“From Llandeglo,” said the man. “Are you a hog-merchant?” said I. “Yes,” said he, “and a horse-dealer, and a farmer, though rather a small one.” “I suppose, as you are a horse-dealer,” said I, “you travel much about?” “Yes,” said the man, “I have travelled a good deal about Wales and England.” “Have you been in Ynys Fon?” said I. “I see you are a Welshman,” said the man. “No,” said I, “but I know a little Welsh.” “Ynys Fon,” said the man. “Yes, I have been in Anglesey more times than I can tell.” “Do you know Hugh Pritchard,” said I, “who lives at Pentraeth Coch?” “I know him well,” said the man, “and an honest fellow he is.” “And Mr. Bos?” said I. “What Bos?” said he. “Do you mean a lusty, red-faced man in top-boots and grey coat?” “That’s he,” said I. “He’s a clever one,” said the man. “I suppose by your knowing these people you are a drover or a horse-dealer. Yes,” said he, turning half-round in his saddle and looking at me, “you are a horse-dealer. I remember you well now, and once sold a horse to you at Chelmsford.” “I am no horse-dealer,” said I, “nor did I ever buy a horse at Chelmsford. I see you have been about England. Have you ever been in Norfolk or Suffolk?” “No,” said the man, “but I know something of Suffolk. I have an uncle there.” “Whereabouts in Suffolk?” said I. “At a place called —,” said the man. “In what line of business?” said I. “In none at all; he is a clergyman.” “Shall I tell you his name?” said I. “It is not likely you should know his name,” said the man. “Nevertheless,” said I, “I will tell it you—his name was —.” “Well,” said the man, “sure enough that is his name.” “It was his name,” said I, “but I am sorry to tell you he is no more. To-day is Saturday. He died last Tuesday week, and was probably buried last Monday. An excellent man was Dr. H. O. A credit to his country and to his order.” The man was silent for some time, and then said with a softer voice, and a very different manner from that he had used before, “I never saw him but once, and that was more than twenty years ago—but I have heard say that he was an excellent man—I see, sir, that you are a clergyman.” “I am no clergyman,” said I, “but I knew your uncle and prized him. What was his native place?” “Corwen,” said the man; then taking out his handkerchief, he wiped his eyes, and said with a faltering voice, “This will be heavy news there.” We were now past the monastery, and bidding farewell, I descended to the canal, and returned home by its bank, whilst the Welsh drover, the nephew of the learned, eloquent and exemplary Welsh doctor, pursued with his servant and animals his way by the high road to Llangollen. Many sons of Welsh yeomen brought up to the Church have become ornaments of it in distant Saxon land, but few—very few—have by learning, eloquence and Christian virtues, reflected so much lustre upon it as Hugh O— of Corwen. CHAPTER LVIII