traveller for a Scottish firm was announced. As soon as the interview
commenced he opened his bag to get out his samples, when my eye chanced
to catch a glimpse of something almost hidden by a sleeping garment
and my instinct spotted pewter. He told his tale and waited for an
indication of the impression he had created, which was conveyed to him
in this form.
“Excuse me, but was that a piece of old pewter I caught sight of in
your bag?”
“Yes, sir; are you interested in old pewter? I slept the night in
Warrington and I saw this in a shop as I was going to the station; I
think it is an old rose-bowl, and I shall be pleased to give it to you
if you will have it.”
Of course, I couldn’t think of such a thing, but I should be glad to
exchange with him for a snuffers-tray I had on my desk. He assured me
that he would be delighted, and as I always endeavour to give pleasure
to others I fetched the tray. That gentleman secured a contract and a
tray and left me with thanks and a seventeenth-century Scotch chalice.
You never know your luck when collecting.
But for my awkward conscience I should include the basin shown on Plate
VI, this being sold as “a vestry piece.” It may have been used by
the parson, or for washing the Communion vessels, anyway I preferred
to believe the dealer, and gave it a conspicuous position, which the
ladies objected to, and I found it relegated to the rear. On seeking
an explanation, and calling it “a vestry piece,” I retired hurt, so to
speak, by the remark “Vestry! Why my aunt had a thing like that, in
which she made us children wash our hands,” and then, still so gently
o’er me stealing, memory would bring back the feeling of us youngsters
having been caused to do the same very necessary performance in a
similar utensil, with cold water from the pump at the old house at home
fifty to sixty years ago.
FAKED PEWTER
I had not been many years a collector before I found spurious Communion
cups and Communion sets were on the market and I obtained some very
enlightening information, much of which I cannot publish. It was the
practice to blacken the new pieces with acid to give them an appearance
of age, and I heard of an instance relating to hundredweights of faked
pewter, but I am coming straight to the point and the photographs
on Plates XXV and XXVI will corroborate my statement. I was further
informed that they were making deep dishes out of old bedpans,
preserving the maker’s mark on the bottom. I had had a bedpan hidden
away in the stable loft for some time, and I decided to prove how far
this information was correct. The pan had come from Ireland with a box
full of “gatherings,” and I had almost decided to sell it to be melted.
I eventually wrote to a firm of pewter manufacturers explaining the
conversion I wished to have effected, and they informed me they would
do the job if I would say whether I wanted a deep dish or a shallow
one and what width of rim I desired. In about three weeks after I had
sent them the bedpan I received the fine deep (alms) dish bearing the
maker’s name and mark--Joseph Austen--well preserved, proving the
article was made in Cork over 100 years ago. It looks very well indeed
and I have never had its virtue questioned; in fact when I have told
visitors they have been greatly astonished, while a few have been hard
to convince.
Now you understand my remark that I had one “alms dish” that had never
been inside a sacred edifice.
_When the Pewterer’s done his pewtering,
And his work is quite au fait:
When his making’s turned to faking,
And the marks are left O.K.;
The collector sees, and then agrees,
The pewter must be old.
Now doubts arise, before his eyes,
He fears that he’s been sold._
PLATES AND DISHES
These under the eye of the camera are more or less alike, especially
more--then let it suffice the reader to learn that I have forty small
and thirty large of various sizes displayed wherever a likely space
is available without giving a too crowded appearance. They nearly all
bear makers’ marks or owners’ crests or initials, or evidence that they
have been put to good use at some time or other. I have been told that
when these big chaps were in vogue the various conglomerations forming
the meal were heaped together and formed a goodly pile, so there is no
doubt of the authenticity of the story of the Scottish farmer with a
prodigious appetite at a Rent Dinner who when they wanted to take away
his plate said “Bide awee for I hae just found a doo (pigeon) in the
reddin o’ ma plate.”
As regards the rims, while I know some enthusiastic collectors could
talk for a week on this feature, which to the uneducated suggests
distinction without a difference, I will not labour the point.
I saw some very bright 9 inch plates in London recently with ornamental
rims, and out of curiosity enquired the price. I was told 25s. each,
but the information that they were Dutch was not vouchsafed.
Probably my “pride of the paddock” plate is one on Plate XIX (facing
p. 43). It has a raised bead running round the centre of the rim,
is thought to be early eighteenth century, and was made by Allen
Bright, who has since retired from business. Judging by its shape it
should pass muster as a genuine alms dish; though it may have been
constructed to hold pennies in the kirk, I think it just as likely it
held puddings in the kitchen--a thought inspired by the old knife-cuts
on the bottom.
I have referred to the Irish plates being scoured on the back, and
wiped on the front. Apropos of this remark I have a set of eight with
the crest of a sea-horse on the rim; the marks are all obliterated,
with the exception of the word “Jonas,” and by the lettering I was able
to identify it as made by Jonas Durand about 1660. I also have three
plates with the crest which represents the red hand of Ulster, and I
believe they would originally be the property of an old Derbyshire
family that has an estate in Ireland.
I have one very rare plate inasmuch as it bears on its surface ten rows
of tap marks made with a round-headed hammer. The number in each circle
lessens until they get down to seven, which surround the centre tap.
This plate bears the initials and touch impression of the maker, which
are undecipherable, but that does not worry me. I would far rather have
the uncommon surface and indistinct marks than plain marks and a smooth
surface. The strange thing is that if anyone wants a plate to, perhaps,
stand a pot on, and there is no pottery one handy, or the artistic eye
thinks a certain pot or flower would go better with a pewter than with
a coloured pottery plate, they invariably lift this one off the dresser
shelf, when any of the others would do equally well. This must stop, as
I find the treatment does not improve its peculiar appearance.
On the first shelf of the oak dresser (Plate VI) there are four Scotch
plates made by William Hunter, of Edinburgh, 1749-1773. The fronts must
always have been well polished, for they shine like silver now. The
backs have been kept clean, though not scoured, as the maker’s name
and touchmarks are quite distinct. One pair were called “meatplates”
and the other “pudding” or “porridge plates.” The latter are deep and
would pass for collecting-plates among church pewter in some hands. My
obtaining possession of these from the shelves of a farm kitchen in
Scotland is an illustration of the proverb that kissing goes by favour.
I wish I could obtain more in the same very agreeable manner.
As evidence of the age of the plates and dishes I give the following
list of makers’ names, and the approximate dates when they were making
these things hum. For most of my records I have searched my books of
reference, and when these have failed me I have appealed to Mr. H. H.
Cotterell, a great authority on marks, who has very kindly furnished me
with the information required whenever possible.
Allen Bright 1750
J. Baskervile 1695
R. Chambers
Tudor Rose Early 17th century
T. Compton 1807
Thorne, London
George Seymour 1768
Brown 17th century
G. Smith 1676
G. Smith 1790
Jonas Durand 1658
William Hunter 1750
John French 1687
Charles Clarke (Irish) 1790
John Duncomb 1730
I must mention a pair of very rare plates of special shape with tooled
borders. Two holes are drilled in each, and it is probably due to the
fact that some vandal has scratched the name “Lizzie” on them that they
have not been put to the use for which they were intended, namely, to
embellish the drop handles of an old-time coffin. When an obliging
broker told me he had a couple of plates he had saved for me, and then
produced these ghastly things, I was rendered mute.
TAPPIT HENS (Plate XIX, facing p. 43).
_“Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;
Her mutchkin-stoup as toom’s a whissle.”_
BURNS.
Well she may with whisky at half a guinea a bottle!
When we were in Barmouth we stayed at the Cors-y-gedll Hotel, and when
I asked the landlord, who up to that point had been the personification
of geniality, “What is the meaning of Cors-y-gedll?” he blurted out,
“Nobody knows; everybody asks me that question,” and left me abruptly.
I was not a collector of old pewter in those days, but I can now fully
appreciate the cause of his irritability, for the number of times I
have been asked, “What is the meaning of ‘Tappit Hens’?” leaves me
tired. I once suggested that the name may have originated because they
tappited to see if it was empty or not, only to be further puzzled by
the query “But why hen?” and I could only suggest that “It cackled
whenever it laid an egg,” which was condemned as an inane joke, which
if I had any conceit of myself as a humorist I should never repeat.
Having read so much about Tappit Hens, I have known all about the
history a long time ago, and I have forgotten most of it. The name for
a Scottish pint measure of a certain shape was “Tappit Hen,” which held
two quarts (Imperial). A “Chopin” held a quart and a “Mutchkin” an
Imperial pint. My photograph shows a pair of Tappit Hens and a Chopin.
After Tappit Hens came the lidded whisky stoups which were in use
in Scotland from 1826 to about 1870, when an Act was passed to do
away with profiteering by short measure, and so the use of lids was
prohibited.
As inspired individuals began to buy up the original Tappit Hens the
supply gave out, so the dealers elevated the whisky stoups to the
designation of the former. I do not exaggerate, for I have seen Tappit
Hens advertised, and had them sent on approval, only to find the much
less valued stoup, or pot-bellied measures as they were often called.
Now I suppose they are getting done up, and that any old thing with
a lid on is a Tappit Hen. Anyway, I was told by a gentleman, whose
knowledge and experience of his profession are much greater than they
can be of Scottish pewter, that he had just bought a French Tappit Hen!
In all my travels I have only been offered the genuine article
once, and that was in Glasgow some years back, and as I already had
two of the same size I did not buy, although it would have been a
good investment at the price at which I could then have purchased
it. The three imposing Tappit Hen shaped measures I have bear on the
lids the imprints of the initials of a fine family, whose old grey
stone hall still stands in its lonely but grand surroundings on the
Pentland Hills, of which I am constantly reminded by the kindness of a
descendant, who placed these treasures in my hands.
I am not a statistician, but I dare hazard an opinion that there are
ten or may be twenty times more “Tappit Hens” in existence to-day than
ever were made.
It is now time I tapped Burns again:
_“Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,
And here’s, for a conclusion.”_
BRITANNIA METAL
This name puts me on my mettle, and as the uncertainty of what is the
difference between pewter and Britannia metal has not to my knowledge
been clearly explained I intend to deal with this question somewhat
didactically.
I was so struck with the effect of turning my 70th Regiment pint pot
from a dirty disused mug into a pleasurable thing that I visited all
likely shops for some few miles round and bought up everything I
thought and was told was old pewter, and I soon had more than would
fill a corner cupboard, which I had lined with blue velvet to show it
off. Then I bought “Marks on Old Pewter,” by W. Redman, which was the
only book bearing on the subject I could hear of, and in it I read:
“The manufacture of goods in Britannia (white metal) was an important
18th century addition to the Sheffield industries. Whether James Dixon
or James Vickers commenced first to make this kind of ware we are not
able to say. It is said that James Vickers bought for five shillings
from a sick man whom he happened to be visiting a recipe for making
white metal. The experiment turned out a great success, and for years
both these firms were kept busy making all kinds of articles of what
was called Britannia metal. Now these old articles are often called
pewter, which is a mistake; neither of these firms made any pewter
ware. Alloy: 80 per cent. tin, 10 per cent. antimony, and a little
copper.”
This was rather a blow, as some of my purchases were stamped “Britannia
Metal” and a few others “B.M.E.P.,” although the electro-plate was
mostly worn off, giving the things a pewter-like look. Next I obtained
a short history of the firm of James Dixon and Sons, and found they
did make pewter in their early days. I also learned from a history of
Sheffield in the 18th Century that Vickers started making money and
Britannia metal at the end of that period, so this stuff seemed ancient
enough.
I now had the pleasure of obtaining “Old Pewter,” by Malcolm Bell, and
found among the illustrations articles of which I had duplicates, one
of which was a pepper-pot, and this reminds me that when I went in for
this and inquired the price, and was told fourpence, I repeated the
word “fourpence!” which immediately drew the rejoinder “Yes, fourpence,
it’s half full of pepper.” From the trouble I had in getting out that
solid pepper, I rather think the pewter must have been built round it.
I opened a correspondence with Mr. Bell, and he most courteously and
kindly gave me every assistance. In one of his letters he wrote: “I
must confess that for my own part I could not pretend to draw any hard
and fast line between pewter and Britannia metal, for though one can
tell the difference between the extreme types by the eye the varieties
merge so gradually into each other that the boundary is indefinable.
In fact, hard metal pewter with 96 parts tin, 8 of antimony, and 2 of
copper is practically identical with the Britannia metal containing
92 parts of tin, 8 of antimony, and 2 of copper,” which was what I
expected. Consequently I have among my lot many pieces which may have
been sold as Britannia metal in the old days, but I would defy anyone
to pick them out and prove them not to be pewter.
I asked Mr. Redman to come over and see me, and he readily did so.
After he had gone, and from remarks he had made, I gathered he had been
more impressed by the kindness of my partner than with the quality
of some of my pewter. The result of this interview was that I never
refused anything in the pewter line of mature age, and came to the
conclusion that the difference in the names was a clever move of cute
business men to enable them to charge something extra for their wares
which were made of somewhat harder metal than was being generally used
at the time. I have frequently come across early plates and tankards
that differed materially in their hardness.
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES
PAP-BOAT. On shelf 3, Plate XXI (facing p. 47), I show a specimen of
rarity. Pap-boats would be as common as babies at one time. This one
was bought at Lytham, and was introduced to me as a pig feeder. It is
4½ inches long.
CASTOR-OIL SPOONS. What a fuss they made about taking a dose of castor
oil, or had they not conceived the idea of disguising it between other
liquids? The manipulation of such a spoon was a tricky job, for after
getting it into the mouth a twist would be needed to bring the lid on
to the tongue, the lid would partly drop open and the castor-oil would
then flow gently down the patient’s throat, provided of course there
was no resistance. This forcible feeding was of everyday occurrence.
The larger of the spoons is about seventy years old, and the smaller
about ninety years.
There are eighty-five specimens on Plate XXI, and I believe that the
reader, with the aid of a magnifying glass, will be able to form a very
good idea of each piece. The photographing of the groups generally
entailed quite a lot of work, and some anxiety, for as I do not develop
myself, or, rather, as I do not do my own developing, I had put all the
things back in their places before I knew if the negatives were right.
Fortunately it turned out all the exposures had been correctly timed,
which was more than I anticipated with the varying and often poor
December light.
THE “ODAMIFINO” (Plate XXVI, facing p. 74.).
This was picked up quite recently by a keen collector of rags and bones
and other relics whose glory has departed. It was snapped out of his
day’s doings by a flourishing dealer in anything that blew into his
yard, and it was only by my going over the top of about 10,000 rabbit
skins, the age of which could be more accurately guessed by their
odour than by their sealskin-like appearance, that I caught sight of
it. Then ensued a discussion as to the part this pewter had played in
the past. The R and B collector called it a “Funniosity,” the skin
specialist diagnosed it as a “Cream jug,” while a third gentleman (who
dare not take on any other job than spirit testing while he is drawing
out-of-work pay) said without hesitation, but not very distinctly,
“Odamifino,” with a pronounced emphasis on the second syllable. When I
suggested it might be a barber’s shaving-pot I was immediately ruled
out of that court, as “Barbers never used anything made of pewter.”
Now if any collector can inform me when “Odamifinos” were in vogue,
and why they came into existence, I shall be obliged, and in the
meantime I will consider the cleaning, for is not cleanliness akin to
collectingness? At present it has hardly an appearance suitable to
my cabinet of rarities, while its high-sounding designation suggests
that as its proper environment, and yet I have in mind the quip of
that inveterate humorist Froude, “A thing of beauty is a joy for
ever,” muttered at the Annual Meeting of the Peace Congress, when
Carlyle chipped in with a chuckle, “Rough hew them as we will,” to
be capped by that infernal joker Dante with the remark, “You cannot
paint the lily whiter.” At this point Mr. Chairman Darwin brought back
the members to their customary somnolence with the admonition: “Come,
gentlemen, please, don’t ape the silly goat. The next subject for
consideration is ‘Shaving--should each customer have fresh water?’”
CLEANING
This was a great source of trouble to me and to those associated with
my home life, and it was not until I had strained their patience almost
to the separation point that I was informed: “You really must make some
arrangement for getting the pewter cleaned elsewhere, as the maids have
given warning they cannot put up with the master messing up the kitchen
any longer. Half the saucepans are ruined, as of course they could not
be used after having that filthy stuff in them.”
I started boiling corroded pieces and letting them soak in washing
soda all night, but found this made no impression on those which had
been most neglected, while some came bright after a good scouring with
hot water and Brookes’s soap, being later polished with methylated
spirit and plate powder. I may here advise the reader that the latter
treatment is all I now find necessary to furbish up my stock and keep
it presentable.
I will not dwell further on my early difficulties, but relate how they
were overcome. At the time I was almost overwhelmed with putrid plates,
dishes, and other things I had received Mr. Redman came to my rescue
with the following recipe:
“2 oz. rock lime, 2 oz. caustic soda, 6 oz. common salt, 8 oz. common
soda, dissolve in 3 quarts of water in a saucepan on the fire. When
dissolved pour into a bowl, and when cold add eight quarts of cold
water. Steep as long as necessary as much pewter as the liquid will
cover, and the bath can be used until the liquor has lost its nature.”
I had a mixture made in a bath and let the things lie in this until
the corrosion was easily wiped off, and I entrusted this job to a man
who had been used to cleaning machinery and whose practical knowledge
and serviceable hands made him far more competent than his employer.
I never had the surface of the pewter injured in any way with the
strong solution, and so long as the rubbing with the coarse flannel
and Brookes’s soap was done the way of the grain--that is, circular or
round and round--no scratching was apparent. When I say I have dealt
with no fewer than 1,450 pieces the reader may gather that the trouble
and expense has not been trifling.
I hope this information in regard to cleaning may be of value to many
amateurs, to whom I wish good luck.
In case some curious minds may wonder how I account for the difference
between the total given and the 500 pieces I stated I now have I do not
mind disclosing that I sent a lot of it to a friend at New York who
was anxious to exhibit his old family plate, and I learnt when he was
last over that as the brightness I had been at such pains to secure
militated, in his opinion, against the appearance of antiquity he had
abstained from further cleaning, and that the pewter was now looking
quite old.
I believe I must have earned that friend’s undying gratitude, for
did I not provide him with his great-great-grandfather’s clock, and
further spared him and shipped out an early dated Broadwood grand
piano, which I had previously converted into a dressing-table, and
which he has since discovered is the identical instrument that his
great-great-grandmother used for the five-finger exercise?
THE TINSMITH
I have mentioned that on some occasions I found it necessary to send
pewter to the manufacturers, but I have scores of pieces which only
required slight repairs--soldering, straightening and reshaping--such
as an accomplished tinsmith could manage. Fortunately I found the man
of the hour, day, month, and year, and not far off, and I cannot say
how much time I spent in his workshop. He was always very busy, and if
I sent him anything to do I never knew when I should see it again, so
I had to resort to taking it myself and waiting until it was finished,
otherwise it would be half done and then laid aside while he went out
to pick a lock, or put down while he mended a kettle or something that
was most urgently required. Really the way he handled my pewter was
terribly fascinating, making pieces so hot at times and putting them
so close to his fire that I positively trembled for fear they would be
ruined altogether, but he never made a mistake.
His favourite expression was, “You understand me,” so the reader will
appreciate that these three words kept coming into his conversation
in the most unexpected places. “It was a good job--you understand
me--that church was burnt out. I got all the organ pipes; I’m using
some of them in this solder--you understand me--about 18 cwt. of them
altogether.”
I took him a big jug to have the handle soldered not long ago. I saw
him start it and said I would call on my way back from the bank. I did
so and found the job only partly done. By way of explanation he said:
“Mr. A. has been in about a freeze--you understand me.”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. What is a freeze?”
“A refrigerator for milk.”
“Oh, will you be much longer?”
In the course of my many entertaining interviews I learnt that he first
went into a shop when he was aged 8, in the year 1847. Tinsmiths then
used to fix all gaspipes, and I have found out since that Westminster
Bridge was first illuminated with gas in 1813. But to go back to my
confrère. He did not stop in the shop long, as he was sent to school
for about twelve months. The school was in a cellar, with forms round,
on which there was always a birch-rod handy, and as the schoolmaster
had been a soldier he knew how to use it, and my friend added: “You
understand me--there were no inspectors in those days.”