Part 1

❦ CHINA COLLECTING IN AMERICA ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ BY ALICE MORSE EARLE

_ILLUSTRATED_

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS NEW YORK MCMVI

_Copyright, 1892, by Charles Scribner’s Sons_

TROW DIRECTORY PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY NEW YORK

TO

THE COMPANION OF MY CHINA HUNTS

MY SISTER

FRANCES CLARY MORSE

CONTENTS

I. PAGE _China Hunting_, _1_

II. _Trencher Treen and Pewter Bright_, _38_

III. _Early Use and Importation of China in America_, _52_

IV. _Early Fictile Art in America_, _70_

V. _Earliest Pottery Wares_, _102_

VI. _English Porcelains in America_, _119_

VII. _Liverpool and other Printed Ware_, _135_

VIII. _Oriental China_, _165_

IX. _The Cosey Teapot_, _196_

X. _Punch-bowls and Punches_, _210_

XI. _George and Martha Washington’s China_, _229_

XII. _Presidential China_, _249_

XIII. _Designs Relating to Washington_, _257_

XIV. _Designs Relating to Franklin_, _274_

XV. _Designs Relating to Lafayette_, _288_

XVI. _Patriotic and Political Designs_, _299_

XVII. _Staffordshire Wares_, _316_

XVIII. _China Memories_, _376_

XIX. _China Collections_, _409_

_Index_, _425_

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE WEDGWOOD PIECES, 1 THE PLATE WE HOPED TO FIND AND THE PLATE WE FOUND, 9 MILLENNIUM PLATE, 24 “BEACH WARE,” 27 OLD WORCESTER IN “JAPAN TASTE,” 29 “THE PORRINGERS THAT IN A ROW HUNG HIGH AND MADE A GLITTERING SHOW,” 44 WINTHROP JUG, 55 PROVINCE HOUSE PITCHER, 65 BENNINGTON WARE, 97 HOUND-HANDLED PITCHER, 100 DELFT TEA-CADDY, 104 DELFT VASE, 106 FULHAM G. R. JUG, 108 SPORTIVE INNOCENCE PITCHER, 111 FARMER PITCHER, 111 CASTLEFORD TEAPOT, 117 PLYMOUTH SALT-CELLAR. BOW “GOAT CREAM-JUG,” 121 PLYMOUTH COFFEE-POT, 123 BRISTOL MEMORIAL FIGURE, 125 CROWN DERBY COVERED DISH, 129 AN ENGLISH NOTION OF WASHINGTON, 139 MASONIC PITCHER, 147 LOWESTOFT VASE, 174 HELMET CREAMER, 176 WASHINGTON COFFEE-POT, 178 CHINESE EWER, 190 PERSIAN VASE, 192 LOWESTOFT TEAPOT, 208 BRISTOL POTTERY TEAPOT, 208 BOWL GIVEN TO MRS. ALLEN JONES, 221 CINCINNATI BOWL, 223 CINCINNATI CHINA, 231 WASHINGTON’S NIEDERWEILER CHINA, 245 LINCOLN CHINA, 253 GRANT CHINA, 254 PITCHER PORTRAIT, 259 WASHINGTON MONUMENT PITCHER, 262 APOTHEOSIS PITCHER, 265 “MAP” PITCHER, 268 NIEDERWEILER STATUETTE, 275 TOMB OF FRANKLIN TEAPOT, 285 LA GRANGE PLATE, 290 CADMUS PLATE, 292 LAFAYETTE LANDING PLATTER, 294 PROSCRIBED PATRIOTS PITCHER, 302 NAVAL PITCHER, 309 PICKLE LEAF, 317 PHILADELPHIA LIBRARY PLATE, 319 ANTI-SLAVERY PLATE, 333 BALTIMORE & OHIO RAILROAD PLATES, 336 STATE-HOUSE PLATE, 338 JOHN HANCOCK’S HOUSE, 341 HARVARD COLLEGE PLATE, 348 STEAMBOAT PLATE, 350 MACDONOUGH’S VICTORY PLATE, 351 NAHANT PLATE, 354 CITY HALL PITCHER, 359 PARK THEATRE PLATE, 361 FAIRMOUNT PARK PLATE, 364 PILGRIM PLATE, 366 CAPITOL PLATE, 374 CROWN DERBY PLATE, 379 DELFT APOTHECARY JARS, 382 COPPER-LUSTRE PITCHER, 387 A BEAUFET, 415 CHINA STEPS, 419

I. CHINA HUNTING

My dearly loved friend, Charles Lamb, wrote, in his “Essays of Elia,” “I have an almost feminine partiality for old china. When I go to see any great house, I inquire first for the china-closet, and next for the picture-gallery. I have no repugnance for those little lawless azure-tinted grotesques that, under the notion of men and women, float about uncircumscribed by any element, in that world before perspective—a china teacup.” In that partiality for old china I humbly join, and it is of the search through New England for such dear old china loves, and of the gathered treasures of those happy china hunts, that I write.

China hunting is a true “midsummer madness.” When grass grows green and “daffodils begin to peer” my fancy lightly turns to thoughts of china. Hot waxes the fever as crawls up the summer sun; fierce and fiercer rages the passion and the hunt, till autumn touches with her cold though glorious hand the trees and fields. Then doth my madness wane, and chase grow dull, and icy winter finds me sane and calm, till charming spring returns to witch me to “mine old lunes” once again. Thus is every china captive of that mad summer chase aglow to me with summer suns and beauty—not a dull lifeless clod of moulded painted clay, but a glorious idealized token of long warm halcyon days too quickly passed, of “yesterdays that look backward with a smile.”

Were the possession of old or valuable specimens of porcelain and pottery, or even of happy memories of “days of joyance,” the only good things which came from the long hours of country ranging and farm-house searching spent in our china quests, Philistines might perhaps scoff at the waste of time and energy; but much else that is good have I found. Insight into human nature, love of my native country, knowledge of her natural beauties, acquaintance with her old landmarks and historical localities, familiarity with her history, admiration of her noble military and naval heroes, and study of the ancient manners, customs, and traditions of her early inhabitants have all been fostered, strengthened, and indeed almost brought into existence by the search after and study of old china. How vague and dull were my school-day history-lesson memories of Perry, of Lawrence, of Decatur, until I saw their likenesses on some hideous Liverpool pitchers! then I read eagerly every word of history, every old song and ballad about them. How small was my knowledge of old “table manners” and table furnishings until I discovered, through my china studies, how our ancestors ate and served their daily meals! How little I knew of the shy romance and the deep-lying though sombre sentiment in New England country life, until it was revealed to me in the tradition of many a piece of old china. How entirely powerless was I to discover the story of human nature as told in the countenance until my inquiries after old china made me a second Lavater in regarding the possibilities of successful purchase in case the questioned one chanced to own any old porcelain heirlooms! How few of our noble wood and valley roads had I seen until I drove through them searching for old farm-houses that might contain some salvage of teacups or teapots! And not only do we learn of America through our china hunts, but of England as well; for nearly all of our old table-ware was English, and the history of the production of English china can be traced as easily in New England as in old England. Few of the more costly pieces came here, but humbler specimens show equally well the general progress of the manufacture.

Let me be just and honest in my tale; though all is ideal happiness in the hours of the china chase, the counting of the spoils is sometimes vastly disappointing.

“As high as we have mounted in delight In our dejection do we sink as low.”

There is no hobby of so uncertain gait, none other fancy in the pursuit of which one meets with so many rebuffs as in china collecting. I mean in real china collecting by individual search and pursuit, not in china buying at high prices at a fashionable china-shop. For such Crœsus buyers, who know not the sweet nor the bitter of true china hunting, these pages are not written.

Sad, sad failures does your china hunter often make, but there is a blessed delight and pride when a long search is at last successful which rewards him and makes him, or rather her, forget the cruel blows of the past, and makes hope spring eternal in her breast, undying, and undimmed. Disappointments were few in early china-collecting days in America; friendly farm-wives then gladly brought out their precious and plentiful stores, and eagerly sold them for silver to buy a new cotton gown or a shell-comb, and attics and pantries were ransacked and depleted with delight. Now can the china hunter drive for days through the country, asking for old crockery at every house which is surmounted by a gambrel roof, has a great square chimney, or an old well-sweep, without even hearing of one old teapot; and yet such is the power of china-love, she will start out again the next week, cheerful, hopeful, and undaunted, “to fresh woods and pastures new.”

Nor will it always prove clear sailing should she discover the home of the sought-for treasure. She may learn from friendly and loquacious neighbors that “old Miss Halsey” or “John Slade’s widder” has stores of old crockery in barrels in the attic, or on the top shelf of the pantry, or even “up over the wood-shed,” but she cannot obtain one glimpse of the hidden hoards—far less can she purchase them.

We have visited again and again one gray old farm-house in Massachusetts, a farm-house with moss-covered “lean-to,” which we know contains enough old English pottery and porcelain to found a museum; but cajoleries, flatteries, persuasions, open demands, elaborate explanations, and assumptions of indignant and hurt astonishment at refusals—one and all are in vain; not even one old plate have we ever seen. The farmer’s wife greets us most cordially, gives us doughnuts and milk in summer, and apples and cider in the winter, maple-sugar in the spring, and hickory-nuts and butter-nuts in the fall, but in aggressively modern pitchers and dishes; and when we leave she urges us hospitably and warmly to “come again.” We know well where her precious china is hidden. High up on either side of the great mantelpieces in “living-room” and “best room” are cupboards, so high that one would have to climb upon a chair to see into them; and from the good wife’s frequent and furtive glances—speaking though silent—at her locked cupboard doors, we know well what treasures are stored therein.

At that china-hiding abode we often have concocted for us an old-time country drink, composed of water flavored with molasses and ginger, which was in Revolutionary times called “beveridge.” Gallons of that vile fluid have I drunk with the hostess, hoping that the joys of the flowing bowl might loosen her tongue and unlock her cupboard doors, but I have risked my digestion in vain. Still I sit “smiling with millions of mischief in the heart,” for life is short, and I am waiting, wickedly waiting; the farmer and his wife are old, very old, and when they depart from this life they cannot take their keys and crockery with them.

More complete and mortifying routs sometimes, though rarely, have befallen us. We were driving quietly along one day on the outskirts of the town, when we saw at the door of a shabby modern house, a vinegar faced woman, who sat energetically mixing chicken-dough in one of the most beautiful old blue and white Nankin bowls that ever was seen. As each blow of the heavy iron spoon came down on the precious antique, it struck an echoing and keener blow to our china-loving hearts, and we hastened to ask the owner of the bowl to sell it ere it was broken. Sell it? not she. She didn’t know where it came from, nor who had owned it—and she didn’t care, but she wouldn’t sell it for any money; and if a tin pan was just as good to mix the meal in, she would use this “old crockery thing” if she wanted to; and she walked into the shabby house, and “slammed” the door before our abashed and sad faces. The thought of that bowl at the mercy of that fierce iron spoon has made us very unhappy; scores of times have we driven past the house glancing furtively in, at the wood-shed, the hen-house, the kitchen door, ready almost to steal the poor prisoner if we found it unguarded; but we do not dare attempt an honest rescue lest we suffer a still more ignominious and mortifying defeat.

Strange answers are sometimes made to our inquiries and requests; strange objects presented to our china-searching eyes. In farm-houses, presided over by deaf old housewives we have had shown to us crackers for crockery, pitchforks for teapots, tubs for cups, and once, by some strange and incomprehensible twist of the poor deaf ears, or our own dull tongues, were cheerfully offered buckwheat flour when we asked to see a Washington pitcher. We also drove several miles at the sea-shore, in high spirits and with great expectations, to see some very old teapots, “all kinder basket-work,” and were confronted by a strange machine of seafaring appearance, which proved to be an eel-pot, and was truly an ancient one. Other kindly country souls, knowing well what we want, offer us as far more desirable and artistic treasures, faded samplers, worsted flowers, crocheted tidies, preserved wreaths, wax fruit, hair jewelry, and Parian busts, and look at us with commiseration when we cling to our strange idiosyncrasy—our preference for old china. Sometimes the kindly intention to guide and help us to our goal is evident and powerful enough, the desire to inform us is rampant, but power of expression is lacking, or even a modicum of memory; the narrow limits of country vocabulary are painful to witness and the expressions of its poverty are painful to hear, and suggestions only lead the speaker farther astray in his attempted descriptions. He is also color-blind, and has vague remembrance of size and nomenclature. He can’t describe the china, he can’t date it, he can’t name it, sometimes—though he vaguely remembers that he has seen it—he can’t place it, he simply knows that somewhere he has seen something that he fancies may be somewhat like what we want; and too often when we try to follow his vague and jejune clue, we go upon a “thankless arrant.”

We once addressed to an old Yankee farmer, who had brought a load of apples into town, the stereotyped inquiry which we have asked, ah! how many hundred times, and received this drawling answer, “No-o I donow as I know anyone as has got any old furnitoor or chayner she wants ter part with. My wife haint got any anyway. My Aunt Rebecca’s got one curous old plate and I guess she’d sell it—she’d sell her teeth if any-body’d buy ’em an’ pay enough ter suit her.” We finally extracted from him (after much parrying of our direct questions) that, “she got it in Washington more’n fifty year ago,” that “the folks set great store by it, and said it came from Mount Vernon and belonged to Marthy Washington,” that it had the names of the States around it, “it was blue and perhaps green too, and it had stars sure and he guessed they were gilt.” Now we had seen pieces of the Martha Washington tea-set, and we knew that it was decorated in blue and green with the names of the States in the links of a chain, and the initials M. W. in the centre in a great gilt star. We knew at once that Aunt Rebecca’s plate must be one of that set. What a discovery!

To the benighted and narrow-lived souls who have never hunted for old china it may seem strange that we knew at once that it was one of those rare plates; but I am sure every china hunter, whose path is always illumined by the brilliant possibilities which form such an encouragement in the pleasures of the china chase, will fully comprehend our confidence and anticipation. We figured our plate in all the loan collections, marked with our names in large letters as joint owners; we planned a velvet silver-bound box to safely hold our “heavenly jewel” after we had caught it; we even hesitatingly thought that we might make our joint will and leave it to the Mount Vernon Association—and then we drove eighteen miles to secure it. I shall never forget the sickening disappointment I felt when I saw the Martha Washington plate. There were the names of the States; and stars there were, but not a gilt one. And where were the touches of verdant color? All was blue—deeply, darkly, vilely blue. At any other time we should have hailed the fine “States” plate which was shown us with keen delight, but now we could hardly speak or bear to look at it. At last, in sullen disparagement, we offered a dollar for it, had our offer accepted, carelessly took it, threw it on the carriage-seat and drove away. I reviled the farmer and his villainous memory and vocabulary, and would not look at the deep-dyed “States” impostor for a month, but when I heard that a collector had paid twenty dollars for a similar plate in New York, I unwrapped it and hung it on my dining-room wall, where it now shines a glowing bit of dark color, a joy forever.

Warned by many such dreary mistakes I am very shy of having china sent to me through any interest awakened by its description, and am equally shy of buying by proxy.

“Let every eye negotiate for itself, And trust no agent.”

I have learned also to listen with attention, not placing the slightest confidence in what I hear, and yet always to investigate with cheerfulness and alacrity. It is not, however, from elaborately detailed and willingly told stories that I have had knowledge of my richest “finds.” I have learned to “take a hint”—a maxim which should be eternally impressed on every china hunter. Learn to “grasp the skirt of happy chance;” let your motto be, “Semper paratus.” Let no suggestion of old people or old house-furnishings, no glimpse of blue color or sprigged surface, even on a broken sherd of crockery by the wayside, no hint of distant and out-of-the-way farms, no prospect of country sales, of “New England dinners,” no news of refurnishing old houses, no accounts of the death of old inhabitants fall on unheeding eye or ear. For myself, I never hear the words “old china” but my heart is moved, more than “with sound of a trumpet.” I breathe the battle afar and hurry to the fray, to return at times victorious with dainty trophies of war, and sometimes, alas, empty-handed, with the hanging head of sore disappointment and defeat. Sometimes the scent is poor and broken and you must ferret out the way to the lair; even with much trouble and diligence you cannot always learn at once and definitely the lurking-place of the porcelain treasures; you meet with reserve and a disinclination to reveal. Then comes stratagem to the fore. Learn to wheedle, to hint, to interrogate slyly, to blandly let the conversation drift—“muster all wiles with blandished parleys, feminine assaults, tongue batteries”—in short, vulg. dict., to “pump”—and work that pump with judgment, with craft, and with thoroughness. Moments of quickly repented expansiveness come to all mortals in country and in town, and in those rare moments of telling all they know, even reticent and secretive country people will give you many a china clue to follow.

I have not found, as did the members of the China Hunters’ Club, that country housekeepers would, as a rule, rather have money than china; my country people will not sell their china willingly—they prefer china to silver. Times have changed since 1876; a fancied knowledge, an exaggerated estimate of the value of old “crockery” now fills many a country soul, and a high monetary value is also placed on family relics, on “storied urns” and on the power of association. I will confess that, as a last resort in times of direst stress, when you really cannot go without that Pilgrim plate, when you positively need it—if you take your money out and lay it on the table in full sight of the plate-owner, you wield a powerful lever to work the transfer; nor do I consider such a statement at all derogatory to the character of my New England neighbors, nor is the trait peculiar to them.