Chats on Old Silver

by Arthur Hayden

IV. THE MAKER’S MARK

This of all the marks should be the most intimate and should indicate the personal touch, as something coming from the craftsman to the possessor. It is the heirloom which the old silversmith hands to posterity. His mark signified his pride in his art, that is in the days when craftsmen were artists and whatsoever their hand found to do they did it with all their might. But the maker’s mark, set on it first by his punch when he duly sent his apprentice to the assay office to have it assayed and marked by the great functionaries of his guild, has become eclipsed beside the imposing array of symbols stamped upon it at the Goldsmiths’ Hall. That the piece exists and was brought into being by the humble silversmith is of lesser importance than the row of legally environed escutcheons signifying so much with such unerring veracity: that it was assayed and found of standard quality, so down comes the stamp of the lion passant; that the year was so and so anno domini, down comes the stamp of the secret date letter, so carefully guarded from the public; that the duty was paid, and not till then, another stamp, this time with the king’s head; and last but not least, down comes the stamp of the leopard’s head, denoting that all this was done under the surveillance of the Mistery of Goldsmiths of London. Hence the collector, who comes a century or two after these great happenings, by capricious fate casts his lens on the signs manual of standard, and proofs of place and date; but the bare initials of the maker, which came first from the furnace to the assay office, now come last, as insignificant letters merely denoting that the specimen happened to have been made at all.

What would one give for a few human touches in connexion with our old silver! We may imagine that our candlesticks of the year 1750 held the flickering wax candles which were guttering when the dawn broke when our great-great-grandfather lost his fortune at cards in the county of —, or maybe it was somebody else’s grandfather. But this is in the realms of fancy, and the fortune is literally fabulous. Why are there no George Morlands in the silversmith’s craft? Cannot the guilds dig out their romantic history from their archives? Just to think that our designer of candelabra and flagons ran a fine career on Hounslow Heath with gamesters and fighting men; or did he, just that once, have a duel with young Lord What’s-his-Name in the Guards, and pinked him? Did not the story get to White’s and to the Cocoa Tree Clubs, how the tradesman scored! But no such thing. All these initials of makers are empty of such vanities. We can do better with prints. Those who possess the engraved work of Ryland have the satisfaction of knowing that he was hounded by Bow Street runners and hid, like the modern Lefroy, at Stepney, and that he was hanged for forgery.

There is William Blake, who dreamed as great dreams as Joseph of old, who gave imaginary sittings to Pontius Pilate, who wrote wonderful poetry, and who died in a garret. Copper-plates were dear, but he had no poverty of invention, and since the days when as a child he saw angels following the reapers in the corn, he lived for posterity and left his record. But have gravers on silver and inventors of symmetrical goblets of gold less blood than those who drew lines on copper? There is something human missing in these strings of initials and bare names so sedulously gathered together by dry-as-dust compilers.

In furniture, makers’ names have become household words. Chippendale, Sheraton, Hepplewhite have created styles of their own. Of Sheraton we have personal details piquant enough to add fresh lustre to his satinwood creations. There is the story of the one teacup in the back street of Soho, which was handed to his Scottish apprentice in the little shop whence he issued his religious pamphlets.

In china the personal note is dominant—Josiah Wedgwood with his wooden leg smashing vases at Etruria with “This won’t do for Josiah Wedgwood.” Or Thomas Cookworthy dying of a broken heart in Virginia after his life’s failure at Plymouth. Or the Brothers Elers with their secret underground telephone in Bradwell Wood in Staffordshire.

In silver ware the Elizabethan and the Stuart periods run parallel with furniture; the names of makers are rarely known. But in the eighteenth century besides Paul de Lamerie, Paul Storr, F. Kandler, Peter Archambo, Pierre Platel, and a few others the claim to fame of the individual silversmith has been obliterated by the heart-searchings of collectors for periods, such as the Higher Standard or the style termed “Queen Anne.”

In 1739 the initials were by law altered from the first two letters of the surname to the first letter of the surname and the first letter of the Christian name. In earlier years the maker had a device—a dolphin, a star, a cross, or any other symbol to denote his individual work. Nowadays anonymity is further safeguarded by the Goldsmiths’ Company of London, who admit names of firms. Their printed form runs: “Statement to be made in writing by Manufacturers, Dealers and others, bringing or sending Gold or Silver Plate to be Assayed and Hall-Marked.” Presumably in the old days prentice work passed as that of the master. But the prentice grew older and was allowed to come out into the light. But X & Co., Y & Co., Z & Co. may send their stamps round to smaller and more original men to impress on their work. The public, caring more for the lion, et cetera, than for X, Y, and Z, know no better; as for the real makers the public know nought. But we ask, is this the way to encourage our workers in plate? Syndicates have no bowels of compassion, but assay offices might be supposed to minister to the interests of the art of the worker in precious metals. To kill or to stifle individuality is a crime against Art. If Sheraton had been a silversmith his name would have been unknown.

By law it has been determined that the initials of the maker shall appear on each article of silver assayed; there is nothing in any statute concerning the middle man. It would be interesting to know what steps the various assay offices take to ascertain that the actual maker’s name is upon the pieces to which they affix their official symbols.