Part 10

Another agreeable old English practical joke is in the shape of puzzle jugs, specimens of which exist in England, but have been rarely found in America. They were made in Liverpool and Staffordshire in the seventeenth and eighteenth century, and in salt-glazed stone-ware at Nottingham in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They were so constructed that when lifted to the lips they emptied by secret passages their liquid contents over the face and breast of the drinker. Sometimes there were three spouts from the rim. If the drinker covered two of the spouts with his fingers, he could drink from the third. This motto is on a puzzle jug of earthenware, of Liverpool make, in the collection of George M. Wales, Esq., of Boston:

“Here, gentlemen, come try y^r skill; Ill hold a wager, if you will, That you don’t drink this liq^r all Without you spill or let some fall.”

Another rhyming inscription reads:

“From mother earth I took my birth, Then form’d a Jug by Man, And now I stand here filled with good cheer— Taste of me if you can.”

Another short invitation reads:

“This ale is good, taste.”

And when you tasted, in good faith, you received a beery shower-bath, which was no doubt considered very funny by eighteenth-century Englishmen.

On another is written:

“Mathew the V 16.”

—not a very appropriate text-reference.

Still another rhyming challenge reads thus:

“A Crown Ile bet That None can get The ale that’s in this Jug, Nor drink his fill Without he spill And shall not use a plug.”

A puzzle jug in the possession of the Vintners’ Company is in the shape of a milkmaid bearing a pail. The pail is set on a swivel, and when the drinker tries to swallow the liquor, the pail sends its contents over his chest.

Cream-ware pitchers bearing Masonic emblems are frequently found, usually having also the name of the person by whom they were ordered, or for whom they were made. These rather egotistical lines were prime favorites among these pitcher-buying Masons:

“The world is in pain Our Secret to gain, But still let them wonder & gaze on, For they ne’er can divine The word nor the sign Of a Free and Accepted Mason.”

Another much-used set of Masonic verses runs thus:

“We help the poor in time of need The naked cloath, the Hungry feed; ’Tis our Foundation stone. We build upon the noblest plan, Where Friendship rivets man to man And makes us all as one.”

And a third:

“To judge with candour and to speak no wrong, The feeble to support against the strong, To soothe the wretched and the poor to feed, Will cover many an idle, foolish deed.”

Some of these Masonic pitchers are of enormous size, as if the buyers wished as much of a pitcher as possible for their money. Many of them were printed at the Worcester factory. I have also seen some fine designs that had been drawn with a pen by hand in mineral colors and then fired in. Pitchers and mugs of Chinese porcelain are also seen with decorations of Masonic emblems and mottoes.

Sailor pitchers are found in comparatively large numbers, with touching prints of a sailor bidding an affectionate farewell to his lass, under a flag and over an anchor, accompanied by such appropriate verses as the following:

“When this you see Pray think of me And keep me in your mind; Let all the world Say what they will, Think of me as you find.”

Or this legend, a misquotation from Charles Dibdin’s song:

“D’ye see a cherub sits smiling aloft To keep watch o’er the life of poor Jack.”

This is often accompanied by the figure of a fat little cherub perched in the rigging of a ship. These Sailor pitchers were brought home frequently at the end of a voyage as gifts for a sweetheart or a wife, as is plainly seen by these verses printed with a picture called “The Sailor’s Return”:

“I now the joys of Life renew From care and trouble free, And find a wife who’s kind and true To drive life’s cares away.”

And also this tender sentiment:

“The troubled main, the wind & rain, My ardent passion prove Lashed to the helm, should seas o’erwhelm I’ll think on thee, my love.”

Or these lines:

“Kindly take this gift of mine, The gift and giver I hope is thine, And tho’ the value is but small A loving heart is worth it all.”

It is a curious fact that feminine owners are exceptionally unwilling “to part with” these Sailor pitchers. A halo of past romance, of sentimental fancy, surrounds the yellow ware love token that “Uncle Eben brought from Injy to Aunt Hannah,” or “my grandpa got painted in Chiny for my grandma when he was courtin’ her” (for even these staidly sombre English pitchers are gloriously Oriental in country owners’ eyes). This latent longing for sentiment, this tender sympathy with youthful love and affection, lies hidden deep in every woman’s heart, no matter what her age; and, in the dull, repressed life of many New England homes, finds expression in a stolid clinging to the only visible token of a love and lovers long since dead. One stout old woman, with calm face but suspiciously shaky voice and hands, brought out for our admiring view, in company with a crimson silk crêpe shawl, a pair of small Liverpool pitchers printed with a spirited marine view of a full-rigged ship, the names John Daggett and Eliza Maxom, and this doggerel rhyme:

“No more I’ll roam, I’ll stay at home, To sail no more From shore to shore, But with my wife Lead a happy, peaceful life.”

“Who gave you them pretty picture pitchers, Grandma?” said the little child who was clinging to her skirts. “John Daggett ordered ’em painted for him an’ me in Liverpool on the last trip he ever went on. He was the han’somest man ye ever see! He died on the v’yage home, an’ yer Granpa, he was a-seafarin’ then, he stopped an’ got ’em on the way back, an’ brought ’em home ter me.” Alas! poor John Daggett! your thoughtful gifts of love furnished forth another wedding-feast with the considerate sailor-companion as groom and comforter. But though passed to “a happy, peaceful life” on a far-distant shore, you are not forgotten, but through the reminiscent power of your last gift, live a tender idealized memory, a dream of eternal unchanging youth and beauty, in your dear lass’s thoughts. Your two Liverpool pitchers have never been thoughtlessly or carelessly used in your shipmate’s, in “Grandpa’s,” home; they have lain for half a century unscratched, unnicked, unbroken, true cinerary urns of vanished hopes and promises, wrapped in the crimson crêpe shawl in the deep drawer of a high chest in your old sweetheart’s “spare-room.”

In this case we encountered a sentiment which we have met more than once—a willingness on the part of the owner, when she found we admired the piece, to let us have it, since we would cherish it safe and unharmed, rather than to give it or leave it to relatives who had openly derided it or called it a worthless old thing. As this New England sentimentalist expressed it, while she slowly folded the shawl around the beloved pitchers, “I’d almost ruther let ye have ’em, ye seem to set such store by ’em, than ter leave ’em ter Asa’s wife, she aint brought up the children extry careful, an’ I know they’d smash ’em in no time, or put ’em in hot water or knock the nose off. Come again next year an’ I’ll think it over, I hate ter part with ’em just yet after I’ve kep’ ’em fer fifty-two year an’ three months, but I’ll see.”

Various prints that are of more interest to Englishmen than to Americans are seen on these Liverpool pitchers; such is the view on the large mug owned by an old Newport resident, which bears the inscription, “An East View of Liverpool Lighthouse and Signals on Bilston Hill, 1788.” In the centre of the design is a lighthouse with forty-four signals around it. Each signal is numbered, and below is a key with the names of the vessels and their owners. This print also occurs on plates. In the days before the telegraph Liverpool merchants were wont to go down to the riverside, about two or three hours before high tide, to see whether there were any flags hoisted on the lighthouse poles, as was always done when a vessel came in sight. Thus were owners notified a few hours in advance of the approach of their craft to port.

Another mug owned by the same gentleman has a map with a caricature of Napoleon Bonaparte standing with one foot on Germany. The other foot, having been placed on England, has been cut off by John Bull, who says, “I ax pardon, Master Boney, but, as we say, Pares of Pompey, we keep this spot to ourselves. You must not dance here, Master Boney.” Napoleon is saying, “You tam John Bull, you have spoil my dance, you have ruin my projects.” A second Bonaparte mug has a red print of John Bull sitting upon a pedestal, inscribed “The British Constitution.” He looks across the Channel at Napoleon, who is weeping and crying out, “O! my poor Crazy Gun Boats, why did I venture so far from home,” while John Bull says, “I told you they would all be swamp’d, but you would be so Damned Obstinate.” The inscription is “Patience on a Monument smiling at Grief,” with this distich:

“The Mighty Chief with fifty thousand Men Marched to the Coast and March’d back again. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

A third Bonaparte mug is thus described in _Notes and Queries_:

“Under a trophy of arms are figures of John Bull and Napoleon. John Bull is in the act of striking his opponent with his right fist a severe blow on the nose; the nether end of Napoleon is at the same time in collision with sturdy John Bull’s left boot. Inscription, ‘See here John Bull drubbing Bonaparte!’ On either side of the picture we have,

‘What! to conquer all England how dares he pretend, This ambitious but vain undertaker, When he knows to his cost that where Britons defend, He’s unable to conquer one Acre!’

‘If your beggarly soldiers come among us, they’ll soon have enough of it; and, damn me, if any ten of you shall have my person or property—so be off!’ ‘Damn ye! you black-hearted, treacherous Corsican! if you were not such a little bit of a fellow in spite of your large cocked hat, I’d crack your skull in an instant with my fist.’”

Another bears these short and pointed lines:

“May England’s oak Produce the bark To tan the hide Of Bonaparte,”

which, though shaky in rhyme, are certainly more effective than the illiterate, profane, and overlong inscriptions on other Bonaparte mugs.

A well-engraved and well-designed Liverpool print is that of “The Farmers’ Arms,” with armorial design ingeniously formed of hay-rakes, scythes, flails, ploughs, churns, sickles, etc., the mottoes being “In God we Trust,” and “Industry produceth Wealth.” On the other side are these verses:

“May the mighty and great Roll in splendor and state, I envy them not, I declare it, I eat my own Lamb, My own chicken and ham, I shear my own sheep and I wear it. I have lawns, I have Bowers, I have Fruits, I have Flowers, The Lark is my morning Alarmer; So you Jolly Dogs now, Here’s God bless the plow— Long life and content to the Farmer.”

One of these really artistic Farmer pitchers with this inscription and design sold at an auction in New York for only seven dollars and a half, in spite of the catalogue’s alluring description of its “having once belonged to Robert Burns.” A similar one, numbered S 32, is in the Museum of Practical Geology in London, and is also described in Mayer’s “Art of Pottery and History of its Progress in Liverpool.”

Besides the design of the “Farmers’ Arms” is found that of the “Blacksmiths’ Arms,” with the motto “By Hammer and Hand all Arts do Stand;” the “Bucks’ Arms,” with stag and huntsmen, and the motto “Freedom with Innocence;” the “Bakers’ Arms,” and the motto, “Praise God for All;” the “Hatters’ Arms,” with the motto, “We Assist Each Other in Time of Need.”

Many of these Liverpool pitchers have an individual interest connected with their original manufacture. They were the favorite expression of respect of ships crews to their commanders, of workmen to their employers. Such is the beautiful pitcher owned by A. M. Prentiss, Esq., bearing the motto, “Success to Henry Prentiss and his Employ, 1789.” Henry Prentiss was a Revolutionary hero, a member of the Tea Party, a wealthy Boston merchant, a large cotton manufacturer, a successful horticulturist, a man whose name brings to old residents of Boston and Cambridge the memory of many a story of his shrewdness and intelligence.

S. Yendell, great-grandfather of the present Governor of Massachusetts, was similarly honored by a mammoth presentation pitcher, which is owned by Mrs. Russel, of Cambridge. It bears a print of the Columbia, on which ship Mr. Yendell sailed on the famous voyage when the Columbia River was discovered, in 1791. That does not seem very long ago! Mr. Yendell lived till 1867. To be sure, he was then the oldest man in Boston, ninety-seven years of age.

The art of transfer-printing on pottery and porcelain, by which all these pieces are decorated, has completely revolutionized the business of china decoration in England, and cheapened the price of decorated crockery, as did the invention of types and printing cheapen and multiply books. John Sadler, who invented the process of transfer-printing, was originally an engraver. He had his attention first called to the possibility and desirability of china-printing by a very trifling incident—by seeing some children when playing “doll’s house” paste on broken pieces of crockery, pictures cut from waste-paper prints which he had thrown away.

For years he and his partner, Guy Green, managed to keep his invention enough of a secret, so that he printed not only for Liverpool works, but for many others. Much of the Wedgwood Queens-ware was stamped by him, being made at the Wedgwood factory, carried in wagons over bad roads to Liverpool, and, after being printed, returned in the same manner to Burslem to be fired. In spite of all this manipulation and transportation it could be sold cheaply, for Sadler’s tariff of prices for transfer-printing was very low. “For printing a table and tea-service of two hundred and fifty pieces for David Garrick, £8 6s. 1½d. Twenty-five dozen half-tiles printing and colouring, £1 5s.” These printed half-tiles were sold for 2s. 6d. a dozen, while the black printed whole tiles brought only 5s. a dozen.

Sadler’s process was very simple. He printed on paper with an ordinary copper or steel plate, then laid the print while wet on the glazed piece of pottery. Then, upon pressing it, the ink was transferred to the pottery piece, and afterward burnt in. Nearly all these wares were printed in black, but some have the prints in blue, and some in vermilion. Others, printed in black outlines, are filled in by hand with various colors, sometimes with very good effect.

Hancock and Holdship followed quickly in Sadler’s wake, in printing on pottery and porcelain in Worcester, and there bat-printing was introduced at a later date. In this process linseed-oil was used instead of ink, and the oil design was printed on a “bat,” or sheet of prepared glue and treacle, which, being pliable, adapted itself readily to the shape of the pottery article to be printed, and transferred to it the oil lines of the design. Powdered color was dusted on these oil lines, the superfluous color being removed by cotton wool, and then fired in. Engravings for bat-printing were usually in stipple work, and the prints can readily be recognized and distinguished from those of transfer-printing.

It is interesting to us to know that an American who seemed to have a hand in every invention of his day, had also his little share in the suggestion, if not in the discovery, of printing upon pottery and porcelain. Benjamin Franklin wrote thus from London, November 3, 1773, to some unknown person:

“I was much pleased with the specimens you so kindly sent me of your new art of engraving. That on the china is admirable. No one would suppose it anything but painting. I hope you meet with all the encouragement you merit, and that the invention will be what inventions seldom are, profitable to the inventor. Now, we are speaking of inventions, I know not who pretends to that of copper-plate engraving for earthen ware, and I am not disposed to contest the honor with anybody, as the improvement in taking impressions not directly from the plate, but from printed paper, applicable by that means to other than flat forms, is far beyond my first idea. But I have reason to apprehend that I might have given the hint on which that improvement was made; for, more than twenty years since, I wrote to Dr. Mitchell from America proposing to him the printing of square tiles for ornamenting chimneys, from copper-plates, describing the manner in which I thought it might be done, and advising the borrowing from the booksellers the plates that had been used in a thin folio called ‘Moral Virtue Delineated,’ for that purpose. The Dutch Delft-ware tiles were much used in America, which are only or chiefly Scripture histories wretchedly scrawled. I wished to have those moral prints, which were originally taken from Horace’s poetical figures, introduced in tiles, which, being about our chimneys are constantly in the eyes of the children when by the fireside, might give parents an opportunity in explaining them to express moral sentiments, and I gave expectations of great demands for them if executed. Dr. Mitchell wrote me in answer that he had communicated my scheme to several of the artists in the earthen way about London, who rejected it as impracticable; and it was not till some years after that I first saw an enamelled snuff-box, which I was sure was from a copper-plate, though the curvature of the form made me wonder how the impression was taken.”

Sadly and deprecatingly must “Poor Richard” have examined the printed tiles of John Sadler, for no “moral virtues delineated” thereon are depicted. He found, instead, the representation of such trivial and unmoral pastimes as dancing, beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, fortune-telling—the latter design being of an astrologer seated at a table telling the fortunes of two young women. One fair maid smiles with delighted anticipation as she receives a paper of prophecy inscribed “A brisk husband and son,” while the other poor creature is departing, shedding bitter tears of disappointment, with a similar paper bearing the depressing words, “Never to be married.” American children doubtless lost much desirable and laudable parental instruction when Franklin’s worthy scheme failed in execution, but they were also spared many a fireside lecture and nagging. How they would have come to hate the sight of those moral lesson tiles!

And while I am speaking of transfer-printing, let me call attention to some pretty little ceramic relics of a quaint old-time fashion, that are sometimes overlooked by collectors—“mirror-knobs”—“Lookeing Glasse Nobs” I find them called in ante-Revolutionary advertisements. These knobs consisted usually of a painted or printed medallion, frequently enamelled on the metal, or on little oval porcelain placques or discs, which were then fastened in brass, gilt or silvered frames, and mounted on a long and strong screw or spike. Two of these knobs were screwed into the wall about a foot apart, so that the oval-framed medallions stood out two or three inches from the wall. The lower edge of a mirror or picture frame was allowed to rest on the iron screws behind these two ornamental heads. These mirror-knobs were also used to fasten back window curtains. The head of the mirror-knob was usually decorated by the process of transfer-printing; sentimental views of shepherds and shepherdesses, mincing heads of powdered French dames, and unintentionally funny likenesses of many of our Revolutionary heroes and statesmen. The portrait of Washington which was employed was fairly good; of Franklin in the fur-cap, quite well drawn; but the others that I have seen vied with one another in comical ugliness, save that of John Jay, always too fine in feature to be caricatured. In the Huntington collection in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in New York, may be seen a few of these mirror-knobs with portraits of Franklin, John Jay, C. Thompson, W. H. Drayton, John Dickinson, S. Huntington, Major-General Gaines, and an exceptionally ugly one of H. Laurens, with a phenomenally attenuated neck, a mere bone of a neck. Often these little printed miniatures are in black and white, but more frequently they are printed in outline, and faintly and delicately colored. I wish I knew where they were made, and who ordered them and imported and sold them, and who drew them. I think that they were made in Worcester, not in Liverpool. Aged country people tantalizingly tell me of mirror-knobs made of discs with white raised heads and figures on blue grounds—Wedgwood medallions, were they not? But they have all vanished from my ken, even the printed knobs are now seldom seen. I know one drawer of an old dressing-case in quiet Hadley town that holds fifteen beautiful mirror-knobs, all whole, uncracked, unscratched; but you will never see them nor buy them. You might steal them, perhaps, if you only knew which elm-shaded house contained them—you might steal the whole dressing-case, indeed, if you were only quiet about it, and you might walk the entire mile and a half of the beautiful main street with the stolen furniture on your back and meet not a soul to question or wonder.

Of the same class and decoration and of the same materials were many dainty snuff-boxes and patch-boxes that were made and used in England and imported to America. The latter pretty trinkets were tiny oval or round boxes about an inch and a half or two inches in diameter, frequently made of fine Battersea enamel, or of china medallions set in silver or gilt frames. Within the lid was always found a little mirror, usually of polished steel, in which the fair owner might peep to freshly set or rearrange her coquettish patches. One patch-box I have bears this motto on the top:

“Have Communion with few, Be familiar with one, Deal Justly with all, Speak evil of None.”

Another has a more frivolous verse:

“Within this Beauty views her face And with the patch gives added grace.”

Still another:

“Love and Beauty conquer all, Love to Beauty.”