Plated Article
PUTTING up for the night in one of the chiefest towns of
Staffordshire, I find it to be by no means a lively town. In fact,
it is as dull and dead a town as any one could desire not to see.
It seems as if its whole population might be imprisoned in its
Railway Station. The Refreshment Room at that Station is a vortex
of dissipation compared with the extinct town-inn, the Dodo, in the
dull High Street.
Why High Street? Why not rather Low Street, Flat Street, Low-
Spirited Street, Used-up Street? Where are the people who belong
to the High Street? Can they all be dispersed over the face of the
country, seeking the unfortunate Strolling Manager who decamped
from the mouldy little Theatre last week, in the beginning of his
season (as his play-bills testify), repentantly resolved to bring
him back, and feed him, and be entertained? Or, can they all be
gathered to their fathers in the two old churchyards near to the
High Street - retirement into which churchyards appears to be a
mere ceremony, there is so very little life outside their confines,
and such small discernible difference between being buried alive in
the town, and buried dead in the town tombs? Over the way,
opposite to the staring blank bow windows of the Dodo, are a little
ironmonger's shop, a little tailor's shop (with a picture of the
Fashions in the small window and a bandy-legged baby on the
pavement staring at it) - a watchmakers shop, where all the clocks
and watches must be stopped, I am sure, for they could never have
the courage to go, with the town in general, and the Dodo in
particular, looking at them. Shade of Miss Linwood, erst of
Leicester Square, London, thou art welcome here, and thy retreat is
fitly chosen! I myself was one of the last visitors to that awful
storehouse of thy life's work, where an anchorite old man and woman
took my shilling with a solemn wonder, and conducting me to a
gloomy sepulchre of needlework dropping to pieces with dust and age
and shrouded in twilight at high noon, left me there, chilled,
frightened, and alone. And now, in ghostly letters on all the dead
walls of this dead town, I read thy honoured name, and find that
thy Last Supper, worked in Berlin Wool, invites inspection as a
powerful excitement!
Where are the people who are bidden with so much cry to this feast
of little wool? Where are they? Who are they? They are not the
bandy-legged baby studying the fashions in the tailor's window.
They are not the two earthy ploughmen lounging outside the
saddler's shop, in the stiff square where the Town Hall stands,
like a brick and mortar private on parade. They are not the
landlady of the Dodo in the empty bar, whose eye had trouble in it
and no welcome, when I asked for dinner. They are not the turnkeys
of the Town Jail, looking out of the gateway in their uniforms, as
if they had locked up all the balance (as my American friends would
say) of the inhabitants, and could now rest a little. They are not
the two dusty millers in the white mill down by the river, where
the great water-wheel goes heavily round and round, like the
monotonous days and nights in this forgotten place. Then who are
they, for there is no one else? No; this deponent maketh oath and
saith that there is no one else, save and except the waiter at the
Dodo, now laying the cloth. I have paced the streets, and stared
at the houses, and am come back to the blank bow window of the
Dodo; and the town clocks strike seven, and the reluctant echoes
seem to cry, 'Don't wake us!' and the bandy-legged baby has gone
home to bed.
If the Dodo were only a gregarious bird - if he had only some
confused idea of making a comfortable nest - I could hope to get
through the hours between this and bed-time, without being consumed
by devouring melancholy. But, the Dodo's habits are all wrong. It
provides me with a trackless desert of sitting-room, with a chair
for every day in the year, a table for every month, and a waste of
sideboard where a lonely China vase pines in a corner for its mate
long departed, and will never make a match with the candlestick in
the opposite corner if it live till Doomsday. The Dodo has nothing
in the larder. Even now, I behold the Boots returning with my sole
in a piece of paper; and with that portion of my dinner, the Boots,
perceiving me at the blank bow window, slaps his leg as he comes
across the road, pretending it is something else. The Dodo
excludes the outer air. When I mount up to my bedroom, a smell of
closeness and flue gets lazily up my nose like sleepy snuff. The
loose little bits of carpet writhe under my tread, and take wormy
shapes. I don't know the ridiculous man in the looking-glass,
beyond having met him once or twice in a dish-cover - and I can
never shave HIM to-morrow morning! The Dodo is narrow-minded as to
towels; expects me to wash on a freemason's apron without the
trimming: when I asked for soap, gives me a stony-hearted something
white, with no more lather in it than the Elgin marbles. The Dodo
has seen better days, and possesses interminable stables at the
back - silent, grass-grown, broken-windowed, horseless.
This mournful bird can fry a sole, however, which is much. Can
cook a steak, too, which is more. I wonder where it gets its
Sherry? If I were to send my pint of wine to some famous chemist
to be analysed, what would it turn out to be made of? It tastes of
pepper, sugar, bitter-almonds, vinegar, warm knives, any flat
drinks, and a little brandy. Would it unman a Spanish exile by
reminding him of his native land at all? I think not. If there
really be any townspeople out of the churchyards, and if a caravan
of them ever do dine, with a bottle of wine per man, in this desert
of the Dodo, it must make good for the doctor next day!
Where was the waiter born? How did he come here? Has he any hope
of getting away from here? Does he ever receive a letter, or take
a ride upon the railway, or see anything but the Dodo? Perhaps he
has seen the Berlin Wool. He appears to have a silent sorrow on
him, and it may be that. He clears the table; draws the dingy
curtains of the great bow window, which so unwillingly consent to
meet, that they must be pinned together; leaves me by the fire with
my pint decanter, and a little thin funnel-shaped wine-glass, and a
plate of pale biscuits - in themselves engendering desperation.
No book, no newspaper! I left the Arabian Nights in the railway
carriage, and have nothing to read but Bradshaw, and 'that way
madness lies.' Remembering what prisoners and ship-wrecked
mariners have done to exercise their minds in solitude, I repeat
the multiplication table, the pence table, and the shilling table:
which are all the tables I happen to know. What if I write
something? The Dodo keeps no pens but steel pens; and those I
always stick through the paper, and can turn to no other account.
What am I to do? Even if I could have the bandy-legged baby
knocked up and brought here, I could offer him nothing but sherry,
and that would be the death of him. He would never hold up his
head again if he touched it. I can't go to bed, because I have
conceived a mortal hatred for my bedroom; and I can't go away,
because there is no train for my place of destination until
morning. To burn the biscuits will be but a fleeting joy; still it
is a temporary relief, and here they go on the fire! Shall I break
the plate? First let me look at the back, and see who made it.
COPELAND.
Copeland! Stop a moment. Was it yesterday I visited Copeland's
works, and saw them making plates? In the confusion of travelling
about, it might be yesterday or it might be yesterday month; but I
think it was yesterday. I appeal to the plate. The plate says,
decidedly, yesterday. I find the plate, as I look at it, growing
into a companion.
Don't you remember (says the plate) how you steamed away, yesterday
morning, in the bright sun and the east wind, along the valley of
the sparkling Trent? Don't you recollect how many kilns you flew
past, looking like the bowls of gigantic tobacco-pipes, cut short
off from the stem and turned upside down? And the fires - and the
smoke - and the roads made with bits of crockery, as if all the
plates and dishes in the civilised world had been Macadamised,
expressly for the laming of all the horses? Of course I do!
And don't you remember (says the plate) how you alighted at Stoke -
a picturesque heap of houses, kilns, smoke, wharfs, canals, and
river, lying (as was most appropriate) in a basin - and how, after
climbing up the sides of the basin to look at the prospect, you
trundled down again at a walking-match pace, and straight proceeded
to my father's, Copeland's, where the whole of my family, high and
low, rich and poor, are turned out upon the world from our nursery
and seminary, covering some fourteen acres of ground? And don't
you remember what we spring from:- heaps of lumps of clay,
partially prepared and cleaned in Devonshire and Dorsetshire,
whence said clay principally comes - and hills of flint, without
which we should want our ringing sound, and should never be
musical? And as to the flint, don't you recollect that it is first
burnt in kilns, and is then laid under the four iron feet of a
demon slave, subject to violent stamping fits, who, when they come
on, stamps away insanely with his four iron legs, and would crush
all the flint in the Isle of Thanet to powder, without leaving off?
And as to the clay, don't you recollect how it is put into mills or
teazers, and is sliced, and dug, and cut at, by endless knives,
clogged and sticky, but persistent - and is pressed out of that
machine through a square trough, whose form it takes - and is cut
off in square lumps and thrown into a vat, and there mixed with
water, and beaten to a pulp by paddle-wheels - and is then run into
a rough house, all rugged beams and ladders splashed with white, -
superintended by Grindoff the Miller in his working clothes, all
splashed with white, - where it passes through no end of machinery-
moved sieves all splashed with white, arranged in an ascending
scale of fineness (some so fine, that three hundred silk threads
cross each other in a single square inch of their surface), and all
in a violent state of ague with their teeth for ever chattering,
and their bodies for ever shivering! And as to the flint again,
isn't it mashed and mollified and troubled and soothed, exactly as
rags are in a paper-mill, until it is reduced to a pap so fine that
it contains no atom of 'grit' perceptible to the nicest taste? And
as to the flint and the clay together, are they not, after all
this, mixed in the proportion of five of clay to one of flint, and
isn't the compound - known as 'slip' - run into oblong troughs,
where its superfluous moisture may evaporate; and finally, isn't it
slapped and banged and beaten and patted and kneaded and wedged and
knocked about like butter, until it becomes a beautiful grey dough,
ready for the potter's use?
In regard of the potter, popularly so called (says the plate), you
don't mean to say you have forgotten that a workman called a
Thrower is the man under whose hand this grey dough takes the
shapes of the simpler household vessels as quickly as the eye can
follow? You don't mean to say you cannot call him up before you,
sitting, with his attendant woman, at his potter's wheel - a disc
about the size of a dinner-plate, revolving on two drums slowly or
quickly as he wills - who made you a complete breakfast-set for a
bachelor, as a good-humoured little off-hand joke? You remember
how he took up as much dough as he wanted, and, throwing it on his
wheel, in a moment fashioned it into a teacup - caught up more clay
and made a saucer - a larger dab and whirled it into a teapot -
winked at a smaller dab and converted it into the lid of the
teapot, accurately fitting by the measurement of his eye alone -
coaxed a middle-sized dab for two seconds, broke it, turned it over
at the rim, and made a milkpot - laughed, and turned out a slop-
basin - coughed, and provided for the sugar? Neither, I think, are
you oblivious of the newer mode of making various articles, but
especially basins, according to which improvement a mould revolves
instead of a disc? For you MUST remember (says the plate) how you
saw the mould of a little basin spinning round and round, and how
the workmen smoothed and pressed a handful of dough upon it, and
how with an instrument called a profile (a piece of wood,
representing the profile of a basin's foot) he cleverly scraped and
carved the ring which makes the base of any such basin, and then
took the basin off the lathe like a doughy skull-cap to be dried,
and afterwards (in what is called a green state) to be put into a
second lathe, there to be finished and burnished with a steel
burnisher? And as to moulding in general (says the plate), it
can't be necessary for me to remind you that all ornamental
articles, and indeed all articles not quite circular, are made in
moulds. For you must remember how you saw the vegetable dishes,
for example, being made in moulds; and how the handles of teacups,
and the spouts of teapots, and the feet of tureens, and so forth,
are all made in little separate moulds, and are each stuck on to
the body corporate, of which it is destined to form a part, with a
stuff called 'slag,' as quickly as you can recollect it. Further,
you learnt - you know you did - in the same visit, how the
beautiful sculptures in the delicate new material called Parian,
are all constructed in moulds; how, into that material, animal
bones are ground up, because the phosphate of lime contained in
bones makes it translucent; how everything is moulded, before going
into the fire, one-fourth larger than it is intended to come out of
the fire, because it shrinks in that proportion in the intense
heat; how, when a figure shrinks unequally, it is spoiled -
emerging from the furnace a misshapen birth; a big head and a
little body, or a little head and a big body, or a Quasimodo with
long arms and short legs, or a Miss Biffin with neither legs nor
arms worth mentioning.
And as to the Kilns, in which the firing takes place, and in which
some of the more precious articles are burnt repeatedly, in various
stages of their process towards completion, - as to the Kilns (says
the plate, warming with the recollection), if you don't remember
THEM with a horrible interest, what did you ever go to Copeland's
for? When you stood inside of one of those inverted bowls of a
Pre-Adamite tobacco-pipe, looking up at the blue sky through the
open top far off, as you might have looked up from a well, sunk
under the centre of the pavement of the Pantheon at Rome, had you
the least idea where you were? And when you found yourself
surrounded, in that dome-shaped cavern, by innumerable columns of
an unearthly order of architecture, supporting nothing, and
squeezed close together as if a Pre-Adamite Samson had taken a vast
Hall in his arms and crushed it into the smallest possible space,
had you the least idea what they were? No (says the plate), of
course not! And when you found that each of those pillars was a
pile of ingeniously made vessels of coarse clay - called Saggers -
looking, when separate, like raised-pies for the table of the
mighty Giant Blunderbore, and now all full of various articles of
pottery ranged in them in baking order, the bottom of each vessel
serving for the cover of the one below, and the whole Kiln rapidly
filling with these, tier upon tier, until the last workman should
have barely room to crawl out, before the closing of the jagged
aperture in the wall and the kindling of the gradual fire; did you
not stand amazed to think that all the year round these dread
chambers are heating, white hot - and cooling - and filling - and
emptying - and being bricked up - and broken open - humanly
speaking, for ever and ever? To be sure you did! And standing in
one of those Kilns nearly full, and seeing a free crow shoot across
the aperture a-top, and learning how the fire would wax hotter and
hotter by slow degrees, and would cool similarly through a space of
from forty to sixty hours, did no remembrance of the days when
human clay was burnt oppress you? Yes. I think so! I suspect
that some fancy of a fiery haze and a shortening breath, and a
growing heat, and a gasping prayer; and a figure in black
interposing between you and the sky (as figures in black are very
apt to do), and looking down, before it grew too hot to look and
live, upon the Heretic in his edifying agony - I say I suspect
(says the plate) that some such fancy was pretty strong upon you
when you went out into the air, and blessed God for the bright
spring day and the degenerate times!
After that, I needn't remind you what a relief it was to see the
simplest process of ornamenting this 'biscuit' (as it is called
when baked) with brown circles and blue trees - converting it into
the common crockery-ware that is exported to Africa, and used in
cottages at home. For (says the plate) I am well persuaded that
you bear in mind how those particular jugs and mugs were once more
set upon a lathe and put in motion; and how a man blew the brown
colour (having a strong natural affinity with the material in that
condition) on them from a blowpipe as they twirled; and how his
daughter, with a common brush, dropped blotches of blue upon them
in the right places; and how, tilting the blotches upside down, she
made them run into rude images of trees, and there an end.
And didn't you see (says the plate) planted upon my own brother
that astounding blue willow, with knobbed and gnarled trunk, and
foliage of blue ostrich feathers, which gives our family the title
of 'willow pattern'? And didn't you observe, transferred upon him
at the same time, that blue bridge which spans nothing, growing out
from the roots of the willow; and the three blue Chinese going over
it into a blue temple, which has a fine crop of blue bushes
sprouting out of the roof; and a blue boat sailing above them, the
mast of which is burglariously sticking itself into the foundations
of a blue villa, suspended sky-high, surmounted by a lump of blue
rock, sky-higher, and a couple of billing blue birds, sky-highest -
together with the rest of that amusing blue landscape, which has,
in deference to our revered ancestors of the Cerulean Empire, and
in defiance of every known law of perspective, adorned millions of
our family ever since the days of platters? Didn't you inspect the
copper-plate on which my pattern was deeply engraved? Didn't you
perceive an impression of it taken in cobalt colour at a
cylindrical press, upon a leaf of thin paper, streaming from a
plunge-bath of soap and water? Wasn't the paper impression
daintily spread, by a light-fingered damsel (you KNOW you admired
her!), over the surface of the plate, and the back of the paper
rubbed prodigiously hard - with a long tight roll of flannel, tied
up like a round of hung beef - without so much as ruffling the
paper, wet as it was? Then (says the plate), was not the paper
washed away with a sponge, and didn't there appear, set off upon
the plate, THIS identical piece of Pre-Raphaelite blue distemper
which you now behold? Not to be denied! I had seen all this - and
more. I had been shown, at Copeland's, patterns of beautiful
design, in faultless perspective, which are causing the ugly old
willow to wither out of public favour; and which, being quite as
cheap, insinuate good wholesome natural art into the humblest
households. When Mr. and Mrs. Sprat have satisfied their material
tastes by that equal division of fat and lean which has made their
MENAGE immortal; and have, after the elegant tradition, 'licked the
platter clean,' they can - thanks to modern artists in clay - feast
their intellectual tastes upon excellent delineations of natural
objects.
This reflection prompts me to transfer my attention from the blue
plate to the forlorn but cheerfully painted vase on the sideboard.
And surely (says the plate) you have not forgotten how the outlines
of such groups of flowers as you see there, are printed, just as I
was printed, and are afterwards shaded and filled in with metallic
colours by women and girls? As to the aristocracy of our order,
made of the finer clay-porcelain peers and peeresses; - the slabs,
and panels, and table-tops, and tazze; the endless nobility and
gentry of dessert, breakfast, and tea services; the gemmed perfume
bottles, and scarlet and gold salvers; you saw that they were
painted by artists, with metallic colours laid on with camel-hair
pencils, and afterwards burnt in.
And talking of burning in (says the plate), didn't you find that
every subject, from the willow pattern to the landscape after
Turner - having been framed upon clay or porcelain biscuit - has to
be glazed? Of course, you saw the glaze - composed of various
vitreous materials - laid over every article; and of course you
witnessed the close imprisonment of each piece in saggers upon the
separate system rigidly enforced by means of fine-pointed
earthenware stilts placed between the articles to prevent the
slightest communication or contact. We had in my time - and I
suppose it is the same now - fourteen hours' firing to fix the
glaze and to make it 'run' all over us equally, so as to put a good
shiny and unscratchable surface upon us. Doubtless, you observed
that one sort of glaze - called printing-body - is burnt into the
better sort of ware BEFORE it is printed. Upon this you saw some
of the finest steel engravings transferred, to be fixed by an after
glazing - didn't you? Why, of course you did!
Of course I did. I had seen and enjoyed everything that the plate
recalled to me, and had beheld with admiration how the rotatory
motion which keeps this ball of ours in its place in the great
scheme, with all its busy mites upon it, was necessary throughout
the process, and could only be dispensed with in the fire. So,
listening to the plate's reminders, and musing upon them, I got
through the evening after all, and went to bed. I made but one
sleep of it - for which I have no doubt I am also indebted to the
plate - and left the lonely Dodo in the morning, quite at peace
with it, before the bandy-legged baby was up.
-THE END-
Charles Dickens' short story: Plated Article
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