FINAL COURSE
Sheffield Plate and Old Silver Told by the Plateau
I have been asked to act as spokesman for this group and as it is in the customary order of things, not only for every group but for each individual, to have a grievance and air it, I must first of all protest against the indignity of placing my companions and myself at the rear of the book, when our value and appearance justify our occupying the premier position, and we consider it a great slight on the estimation in which we are held by real connoisseurs that we have been allotted a back setting while things like old pewter, for which we have the utmost contempt, have been allocated to the forefront. Now that I am on my feet I will say a few words respecting my associates and myself, and considering that my age and reflections extend over a century, I hope they will be followed with some regard. I get on very well with the Tankard, but there are times when he gets out of hand. On one of these unruly outbursts he addressed me as “Centrepiece,” but I metaphorically put his lid on by calling him “a mug.” Taking him all round, he is not a bad specimen, and undoubtedly has sprung from a good family, although I have heard that he latterly came out of a pawnshop for half a sovereign.
My friends the candlesticks might assist me considerably in my reflections, but their glory has been snuffed out since coming here, and on no occasion have they served any useful purpose, whereas if their telescopic action was brought into play and their proper office as candle-bearers to a distinguished specimen bearing the aristocratic title of “Tableau” was allotted to them, they would undoubtedly throw more light on this subject.
The cake-basket is the silent member of our select clique, but I learnt that it had served a fine family for some generations, when it was presented to a church bazaar. From there it passed into the warm hands of the late donor to our present owner. In my opinion this is a case of overfretting.
The sugar-tongs and butter-knife are quite unobtrusive, but are of sterling worth. They often indulge in punctilious conversation which usually becomes more animated in the afternoon about tea-time, when they often refer to a family of Spoons—the Tea Spoons, I believe. On these occasions Mr. Knife lays the butter on rather thickly, which Miss Tongs in her sweet way appears to look upon as quite the correct thing. Only on her arrival here in company with the Cream Jug have I seen them upset, and I gathered that they had all their lives been accustomed to the troy weight which jewellers use, but owing to the vicissitudes of their recent experience they had fallen into the hands of a broker, who, when he parted with them, dumped them into the scales which were guaranteed to weigh correctly up to 14 lb. avoirdupois, and which had just been used for dirty pewter and called them “half a crown an ounce.”
The Cream Jug keeps himself to himself, and is taciturn, at times turning to sourness. He suffers from swelled head occasionally, and then says things about “hall-marks” and “helmet shape,” but he always carries himself well. We call the Toddy ladle “Euclid,” because he is length without breadth, but he doesn’t mind. He has had jovial times in the past, and says if he were to tell me some of the tales he has heard when he was kept busy at nights that I should crack my mirror. He loves to lie on me with his face downwards, as then he can see it in the glass, and I will say I have seldom seen a nicer.
As regards myself, I could fill a volume with the interesting events I have witnessed and the conversations I have heard, but the space placed at my disposal is so meagre I will limit my disclosures to the last few years of my existence. Owing to circumstances over which I had no control, after a lengthy period of neglect I was condemned to occupy an undignified position in a broker’s window, where the odour of paraffin was most repulsive to my susceptibilities. I was dozing in the dark one evening when I heard a voice inquiring, “Have you any pewter?” and the reply, “There is a thing in the window, but I think it has some copper about it.” Some money changed hands, I was wrapped in soiled paper and carried to this home, where I was shocked to see a lot of horrid pewter in the hall and elsewhere, and I was introduced to the family in this way, “I don’t know what it is, but it is juicy heavy.”
These people treated me with an attention I had not been accustomed to for many years, and after giving my frame a bath and a polish, refitting my mirror top and screwing my mahogany back, promoted me to the drawing-room, where no pewter was permitted to enter, and here I have since remained. I am convinced I never looked better, and they went into ecstasies over my grape and vine leaves border decoration, and I then had my photograph taken for the first time in my life. Being a great advocate of cleanliness, and as the same care was bestowed on my appearance in my early days as now, I was quite in accord with the lady who remarked, “She thought that in all well-managed houses the carpets ought to be taken up and beaten at least once a year.”
Do you know I love old furniture, and on occasions when there is a general dust up in the drawing-room I am walked past an elm dresser on which I have caught sight of a pair of Sheffield plate snuffers. I have cut them dead, as I notice they have so far demeaned themselves as to form an unholy alliance with a despicable pewter tray.
I had an uneventful period until the leaves were falling in 1918, when a young captain in khaki arrived straight from the firing line in France on leave for a fortnight. The next few days I am proud to say I had to bear the weight of a large wedding cake, and on the eventful day I trembled when the bride began to cut it with the captain assisting her, but my old back, which is as strong as ever, bore up bravely. There was much talking on that occasion, but the words which most impressed me—and which, in order that I may apply them to my patient readers, shall be my last—were