Collecting—Old watchstands—Samplers—Needlework pictures—Old
military prints—French engravings—French furniture—The Hôtel
de Ménars—Mr. Alfred Rothschild’s collection—The Tilsit table
at Hertford House and its history—A £20,000 commode in danger—
Eccentricity of Mr. Hawkins—Old English furniture inadequately
represented in National Collections—Chippendale and the austere
Sheraton—An apostle of good taste—Lady Hamilton’s cabinet—
Furniture supports—Knole and its treasures—Origin of the
dumb-bell—A gifted lady.
In these days the number of collectors has become enormous. Besides
those who collect pictures, old furniture, and china, many people make a
special hobby of prints, old glass, old watches, and even old
watchstands, not to mention many other trifling relics of the past to
which time has imparted some share of interest and value. Some of the
old wooden watchstands just mentioned are exceedingly pretty, being
formed of cleverly carved wood in most cases covered with a coating of
gilt, whilst many specimens would appear to be of French origin, some of
the finest recalling the graceful timepieces of the eighteenth century.
Watchstands may still occasionally be picked up for a very moderate
price, though when of exceptional quality they may cost something
between fifteen and twenty pounds. Such watchstands, it must be clearly
understood, have nothing in common with the hideous Victorian wire
arrangement which the grandfathers of the present generation were wont
to place on their dressing-tables or by their bedside. In the old wooden
watchstand the dial alone of the watch is shown within a circular space
so contrived that the watchstand, as has before been said, presents the
appearance of an old clock.
Samplers, which not so very many years ago were only to be found in old
nurseries and forgotten attics, are now eagerly sought for, as are old
needlework pictures, which in many instances are highly ornamental. A
similar kind of picture is that in which the dress of the figures is
formed of coloured pieces of silk, cleverly worked on to an eighteenth
century print. A very interesting specimen of this work which I possess
represents an officer engaged in conversation with an elaborately
dressed lady, every detail of the costumes being carefully reproduced in
appropriate colours, whilst the figures themselves are cut out of two
prints published by Carington Bowles. The whole composition of these
pictures is most cleverly carried out, the wall-hangings and carpets
being accurately represented by stuffs of suitable pattern. Signed and
dated 1784, this composition, as was usually the case with needlework
pictures, was the work of an amateur. In past days many of the common
sort of prints were utilised in this manner, many hours being whiled
away by ladies whose sphere of activity would to-day be thought somewhat
limited.
Print-collecting, in which so many people are now interested, has of
late years become a very expensive hobby, but there are still some minor
forms of it which are accessible to those of moderate purses. Military
prints, that is, representations of old uniforms, are as yet not
particularly costly, and their brilliant colouring produces an
exceedingly decorative effect. Such prints are very fascinating to
lovers of past fashions, besides according very well with the hunting
and coaching prints which have now for many years been in considerable
request. A very pretty set of military prints is one drawn by Dayes and
engraved by Kirk in 1792. These prints, six in number, representing the
uniform of the Guards of that day, were published by Captain Hewgill of
the Coldstream regiment, and sold by Boydell at the Shakespeare gallery.
Of late, French engravings have come into great favour with many English
collectors. They are, as a rule, exceedingly pretty, expressing as it
were the very spirit of that pleasure-loving France which disappeared in
the blood-stained days of the Terror.
About the most valuable French line engraving, as well as one of the
prettiest, is “Les Hasards heureux de l’Escarpolette,” engraved by
Nicolas de Launay, after the picture by Fragonard, a replica of which
hangs in the Wallace Collection, where it is known as “The Swing.” The
little lady in the Wallace Collection, it may be observed, has no plumes
upon her hat, whilst these exist in the engraving, which is taken from
another similar picture now in the possession of a French collector,
Baron Edmond de Rothschild.
Other beautiful French prints are “Le Coucher de la Mariée,” by Moreau
le jeune; “La Soirée des Thuileries,” by Simonet; “La Toilette,” by
Ponce; and “Le Prélude de Nina,” by Chaponier. The coloured French
prints by Debucourt and Janinet are also exceedingly beautiful, but
their high price places them above the reach of any but a wealthy
collector.
Within the last twenty years French eighteenth-century art has become
highly appreciated in England, and the fine furniture of that epoch has
in consequence greatly increased in price. Nevertheless, there were
connoisseurs even in old days who estimated the beautiful work of the
French _ébénistes_ at its proper worth. A conspicuous example was the
late Mr. Jones, who cheerfully paid sums which were considered wildly
extravagant at the time for some of the choice specimens which now form
the Jones Collection at South Kensington.
Rooms fitted up entirely in the French style have recently been
increasingly popular in England, and in several cases old houses have
been purchased outright, in order that the fine _boiseries_ decorating
their walls might be removed to this country. This quite recently
occurred in the case of the Hôtel de Ménars, a splendid old house
standing not far from the Bourse, which once belonged to the celebrated
Fermier-Général of that name. Its fine panelling, enriched with carving
in the best style of the reign of Louis XV., has been most artistically
re-erected by the purchaser, a gentleman of very cultivated taste, who
has thus embellished three rooms of his mansion in Belgrave Square.
Here, once more restored to its original condition, this superb
_boiserie_ stands forth as a splendid example of French
eighteenth-century art. It may be added that during the repair and
cleaning of the panelling in question no less than forty coats of paint
had to be carefully scraped off. One of these was bright red, a thick
coating of which would seem to have been applied at the time of the
Revolution. It may be added that in the same house there is now an
almost exact reproduction of the dining-room which formerly existed in
the Hôtel de Ménars, the two original marble alcoves with scooped-out
basins for cooling wine having been retained, together with a massive
marble sideboard once more restored to its original use.
Amongst living collectors of fine French furniture, china, and pictures,
in England, Mr. Alfred Rothschild undoubtedly takes the first place.
Others there may be who also have fine collections; it is easy to
purchase rare and beautiful things if money is no consideration, but
taste and knowledge cannot be bought, and he is one of the very few who
is endowed with these very valuable attributes, too seldom possessed by
those of very large fortune. The best things, I think, in his possession
amongst the French pictures are a “Pater,” bought from the late Lord
Lonsdale; the “Baiser Envoyé,” by Greuze; and the “Toilette de Venus,”
by Boucher; whilst two unrivalled pieces of French furniture are a
_bureau cylindre_ in mother-of-pearl, once the property of Marie
Antoinette, and two Sèvres _coffres de mariage_. He also possesses two
very fine Sèvres tables, as well as two superb sets of Rose du Barry
vases, five in each set. At Waddesdon, the home of Miss Alice
Rothschild, are also many beautiful specimens of French art, a splendid
example of which is the superb timepiece known as “the Fitzwilliam
clock.” Here also is the beautiful “Fortune-teller,” by Sir Joshua
Reynolds, which once hung at Knole. The whole house, however, is so full
of fine things that it is difficult to particularise.
An interesting example of fine French furniture is the table, now in the
Wallace Collection, on which the Treaty of Tilsit was signed in 1807. Of
pale green lacquer and gilt bronze, it is said to have been made by
Dubois for the Empress Catherine of Russia in the last years of the
reign of Louis XV. This table was purchased by Lord Hertford, about the
year 1867, from the late Mr. Frederick Davis, into whose possession it
came in a somewhat curious way. Mr. Davis and his son, Mr. Charles
Davis, happened to be staying at an hotel in St. Petersburg towards the
end of the year 1866, when an individual brought to them, for sale, a
snuff-box with paintings by Von Blarenberghe, refusing, however, to
divulge the name of the owner. His curious attitude in the matter
excited a good deal of suspicion, and Mr. Davis, at length deciding that
the box had been stolen, was on the point of calling the police when the
vendor admitted that it was the property of Prince Kourakin. In order to
verify this statement, Mr. Davis and his son proceeded to call upon the
magnate in question, at whose house they were shown the famous “Tilsit
table,” which, after some negotiation, they succeeded in purchasing,
Prince Kourakin certifying that the Treaty of Tilsit had been signed
upon it, and adding that on the night of the signature there had been a
fire, from which the table had very luckily been saved.
A few months later the table was sold to Lord Hertford, who was, of
course, told its history. At the time Lord Hertford laughed at the
story, declaring that he purchased the table more on account of its
being a fine work of art than for any other reason; but, nevertheless,
he would appear to have made some investigations into its history, for
he subsequently told Mr. Davis that he had found his statement to be
perfectly correct, and had identified the table as being the identical
one upon which the Treaty had been signed. Lord Hertford added that he
had been present at Tilsit at the time, and now perfectly recalled to
mind this particular piece of furniture having been rescued from the
fire.
Another exceptionally fine relic of the best days of art, which passed
through Mr. Davis’s hands, was the famous Sèvres commode with mounts by
Gouthière, which he purchased from the late Lord Conyngham for £20,000.
This commode had once been in Windsor Castle, and was said to have been
purchased for George IV., at the time of the Treaty of Amiens, for the
sum of £200. When Mr. Davis had finished his negotiations (he just
managed to outbid the late Lord Dudley, who was especially anxious to
secure such a splendid example of French art) he sent his son in a van
to fetch it—a special precaution, to prevent the precious commode from
being damaged. To the horror of Mr. Charles Davis, on the return journey
his unwonted conveyance, suddenly coming to a dead stop, began to rock
about in a most disquieting manner, and in a few seconds he realised
from the sounds which reached him that the horse had been seized with a
fit of the staggers, and that the van was fast nearing a perilous
position close to the curb-stone, where it must almost inevitably be
upset. Rising to the situation, however, he shouted out, “A fiver to any
man who holds up the van,” and in consequence of this presence of mind
the van was somehow saved from overturning and the precious commode
rescued from what would have been certain destruction. Mr. Charles Davis
possesses a perfectly unique knowledge of French art, and having had
many varied experiences in European capitals, has naturally some very
interesting stories to tell—there are few things, indeed, which I enjoy
more than a chat with him about the great connoisseurs of the past.
The late Mr. Hawkins, whose snuff-boxes created such a sensation at
Christie’s not so very long ago, was a particularly eccentric collector.
Buying very largely, he would often not trouble to unpack his purchases
once they were made. A Sèvres tea-service, for instance, was found in
its packing-case in Mr. Hawkins’s hall in exactly the same place where
it had been deposited after its purchase, some twenty-five years before,
whilst valuable snuff-boxes were discovered put away in all sorts of odd
corners.
The late Lord Revelstoke probably possessed the finest set of green
Sèvres vases in existence; these, seven in number, were sold to the late
Baron Nathaniel Rothschild of Vienna.
Whilst in the Wallace Collection England possesses a superlatively
excellent collection of French furniture, the finest English furniture
of the eighteenth-century period is only to be found in the hands of
private collectors. It is much to be deplored that the Victoria and
Albert Museum contains no thoroughly representative collection of old
English furniture. True is it that a certain number of good examples are
to be seen there, but these are more or less scattered about, no special
section existing to show the evolution of style from Elizabethan times
to the end of the eighteenth century. This is the more to be regretted,
as an assemblage of the best work of English cabinetmakers such as
Chippendale, Sheraton, Hepplewhite, and others, could not fail to have
an admirable educational effect upon public taste, especially were it
displayed in rooms decorated in the style of their epoch. Mr. James
Orrock, so well known as a fine judge of old English furniture, once
attacked Mr. Gladstone upon this subject. He had long been anxious to
place before that great statesman a scheme to erect a National Gallery
of British Art on a site behind the great collection in Trafalgar
Square, in a position quite secure from all danger of fire, his idea
being that such a building should contain selected pictures from the
National Gallery, from the Victoria and Albert Museum, the British
Museum—in fact, from each of the National Collections. In addition to
this, adequate space was to be allotted to a permanent exhibition of
Elizabethan, Jacobean, and Queen Anne furniture, and rooms set aside to
contain the best work of Chippendale, Sheraton, and other great English
cabinetmakers. Introduced to Mr. Gladstone by Sir William Agnew, Mr.
Orrock at once commenced his attack, pointing out the extreme
desirability, and even the necessity, of the creation of what would be a
temple of British art. He added that the encouragement to collectors to
give and bequeath valuable works to such an institution could not fail
to have its effect, whilst the historical and educational value of the
collection must obviously be enormous.
Mr. Gladstone listened to all this in the most earnest manner, and
cordially agreed that the idea was in every way most admirable. His
opportunity appearing to have now really come, Mr. Orrock went on to
point out that the cost of a building such as he proposed would most
certainly be not more than half the sum expended upon the construction
of a battleship. In reply to which Mr. Gladstone, after a remark as to
the deplorable necessity of expending money upon such dreadful engines
of destruction, said, “But, Mr. Orrock, you forget I am not now in
power”; to which the latter very cleverly replied, “Mr. Gladstone, you
are always in power.”
Though the veteran leader of the Liberal Party promised at the end of
this interview that he would see what he could do to help forward the
suggested scheme, political strife must have obliterated it from his
recollection, for in spite of his assurance he never made any move in
the matter at all; and so it comes about that there is still no National
Collection of fine old English furniture. Most of the best pieces are in
private hands; for to-day the work of Chippendale and Sheraton is
eagerly sought for, and never fails to command huge prices when put up
to auction. Furniture after the designs of Hepplewhite has also many
admirers, but Dutch pieces are often passed off as being his work;
these, however, may be known on account of their being of a somewhat
heavier style of construction.
Sheraton and Hepplewhite chairs are of very much the same design—the
Prince of Wales’s feather ornament, so often found in the work of both,
was, it may be added, no mere piece of fancy decoration, but the badge
of the young Court party which was led by George IV. when Prince of
Wales.
Sheraton himself appears to have held Chippendale in but very small
esteem as a cabinetmaker, for in one of his books he speaks of the
designs of the latter as being “wholly antiquated and laid aside.”
Possibly Chippendale’s somewhat ornate designs may have appeared
frivolous to the austere Sheraton, who was an ardent Baptist and wrote a
good deal in furtherance of his religious views.
A great deal of wood was used in genuine Chippendale chairs, and an
infallible sign of a copy is when the carving seems cramped and flat
owing to the shallowness of the frame out of which it has been scooped.
Much so-called Chippendale furniture has not even a semblance of being
the work of that cabinetmaker.
One of the most ridiculous things possible, from an artistic point of
view, for instance, is a Chippendale overmantel—that is to say, an
overmantel constructed in the modern Chippendale style. Nothing of this
sort was even made in the eighteenth century, though of course mirrors
to go over mantelpieces were, and occasionally the decorative woodwork
surrounding them was very elaborate and graceful. Really old work,
however, is generally much more simple and dignified in style than the
so-called reproductions. A great quantity of good old furniture,
especially bureaus and book-cases, has been completely spoilt by
additional inlay and superfluous carving, in order to render it more
attractive to the unskilled buyer. As a rule, the sole ornamentation
originally lavished on such things was a more or less elaborate
moulding. It should always be borne in mind that in all really good
pieces ornamentation is strictly subordinate to use. Chairs and settees
were not made to exhibit eccentricity and flamboyant design, but to be
sat upon, though, of course, in many specimen pieces the carving, whilst
in no way flimsy or weak, is flowing and elaborate. Chippendale and
other great cabinetmakers invariably started with plenty of material to
work upon, and a sure sign of a spurious piece is a shallow frame, upon
which the carving is cramped and flat.
Modern cabinetmakers delight in producing _marqueterie_ furniture
embellished with elaborate vases, trophies, scrolls, and bouquets.
Sheraton and his contemporaries, on the other hand, produced their
effects by relying upon the nice, graduated, and artistic tones of their
veneers, rigorously excluding all over-elaboration of design. As for
modern painting on furniture, it is as a rule so feeble in execution as
hardly to deceive the most unskilled amateur—most of it, indeed, is
nothing but a bad caricature compared with beautiful old work.
As a matter of fact, it is extremely difficult to come across good old
English-painted furniture in first-class condition; as a rule, it has
been scratched or otherwise damaged in the course of moving, and the
restorations which this has necessitated are generally only too
apparent.
I suppose that taste, as regards furniture, was absolutely at its lowest
point some seventy years ago, during which period much beautiful Queen
Anne, Sheraton, and Chippendale was relegated to the attics and the
servants’ hall, its place being taken by the hideous and heavy early
Victorian furniture, which the upholsterers managed to foist upon a
somewhat inartistic generation.
In the ’forties, it is true, some slight signs of a reaction began to be
visible, one of the first of those to lead it being the late Mr. John
Burgess, a fine architectural draughtsman and painter, whose talents are
now hardly appreciated at their proper worth. He was a member of the old
Society of Painters in Water-Colour, to which he was elected through the
influence of George Cattermole. The latter, it is said, was so indignant
at Mr. Burgess being rejected on the first occasion of his seeking
election, that he threatened to resign if his candidate were not
admitted, with the result that at the next election everything turned
out as he desired.
At Leamington Mr. Burgess lived in a house filled from top to bottom
with English furniture, pictures, and drawings, all of the finest
quality, and here it was that Mr. Orrock, the well-known connoisseur and
collector, to whom allusion has before been made, first laid the
foundation of his knowledge of English eighteenth-century art. He was a
boy at the time, and accompanying his host in rambles over the
surrounding country, very naturally imbibed a taste for collecting the
beautiful old furniture at that time plentiful in country houses and
cottages.
In the days when Mr. Orrock first became an enthusiastic searcher after
fine old pieces of Sheraton and Chippendale, he brought down upon
himself, as he has often been heard to say, much laughter and ridicule.
His passion for “wormy” chairs in particular was a constant source of
amusement to some of his friends, who wondered what on earth he could
want with such rubbish. “You may laugh,” he used to say, “but I shall
laugh louder than you some day when my wormy chairs shall be appreciated
at their proper worth—the worm-holes can be stopped—every one to his
taste—some people like high game, I like high chairs.” In the course of
time his judgment was completely vindicated, and as an instance of the
enormous rise in the value of really fine old furniture the story of two
Elizabethan chairs which he bought in a cottage for ten shillings apiece
may be given. One of these chairs was an especially fine one, having
evidently drifted down into humble surroundings after having occupied an
honourable place in an old country house near by. This particular chair
Mr. Orrock soon sold for several pounds, a good price at that time. Some
years later, however, when taste had begun to improve, he repurchased it
for fifty pounds, almost immediately selling it again for one hundred
and fifty. To-day it would be worth at least two hundred to two hundred
and fifty pounds—not a bad increase on an expenditure of ten shillings.
The foundation of Mr. Orrock’s collection began in rather a curious way.
Chancing many years ago to be at Coventry with a friend, his attention
was arrested by a sale of old furniture which was proceeding at an old
coaching inn, “The King’s Head” by name. A large quantity of chairs,
tables, sideboards, and mirrors had overflowed into the street, and a
quite superficial examination convinced him that here was a unique
chance of acquiring some exceedingly rare and valuable specimens of
Queen Anne, Chippendale, Sheraton, and Hepplewhite, for the old inn had
been filled with the very finest work in several different styles, a
great feature being the extraordinary sideboards. Entering the sale, Mr.
Orrock, in concert with his friend, arranged to purchase the entire
contents of the house from the dealers who were engaged in bidding for
it, and the next day found himself in consequence possessed of a most
splendid and valuable collection. Long before this time he had
christened himself “the voice crying in the wilderness of British art,”
on account of his love of vaunting the artistic merits of old English
furniture; but after this purchase many fine judges of art, observing
the furniture in his house, began to declare that they were coming round
to his view. Before long, requests poured in upon him from every side
for information as to where old Chippendale and Sheraton could be
procured, some people, indeed, going so far as to beg him to furnish
their houses at no matter what expense. So it came about that this
purchase of old furniture at “The King’s Head” played a considerable
part in accelerating the renaissance of artistic taste, of which Mr.
Orrock was undoubtedly one of the chief originators.
Why old English furniture should have ever been discarded in favour of
the heavy horsehair abominations once almost universal seems in these
more enlightened days something like a profound mystery. Some of the old
designs, indeed, are quite equal to the finest Gothic, whilst many
examples of the time of Queen Anne—the finest period perhaps of all for
English furniture—are superb in their delicacy and exquisite finish.
Next to this in beauty must be placed the early Chippendale, certain
specimens of which display artistic qualities of the very highest kind.
With the death of King George III. fine old English furniture ceased to
be produced; it may, indeed, be said to have died with the monarch in
question.
Within the last thirty years fine pieces have commanded prices which
seem almost ludicrous in comparison with those of other days. A
gentleman, for instance, possessing two satinwood cabinets mounted in
silver, which had belonged to Nelson’s Lady Hamilton, actually obtained
two thousand pounds for them—rather, let it be added, against his will.
He had originally given a hundred pounds for the two—sixty for one, and
forty for the other—and had no intention of parting with them again. A
rich American, however, somehow heard of the cabinets in question, and
after obtaining a glimpse of them in the owner’s absence, at once
determined to become their possessor. With this purpose in view he
despatched an emissary to the gentleman, who was then away at the
seaside. The emissary, however, sought him out, went down by the
newspaper train, and confronting him early one morning, said, “I have
come to buy your cabinets.” “You have come to do nothing of the sort,”
was the reply. “I don’t want to sell them; tell your principal that when
he offers a thousand apiece I will think about it.” The man sat down at
a table, pulled out his cheque-book and wrote a cheque for two thousand
pounds. “There, will you take that?” he said. The offer was too
tempting, and the gentleman did. In the end the American was so
delighted with the cabinets that he insisted upon purchasing all the
other old furniture in the house, for which he paid some seven thousand
pounds. The wife of the original owner was much incensed on her return
to town to find an empty house, but an explanation as well as a timely
and handsome gift soon allayed her irritation.
Occasionally one comes across curious and interesting pieces in the most
unexpected places, but in these days when every one is more or less on
the alert to pick up antiquities, and dealers scour the country from end
to end, anything of value is almost immediately snapped up, whilst as a
rule larger prices are asked out of London than in it.
A friend of mine who is a great and discriminating collector of all
sorts of antiquities, the Hon. Gerald Ponsonby, some years ago
discovered, in Dublin, a set of what are known as “furniture supports,”
which are extremely rarely to be met with. They were never general all
over the kingdom, and, to the best of my belief, were confined to the
South of England. There are four of these supports, which are formed of
Staffordshire pottery. The face of one of them is believed to be
intended to represent Sir Robert Peel. The coat is scarlet with a black
stock; the hair and whiskers are brown; the eyes black, and the eyebrows
black also; the cheeks are a vivid red; whilst the stand itself is of a
deep mottled pink. The base is 2-7/8 inches in length by 2 inches in
width, and it is 2-1/4 inches in height. The height from where the head
begins, taken over the nose to the base, is 4½ inches, the circumference
immediately under the chin being 8 inches. These supports were used to
stand chests of drawers upon, so that when cottage floors were washed
the bright woodwork of the legs should not be spoilt. The legs of the
chest of drawers were placed upon the stand at the back of the head, the
face of the support being outwards.
The old four-posters which were once absolutely discarded and considered
fit for nothing but the lumber-room or the wood-heap have now once more
come into fashion, being eagerly sought for by collectors in old-world
villages and country towns.
When thoroughly cleaned and put into good order, with the addition of a
modern spring mattress, they make by no means an unattractive couch. As
a rule those four-posters are low, for people had low bedrooms in old
days. In many of them the woodwork above the shelf at the head of the
bed is a good deal charred—this is the result of burning by the candles
placed there by their former occupants, who would seem to have been very
careless as to fire. A great many oak bedsteads have very thick pillars
at the foot, the bases of which in some cases resemble the legs of the
old dining-tables, which were in most cases relegated to outhouses and
attics about the time of the downfall of the Stuarts. These tables were
in many cases adorned with some slight degree of inlaid work, and could
be lengthened by pulling out flaps at each end. At the particular period
when these tables were in use, furniture was not very abundant in
English houses, but what there was of it was very useful and solid,
elaborate ornamentation being principally confined to the chairs,
specimens of which may still sometimes be found in out-of-the-way
villages. Authentic pieces of Jacobean furniture of oak of English
growth and of somewhat severe design may generally be recognised by its
colour, which is something quite different from the dull black surface
of modern imitations. Its patina, indeed, if such a word can be applied
to furniture, is one which time alone can give, and this not even the
most skilled manipulator can copy. In the time of the Charleses there
was also a certain quantity of richly upholstered furniture in which
velvet and tapestry had their place. At Knole, Lord Sackville’s
beautiful treasure-house, are many fine examples of this sort of work,
amongst them a bed and a complete set of bedroom furniture given by King
James I., the coverings being of red silk ornamented with gold thread
and silver spangles.
A curious feature of Knole is the attic which for generations has been
known as the Dumb-bell Gallery, on account of its containing a quaint
wooden machine something like a windlass without handles. Around the
middle of the roller is wound a rope, and at each end are four iron arms
terminating in a ball of lead. The rope formerly passed through a hole
in the floor into a gallery below, and any one pulling it would cause
the roller to revolve and rewind the rope again, giving the person
pulling it the same exercise as is obtained by ringing a church bell. In
the seventeenth century, bell-ringing was a very popular pastime, and
probably it was about this time that the machine was set up in order to
afford opportunities for silent practice.
In all likelihood the modern wooden dumb-bell was developed from the
handles of the windlass dumb-bell by some athlete who understood its
possibilities. An illustration of this windlass and its handles is given
in an excellent privately printed account of Knole which Colonel
Sackville West has written.
A dumb-bell machine of the same kind, or rather the remains of it, was
also in existence up to some few years ago at New College,
Oxford—indeed, it may be still there to-day.
The leaden waterspouts at Knole are other very curious features, most of
them being some two hundred years old and bearing the initials and arms
of Thomas Sackville. There is also some chintz in the house which is
over a hundred years old. Made of a material known as _Toile de Jouy_,
it still retains its colour in spite of the countless cleanings which it
must have undergone. The old English furniture at Knole with its
original coverings is one of the marvels of the place—the rare old
stuffs being in a most unusual state of preservation.
Some time ago, when one of the sofas from a set covered with old red
velvet belonging to the Great Gallery was under repair, a yet older
covering, dating from the reign of Elizabeth, came to light. The
woodwork of the set in question, it may be added, is elaborately carved,
the work in all probability of Italian workmen who were imported into
England in Jacobean days. Few old mansions are in such a wonderful state
of preservation as Knole, which in its present condition may be called a
monument of judicious taste. This happy effect, I may add, has been in a
great measure produced by the reverent restorations and judicious care
exercised by Mrs. Sackville West, a lady whose knowledge of art and
whose artistic discrimination are of the highest possible character. Of
these gifts Knole itself as it is to-day forms a sufficiently convincing
demonstration.