COLLECTING AS A PASTIME
There is a cause for everything. Are antique collectors born or are they made? Is the craze inherent, or do circumstances or environment create the craving? How in later life do early associations influence our peculiar fancies? Possibly my seven years as a choir-boy at Winchester Cathedral attending services and practices there fifteen times weekly, being boarded at the Bishop’s Palace, and playing games under the shadow of the ruins of Wolvesey Castle may have laid impressions which tended to render me susceptible to the mediæval. My reflections bring to mind my singing at the enthronement of Bishop Samuel Wilberforce, and seeing the bones of King Rufus taken out of his tomb and laid in skeleton form on the floor of the chancel. In those times a man was not considered too old at forty, as the Dean was doing his little bit at ninety. To go back still farther, when quite a small boy I lay for weeks with a broken leg, which had to be broken a second time owing to poor setting, in a room out of which there was a secret chamber for hiding those “wanted” in the good old days. This ancient home with its pointed gables and windows was suitably named “Gothic Lodge,” and is near Southampton, close to a house in which Lord Jellicoe’s grandfather resided.
Anyone knowing Winchester will be familiar with the picture of “The Trusty Servant,” and illustrative of the extraordinary things a collector may come across in his rambles, I found a good print of this in a nice old maple frame hanging in a dark shop of a dingy street in a drab town in the North of England, and, of course, I purchased it (Plate II, facing p. 14).
The rostrum shook under the thud of the fist of the reformed prizefighter, and the hall reverberated with his stentorian exclamation. “Ah-h-h-h, my friends, what will the drunkard do for drink?” Allow me just to whisper, “What won’t the collector do for curios?” It is generally understood that there is honesty among thieves. This may be so—not being a member of that fraternity I cannot vouch for its accuracy. That this desirable attribute prevails amongst the majority of antique dealers and collectors is to my mind open to question. You know you cannot do yourself justice unless you know more than the other fellow, while he in his turn, if you are a stranger, treats you with suspicion, and so you both play Brer Rabbit.
I was once going through a collection acquired by a professional gentleman, and he called my special attention to a very good figure of Nelson, which he informed me he had obtained at a bargain price. The figure was in a shop run by an alien, probably now a naturalised Englishman, who asked fifteen shillings for it. On its being pointed out that the figure only possessed one arm the alien said he had not noticed that and dropped the price to eighteenpence. I suppose, after all, this question of honesty resolves itself into a matter of conscience, and we must realise that this is a commodity liable to degrees of elasticity which can be regulated without a great deal of effort to suit the demand requisite for the occasion.
Did you ever know a collector give away anything from his special line? I once had a little Leeds Pottery cottage (impressed mark) pressingly offered me out of pure good will by a dealer, who although he was only half a collector was a whole-hearted Christian, and I wish he were still in the flesh to read this fond reference to his genial urbanity, but he has gone aloft.
Open confession is good for the soul, and I feel at this point I must unburden my conscience after alluding to others whose feelings may have been disturbed by my theories. On one occasion a very old and valued friend was giving a charity bazaar at his residence, so he asked me to contribute some of my old pewter. My friend and I had much in common, but he little knew what he was asking of me then or with what pangs of heart-burning those twenty pieces were selected, packed, and forwarded, with a lying letter expressing the pleasure I felt.
One other outstanding instance of generosity comes vividly to my mind. Early on, when I could talk of nothing but old pewter, I spent an afternoon with a friend who still resides in a hamlet, the name of which I Aughton’t to disclose. He specialises in old porcelain and young pullets, together with rare bits and roses. At the time I was almost in despair because I could drop on no pewter dishes. Imagine my delight when I received anonymously three good marked specimens from the residential district aforesaid. On meeting the donor and overwhelming him with my profusion of gratitude, he remarked, “Look here, old man, you needn’t make such a fuss about it. The fact is my wife came across these dishes when spring cleaning, and she asked me to get them out of the way, so I sent the bally things off to you.”
I have alluded to the influence the collecting craze may have on the conscience, and on the gift of charity. The bump denoting the latter varies very considerably in individuals, as in some cases it is reported to be undiscernible by the most gifted phrenologist, yet we each think our own so abnormally developed that we wonder how we keep our hats on. As an instance of the way in which the mania may take hold of the common sense contained in a brain occupied with big undertakings, and large financial questions, let me give you an instance.
At a shop on Blackpool Pier I noticed an oak pulley-block partly gilded, and learnt it had belonged to the rigging of the Foudroyant, which was wrecked there in 1897. Although I did not want this myself I knew a friend who would like to have it. He was very keen on Nelson relics, and had shown me with pride the room he devoted specially to the display of these, which he had accumulated regardless of cost. I purchased the block for a guinea, packed it up, sent it off to the South of England by passenger train, and wrote saying what I had done. What gigantic schemes matured or what h.p. pressure was required to keep his powerful brain under control, I do not know, but in the evening of the following day I received an urgent telegram saying the pulley-block had not yet arrived, and would I trace it forward? Now why could not a man of his experience and resource have waited more than twelve hours after getting my letter for a thing like that to come 250 miles by train, without giving me extra trouble, when I had already put myself out of the way to give him a little pleasure? I forgave him when I received his note of thanks, and he never met me afterwards without referring to my thoughtfulness on his behalf.
Soon after I started I had the advantage of comparing notes with a medical friend, who had a decided penchant for antiques, and he diagnosed collecting as a disease on which he considered himself an authority, if not a specialist, as his knowledge had been acquired by constant practice. His faculties were so acute that on one occasion while feeling the pulse of a patient he lost count of the beats through catching sight of a Bartolozzi print hanging near the bed. He was pleased to say the patient recovered her health, and he obtained the Bartolozzi.
Further evidence in support of this theory is the case of a minister who, after seeing my collection for the first time, could not sleep, but lay awake wondering in which of the houses in his parish he had seen any pewter. May I not carry this a step further without giving offence, by suggesting that when thoughts require to be concentrated on less worldly things, while paying his consoling visits he should spend much of the time with both eyelids closed? Be this as it may, he has secured a number of bargains.
Another instance came under my notice through seeing a letter from a wealthy merchant, the ramifications of whose business are world-wide, in which he stated he had been poking about slums, and had picked up two pepper-pots for a few coppers. Consequently he could not see his way to offer more than three shillings for two which had been advertised for four shillings.
I have discovered among my press cuttings an article which appeared in the Times, August 12, 1910, and I should like you to read the following extract:—
ON COLLECTORS
“The collector’s instinct seems to be a curious by-product of the human mind; and not only of the human mind, for magpies, monkeys, and even dogs, sometimes have it. When a dog makes a store of bones, old and entirely fleshless, he is like the collector who keeps obsolete things just because they are obsolete. A used postage stamp is to a man what a bone without flesh is to a dog; but the collector of postage stamps goes further than the dog, in that he prefers an old postage stamp to a new one, while no dog, however ardent a collector of bones without flesh, would not rather have a bone with flesh on it. Yet there is more method in the human collector, since he always has before him the ideal of a complete collection, whereas no dog, probably, ever dreamed of acquiring specimens of all the different kinds of bones there are in the world. This ideal of a complete collection is the usual spur of the human collector; and often he will collect the most out-of-the-way things in the hope of attaining it. But there is also the spur of rivalry, and because of that there are not many collectors of things that no one else collects. Every collector likes to have at least one rival whom he may out-do, and from whom perhaps he may steal; for the collector’s instinct is sometimes too strong for the most honest of men, so that they come to regard stealing as only a bold and skilful kind of collecting. They would never steal anything except what they collect; but in stealing a fine specimen they are only rectifying the iniquity of chance which has given that specimen to an ignoramus who does not deserve it. For them collecting is a game, and stealing is not a breach of the rules. Indeed, there is only one breach of the rules, viz.:—forging. But even forgeries make collecting more exciting; and perhaps they are not really a breach of the rules, but only an added complication in the game, a new kind of bunker, so to speak, which tests the skill of the player.”
Great minds think alike! Oh, thank you!
In my numerous calls I have only once been openly treated with suspicion, and that happened in a county town which boasts of an imposing jail. Possibly the existence of that massive pile with its undesirable inmates had given cause to the local antique dealer to be ever doubtful of his visitors. My friend and I had left the motor at the hotel, found a small shop crowded with antiques, opened the door, which was of the stable pattern in two sections, and walked in. After a few minutes, during which we were examining curios, and making audible comments, the proprietor came out of the back, and demanded to know how we got in.
“Through the door.”
“Yes, but why didn’t you ring the bell?”
“Perhaps the bell is out of order.”
“No, that won’t wash, I know your sort.”
He was irate, so we left him in possession. My friend was very indignant, and was not appeased when I hinted that the unpleasant incident would not have occurred if I had been by myself.
I do not envy those who go to auction rooms or large antique premises, buy a cart-load in one afternoon, write out a cheque, and have the goods kecked at the door like a load of coal. I have always been pleased that I started and have kept on buying my finds in penny numbers, and now I am able to put them in volume form I am well rewarded for my persistence.
Like the lady who never made her tea the right strength, because she had a poor eye for measuring distances, I attempt no estimate of the miles I have travelled in pursuit of the game. I have motored as far north as Dunbar with success, made discoveries in Dover, found dishes in Devonshire, turned up treasures when touring the Lakes, and been over to Ireland for pewter. Reflections on these journeys are constantly arising as my eye lights on one or other of the numerous specimens which adorn my home, and I am truly thankful that I turned my attention to the collecting of antiques in the way I have done, thereby providing myself with a pastime which has been beneficial to the body and mind of a busy man.
In my narration I hope I may not cause the reader to conclude that I am egotistical, desirous of creating the impression that I know it all, make no mistakes, and pick up nothing but bargains. I must plead guilty of having on more than one occasion when homeward bound thrown rotten purchases out of the train, taking care, of course, not to hit any resting man working on the line. There have been times when on closer scrutiny I have discovered an “antique” purchase to be modern, and I have turned it over to the hazards of everyday use, feeling sure that its existence among the household effects would not remain in evidence for a lengthy period to remind me of my lack of acumen.
By giving some of my experiences the amateur who, like myself, has essayed to go cautiously will, I feel, enter into the spirit which has pervaded my search after antiques to get what enjoyment there was to be obtained in pursuit of the elusive bargain. An ounce of practice is worth a ton of theory, and a few mistakes are the best school for the student.
I hope in the contents evidence of originality may occur, and that the touches of humour may not be considered misplaced, even by those who take their collecting very seriously. I have the good fortune to number among my friends one who for half an ordinary lifetime has been so keen a collector of antiques that he has gathered together a host of treasures which have not only filled his house from ground floor to garret, but have partly stocked the local museum as well. He must have read nearly everything published on his beloved subjects, and when he heard I had decided to write this book, in an encouraging letter he said, “I shall, I know, be very much interested. I love to read a ‘spicy’ article. I always think it sinks deeper than the heavy and often cumbersome accounts we sometimes get.”
I have not enquired just what my friend’s definition of the word “spicy” may mean, but as he knows half my pleasure in collecting is the fun of the thing, and that it is my natural bent to find humour whenever it chances to come my way, I trust he will not be disappointed with the result of my efforts to enliven what he might otherwise have considered another addition to heavy material.
I hope the illustrations will give satisfaction. Long before I started collecting I was possessed of a good half-plate camera, with a fine lens, which I used out in the open on any occasion as I felt disposed, consequently this experience came in most useful when I desired to photograph specimens of my collection indoors. I have therefore not only the satisfaction of knowing that all the subjects exhibited have been gathered together by my initial effort, and are all under my own roof, but that I have taken most of the photographs myself. The result of taking all these on half-plates has allowed me to keep uniformity running through the book, and enabled me to present the pictures the right way up. The arrangement in so many volumes which compels each reader to twist the book every time he wishes to study a picture, will be found practically absent in this. As the smartly set up autocratic adjutant commands his regulars “Right-turn” and “Left-turn” so does the short-sighted conservative author compel his readers to “Read-turn” and “Lift-turn.”
I take no credit for the developing, printing, or toning of the photographs, for I have a detestation of shutting myself in the dark room, and a dislike for the tedium of the remaining part of the process. By arranging a set of shelves for the groups, and fixing the camera at the most suitable distance I have maintained the same proportion of size throughout, a point which should be borne in mind as one which has saved the necessity of giving more than a few measurements. The times of exposure for the photographs have varied from two minutes to two hours.
Collecting, therefore, has livened up my photography; and it is fresh in my mind that photography has livened me up on two occasions while I have been on this work. The first when, after hanging about for twenty minutes while a “grandfather” was reflecting his face, I found I had omitted to take the cap off the camera. Secondly, when another “grandfather” was supposed to be undergoing the required operation, I discovered after the lapse of a similar period, which seemed to be about double the time, that I had forgotten to pull up the slide, and this happened just when the necessary light for that day had finished. Such incidents as these are by the way, but the linking up of photography with the still life that is depicted is a further justification for the title “Collecting as a Pastime.”
The First Plunge—The Clock and the Chest—Varsity Blue—The Statuette—A Weird Arrival—Faked Chairs—Foudroyant Oak—More Clocks—Study the Chart—Making Converts—Lacquer Clocks—Barometers—The Elusive Mercury—Welsh Dressers—Chinese Chippendale Chair—Spinning Wheel—Spindle-backed Chairs—More rushed Seats—Gate-legged Mahogany Table—Buying Worm-holes—Bureau and Bookcase—A Revelation—Oak Cupboard—Four Corner Cupboards—Dated Furniture—Mahogany Inlaid Tables—A Surprise—Chests of Drawers: Small, large, and a Combination—Just in Time—Bureau—How not to Auction—The Tea-caddy.
“The oak tree was an acorn once,” and so was the case of my first grandfather clock. Quite by chance in 1902, I noticed in a shop window a brass dial bearing the inscription “John Burgess de Wigan,” with well-engraved numerals, and fitted with quaintly cut brass hands. On enquiry I was told they had a case for it, and this was found propped up, for its feet were groggy. As 17s. was the price asked for the lot, I plunged. To my amazement an old clockmaker soon had the works going and he assured me they would see me out, but I have some anxiety about the original wrought iron hinges, which I compute will have swung, back and to, nearly 90,000 times.
The minstrel (Moore and Burgess) sang that “the grandfather clock was too tall for the shelf, so it stood ninety years on the floor.” My old gentleman had evidently been in more confined space than this one they made such a song about, and as the owner could not bend its back he knocked off the feet. I fitted him out with new understandings made of very old timber, which suited him down to the ground. When the case was renovated the venerable timekeeper was placed in my hall, where he has ticked away regularly except on those days when his rope has not been wound up, or when a new rope was necessary. I found, by starting a correspondence in the Wigan Observer, that Burgess was one of the earliest clock-makers in Wigan, and that my clock was made about 1690.
The first long-case pendulum clock was made by Thomas Tompion in 1681 and the prefix “de” to names was dropped about 1700, so it would be interesting to know how many clocks are still in existence bearing the “de” in front of the surname. I have had clocks offered to me said to be 300 or 400 years old, while one man thought his would be at least 500; when I stated that I had read in my clock book that 240 years was the limit he disdainfully brushed that opinion aside with the remark, “Oh, books! Do you believe all you read?”
SeePlate VIIIvis-à-vis since their introduction, and if the regularity of the former and the complacency of the latter had been emulated by the occupants of the house, what a model home they would adorn!