“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. “O, 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.” “O, 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.”