The Maid of SkerBlackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
General
The Maid of Sker
Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
Foundlings -- Fiction; Romance fiction; Wales -- Fiction
Being up to a few of these things, and feeling very keenly how hard the
public always tries to get upper hand of me, and would beat me down to
half nothing a pound (if allowed altogether its own way), I fought very
bravely the whole of that Monday to turn a few honest shillings. "Good
old Davy, fine old Davy, brave old Davy!" they said I was every time I
abated a halfpenny; and I called them generous gentlemen and
Christian-minded ladies every time they wanted to smell my fish, which
is not right before payment. What right has any man to disparage the
property of another? When you have bought him, he is your own, and you
have the title to canvas him; but when he is put in the scales, remember
"nothing but good of the dead," if you remember anything.
As I sate by the cross roads in Bridgend on the bottom of a bucket, and
with a four-legged dressing-table (hired for twopence) in front of me,
who should come up but the well-known Brother Hezekiah? Truly tired I
was getting, after plodding through Merthyr Mawr, Ogmore, and Ewenny,
Llaleston, and Newcastle, and driven at last to the town of Bridgend.
For some of my fish had a gamesome odour, when first I set off in the
morning; and although the rain had cooled down the air, it was now
become an unwise thing to recommend what still remained to any man of
unchristian spirit, or possessing the ear of the magistrates.
Now perhaps I should not say this thing, and many may think me inclined
to vaunt, and call me an old coxcomb; but if any man could sell stinking
fish in the times of which I am writing--and then it was ten times
harder than now, because women looked after marketing--that man I verily
believe was this old Davy Llewellyn; and right he has to be proud of it.
But what were left on my hands that evening were beginning to get so
strong, that I feared they must go over Bridgend bridge into the river
Ogmore.
The big coach with the London letters, which came then almost twice
a-week, was just gone on, after stopping three hours to rest the horses
and feed the people; and I had done some business with them, for London
folk for the most part have a kind and pleasing ignorance. They paid me
well, and I served them well with fish of a fine high flavour; but now I
had some which I would not offer to such kind-hearted gentry.
Hezekiah wanted fish. I saw it by his nostrils, and I knew it for
certain when he pretended not to see me or my standing. He went a good
bit round the corner, as if to deal with the ironmonger. But for all
that, I knew as well as if I could hear his wife beginning to rake the
fire, that fish for supper was the business which had brought him across
the bridge. Therefore I refused an offer which I would have jumped at
before seeing Hezekiah, of twopence a-pound for the residue from an old
woman who sold pickles; and I made up my mind to keep up the price,
knowing the man to have ten in family, and all blessed with good
appetites.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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