street under your
window are types of character peculiar to Wales. One such is the
peddling fisher-woman who strolls by with a basketful of bright
pink prawns, which she holds out to you temptingly, looking up. The
fisher-women of Tenby wear a costume differing in some respects from
that of all other Welsh peasants. Instead of the glossy and expensive
"beaver" worn in other parts, the Tenby women sport a tall hat of
straw or badly-battered felt. Another favorite with them is a soft
black slouch hat like a man's, but with a knot of ribbon in front. One
of the neatest of the fisher-women is an old girl of fifty or so, who
haunts your windows incessantly, and greets you with a quick-dropped
courtesy whenever you walk out. She is never seen to stand still,
except for the purpose of talking to a customer, but trots incessantly
about; and either for this reason, or from her constant journeys to
and fro between her home and the town, is given the nickname of Dame
Trudge. She usually has on her back a coarse oyster-basket called a
"creel," and in her hands another basket containing cooked prawns,
lobsters or other temptation to the gourmand. Her dress, though it is
midsummer, is warm and snug, particularly about the head and neck,
as a protection against the winds of ocean; and her stout legs are
encased in jet-black woollen stockings (visible below her short check
petticoat), while her feet are shod with huge brogans whose inch-thick
soles are heavily plated with iron. She lives ten miles from Tenby,
walks to and fro always, and sleeps under her own roof every night,
yet you never fail to see her there in the street when you get up in
the morning. There are many other oyster-women to be seen at Tenby,
but none so trim as good Dame Trudge. Here and hereabout grow the
largest, if not the sweetest, oysters in Great Britain, and their
cultivation is chiefly the work of the gentler sex. They do not look
very gentle--or at least very frail--as you come upon a group of
oyster-women in their masculine hats and boots munching their bread
and cheese under a wall, but they are a good-natured race, and most
respectful to their betters. Anything less suggestive of Billingsgate
than the language of these Welsh fisher-women could hardly be,
considering their trade.

The tide of passers is setting toward the south sands. Foreigners are
almost unrepresented in this throng. There is one Frenchman, who would
be recognizable as far off as he co