Glide on my Bark, the Summer’s tide,Is gently flowing side by side,Around thy prow the waters bright,In circling rounds of broken light,Are glittering as if Ocean gave,Her countless gems to deck the wave.
Glide on my Bark, the Summer’s tide,Is gently flowing side by side,Around thy prow the waters bright,In circling rounds of broken light,Are glittering as if Ocean gave,Her countless gems to deck the wave.
Glide on my Bark, the Summer’s tide,Is gently flowing side by side,Around thy prow the waters bright,In circling rounds of broken light,Are glittering as if Ocean gave,Her countless gems to deck the wave.
Glide on my Bark, the Summer’s tide,
Is gently flowing side by side,
Around thy prow the waters bright,
In circling rounds of broken light,
Are glittering as if Ocean gave,
Her countless gems to deck the wave.
On a Sunderland jug, with picture of ship in full sail, titled, “True Love from Hull”:
Kindly take this gift of mine,The gift and giver I hope is thine,And though the value is but small,A Loving heart is worth it all.
Kindly take this gift of mine,The gift and giver I hope is thine,And though the value is but small,A Loving heart is worth it all.
Kindly take this gift of mine,The gift and giver I hope is thine,And though the value is but small,A Loving heart is worth it all.
Kindly take this gift of mine,
The gift and giver I hope is thine,
And though the value is but small,
A Loving heart is worth it all.
On a Sunderland “Frog mug,” showing a black print of a man-of-war with all sails set:
The Fairy of the Sea
Ther’s a frigate on the waters,Fit for Battle’s storm or fun,She dances like a Lifeboat,Though she carries Flag and Gun,What ’er may try, she’ll stand the test,The brave, the staunch, the free,She bears a name of stainless fame,The Fairy of the Sea.
Ther’s a frigate on the waters,Fit for Battle’s storm or fun,She dances like a Lifeboat,Though she carries Flag and Gun,What ’er may try, she’ll stand the test,The brave, the staunch, the free,She bears a name of stainless fame,The Fairy of the Sea.
Ther’s a frigate on the waters,Fit for Battle’s storm or fun,She dances like a Lifeboat,Though she carries Flag and Gun,What ’er may try, she’ll stand the test,The brave, the staunch, the free,She bears a name of stainless fame,The Fairy of the Sea.
Ther’s a frigate on the waters,
Fit for Battle’s storm or fun,
She dances like a Lifeboat,
Though she carries Flag and Gun,
What ’er may try, she’ll stand the test,
The brave, the staunch, the free,
She bears a name of stainless fame,
The Fairy of the Sea.
On a jug with print, touched up with colours, of a tavern called:
The Jolly Boatmen
Let none John Barleycorn despise,He makes the drooping spirits rise,Then drink till all are satisfied,But reason ever be your guide.
Let none John Barleycorn despise,He makes the drooping spirits rise,Then drink till all are satisfied,But reason ever be your guide.
Let none John Barleycorn despise,He makes the drooping spirits rise,Then drink till all are satisfied,But reason ever be your guide.
Let none John Barleycorn despise,
He makes the drooping spirits rise,
Then drink till all are satisfied,
But reason ever be your guide.
On a Queen Caroline jug:
May Loyal George and Caroline,Agree to rule our nation,And peace and happiness combine,In every rank and station.
May Loyal George and Caroline,Agree to rule our nation,And peace and happiness combine,In every rank and station.
May Loyal George and Caroline,Agree to rule our nation,And peace and happiness combine,In every rank and station.
May Loyal George and Caroline,
Agree to rule our nation,
And peace and happiness combine,
In every rank and station.
On a Staffordshire milk-bowl with a black printed farm scene:
God Speed The Plough
We plough the fertile meadows,And sow the furrow’d land,But yet the waving harvest,Depends on God’s own hand,It is His mercy give usThe sunshine and the rain,That paints in verdant beauty,The mountain and the plain.Success to the Farmer.
We plough the fertile meadows,And sow the furrow’d land,But yet the waving harvest,Depends on God’s own hand,It is His mercy give usThe sunshine and the rain,That paints in verdant beauty,The mountain and the plain.Success to the Farmer.
We plough the fertile meadows,And sow the furrow’d land,But yet the waving harvest,Depends on God’s own hand,It is His mercy give usThe sunshine and the rain,That paints in verdant beauty,The mountain and the plain.Success to the Farmer.
We plough the fertile meadows,
And sow the furrow’d land,
But yet the waving harvest,
Depends on God’s own hand,
It is His mercy give us
The sunshine and the rain,
That paints in verdant beauty,
The mountain and the plain.
Success to the Farmer.
On a Liverpool jug bearing a representation of “Charity”:
Success To Commerce and Trade
The watery grave now opens,All dreadful from below,When the waves move the Sea,And the stormy winds do blow,But when the danger’s over,And safe we come on shore,The horrors of the tempest,We think of them no more.
The watery grave now opens,All dreadful from below,When the waves move the Sea,And the stormy winds do blow,But when the danger’s over,And safe we come on shore,The horrors of the tempest,We think of them no more.
The watery grave now opens,All dreadful from below,When the waves move the Sea,And the stormy winds do blow,But when the danger’s over,And safe we come on shore,The horrors of the tempest,We think of them no more.
The watery grave now opens,
All dreadful from below,
When the waves move the Sea,
And the stormy winds do blow,
But when the danger’s over,
And safe we come on shore,
The horrors of the tempest,
We think of them no more.
On a Staffordshire jug, probably made by Daniels, and transfer printed with a picture of an old dandy, who has a paper headed “Oracle” on his knee, and whom the artist has crowned with a wig that would stuff a furnish-on-the-hire-system settee:
Long may we live,Happy may we be,Blessed with content,And from misfortunes free.
Long may we live,Happy may we be,Blessed with content,And from misfortunes free.
Long may we live,Happy may we be,Blessed with content,And from misfortunes free.
Long may we live,
Happy may we be,
Blessed with content,
And from misfortunes free.
On a small plate with a rim edged with red, which carries the alphabet in raised letters, I see a quaint print of two men, one holding his hat in his hand, the other has his right hand thrust in his vest, while the left is in the flap pocket of his knee breeches. There is, of course, a cow, one sheep, and a lamb. In the background there is a thatched roof covering some house from out of which a lady, who appears to have donned her shop-soiled sables, has brought into the road a stool and a spinning-wheel. She is sitting on the former while she works the latter. It is a quietroad, and no motors are anticipated. The artist has wonderfully conveyed the idea that they are having a very warm time, and that the “Johnnies” are having a heated argument; further, it is the fly season, or why is the cow whisking her tail? It is a peaceful scene, for not a leaf stirs, and it is small wonder that the author has been carried away from his object, which was to report that at the top of the illustration there is printed:
Poor Richard’s Maxims“Fly pleasure and it will follow you; the diligent spinner has a large shirt.”
Poor Richard’s Maxims
“Fly pleasure and it will follow you; the diligent spinner has a large shirt.”
While at the foot every child can read:
“Now I have a sheep and a cow everybody bids me good morrow.”
“Now I have a sheep and a cow everybody bids me good morrow.”
So I conclude the diligent spinner whose hands are hidden by his clothing is bothered by too large a shirt on this hot day, and that he is such a super-diligent spinner that he sees his wife does the spinning while he swanks about counting the cow, sheep, and lamb, and is accosted by an indigent acquaintance who is anxious to negotiate a loan—hence the heated argument.
Of course, everyone knows the Willow Pattern; if not, they fancy they do, and it was only natural that the first old looking dish I met with I bought. It was marked “stoneware K. & B.”; there was also a small cross in blue. I couldn’t find “K. & B.” in the book I then had, but I found a cross was a Bristol mark,so I concluded the dish was old Bristol, whereas it would be made by Knight and Bridgewood in Staffordshire. Then I bought other Willow Pattern plates and dishes, some marked on the back and some not, and found there were no two actually alike. On reference I found that the Willow Pattern was the original design of Thomas Minton, made for Thomas Turner, of Caughley, so I turn(er)ed to my guide books to look for a reproduction of the genuine picture, and I found each author showed photographs which differed in many particulars, but some specially recommended marks “C” or “S” and I surmise that we may take it that “C” is the most original of all the originals.
As I was growing older every day, and wished to solve this Anglo-Chinese problem for the benefit of a bewildered brain, I rambled farther afield, and at last discovered a dish marked “S,” this being the mark of the Salopian works which were early in the market with this remarkable design. When I found another dish marked “S,” I exchanged two of my mongrels for it, and I repeated this bargain when I found a third. I use the word “bargain” from the shopkeepers’ point of view, as they would by my generous treatment receive double from their sale than they had previously expected. One of them told me I was too good-natured ever to be well off, and I think he was a man of keen perception of character, but it is disconcerting if a bank-book can be revealed by the face, or by the old Burberry worn on the back. Having a trio of the genuine article, each one “bought” at different places, on comparing I found the pictures identical, although the bluevaried slightly, and so I recommend the reader, if he is interested in this grave question, to studyPlateXXXVII.
My cue is to look at the wagtails or love birds, and if the one on the off side is a cock and carries his wings perpendicularly, or if she is a hen and, after looping the loop, has also acquired the same wing position, which appears to be just the right one for billing and cooing, then it is about time for the collector to turn-er-over and see if there is anything more fascinating than a love story on the back of the piece.
To make myself doubly clear, and to remove any possible doubt whatsoever, I give an illustration of another Willow Pattern dish which has no mark, and is, to my mind, worth half a dozen of the “S” specimen as an antique, for it must be fifty years older, is a better shape, and a nicer blue. I obtained a pair of these from an auctioneer, one being broken in two, and whether I gave him three shillings for the whole one or for the whole lot I am uncertain, and so I cannot make up my pottery account, for I am unable to say the exact number of pieces I have bought. I rather think he sold me the whole one, and gave me the two halves; he certainly did not knock down the lot, or both the dishes would have been broken. With some stuff that is guaranteed to stick everything, on two occasions I joined the two halves, but each time they fell apart a while after. As the third time is like no other my reward for perseverance was that they held together until I nearly got the dish on the shelf, when half fell on the floor, broke in many pieces, and I droppedthe other on the top of them in disgust. I suppose those uneasy birds started carrying-on, and the cement did not have a proper chance to set.
I shall now have to photograph No. 2, and I must see those cuckoos maintain their present positions.
“Birdie, come here a minute and help me take a photo. You keep an eye on that off-side budgeregar, and see he doesn’t budge, while I put a W.P. plate in the slide.”
“Hurry up, dad—they’re gliding.”
“A’hem! they’ve shifted—so like a bird to move; it’s a snapshot anyway.”
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, but when they are in the air, and you haven’t got your gun,—well, there you are. Talk about Willow Pattern—but those flighty birds are no pattern.
I once collected a pair of love-birds in London, and fetched them home. I thought they would do well in the nursery to teach the young idea how to love. One day Mr. Lovebird got loose and flew about the room until at last he found a perch out of reach in a hook in the ceiling from which was suspended a swing. The hook was kept well greased, and what with friction and dust he could not have found a handier place for disguising himself as a blackbird. To get him down the nurse hit upon the brilliant idea of dipping a stick in treacle, and poking about with this to entice him down, with the result that he got treacled as well as vaselined. At length he was caught, and put under the bathroom tap by my better half, who was rewarded by having his beak through the best half of her thumb. WhenI came home to lunch, on learning what had happened, I flew to the nursery, and then I saw something that looked akin to “L” on one end of the perch, looking very down in the feather, while Mrs. L. was at the other end. I enquired, “Lovey, why don’t you get on with your loving.” When swallowing a tear he answered, “She won’t let me, cos I’m sticky.” I said, “Oh, that’s foolish; if you love one another you should stick together whatever happens.”
I gave them to a local bird dealer eventually, and the last I saw of them they were playing about with some rabbits. This man came up to cure a Plymouth Rock rooster which I thought had the gout; he wrung its neck, and that is what I would like to do with those wriggling skylarks which have caused me all this trouble.
“Hello—what’s this?” In reply the broker just said “Two.” Of course he meant the price of the plate, but I referred to the portrait; on my explaining he only answered, “Don’t ask me.” I felt sure it was intended for Tennyson, for although we writers are a bit jealous, we soon get to know one another. I wanted my impression confirmed, so I enquired of No. 1, “Who do you think this is?” “Oh, that’s Sir Stafford Northcote; I can tell by his beard.” No. 2 said it was “Garibaldi,” judging by his necktie. Then I considered, who do I know who runs a beard, because anyone who flies a kite at this angle usually trims ità lasomebody, and so I thought of my friend the librarian. He has plenty of whiskers on his face, a store of informationin his head, and much more on his shelves, and it’s no use having a lot of shelves if you store everything in the brain. He thought it might be Tennyson and yet it had a look of Browning; it had rather too much beard for Tennyson. I pointed out that at intervals beards were usually trimmed, and he, whilst stroking his own, agreed with me. He kindly produced volumes which gave Tennyson from photographs, woodcuts, and steel engravings, taken at various times, and the beard seemed to change after each poem; in the end I came away firmly convinced it was Tennyson, and he didn’t seem to mind who it was. I know that Tennyson was born in 1809, and the plate was made before 1867 by Copeland, otherwise the mark would be “Copeland and Son,” so if we call the plate sixty years old, we find that the great poet was honoured by a halo of Willow Pattern when he was about fifty, and that is as near as one can guess to with such an illustration. I need hardly say that Tennyson was not the writer of that much-whistled and enticing poem “Tit-willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow.”
I thought I had done with Willow Pattern, but the arrival of Tennyson has caused a flutter in the dove-cot. When I came to arrange a photograph for this book I found he was out of place in any position for making an artistic group worthy to grace a standard work on the Willow Pattern such as this aspires to be. I therefore went through—or to be more accurate took up a position in front of—my collection, and seeing a set of Leeds bread dishes with beaded edges, found they were all too large. (By theway, these have no warblers on their design.) Then I saw an oval pie-dish by Job Meigh and Son, and thought that was no match; next I caught sight of a pair of dishes by the so-called Wedgwood and Co. of Stockton-on-Tees, but neither of those would fit the space. A small pickled-onion holder, shaped like a flat-bottomed boat or barge, was hardly dignified enough, especially as the futurist artist had given his coots two wings and two tails each. I was on the point of throwing up the sponge—which, of course, I did not have with me—when I espied on the top shelf a hot-water plate with an antique cork in the hole. This I thought very suitable, for had I not heard an ode to the odour of a cork by a poet who had lost his licence? Also the lapwings looked fairly normal. Perhaps they were tired with having had such warm times and fidgeting about trying to find a cool corner on a round surface. Anyway, they did not look like nesting in that beard and thereby upsetting the growth of years.
I must decline to discuss the matter further.