“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.