American History in Pressed-Glass
Following a wanderlust toward luster.
Earlier Lilburn had written his cousin Lillian he was becoming an “historical dilettante.” Dilettante he might be, but his history hobby horse carried him away on a search for the origin of glass and its development in this country. Of this he wrote to Charles van Ravenswaay:
Dear Charles:
I feel like I have come through the wringer, but my buttons are still on. Today was the big works and I shot them. The soiree was at the student center of the Episcopalian Church. Among other displays, I had two tables. On one table I had a full set of pleat panel glass and the half dozen Haviland cup and saucers; on the other, a row of copper lustre pieces and many hobnail specimens. I stood behind this table during the execution.
The talk seemed to go over good - there were about 150 “skirts” packed in and they were all more or less agog. I was pleased. Many of the women were in costumes of the long ago.
Once the festivities were over - such a bedlam set loose - and I was almost torn to shreds by those on all sides who wanted to know such things as “What is the difference between tear glass and hobnail?” “Now my pitcher is black, smooth inside and rough outside and 190 years old.” “Do you know where I can get the tail put on the lion on my compote?” “Do you believe this to be Steigel?”
The talk: I’m enclosing a copy of what I mostly used:
When we look at the brilliant articles of glass which are unused in our homes today, there is nothing to suggest that they are all descendants of such a common, lowly ancestor as sand, any more than I am reminded by your presence here that the first man was made of clay.
In the human family we find different personalities due to circumstances of birth and environment. In the glass family we also find many different types. While we cannot always account for certain traits of character in people, in the glass family, personality can be explained. We may not be able to tell why Mary is a more colorful personality than Susie but we do know why one piece of glass is blue while another is red.
Plain old sand wedded to potash and soda with a little strain of lime, produces very beautiful glass but it lacks the brilliance, the resonance and weight of the product which bears a strain of lead. If one piece of glass is more colorful than another it is due to the metallic oxides which were used in their manufacture.
All glass has common characteristics. You know to your sorrow how brittle glass is. At a high temperature it becomes fluid so it can be stirred, ladled, poured and cast. It may be rolled like dough. It can be blown into hollow shapes by human breath or compressed air. Under pressure it may be molded. It can be drawn into a solid rod or a hollow tube of indefinite length, spun into a thread so fine it floats on air or woven into cloth which may some day be used for clothing.
Inferior glass was made in Mesopotamia more than 4500 years ago. The industry moved westward through the centuries, into Syria and Egypt. In the Middle Ages, Spain and Southern France and Italy were perfecting the art. Bohemia, Germany, the Low countries, England and Ireland in turn became glass conscious but the efforts of the last countries were mainly contemporaneous with our own in America.
As early as 1806, the London Co., made up of adventurous spirits resolved to come to America to establish a colony and to engage in the production of glass. In England there was a future for glass but production costs seemed prohibitive and the London Co., had heard that in America there was an unlimited supply of the basic element of glass, sand, and there was an unbounded supply of timber to fire the glass furnaces. They brought along mechanics, laborers and carpenters since 48 out of the 135 who embarked, were gentlemen who looked upon any kind of work as disgraceful. They found the hardships overwhelming. Disillusionment came fast. A crude factory was built but it was a failure. Other expeditions followed to combat disappointing conditions. But eventually the glass industry got under way and was operated successfully at many points along the Atlantic seaboard. Window glass was an early product but bottle glass was the chief commodity until as late as 1860. Our ancestors grew more fruit and grain than they could use on their tables, consequently they conserved it in wines and whiskies.
Much pressed glass was made prior to this date and of this ware and its production, historians find records. But of glass made subsequent to this date, when the production was so plentiful and the patterns changed so often, records have not been preserved to reveal the history of its making. Consequently many people, who are interested in collection sets of pressed glass of the later patterns, are floundering in their efforts to determine definitely who made it, when and where.
While many collectors are discriminating and are interested in only the earliest and consequently rarest pieces of glass, hundreds of collectors enjoy an abiding enthusiasm about pressed glass made during the last half of the 19th century. The fact that there are over 300 patterns of glass which may be collected in sets, attests the ingenuity of designers and manufacturers of those years.
Just as designers and manufacturers keep their fingers upon the pulse of the public to cater to their whims and fancies, those of earlier days watched carefully the trend of the times. They were constantly producing patterns they hoped would appeal to particular groups of people or better still to the public in general. Some of their productions, judging by the amount of glass to be found today, must have gone over with a bang. Some of them were duds. But over the course of the years there were patterns to suit the most fastidious tastes in the nation.
In the bird group, cardinal, owl, parrot, pheasant, eagle, nesting bird and frosted stork, for the women whose minds ran toward the zoo, lion, squirrel, polar bear, opossum, deer, bison and monkey.
Those with a Biblical appeal, Jacob’s ladder, Jacob’s coat, Rebecca at the well and cathedral.
Floral patterns were popular and afforded a wide choice. fuschia, windflower, wild flower, rose in snow, cabbage rose, forget me nots, bellflower, ivy, dahlia, tulip, daisy and lily of the valley.
In the fruit patterns were pear, strawberry, blackberry, loganberry, grape, peach, cherry, currant and gooseberry.
In planning patterns which would appeal to the public the factories never lost sight of the cross section of people who buy during periods of emotional excitement. They seldom failed to bring out glass for the market when there was a national crisis or when there was an event, historic or political, of prime importance. Thus we find today, many pieces of pressed glass which bring to our minds, events in the history of our nation.
Lafayette’s visit to America in 1824-25 will always be classed as a major event. It was immortalized in glass, upon cup-plates, vases and bottles. The Cadmust cup plate recalls to our mind that it was the ship which brought Lafayette from France to America to be the guest of our nation. The Cadmust was built in 1816 and fitted out in 1824 at the expense of a patriotic merchant to convey the patriot to our shores. It took 31 days for the old ship to cross the ocean but when she arrived in New York there was a monster demonstration. She was met by other great ships of that day, the Chancellor Livingston and the Robert Fulton and escorted to the battery amid much acclaim. Lafayette was invited to make a tour of the fine glass factories of America and in Pittsburgh, the Bakewell Pears factory presented him a pair of elegant flint vases engraved with his home La Grange on one side and an American eagle on the other.
Another cup plate memorializes the building of the first railroad in New Jersey, the Camden and Amboy chartered by the state in 1830. The plate bears the imprint of the first engine which was brought from England and christened significantly, “John Bull.”
The battleship Constitution launched in 1797 went through a valiant war with the Barbary powers on the north coast of Africa as Adam Preble’s flagship. During the war of 1812 it did heroic service under command of Capt. Isaac Hull, against the British. By 1830 it was considered obsolete and ordered destroyed.
When Oliver Wendell Holmes heard of the order he wrote his famous poem “Old Ironsides” with which you are familiar:
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high.
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon’s roar;
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more.
The poet’s verdict was:
Oh better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave.
The sentiment of the people was aroused. The Sandwich glass-works designed and put on sale a “Constitution” cup plate which helped defray the expense of rehabilitating the old ship in 1833 and it was preserved as a memorial of a proud period in history.
Shortly after the heavenly apparition, Halley’s Comet swept across the skies and startled our forebears in 1835, the glass houses struck off cup plates as souvenirs of this unusual phenomenon which returns every 76 years.
The Ft. Meigs and Tippecanoe and Log Cabin cup plates direct our attention to William Henry Harrison our 9th President. He was long a national hero, having made an enviable reputation in dealings with the Indians, both as a diplomat and as a warrior. He defeated the Shawnee chief Tecumseh in Indiana territory at Tippecanoe and later, at Ft. Meigs successfully defended his fort and his men against the British. A part of Harrison’s home was of logs and during his campaign for the presidency his supporters brought out the Log Cabin cup plate which depicts the cabin with a cider barrel by the door. It was said of him that his table instead of being covered with exciting wines is supplied with the best cider.
Major Ringgold was the hero of Palo Alto and cup plates were issued for sale to those whose imagination the exploits of the Major had captured. The battle of Palo Alto was fought on the Mexican border in 1845 when General Arista with 6000 Mexican soldiers attempted to cut off Gen. Zachary Taylor and 2000 men from Ft. Isabel which was the source of supplies. Just what part the Major played in the battle I do not know. Here we have a great soldier immortalized in glass more than in the histories and encyclopedias, to which I have had access.
Fire in Baltimore in 1850 laid in ashes a great portion of the city and to memorialize the spirit of the people who went immediately to work rebuilding their losses, bottles were made bearing the words, “Phoenix-resurgam.”
An attractive salt was issued during the administration of Millard Fillmore, the 13th President of the U.S.. His political career began with the birth of the Whig party and ended with its disintegration. He became unpopular when he signed the Fugitive Slave Law in 1850. He served a term as Vice President before he became the head of the nation and is said to have been so tactful that neither side in Congress was ever able to know his personal views upon questions at issue. It is said he had little to do with important events of his administration.
Jenny Lind, delightful Swedish singer, came to America under the management of the great circus man, P. T. Barnum, under a contract which paid her $1000 per night for 150 nights. This was considered a staggering sum and the public calculated that it would bankrupt Mr. Barnum. But her American tour created unprecedented enthusiasm, the nation took her to its heart and the glass industries sold Jenny Lind Bottles. The tour grossed Mr. Barnum $700,000.00.
Henry Clay, famous American statesman, was a nominee three times for the Presidency of the United States and was considered a fourth time. He was such a friend of the glass houses that they, upon occasion, struck off and sold cup plates bearing his picture, using the sales to promote his candidacy. These are attractive plates, some of them being peacock blue and very rare.
Niagara Falls’ importance as a honeymoon center was recognized very early and every bride took away one or more of the cup plates which bear within the space of a few square inches, the imprint of the falls, the little boat “Maid of the Mist” riding the turbulent water below and the sun shining forth resplendently. The little boat seems more in danger of the violent rays of the sun than of the water which pours over the falls.
Zachary Taylor, the 12th President of the U. S. and the second to die in office, when elected had never held public office before but he had a splendid record, surrounding himself by the smartest men of the time, to none of which he owed any allegiance. He had been a soldier for 40 years and it was on this record that he was elected. He was affectionately known as “Old Rough and Ready.” Old Rough and Ready whiskey bottles are much prized by collectors.
The Westward Ho pattern of glass commemorates the movement of civilization westward, the trek of the 49ers across the plains and around Cape Horn, to California. It is one of the most popular patterns. To acquire a set of this requires much patience and some money.
A few pieces of glass from earlier days
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When the Atlantic cable was laid in 1865 by Cryus W. Field, a pattern of tableware with several variations was turned out to mark this momentous event.
A platter bearing the picture of Locomotive No. 350 commemorates the opening of the Union Pacific Railroad in 1869.
When Abraham Lincoln was assassinated, a pattern known as the Lincoln Drape was offered to the public. It is said not much was sold south of the Mason Dixon line. The glass has such heavy folds of drapery impressed upon it that one is depressed at the sight. The Garfield has a much lighter design, rather airy festoons, symbolizing perhaps that times were brighter than when Lincoln died. After the tragic end of President William McKinley a Memorial Plate bearing a full length likeness of the President was placed upon the market.
The Liberty Bell or Centennial pattern came out in 1876 during the celebration of the signing of the Declaration of Independence at Philadelphia. The chief motif of this glass is the Liberty Bell which was cast in England in 1752, and after breaking, again in America in 1753. It broke the last time while tolling the funeral solemnities of Chief Justice John Marshall. The tray in this pattern bears the names of all the signers of the Declaration.
Coin Glass, which we find with the impression of dollars, halves, quarters and dimes of our money impressed upon it, was made in 1892 at the time of the Columbian Exposition in Chicago or the World’s Fair. Tradition says that the government suspended the production of this glass and confiscated the factory because it is illegal to create anything in the likeness of money of the United States, and that the creator of the design was arrested, tried and sentenced to prison. Last week a reliable collector told me she had read the man is still languishing in prison.
While it is true that collecting pressed glass sometimes tempts its ardent devotees to forget business, home, husband, child and church, I believe it is a good thing. It develops appreciation of finer values, tends to broaden viewpoints, to bring sheltered souls out of isolation through increased knowledge and personal contacts.
While, like little orphan Annie’s goblins it will git you if you don’t watch out, if practiced judiciously, it builds happier and consequently, better citizens.
Lilburn’s letters to relatives continued to report on hobby horse rides. On October 22, 1932, he wrote his cousin Lillian Agnew of a galloping ride. Later when his speech-making hobby developed, he drew upon such letters for the interesting incidents he mixed in with his historical research.
My quest for valuable old glass has taken me to Pike County. A week ago, Lillian and I went to Louisiana and Bowling Green, thence to Frankfort and New London where I left Lillian with a school friend and I proceeded to Hannibal to sleep. The next day I roamed afar, picked Lillian up and we came home with about 70 pieces which were all more or less good.
By January 1934 he made one of his first talks to a Woman’s Club in Boonville. It was simply titled “Pressed Glass.”
As far as my interest in Pressed Glass is concerned, life began at 40. At that time I attended a public auction and saw glass bid in spiritedly at high prices which amazed me. These old things had come from the home of an old lady who had lost interest in them in favor of modern glass. Someone told me there was a great demand for old glass to be used with antique furniture to create the proper atmosphere of early homes. I had a lot of old furniture but no glass and as I had a high regard for atmosphere I resolved to go forth to see what I could discover.
Mindful that a prophet is not without honor save in his own country, I went far afield that first day into a strange land. My gleanings far exceeded my expectations. After that I went again and again. It became an exciting game. Finding good things which were of no value to their owners and could be bought for a trifle! Matching wits with men and women to gain admission to their homes and once in, to persuade them to open the doors of their cupboards, cellars, attics and store rooms. Driving bargains for the loot! It was delightful to visit with old people whose years were enriched by long living, to listen to stories and their sound philosophies of life. I learned that a weather beaten cottage with beds of old fashioned perennials was a likely place to stop, that along with an old lady’s love of flowers went hand in hand, an appreciation of fine old things saved from early days. I learned to read clothes lines, apparel for young children being the flag or signal to press on down the road; that everything there had been broken up long ago.
Of particular interest were my experiences with the old darkies. There was old Uncle Gilliam who had driven the carriage for his white folks and Julie, his wife, had cooked on the neighboring farm. Julie swore she didn’t have but one piece of old glass to her name but while she retrieved a cake stand from the chicken coop, old Uncle Gilliam gave me the clue which led to dozens of pieces of rag wrapped glass hidden away in boxes and trunks in the little half story room upstairs. I bless Uncle Gilliam to this day.
I had some disconcerting experiences. During my strange glass interlude I had a door slammed in my face. An old white man to whom I made my politest speech about my mission listened quietly, then spat and said, “You ain’t got nothing else to do, I reckon!”
Just at the time that I became interested in glass, at the request of my father, I had assumed the responsibility of the farm and orchard where I was born and reared and where it was expected I should die. My father, concerned about my farming career, said nothing about my glass excursions but I knew he looked upon them with many misgivings and thought I could spend my time to better advantage at home.
I also maintained an insurance business in town and my secretary, a woman older than I who had known me all of my life, looked with silent curiosity at the things I brought in and then struck an attitude which announced to me she thought I would do better to stay in the office and bring home the bacon rather than to gallivant over the state hunting glass. And I knew I was gallivanting too much.
When Mandy Jones lost her husband, she put on such deep mourning that her clothes were black from her skin out. The lady for whom she worked asked if she didn’t think she was overdoing things a bit. Mandy replied, “No mam, ‘cause when I mourns, I mourns.” This story illustrates the spirit in which I pursue old glass.
My office which once had been a banking room began to overflow with glass. At first I hid it behind solid doors of cabinets or locked it in the vault. But presently glass adorned tables and desks, the tops of cupboards and even parts of the floor. My insurance customers had never seen anything like it and I knew it. I had too much atmosphere and in self defense, determined to sell some glass before I spent another cent.
One advertisement in the Antique Magazine, published in New York, made me a dealer, almost overnight.
The longest, slickest, blackest cars I had ever seen began to nose into the curb in front of my office. Men and women came to my door from Maine to California, from Minnesota to the Gulf just as if I had invented a superior mouse trap. Every time I had an insurance customer in a big deal, a group of glass collectors breezed in.
My glass patrons were, as a rule, interesting personalities, delightful personalities with a few old sour pusses thrown in for contrast. Our chief of police, (chief because he was our only one) had curiosity which would fairly burst at the sight of cars with out-of-state licenses. He used to wreath his face with his hands and press it against the plate glass window of my office, to peer in and see for himself, his badge of office gleaming conspicuously on his vest. My guests never said anything when they noticed him but I hesitated to price anything as long as Bill was peering in, lest they have me run in for profiteering.
So you see that in my glass life there were many inhibitions, but in spite of them I had a swell time. But they determined finally that for me glass should always be an avocation.
I no longer range through strange cupboards. The shelves in my office are bare of glass. I hold insurance conferences to my hearts content but at times feel nostalgia for the old interruptions. I kept a few pieces of glass to maintain the proper atmosphere in my home. Today I am not a collector. I am not a dealer. I think I was so busy enjoying people that I failed to study glass enough to attain the rank of connoisseur. I’m just a dilettante.
Along with his antique furniture, glass and china hobby rides, Lilburn became attracted by Lustre. He regaled many Women’s Clubs with talks based on the following text:
Following a Wanderlust toward Lustre
To a casual observer, a collection of lustre-ware may be just a row of things on a shelf. To a person of artistic temperament it may appeal because of graceful lines or decorations. But to one who has sought and found these specimens, buried in dust or sentiment, and has brought them out of retirement from attics, store-rooms and cellars, they have a peculiar charm. Many pieces reflect little stories of human interest incidental to their discovery and acquisition.
Wandering and hunting for early American lustre, on which the season is open the entire year, is great sport. Not alone for the intrinsic value of the “game” brought in, but for the interesting contacts with “old timers” in many communities, who delight in reminiscing and in relating historical and romantic facts.
The contacts are indeed of diverse sorts. Occasionally there is a soul like the aged woman reputed to possess many refinements of early days. In response to my rapping with the elegant brass knocker at her home, she demanded from behind the heavy door what was wanted. The ominous growl of a dog inside added to the discomfiture of making, against a blank door, a plausible request for permission to hunt lustre inside the premises.
“You just wait ‘til I open the door,” she replied, pleasantly enough, it seemed. While waiting I anticipated with suppressed enthusiasm, the purchase of treasures I would presently find inside this early 19th century home, for like all amateur collectors, I possessed an abundance of that quality which is “the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things unseen.”
But after half an hour during which there was no further sound of woman or beast, it dawned clear in my mind that there must have been a peculiar emphasis on that word ‘wait’ which in my eagerness I had at first failed to detect.
Another elderly woman, six feet tall, raw-boned and clad in a gray woolen dress which had a high collar, mutton-leg sleeves, tight fitting waist and a flaring skirt which swept the floor, came out of the house in response to my knocking. With hair combed straight back from a weathered face and tied in a knot at the crown of her head, this fashion plate of the gay nineties glowered at me over old-fashioned glasses with rectangular lenses, as she crossed a screened-in porch toward the door by which I was standing. She hooked the door, stepped back, placed her arms akimbo and demanded sternly, “Well!”
Her hostile manner inspired me with a feeling of trepidation. If the act of locking the door in my face gave her a sense of security, the knowledge that she was locked in revived my courage which already had been stimulated by the sight of a lustre pitcher of considerable size which was being used with an old metal washpan on a stand inside the porch.
To every appeal for admission to the house and every offer to buy the pitcher, she was adamant. “No sir-ree,” she said, “A burnt child don’t play with fire. You guys aren’t what you are cracked up to be. I wouldn’t trust a one of you. Why, there was a nice appearing man here taking orders for specs just last month. He got my ten dollars and that is the last I ever heard of him. He said he was one of the biggest eye doctors in St. Louis, Dr. B.” And she added naively, “Maybe you know him.”
But generally old people are friendly and hospitable. They enjoy contacts with people outside their sphere and would talk all day. Time and again I have fallen under the spell of their stories until the hunt for lustre itself seemed of secondary interest. An old veteran with souvenir musket across his knee, boasting of his prowess in a Civil War battle during which the enemy shot a cannon ball right through his father’s house! Does not the visible scar in the wall still speak for itself? An old lady weaving her story of linsey-woolsey clothing, carding a bit of wool and spinning it into yarn on a wheel just to show me how it was done when she was young and had to accomplish her “daily stint.” An old minister relating the details of the schism which occurred in his church when a majority of the elders voted out the spittoons, no less serious than the one when the custom of segregating the sexes was broken and promiscuous sitting was allowed! A gracious widow of a river steamboat captain, seated on the white-columned verandah of an imposing old brick mansion set on a bluff commanding views of the Missouri river, recounting stories of steamboat days when veritable “floating palaces” with gorgeous appointments and gallant captains, plied the river in the 60s and 70s, of boat races, the music of piping calliopes floating across the water, of wrecks and thrilling rescues and concluding with a yearning sigh, “Alas. Will we ever have such fine steamboats on the Missouri again?”
But with attention recalled to lustre, many of the old folks are eager to be helpful in discovering it. Others consider the quest pure nonsense. Some feel that a “loose screw” is responsible for such a complex. A few resent the suggestion that they would part with their heirlooms. Others are glad to turn “old stuff” which they look upon as rubbish, into money.
So, in response to a well applied “line” of talk, elastic enough to fit many different situations, they willingly, reluctantly, or indifferently, as the case may be, lead the way to old cupboards, trunks and boxes in search of something desirable. While I, agog with anticipation and in close pursuit, all but tread upon the heels of my guide. Too often there isn’t a rare thing left. But here and there, in the backmost corner of the top shelf of a cupboard, I find a lustre tea-pot, a mug or a plate. Such a discovery always brings me up short like a setter pointing a bird. A great moment for a lustre snooper!
One day a large lustre pitcher with wide pink resist band, arrested my attention. Trying to seem casual, I admired the modern china and the green glassware from the five and ten, then seemed to see for the first time, the object which a little bit before made my heart miss a beat. I ventured to inquire, “What about the rusty old pitcher on the top shelf? Is it of any use to you, or would you like to dispose of it?”
“Land sakes! That old dust catcher up there was John’s pappy’s grandma’s,” came the reply. “She was so proud of it as long as she lived because it was all she had left of the things her family brought out of Johnson county when the Federals run them out and burned their home under Order No. 11. But I’ve been dusting the old thing spring and fall for years and I’d be right glad to get shed of it. John won’t care. I reckon I’ll ask you seventy five cents for it if you don’t think that’s too much.”
An old man with faltering step led me to a cupboard. When I offered to buy a coppery brown bowl, he took it in his palsied hands and seemed overcome with sentimental reminiscences. “No indeed,” he declared, “Money couldn’t buy this bowl. Why it was my Mother’s when she was a little girl! Why I ate porridge out of it when I was a baby!” Then his reasoning changed and he continued, “But you’re right. What will become of it when I am gone? All my folks are dead and I’m going on ninety, just living on borrowed time. I can’t be here long. I believe I’d like for somebody to have this little bowl who will appreciate it. Young fellow, you go down to the store and get me a couple of plugs of chewing tobacco and I’ll trade with you.”
In the Ozarks a log cabin which looked as old as the hills themselves, with its chimney of native stone, was intriguing, but the barefooted old mother, clad in gray calico with a small remnant of Paisley about her head, who came to the door declared she had no relics of early days. However, when the situation was “lined up”, the lid of an old trunk was lifted and out of the depths of musty clothes, she lifted a silver lustre teapot, a beauty. In the negotiations which ensued, dollars wrestled with sentiment. But to the woman of the hills, the rustle of crisp new bills was sweeter music than the whisperings of memories, and she yielded the ware in sale.
But as she packed it up, she fondled it and soliloquized, “Don’t reckon I ort to sell it, it’s so old. A lot older’n me! It was grandmammy’s, some of her fust buyin’s back in Pennsylvania when she set up to housekeepin’. My children’ll be put out by me asellin’ it. But if they ask me whar is it, I just won’t tell ‘em whar it goed.”
Old colored people possess some interesting pieces of lustre, picked up at public sales or given them by their “white folks”. The “line” fitted to them generally elicits the question, “Boss, is you gittin’ up these things for the Worlds Fair?” Advice to the contrary leaves them in doubt and they ask, “Then what in the name of G— are you going to do with it?”
But they are quite willing to throw open for inspection, the kitchen safe, the cubby-hole under the house and the trunk in the coal shed, hopeful of bringing forth something to sell. Or to show with pride, something given them by a well-to-do white friend, ‘ole Miss’ or ‘ole Marse’.
Some desirable things are easily acquired from them, but many long-sought articles are so highly valued through sentiment, it takes much coaxing and scheming to get them, if indeed they can be had at all. A number of the aged colored people feel superstitious about disposing of anything which has been given them if the donor is dead. One woman said, “Not fo’ nothin’ would I depart from dese copper cups. They was a present from my dead husband an’ they’se goin’ right in de coffin wid me!”
Hannah Flint had heard that I bought “old things” and wanted to sell me a small lustre pitcher in order to get some money to buy chances on a quilt being raffled off at her church. Noting an unusual decoration on the side of the pitcher, I remarked, “This looks like it might be etched.” Hannah, fearing that this was some defect which would block the sale, inquired anxiously, “Boss, don’t you reckon you could fix it?” In high humor I told her it was etched worse than any pitcher I had ever seen, but I might give her a quarter for it anyway. “Bless God,” exclaimed the old woman, “Jesus is sho good to me!”
Aunt Cindy Harris, an aged colored woman, was said to have lived long with “rich folks” from whom she had acquired unusual things in old tableware. When I visited her, she opened the door and inquired through the narrowest slit, what was wanted. She declared emphatically, “I’ve done got shed of all my old junk.” Not fully convinced and scheming to gain entrance, I called a few days later with a basket of fruit. She opened the door wide enough to admit the basket, then after an earnest application of the “line”, reluctantly admitted me into the kitchen. After much wheedling I was permitted to open the doors of an old corner cupboard. There, amid stacks of nondescript dishes, covered with dust, reposed three pieces of good lustre.
As I stood there with covetous and scheming eyes fixed upon the desired articles, she kept muttering, “Taint no use to look! Ain’t nothin’ old! Couldn’t nobody buy them things nohow.” Finally drawing herself up with a determined air and shaking her bandana clad head, she announced, “My departed husban’ done give ‘em ever’ one to me an’ I sho God ain’t goin’ git exposed of ‘em ‘til I dies!” With this ultimatum delivered, she settled into obstinate silence. The basket of fruit had worked no subtle charm. The session closed without a doxology.
But as I passed out through her yard, disappointed at the outcome of the visit, flowers peeping up along the walk gave me fresh inspiration. Upon my next visit I took the roots of many perennial flowers for Cindy’s border. Cindy may have had many weaknesses, but one of the biggest was flowers. That day I “brought home the bacon.” everything I wanted from that cupboard.
At first Mandy Kelsey’s old lustre cups and saucers, stuck back in a dark pantry, were too sacred, she said, to sell for any amount of money. ‘Ole Miss’ had given them to her and she was now dead. In a second effort to obtain them, a bottle of toilet water and a box of bath powder were proffered in exchange. From these, as she considered them, Mandy took deep, frequent sniffs of fragrance which rendered her oblivious to her sentimental feeling about ‘ole Miss’ and the lustre dishes.
Arriving definitely at a decision, she burst out, “Go on an’ take de dishes, white man! I’se got to have dese cosmetics! I sho loves ‘em!” But her mood changed suddenly and she continued, “Lawd knows tho’ I’se an ole fool not to git money to pay my doctor. I know my looks don’t deceive it but I’se suffered death now for goin’ on nine years. Nine long years I’se been mighty low, not able to do no washin’ and no heavy liftin’.”
Mandy was such a picture of health, I felt impelled to find out what ailment could be so devastating and yet leave no visible traces of its ravages, so I asked her if the doctor had discovered what was the matter with her.
“Law Boss, yes!” she replied, “de doctor he done call it de chronical narvous nuralgy ob de intestinal,” and with a sigh, added, “An’ he say they ain’t much hope.”
There is hardly more than Mandy Kelsey’s hope of recovery for those who have become addicts to wanderlust toward lustre. The “chronical narvous nuralgy” of the hunt drags the stricken ones far, along the highways and into the byways. But they like it. They find compensation for trials and tribulations in the contacts with the old souls “just living on borrowed time” who relate their fascinating romantic tales of early days, who clothe their antiques with traditions of pathos and humor. And in running down and occasionally bagging, a rare piece of lustre, be it for profitable resale of for adding to the treasures of one’s private corner cupboard.
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