(_Lecturer on Scrollwork and Frets at Sinsabaugh University_, 1917–18)
The secret of antique-collecting is persistence. My friend G——, who
spent three years of her life walking through the mud and dust of
Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont roads in an attempt to locate the
Log-Cabin-With-Flag-And-Cider-Barrel cup-plate, which she needed
to round out her set of cup-plates, claims that the true secret of
antique-collecting is good health. She is no judge, however, as she
encountered a series of unusual misfortunes in her search for the
missing cup-plate. First she was caught in a bad northeaster without
her goloshes, and developed a severe case of rheumatic fever. Then
she fell down and broke her arm. Shortly after that she was struck
by lightning. And a little while later she was run over by a Ford
which appeared from nowhere as she was trudging up a mountain-side
one glorious golden morning in search of a farmer who was reputed
to use cup-plates as fly-poison receptacles. G——, in her droll New
England manner, throws me into convulsions by saying that she thinks
the Ford, like Topsy, just growed. I am sure that if G—— had persisted
in continuing her search for the missing cup-plate, even though she
had to travel on crutches, she would eventually have been successful.
Therefore I say that the secret of antique-collecting is persistence.
It is persistence that brings to light the unexpected treasure. It is
persistence that effects unexpected results. It is persistence that
enables the antique-collector to secure for fifty cents or one dollar a
genuine antique that is worth from one hundred to five hundred dollars
until it is put up for sale at an auction, when it isn’t worth so much.
[Illustration:
STATUE ERECTED TO PROFESSOR KILGALLEN IN FLORAL PARK CITY,
FLORIDA, BY GRATEFUL CITIZENS OF THAT COMMUNITY
Professor Kilgallen himself kindly took the entire responsibility
for raising the fund for the beautifying of Floral Park City by
the erection of this splendid bronze, which is the work of Mme.
Olga Mugsawflovich of Moscow.
]
A guiding star for all antique-collectors, whether amateur or
professional, may be found in the adventures of the old Elon D.
Whipplefish house just outside the little town of Sunkset, one of
those delightful little settlements surrounded by cranberry bushes,
sand, and Down East accents on quaint and picturesque Cape Cod. The
Elon D. Whipplefish house was built in 1742 by Isaiah Thrasher, a
direct descendant of the Marjoribank family of Lower Tooting-on-Wye,
England, one or more of whose members came to America on the Mayflower.
Considerable haziness exists concerning the descendants of the
Marjoribanks family owing to the fact that the name was pronounced
Marshunk by those familiar with English pronunciation, and that some
American records refer to the Marjoribanks as Marsh or as Shawbank
or as Bunk, owing to the difficulty of properly separating the
pronunciation and the spelling.
At any rate, Isaiah Thrasher was a descendant of the one or more
members of the Marjoribanks family who came to America on the
Mayflower; and he inherited from his ancestor a number of rare old
pieces of English furniture, including a very fine old chest. The top
of this chest was missing, the feet were worn away, and several of
the boards had been removed, stolen or lost from the front and sides.
Nevertheless it was a very fine old chest, and very rare. Probably
not more than twenty-eight or thirty of these chests, all told, were
brought over in the Mayflower. He also owned an extremely fine cradle
of the same general type as that which is said to have sheltered
Peregrine White, who attained fame by being born among the furniture of
the Mayflower, though there are some who say that some of the furniture
had to be moved out before Peregrine could get in. This cradle was of
wicker and had probably been made in the Orient, whence it was brought
to Holland, and there picked up, just before the Mayflower sailed, by
one of the Marjoribanks family who had a fine eye for odd pieces of
furniture. Another of his possessions was a beautiful turned chair
with an unusual number of spindles. It had so many spindles that any
one who sat in it could easily spend two or three hours counting the
spindles. This came over in the Mayflower, and was unusually rare,
owing to the fact that most of the Mayflower tourists eschewed chairs
and stuck to larger and more space-filling pieces of furniture, like
desks, whatnots, highboys, lowboys, clocks, bedsteads, and chests. Most
of them were evidently content to sit on the floor or lean against a
highboy, when not asleep or in motion.
The mere fact that Isaiah Thrasher inherited these rare and beautiful
pieces of furniture from his ancestors filled him with a love for the
good and the beautiful. When, therefore, he moved from Plymouth to
Sunkset in 1742 in search of more religious freedom than obtained in
Plymouth, the farmhouse that he built conformed in every way to the
best standards of Colonial architecture. The doorway was perfect; all
of the beams were hand-hewn of the finest oak; the balustrades on
the staircases were as gracefully curved as the lines of a woman’s
throat; the fine corner cupboards throughout the house were gems of the
joiner’s art; the fireplaces were generous and hospitable, flanked by
settles, brick ovens, and cupboards of pumpkin pine, and duly decorated
with spits, cranes, pot-hooks, trammels, trivets, and sturdy andirons.
Isaiah Thrasher found all the religious freedom for which he sought in
Sunkset; for there was practically nothing in Sunkset but religious
freedom and cranberries. He died at the age of eighty-two, and his
house passed into the hands of his nephew, Jared Titcomb, who was
noted on Cape Cod for being the champion cranberry-sauce-eater of the
district, and also for having accounted for three British soldiers
just after the battle of Concord by pushing a stone wall over on them.
Jared Titcomb in turn bequeathed the house to his son-in-law, Rufus
Whipplefish, who was noted for nothing, so far as can be learned; and
when Rufus died, the house descended to his son, Elon D. Whipplefish,
who had the reputation of making the hardest cider in Duke’s County.
It was from this owner that the house took its name—the Elon D.
Whipplefish house—and it was through this owner that I became familiar
with the house, its history, and its contents.
The house stood well out on the outskirts of Sunkset, surrounded by a
heavy growth of apple trees, pine trees, lilacs, willows, rosa rugosa,
actinidia arguta, stinkbush, poplars, and cranberries. For this reason
it had been overlooked by antique-hunters, who buzz around Cape Cod in
the spring, summer, and autumn with the same eagerness with which flies
buzz around a cow in September.
I shall never forget the thrill which shot through me, therefore, when
my friend L——, who rather fancies himself as an antique-collector,
but who never knows enough to collect anything until some one has told
him that it is worth collecting, came to me one day and stated that he
had visited an old house near Sunkset, but that there was nothing in
it worth having. In fact, said he, the old man who owned the house was
probably a nut, since he was saving an old chest that had no top and no
legs, and looked like something the cat brought in.
The flash of second-sight which should be possessed by all true
antique-lovers, and which almost never deserts me except when I am
confronted by a reproduction so perfect as to deceive even the man who
made it, warned me that this chest was probably something very rare and
unusual, and possibly even a most important piece of Americana. With an
air of careless unconcern perfected by years of antique-hunting—an air,
I may add, which must be cultivated by all persons who hope to make a
success of antiqueing—I obtained from my friend L—— complete directions
as to the location of the House Of The Chest. As soon as L—— had gone
on his way, I dropped my air of unconcern, snatched up a pint flask of
gin, which I find to be of inestimable value in dealing with the stern
and rockbound New-Englanders, and hastened at once to Sunkset.
It was a brisk autumn day, and the odor of stinkbush was particularly
apparent as I made my way through the grove of trees which surrounded
the Elon D. Whipplefish house. I shall never smell stinkbush again
without thinking of that red letter day; though I must confess that at
the time it depressed me slightly.
Mr. Whipplefish was seated in his beautiful old kitchen with his feet
resting comfortably in a beautiful old brick oven; and as I knocked
at his back door, he cried out in his kindly New England manner that
he didn’t want any, and to go away. Pretending to misunderstand his
words, I opened the door and walked in. Then, lest there be any
unpleasantness, I dropped my hat as though by accident, and in stooping
to pick it up permitted the pint flask of gin to slip from my breast
pocket and fall into my hat. This is a gesture which has saved the day
for me on many and many an occasion where all seemed to be lost save
honor. A few days of practice will enable any one to drop a pint flask
from his breast pocket and catch it unharmed in his hat with the utmost
nonchalance.
Having done this, I affected great embarrassment and looked at the
flask ruefully, as though it had betrayed me in an embarrassing manner.
Mr. Whipplefish’s manner at once became more affable, and he asked me
with gruff Cape Cod hospitality what I wanted.
One thing led to another, and by the time we had consumed the pint
of gin, he was permitting me to examine the furnishings of his home
without protest.
The briefest examination of the topless and legless chest sufficed
to convince me that I had encountered a genuine treasure. All of
the worm-holes of the tertiary class bore the unmistakable stigmata
of the Dutch worms of the first quarter of the seventeenth century.
Those familiar with Dr. Christian Eisenbach’s† monumental work on the
furniture worm will recall that a peculiar recurrence of frosts during
several successive winters in Holland so affected the nervous systems
of the Dutch furniture worms that they bored to the left in successive
_échelons_, or steps, and cut into the borings of the worms beyond them.
————
† _Bores and Borings._ Dr. Christian Eisenbach. Leipzig, 1847.
The best test of the Dutch worm of the first quarter of the
seventeenth century is to place the forefinger over any worm-hole in
a given space, place the lips over the worm-hole next to the left of
the obstructed orifice, and blow firmly into it. If the hole is a true
Dutch hole of the early seventeenth century, a small cloud of dust will
emerge from the hole next to the one in which the blower is blowing and
will usually enter his eye.
If it is not a seventeenth-century Dutch hole, the blower can blow all
day without obtaining any noteworthy results except a flushed face.
My first venture in applying this test to the Whipplefish chest
resulted in a cloud of dust which entered my eyes, nose and ears and
nearly choked me. Succeeding tests on other holes resulted in similar
clouds of dust of such proportions that I was at length forced to
desist in order to remove the accretions from my eyes.
This was incontrovertible proof that the chest had been in existence in
Holland during the first quarter of the seventeenth century, and that
it had undoubtedly been acquired by the Pilgrims during their enforced
vacation in Leyden before sailing for America in the Mayflower.
[Illustration: PLATE IV
PRICELESS BIT OF OLD STAFFORDSHIRE WARE (A PAPER-WEIGHT)
COLLECTED BY PROFESSOR KILGALLEN
]
Cursory glances around the interior of the Whipplefish house, after
my eyes had been cleared with the assistance of Mr. Whipplefish and
a little gin and water, revealed, in addition to the cradle and the
spindled chair which I have mentioned, some very fine old wrought-iron
latches and H and L hinges on the doors, which were in themselves
beautiful specimens of the art. The lintels and sills of the doors were
simply but exquisitely carved; while the oak rafters which held up
the ceilings were so mellowed and patinated by age that their rugged
strength was most attractive. All of the downstairs rooms were sheathed
in boards of pumpkin pine nearly three feet in width and without a knot
in them.
How symbolical of the changes that have taken place in our country is
the pine, that simplest of trees! In the earnest, upright, early days
of America, the pine grew without knots. To-day every pine tree has
so many knots in it that a person must rise at midnight in order to
get them counted before breakfast. And similarly, to-day, the ancient
ideals of honor and honesty seem to have departed from us. This is
particularly apparent to one who moves much in antique circles. Behind
each corner lurks a human harpy who would gladly take candy from a
child or use a sand-bag if all else fails.
Concealing my passionate desire to relieve Mr. Whipplefish of all
his belongings, I dismissed the subject of antiques as being of no
consequence, and spoke at some length with him concerning gin. When
he voiced his appreciation of the flavor of my particular brand,
I informed him that it was genuine pre-war gin, and that it was
practically priceless.
While this was not strictly true, I had none the less manufactured
it according to a tried receipt given to me by an employee of the
Cuban Legation in Washington who dispenses great quantities—which he
makes himself—as genuine pre-war gin. His statements are believed in
Washington; and the gin is used at many important social functions
in the capital and always spoken of reverently as pre-war gin.
Consequently I believe that I am within my rights in speaking of it in
the same way.
When I had made plain to him the extremely valuable nature of the gin,
I told him frankly that since he seemed to have a discriminating taste
in such things, I was willing to let him have an entire quart of it,
and that in exchange I was willing to take his old chest as a pleasant
reminder of my visit to Cape Cod.
After some grumbling Mr. Whipplefish agreed to this exchange, whereupon
I repaired to my room in the Sunkset House, mixed the gin, and hastened
back to the Whipplefish home with it. I carried the chest away the same
day, and have since refused an offer of two hundred dollars for it.
During the next two days I did not go near the Whipplefish house; but
at the expiration of the two days—which, in Mr. Whipplefish’s case, I
judged to be about the life of one quart of gin—I returned and found
him in a state of nerves.
The antique-collector must learn to be patient. Nothing is gained
by rushing matters. If I had gone to Mr. Whipplefish before he had
finished the gin, I could have done very little business with him
probably. The antique-collector must also learn restraint. If I had
offered Mr. Whipplefish a case of gin for his chest instead of one
quart, he would probably have smelled a rat. He might have held the
chest for a higher price, or he might have had the gin analyzed. Either
course would have caused me considerable embarrassment.
At any rate, I found him in a state of nerves on my second visit. The
offer of another quart in return for his cradle met with an instant
response. I subsequently sold the cradle for six hundred dollars. On
my third visit I got the spindled chair for three quarts of gin. I am
holding this chair for fifteen hundred dollars† and expect to get it.
————
† Prospective buyers will kindly communicate with the
publishers.—_Eds._
By this time Mr. Whipplefish was growing somewhat accustomed to my
presence, and seemed almost willing that I should help myself to
whatever I wanted so long as I placed a bottle or two of pre-war gin in
his hand as a little token of remembrance and esteem.
For two bottles of gin per room I was permitted to remove the pumpkin
pine wainscoting from the downstairs walls of the Whipplefish house. I
used a part of it to sheathe my own library, which has been pictured
many times in the pages of _The House Elegant_; and the remainder I
sold for seven hundred and forty-five dollars.
The doors of the inside rooms cost me one quart apiece, with the
hardware thrown in. The big front door and carved sills with a
graceful fanlight came higher. That cost me half a case, but it was
worth it, as I have since refused an offer of twelve hundred dollars
for it.
This purchase also caused me a large amount of worry; for Mr.
Whipplefish, not being so young as he once was, fell downstairs several
times during the half-case period, and led some people to think that he
might die of over-exertion. In fact, he was found in a rigid state by
neighbors two or three times before the six bottles were gone, and was
thought to be dead; but each time he proved merely to be ossified, and
came back to life before the undertaker arrived.
My feelings may well be imagined during this trying time. Since there
were several things which I still wished to remove from the Whipplefish
house, my anxiety over his condition was naturally tremendous. It
affected me to such an extent that my hand slipped on one occasion when
I was mixing a batch of gin, and I got in twice as much essence as I
should. I was forced to throw away an entire quart of alcohol.
Eventually Mr. Whipplefish finished the six bottles without succumbing;
and after allowing him several days in which to recover, I returned to
the chase. He was, of course, very glad to see me, and did not demur
at all when I gave him two bottles and removed the big brick fireplace
with its quaint brick oven from the kitchen. I could easily get five
hundred dollars for this fireplace if I wished to take the money; but
I put Art above Commercialism, like every true lover of the Beautiful.
I shall always keep this quaint and hospitable hearth, unless somebody
offers me so much money that I cannot refuse.
My final purchase from Mr. Whipplefish and the celebrated old
Whipplefish house was made on July 14th. I remember the day very well,
for it is the anniversary of the fall of the Bastille. Hereafter the
date will always be associated in my mind with two falls.
Early on the morning of that day I called on Mr. Whipplefish and found
him shaking all over. His first question was, “Got any gin?” I at once
realized that the time was ripe to get the magnificent hand-hewn oak
beams in the kitchen—beautiful things that I had coveted ever since I
started coming to the house. Mr. Whipplefish was wholly reckless at
that time, and insisted on a higher price than I cared to pay; but the
beams were such rare and delightful pieces that I threw caution to the
winds. Mr. Whipplefish, with his Yankee cunning gleaming in his little
blue eyes, insisted on an entire case of gin in return for these beams.
And I—I paid it. It may have been foolish of me to do so; but the lure
of the antique, which no true collector can resist, led me on. I gave
him the case for which he asked. Then I took out the beams.
As I was loading them on the team to take them away, kindly old Mr.
Whipplefish stood in the doorway of the historic old Whipplefish
house, waving a partly empty bottle around his head and crooning an
old Cape Cod melody to me by way of farewell. Unfortunately, in the
middle of the song, the bottle struck the side of the doorway. The
house, weakened by the many removals, at once collapsed, burying Mr.
Whipplefish in the remains.
July is the busy season on Cape Cod; and since it was supposed that
Mr. Whipplefish had been killed, no effort was made to dig him out
on that day. On the following morning, however, he was heard crying
for more gin; so a number of natives rather reluctantly desisted from
their regular summer occupation of relieving the summer visitor of his
bank-roll, and dug him out. He was little the worse for wear, for he
had shielded the partly filled gin bottle with his body as the house
caved in on him, and the stimulant had eased the trying hours.
This, however, was not the end of the old Whipplefish house. A
few months after the collapse a retired harness manufacturer from
Rochester, New York, who was travelling on Cape Cod in search of the
antique and the quaint, passed the ruins of the old Elon D. Whipplefish
house, lying amidst the pine trees, poplars, stinkbush and cranberries.
As I have said before, persistence is at the root of all successful
antiqueing. W——, the retired harness manufacturer, for some unknown
reason made up his mind that he wished to restore the Elon D.
Whipplefish house to the exact state in which it was before its
collapse.
[Illustration: PLATE V