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.”
It was on the floor of this workshop that I literally “picked up” the James Dixon quart tankard which I described under Marks. It lay amongst other scrap pewter in a dark corner, ready for going into the melting-pot, when I kicked against it and so prolonged its life. It is now 96.
I am afraid my tinsmith is no respecter of old age, for he is at the time I write this only eighty, and when I congratulated him upon his steady hand and wonderful eyesight he smiled and said: “My mother was ninety-one, and she didn’t know what spectacles meant.”
More power to his elbow.
Pewter Snuff Boxes.
Plate XXII.
Pewter Pots (All inscribed except the top row).
Plate XXIII.