't, where did you get your education?""I have heard of Owen Tudor," said I, "but never understood that he was particularly clever; handsome he undoubtedly was - but clever -"
"How not clebber?" interrupted Mr Bos. "If he wasn't clebber, who was clebber? Didn't he marry a great queen, and was not Harry the Eighth his great grandson?""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! What airs they gave themselves! What oaths they swore! and what influence they had with hostlers and chambermaids! and what a sneaking-looking set the others were! shabby in their apparel; no fine ferocity in their countenances; no oaths in their mouths, except such a trumpery apology for an oath as an occasional "confounded hard;" with little or no influence at inns, scowled at by hostlers, and never smiled at by chambermaids - and then I remembered how often I had bothered my head in vain to account for the origin of the term "box Harry," and how often I had in vain applied both to those who did box and to those who did not "box Harry," for a clear and satisfactory elucidation of the expression - and at last found myself again bothering my head as of old in a vain attempt to account for the origin of the term "boxing Harry."