Category Archives: Antiques

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Art Nouveau Copper Tray (Joseph Sankeys & Sons, ca. 1900).

Sometimes when you buy things at the flea-market, they can be the ugliest, most degraded, scandalising pieces of junk in the world…

This distinctly unattractive footed copper tray with the up-curving, rectangular brass handles, was for sale at one of the regular stalls. It was so tarnished and grimy that most people just walked right past it. It almost melted into the dark table-cloth around it, so it likely just sat there, unloved and sight-unseen for half the morning. In fact, when I came across it, it was so dirty that you couldn’t even tell how old it was!

It was only when I flipped the tray over to see the reverse of the pattern punched into the metal that I realised what style it was made in, and therefore, approximately how old it was. I bought it on the spot for next to nothing, and once I got home, I started the very, very arduous process of cleaning it. As you can see, there was a lot of grime on top of that beautiful patterning underneath…

I freely admit that when I was younger, Art Nouveau antiques were not to my taste. I found them too flowery and garish and over-the-top. But, as I’ve gotten older, I have come to appreciate their flowing, curving, naturalistic lines, something not found in my favourite style of design – Art Deco, which flourished from the 1920s to the 1950s.

By comparison, Art Nouveau – what came before Deco – emphasized natural forms and lines rather than the more rigid curves and angles of Deco, taking inspiration from nature and the outdoors, insects and plant-life. Popular in the dying decade of the 1800s and the first ten or twenty years of the 20th century, Art Nouveau was at its height in the early 1900s. Eventually, the scrolls, flowers, curves, loops and angles all started to look cluttered and old-fashioned, and a cleaner, simpler look, in the form of Art Deco, started taking its place by the early 20s.

One of the reasons that I kind of disliked Art Nouveau is that it was very much ‘of its time’. A piece of Deco-styled homewares, electronics, furniture, a building, an interior, etc…is pretty timeless. The clean, simple, minimalist lines translate well into modern living.

By comparison, I’ve always found that Art Nouveau styling was far too reminiscent of the Victorian obsession with over-decorating EVERYTHING. And this sort of rigidity in that Art Nouveau was so firmly rooted in turn-of-the-century styling was what sort of put me off. But at the same time, the fact that it’s so easily identifiable does lend to its charm. It adds an instantly-recognisable dash of Edwardian elegance to a collection without looking excessively overwrought.

Anyway, back to the tray.

It’s honestly not that large. It measures 8 by 14 inches, and sits on six little ball feet. It has two curving, rectangular handles and a raised edge. Apart from extensive polishing, the only other thing I had to do with it was a couple of well-placed, padded hammer-strikes, to balance out the feet and stop the damn thing from wobbling on a flat surface.

Here’s the tray, more or less completed. I still have a bit of minor polishing to do on the underside and the edges as you can see, but apart from that, it figured it was made-up enough to be ready for its closeup-shots.

One final shot, showing off the main decorations, and one of the handles, simple as it is…

 

 
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Russian Silver Beaker (Moscow, 1850).

I think if you’re going to try and make it as an antiques dealer – even if it’s a small side-business or hobby that you do between other things, it’s good to hunt down, collect and keep the occasional trinket for yourself. A silent reminder to enjoy the things that you can come across while out hunting for stuff.

One example of this was something I picked up recently, a beautiful solid silver Russian pedestal beaker…

I’m not sure who the maker is, but this gorgeous piece of silver was manufactured in Moscow in the early 1850s, with a zolotnik mark of ’84’ on the rim (more about that, later). It’s comprised of two parts: The body, and the base, which are curved and circular in form, and soldered together at the neck. After buying it, I had a quick peek online to see what these things generally go for…and I think I got a pretty decent bargain, considering! Hahaha…Aaaaanyway…

The Russian Beaker

Let us begin at the beginning. This is a Russian silver – BEAKER. A beaker is different from a MUG in that beakers do not have handles. It’s called a pedestal beaker because it’s mounted on a pedestal, base, or foot. Not on a STEM, like a goblet, which is similar, but longer and thinner in shape.

How Was It Made?

Like most silverware, this piece was likely made using a series of hammers in a shaping process known as ‘raising’. Basically, you start out with a flat disc of silver (a ‘sheet’ as it’s called); you trace a circle on it, make a dent in the middle, to mark the center, and from the center, you work out and up, beating the sheet with a hammer in a series of concentric rings.

As you beat the silver, the metal stretches and forms, rising up as it’s manipulated by all the hammer-dents (hence ‘raising’ the silver). This builds up the sides of the cup. As the process continues, the silver would be heated (annealed) to soften it and remove brittleness. Failure to anneal the silver would mean that the constant beating would compact and harden the metal, making it brittle.

Eventually, the basic shape of the cup would be complete. A similar process would’ve been used to create the base. Once the two pieces had been made, they would’ve been planished and then burnished (smoothed out and polished), possibly on a lathe, to get uniformity of shape.

Once that was completed, the two parts would’ve been decorated – separately – before being soldered together.

The decoration on this piece is all hand-engraving. It is extremely intricate, but not exactly the best of quality – there are a variety of inconsistencies here and there around the body of the beaker. There are places where the decorations are uneven, or lines cross or cut into other decorations by accident.

Because of these inconsistencies, I suspect that this beaker was likely a practice-piece, made by an apprentice (student) silversmith, or a journeyman silversmith, who had graduated his apprenticeship but was still new to the craft, and who was attempting to show off what he had learned.

Whoever made it (the maker’s mark is unknown), the smith obviously felt that it was of sufficient quality to put on sale, because the beaker, warts-and-all, was sent off to be assayed!

Russian Hallmarks

By the 1800s, like with most other countries around Europe, Russia had established a solid system of hallmarking – the testing and certification of silverwares prior to their entrance onto the commercial market – a necessary middleman step to weed out any fraudsters and con-artists from cheating unsuspecting customers.

As with almost every other European country, the hallmarks followed a specific system: There was the place of assay, the date of assay, the purity of the silver, and the maker’s mark. This beaker includes a fifth mark, which is the mark of the Assay-Master – the name (or in this case, the initials) of the big-cheese who ran the office to which the beaker had been sent for assay.

In this case, the marks are:

[A.K.] [185-] [84] [Image of St. George and the Dragon] [Maker’s Mark in Cyrillic letters]

The hallmarks on the rim of the beaker. The fact that they’re uneven tells me that the beaker was hand-marked, using a hammer, a supporting-block, and a series of steel punches.

The A.K. stands for Andrey Anatovich Kovalsky, who was master of assay at the Moscow Assay Office until he left the post in 1856. The next mark is the ‘185-‘. This is the year of assay. I left the last number off because it’s not clear. But it still dates the beaker to a very narrow window – 1850 to 1856.

The next mark is ’84’. You would think that ’84’ is the purity – as in – 84%.

Well…yes…and no.

84 is actually the zolotniki.

“…the what?” I hear you ask.

The ‘zolotnik’ (plural ‘zolotniki’) was a Russian measurement of weight, which came from a 12th century gold coin – the zolotnik. Although the coin went out of circulation centuries ago, its name was repurposed in the 1700s for the national hallmarking of silver. There were four grades of zolotnik, starting at 96, then 90, 84, and 62 zolotniks (62 was later replaced by 72, which was replaced less than a century later, by 84, which remained the national lower-limit up to the time of the Revolution in 1917).

96 zolotniki = 100% pure silver.

90 zolotniki = 93.7% silver.

84 zolotniki = 87.5% silver.

So the mark of ’84’ on the beaker represents 87.5% silver purity.

The next mark is that of St. George slaying the dragon – a famous story from European folklore. This is the coat of arms for the City of Moscow, signifying where the piece was hallmarked.

The final mark, as with British silverware of the same era, is the maker’s mark, which was usually the maker’s initials. In this case, it’s his initials in Cyrillic (Russian) lettering. Unfortunately I don’t read Cyrillic script, and information on Russian maker’s marks can be very hard to find. We may never know who made this piece.

Closing Remarks

So is a beaker like this a rare piece? Yes and no. As a possible apprentice piece – probably. Russian silver is fairly rare, but not THAT rare. You can find it and you can definitely collect it. Although I imagine that pre-revolution pieces tend to fetch a premium.

Is it a piece of first-order manufacture? I don’t think so. I have seen other pieces online which looked even more lovely than this (and I think that’s pretty hard to beat!), but that said – the prices on those were hundreds, even thousands, of dollars more than what I paid, so I’m happy to have it! I think it’s beautiful, different and certainly unique!

 
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A German Stockman – Restoring a Vintage Pocketknife!

I got interested in pocketknives when I was in university. I found that I was doing a lot more cutting than I did previous to that point in my life. Cutting open food-containers, cutting open boxes, slicing paper, cutting open wrappers and plastic packaging, cutting tags…all kinds of things. And I often found myself in a situation where I needed a pocketknife, but didn’t have one. And after this happened more than a couple of times, I decided that the time was right for me to actually go out and find a nice knife.

Well, that was about ten years ago, and since then, I’ve gained a minor appreciation for antique and vintage pocketknives. I wouldn’t say that I’m an active collector of pocketknives, but I know what I like, and I sometimes go hunting for them at flea-markets and antiques fairs, and if I see something nice for a good price, I buy it. Depending on how practical the knife is, or how interesting or different it is, I may either add it to my small collection, or sell it after I’ve finished tinkering with it.

My current, modest knife collection. The largest knife is four inches from bolster to bolster.

That said, I don’t have a large collection of pocketknives. Maybe three or four small ones? I used to have loads more – at my max, about eight or nine, but I sold the vast majority of them simply because I tend to be a USER more than a COLLECTOR. I don’t like owning things that I don’t use, and so because of that I sold almost all of them, except ones which I really, really liked.

I have three little pen-knives with mother-of-pearl and ivory scales (if you’re a regular follower of this blog, you might remember I did a posting about a couple of those a few months back), and I used to have four or five others – which I gradually sold over time as I found better knives to replace them.

As of the writing of this particular post, I just sold another knife (a two-bladed English Barlow-pattern) online to trim down the collection a bit.

But that’s not what this posting is about. This posting is about the knife I found, which replaced that English Barlow!

…and there it is!

The German Stockman

I bought this knife about two weeks ago for a couple of tens of dollars. I don’t exactly blow the bank when it comes to buying pocketknives, and this is probably the most I’ve ever spent on a knife in my life! It’s a three-bladed slip-joint folding pocketknife, of a style known as the ‘stockman’, so-called because this design was originally meant for use by farmers, cowboys, drovers, shepherds and livestock managers. The three blades were meant to accomplish different tasks when it came to looking after livestock (I’ll get into that later on down the line…).

I liked the knife because it was a nice, medium-sized knife with blades of decent length and thickness, and it had the sort of simple, clean look that I generally go for in things that I like to use on an everyday basis. The three blades gave me options, and the black scales were elegant without being flashy.

How Do You Know it’s from Germany?

I’m not entirely sure what company made the knife, but it comes from Solingen, Germany. This much I do know, because it’s stamped on the shank of the blade. And as the ShamWow guy says: “You know the Germans always make good stuff!”

They sure do! After all, not for nothing has Solingen been the cutlery capital of Europe for the better part of…what? Five hundred, six hundred years? The cutlery trade in Solingen dates back, quite literally – to Medieval times.

They still make surgical blades, razors, scissors, kitchen-knives and cutlery and pocketknives there today! Famous companies like DOVO (straight razors), Wusthof (kitchen knives), and Boker (more razors), are all based in Solingen. The city was originally home to a famous guild of swordsmiths back in the Middle Ages. If you’re collecting antique straight-razors or pocketknives, you can generally rest assured that any knife with ‘SOLINGEN’ stamped onto the blade is worth the money spent to get it. After all – 700-odd years worth of knife-making has to count for something, right?

I don’t know how old the knife is, exactly, but my guess is that it’s from the early 20th century, most likely before WWII. That being the case, I doubt this knife is more than about 80 or 90 years old.

The Anatomy of a Pocketknife

The classic, slip-joint, folding pocketknife comes with about half a dozen different components. So  you can follow what I’m going to write later on in this post, here’s a breakdown…

The Blades

A knife obviously starts with the blade. Most slipjoint knives have at least two blades. Some only have one, most will have two or three. Some models made by other manufacturers (such as Victorinox in Switzerland) have knives which have loads of blades and accessories folded away. But for the basic knife, one, two, or three blades – sometimes four – is standard.

A slipjoint pocketknife will have blades that have ‘nail-nicks’ cut into them. These are the little grooves that run under the spine of the blade, so that you can actually pull the blade out of the knife-handle.

The Handle

The handle of the knife is made up of about four or five different components, they are…

The Bolsters

The bolsters are the end-pieces on the ends of the knife, usually made of nickel-silver, steel, or brass.

The Liners

The liners are flat strips of metal inside the knife. They’re usually made of brass, to prevent rusting. The liners serve as washers to reduce friction between the moving parts of the knife. There is a liner between each blade, and the exterior of the knife.

The Back-Spring

The spring is the flat, flexible steel lever or leaf-spring on the knife that holds the blades open, or shut. It flexes up and down as the blades are opened and closed. The tension on this spring is what stops the blades from flopping around.

The Pins/Rivets

Knives have pins or rivets punched through them. These are here to serve as pivots or hinges for the blades, and to hold the handle components (spring, liners, blades etc) together.

The Scales

Last but not least, you have the scales. Not all pocketknives have scales. Some do, some don’t. Their purpose is to protect the liners and the rivets and other components of the knife from damage, although these days, scales are largely there for decorative purposes. Scales can be made from almost anything – celluloid, wood, bone, ivory, mother-of-pearl, tortoise-shell, and even solid silver…are very common on antique and vintage knives.

Different Knife Models

Pocketknives come in various styles and types. While these days there are loads of different variations – when you’re looking at vintage and antique knives, you’ll largely come across a set group of basic designs, although these are by NO MEANS the only types out there, and there are countless variations. Here are just three or four of the really common ones…

The Stockman.

The three blades of the stockman, from left to right: Spey, Sheep’s Foot, and Clip.

The stockman is the knife-type which I’m building this posting about. Used by livestock cowboys, farmers and shepherds in the past – hence the name. The stockman is a three-blade folding knife, typically consisting of a clip, sheepsfoot, and spey blade. They range in size from a couple of inches to four or five inches long (the one I have is four inches, closed up).

The Barlow

My old Barlow knife which the stockman has now replaced! As you can see, I like simple, clean styling.

One of the OLDEST knives around, the ‘Barlow’ style pocket-knife has two blades at one end, one long all-purpose blade, and one shorter blade, usually for cutting pen-points for quills, and sharpening pencils. Barlows go back for CENTURIES and their use is dated all the way back to the 1600s.

The Trapper!

The trapper knife comes from the knives originally used by fur-trappers back in the 1700s and 1800s. Trapper knives have two blades on one end of the handle, and the blades are long and equal-length, used for killing and skinning animals for their fur pelts.

The Canoe.

The canoe-knife is exactly what it sounds like – a knife shaped like a canoe! It’s a smaller knife, with two blades, one on each end of the handle. The body of the knife is cigar-shaped, but with a dip in the middle on one side, and curved edges at the ends, giving it the general appearance of an American Indian canoe, hence the name.

There are loads of other knife-styles out there, but these are four of the most common ones that you’re likely to find at flea-markets, antiques shops, auction-houses, etc.

Restoring Your Pocket Knife!

Keep in mind that not ALL knives can be restored. Some can, some can’t. Some are just too far gone, too broken, rusted or damaged to be repaired or revived. Here, I’ll be walking you through what I do to all the knives that I’ve ever bought, fixed and sold, or kept and used.

If you have the tools and equipment, you can literally pull a knife to pieces and clean it that way, but I’m working with the assumption that you, like me, probably don’t have most of those things, and that you’ll be cleaning and restoring your knife WITHOUT pulling it apart. Based on that assumption, let’s begin!

So, you found a really sweet pocketknife at the flea-market, or in an antiques shop, that you really love! It’s just the right size, or perhaps it’s the style or shape, or the scale-material, or maybe it’s manufactured by the same folks who made the one that grandpa gave you…which you lost as a teenager…However it happens, you found a knife! Only…it’s not in the best condition. It’s not completely dead, but it’s a bit rusty, it’s really stiff and crudded up, and it couldn’t slice melted butter. So, what do you do?

Rust-Removal.

For me, the first step is always rust removal. To do this, you need sandpaper. Get fine or ultrafine sandpaper, and a lubricant (Brasso, or sewing machine oil are generally good). Rub the lubricant over the rusty areas (usually the blades, hilts and back-springs) and start rubbing the sandpaper over it. Start coarse, and work to fine, then ultrafine. If you want to, you can also use 0000-grade ultrafine steel wool for the really soft, last cleaning. The aim is to remove the rust, and polish the blade at the same time.

If the back-springs on the knife are really rusty, then if it’s on the outside – just run the knife back and forth across your chosen polishing-abrasive to remove the rust, with oil as a lubricant. If it’s INSIDE, then you can use a popsicle stick with some really fine steel wool, or sandpaper, to try and sand out the rust on the inside of the spring between the brass liners.

This should remove most of the surface-rust on your knife, while also polishing the blade. Keep in mind that almost all antique pocketknives have CARBON STEEL BLADES. These things rust if you even sneeze at them wrong, so having restored the shine on the blade, or at least, having removed the rust – keep the blades DRY when not in use, to prevent rusting, and clean them immediately after any use involving moisture. A single drop of water is all it takes to get rust growing on these antique blades.

Cleaning Out the Guts!

Antique knives are often CLOGGED with crud! Dust, grit, pocket-lint, hair and all other kinds of CRAP usually ends up jammed up inside these things. To clean it out, open the knife entirely, and using a needle, pin, or other suitable long, thin, sharp object – clean out the grooves and gullies between the washers, the springs and the blades. This can take a while.

Cleaning under the Scales.

On the vast majority of antique pocket-knives, scales are simply riveted or pinned onto the outside of the knife and are largely decorative in purpose. But that’s no reason why they shouldn’t look nice! Loads of gunk and crud can EASILY get BEHIND the scales, between the back of the scales, and the brass liners that make the body of the knife-handle. One way to clean this crud out is to use a pin or needle.

Only do this if you can actually get the needle into the gap between the liner and the scales. If you can, simply stick the needle in and wiggle it around from side to side, up and down, back and forth. This will scrape up all the crap that’s accumulated inside there over the course of DECADES, and sweep it out when you remove the needle.

Don’t be afraid if the scales suddenly POP UP! or even worse – drop off! This is nothing to be worried about. If the scales DO fall off, simply clean them (and the liners) as best as you can (either with tissues, water, oil, or a polishing compound) and them simply pop them back on, over the same rivets that held them in, in the first place. You may need to tap the scales back on to pop them back into place. If the scales are loose – apply some glue to them (or the liners) before reattaching the scales, then simply apply pressure to ensure proper adhesion, wiping away any glue that pops out the sides.

Voila! Nice, clean scales.

Lubricating and Cleaning the Pivots and Springs

When it comes to cleaning and restoring antique or vintage folding pocketknives, this is, almost without a doubt, the one part of the restoration that can take ages. Hours. Days. Even WEEKS, if you want to do it properly!

Loads of gunk builds up inside these knives, just from decades of use, and dust and crud and lint and grime getting into the mechanisms. This can make the knives very, very, VERY stiff. This makes them hard to open, hard to close, the blades pull on your fingernails, they’re painful to use, and even worse – you could CUT yourself if the knife suddenly springs open when you’re fighting with it!

So, how to fix this?

To do this, you’ll need three or four things:

  • A bottle of sewing machine oil (you could use WD-40 as well, but you’ll be using a LOT of lubricant, and WD-40 STINKS after long use, so…it’s not my first choice…)
  • Fine and Ultrafine Sandpaper.
  • Loads of tissue paper or toilet paper, or paper-towels.
  • Cotton-buds/Q-Tips.
  • A needle or pin (optional).

So long as it’s not physically broken or damaged in some way, the main reason why the blades on your folding, antique pocketknife jam, jar and won’t open or close smoothly, is because the knife is DIRTY. REALLY, REALLY, REALLY DIRTY. To have a knife that opens and closes smoothly – this DIRT needs to be REMOVED. Dirt causes FRICTION. That’s why your damn knife ain’t workin’ properly! Capiche?

“Can’t you just…I dunno…LUBRICATE IT with OIL?”

…Yeah. But what happens when the oil dries up? You’re right back to square one. To do it properly, the gunk has to be REMOVED.

“Yeah but I don’t have any way of pulling the knife apart. How do I remove this stuff?”

Fear not, young grasshopper!

What you’re gonna do is flood the knife with oil. Then, once the knife pivots and springs are full of oil, you’re going to open and close the blades several times. This wiggling and movement spreads the oil around inside the knife, inside the pivots and springs and hinges, between the blades and liners. It also dislodges any of the crud and gunk trapped inside.

Once you’ve done that – get a paper towel or tissues or whatever – folded up a couple of times, to make an absorbent pad. Place it on a flat surface like a tabletop.

Now, put the knife, spring-side DOWN (blades facing upwards), on top of the paper. Applying as much pressure as you can – rub the knife HARD, back and forth lengthwise across the tissue-paper.

I’ll pause here for a minute, while you recoil in disgust, at the black, oily, gunky brown crud that comes seeping out of your knife…

“But my knife ain’t that dirty!”. Wanna bet? This is what about ten minutes’ cleaning of the back-springs and liners on the stockman, looks like. The black, grimy streaks is all the crud and gunk trapped inside the knife, that the oil managed to dislodge and flush out! You wonder why your knife keeps jamming? THIS IS WHY!!

See all that stuff? That’s what’s inside your knife. That’s the grunk you’re trying to get rid of. That is the stuff that’s causing your knife to jam. Remember that the oil is transparent – so anything that comes out of the knife that is NOT transparent – is grime that’s causing the knife to jam.

Repeat this process as often as you must, until the oil that seeps out onto the tissue-paper is clear and transparent (or as close to transparent as you can get it). That means that the crud between the springs and pivots has finally been removed.

If you have an ultrasonic cleaner – pop the knife in there every now and then, to flush out even MORE gunk. Just remember to DRY it really well once you fish it out of the water.

Finally – you can use sandpaper to sand down the shanks and springs when they’re exposed, to remove any surface-rust or grime, to improve the action of the knife.

To achieve results this way, it can take days, even weeks, before all the crud is removed, but once it is, your knife will open and shut as smoothly as if it were new. No more stopping, jerking, tugging, breaking finger-nails, or risking slicing your fingers off, when opening your knives, ever again! If you haven’t achieved the results you want, that means that the knife is, in all likelihood, still clogged with grime. Keep going and don’t give up on it!

Also, it’s good to repeat this process every now and then (like every few months, if you use the knife regularly) to stop gunk from building up and jamming the blades again. Finally, once the knife is opening and closing nice and smoothly, lubricate the pivots and springs with one last drop of oil, and wipe it down to clean it.

Sharpening the Blades

The final step in restoring your antique or vintage knife, is sharpening the blades! For this, you’ll need a bucket of water, two or three high-quality sharpening stones, a sink, and a towel or tissue-paper. I always recommend leaving the sharpening of your knife to the VERY END. This prevents accidental cuts during the polishing, rust-removal and lubrication stages.

Soak your sharpening stones in your bucket of water for as long as possible (overnight or longer is best) until they’re nice and wet and have soaked up the water (high quality stones are often quite porous). Then rest them on a flat surface (kitchen counter or similar) and start sharpening.

Open one blade at a time, from your knife, and rest it on the flat surface of the stone, raised slightly on the spine, and so that the edge of the blade just kisses the stone. Slide the blade back and forth along the stone, in a wide, oval or figure-eight pattern, adjusting the angle and position of the blade as you go, to sharpen its entire length, including any curves in the blade. Do this as fast as you can without damaging the blade, at least twenty times. Flip the blade over and repeat the process on the other side. If done properly, the blade will slide smoothly along the stone. If it jars or scrapes, then you’ve got the wrong angle!

Once you’ve done twenty or more strokes for each side, remove the blade, wash or wipe it down with the tissues or towel, and then start on the next blade. It can take a while to sharpen a blade successfully (especially if it’s curved) but patience will yield results!

Closing Remarks

Anyway, that just about does it for me. Hopefully these instructions were useful to you in reviving that old pocketknife you found lying around somewhere, and has restored it to being a useful tool yet again! Tinkering with stuff like this is lots of fun and it stops otherwise useful things from being discarded and tossed out. Which in the case of this knife, would’ve been a real shame…

 
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Antique Shagreen Leather Wallet (London, 1915).

If you’re anything like me, you probably use your wallet for lots of things. Holding coins, holding cards, holding receipts, holding cash, putting little notes and reminders inside it…and it gets crammed into every pocket, bag, jacket and coat that you’ve ever owned. To say nothing of being dropped, bent, twisted, sat on…and if you’re a real klutz, it might have spent some time rolling around in the washing-machine.

However you treat your wallet, one thing is fairly certain – that you will have many wallets throughout your life. Bifolds, trifolds, ones with clasps, clips, zippers, straps, buckles…even chains! But of all the wallets you’ve ever handled, I’m fairly sure you’ll have never seen one that looks like this…

Antique wallet. London, 1915.

Made of black shagreen leather and with silver mounts to protect the edges, this antique trifold wallet from the second decade of the 1900s, and from the time of the First World War was a flea-market find like almost no-other. Considering that it’s over 100 years old, it’s in absolutely fantastic antique condition. There’s absolutely no damage on it at all, apart from a bit of rub-wear on the leather.

How Do You Know It’s from 1915?

I know, because of the hallmarks stamped on the silver corner-mountings, which protect the leather from damage. They bear London silver hallmarks for 1915. And even without the markings there, a wallet of this style and this configuration was extremely common in the early 20th century. This particular design was popular in the 1890s up to around the 1930s or 40s. This was a time when what people carried in their wallets differed greatly from what we carry today.

The three little slots at the top of the pocket are for holding postage-stamps (left and right), and a ticket-stub (for a streetcar or train) in the middle.

While some things did not change – receipts, cash and perhaps a few coins, other things were very different. For example – how many people keep ticket-stubs in their wallets? Or postage-stamps? Calling-cards? Notebooks and pencils? These differences, caused by the fact that 100 years ago, we were much more a cash-based society, influenced wallet design, and what people would put into them.

How Does it Differ from Modern Wallets?

Well, it has compartments and features that most modern wallets wouldn’t have. A ticket-pocket, pockets for stamps, pockets for calling-cards, and pockets for various denominations of cash, which, when this wallet was made, would’ve been various pound and shilling notes. On top of that, it has an in-built pencil slot, and a matching notebook for taking down notes, reminders and details – another feature not normally found on modern wallets.

One of the protective, hallmarked silver corner-tabs.

Last but not least are the silver mounts, and the silver-plated spring-clasp. These days, wallets are far more utilitarian, and are unlikely to have such decorations, and snap-buttons, tabs and zips, or simple folding-wallets, are far more common and one might daresay, practical, in the 21st century.

Are Wallets Like this Rare?

The (removable) pocketbook, and the original pencil from 1915.

Honestly? Not really. You do see them from time to time in antiques shops and flea-markets. I have seen them made of crocodile skin, leather, shagreen, and mounted in nickel, silver (like this one) and even solid gold. So are they rare? Not especially. But they ARE rare in this condition. After all, who treats their day-to-day wallet with the expectation that someone will buy it secondhand in 100 years’ time?

Interior pockets for cards, cash, receipts etc.

The fact that this thing is basically in ready-to-use condition shows that it has barely ever been used, if at all. Something like that obviously affects its price greatly, and of course, its desirably on the antiques market. In fact I actually sold this wallet while writing this article, after barely advertising it for longer than half a day. Proof that good quality antiques will always find a home somewhere, if you know how to buy them, and how to sell them.

 
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Turn-of-the-Century Writing Case (Ca. 1905)

Sometimes, you just get lucky.

I picked up this beautiful turn-of-the-century writing case in an antiques shop earlier this week. Considering that these things usually sell for insane amounts of money, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the price was actually pretty reasonable…even moreso with a discount! There was nothing seriously wrong with it, apart from needing a cleaning, dusting, and a new key. I already had the inkwells that would need to be fitted into it to make it complete, but the next step was to replace the key which would operate the lock.

The Box in Question…

The box itself was of a design that was common during the second half of the 1800s, with an attached writing-slope, a cavity for documents, and a pop-up compartment that served as an organiser and stationery-caddy. The writing-surface has an in-built desk-blotter with tabs to hold down replaceable sheets of blotting paper. The box comes with two cavities for inkwells, and a removable pen-tray for holding pens, pencils and other accessories.

The box was covered in an unusual type of leather. While it is common for these boxes to be covered in leather, I’d never seen one in this sort of tan-orange colour before, and never with faux-crocodile on it. Most of the ones I’ve seen were plain black, sometimes with minor patterning, but nothing this elaborate. The striped interior of the box was also something new and different, and that was what compelled me to buy it (that, and the price!).

Cutting the Key

The only thing really missing from the box was the key to lock it. Digging through my dwindling stock of antique keys, I managed to find one of roughly the right size. The next step was to start filing. Ideally, you don’t want to have to pull the lock apart when you make a replacement key for an antique lock – they’re delicate things and putting them back together (while certainly possible) is a fiddly process. Where possible, I like to leave the lock in-place, and size the key up by trial and error.

After filing the key to fit the lock, I then had to file the head or bit of the key, to operate the spring and lever inside it. After determining the height of the bit (it needs to be long enough to catch and turn the bolt), I then had to determine how wide the bit had to be (so that it was narrow enough to fit into the space made for the bit).

The height of the key’s bit is determined by the size of the keyhole. You simply file the key until it fits into the keyhole.

The width of the key’s bit (how narrow it has to be to swing around and operate the spring and lever that locks and unlocks the bolt) is done by trial and error. You simply have to keep filing and testing, until the key moves freely. Depending on the key you’re filing, and the complexity of the lock, and whether you need to cut grooves for the wards, this process can take a few minutes…or it can take hours!

The key of a writing-case (or most writing cases, anyway) are pretty simple affairs. Most of them are just simple sprung locks or single ward or single lever locks. Because of this, cutting the key-bit and getting the shape right wasn’t very difficult. Or at least, it wasn’t too difficult this time, anyway!

Filling the Box

The next step in restoring the box is filling it up. I already have inkwells for it, so that’s the hardest bit done. The next step is to find stuff to put into the accessories caddy. This box was designed to hold two pencils or pens, and a ruler or page-turner. Now all I need to do is find them! Not always easy, but it can be done, with diligence!

The Last Gasp of the Writing Box

By the early 1900s, writing boxes and writing cases were fast becoming things of the past. Long considered luxury items which would’ve been owned and used by people of the professional classes, fountain pens, once leaky and unreliable, were now becoming the go-to writing instrument for people engaged in business, writing, and other white-collar occupations.

With the invention of pens which held their own ink-supplies, the whole rigmarole of needing inkwells, dip-pens, replacement nibs and all the rest of it suddenly became a thing of the past. Because of this, the first decade of the 20th century was seen as the last gasp of the traditional writing box, which up to that time, had existed for over two hundred years.

A small number of manufacturers still produced travelling cases or portable writing desks for traveling, or for the army, but these were generally much more compact than what had come before. The arrival of the first portable typewriters in the 1910s and 20s were the final nail in the coffin. Fast, lightweight machines that could be packed into a box smaller than a briefcase saw the end of the writing box, and they were thereafter consigned to the antiques shop and grandpa’s attic…

 

 
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Jewish Silver: Vintage Judaica Kiddush Cup

This charming little beaker was part of a box-lot of silver I won at auction. I put the rest of it up for sale, but kept this one because I was attracted to the beautiful decorations and bunches of grapes on the sides. What we have here is a piece of Judaica silver (‘Judaica’ meaning any paraphernalia related to the Jewish culture or religion). It’s in absolutely gorgeous vintage condition and it’s the first confirmed piece of vintage or antique Jewish silver I’ve ever had in my collection.

So…What is a Kiddush Cup?

Kiddush cups – traditionally made of gold, or more commonly – silver with gilt interiors – are beakers or chalices used by those who follow the Jewish faith, to serve and consume kosher wine during their weekly observance of the Sabbath. It makes up part of a simple ceremony where simple, everyday staples (in this case, wine, and challah bread) are eaten during the Sabbath in accordance with the Torah’s instruction that it is a day of rest and relaxation from the toils of the week.

‘Kiddush’ is the Hebrew word for ‘Sanctification’ and in this respect, refers to the sanctification of the bread and wine consumed during the Sabbath (or other significant holy events, such as weddings, special birthdays, or other Jewish holidays).

Continental silver Kiddush goblet, decorated with a bunch of grapes, and “JERUSALEM”, in Old Hebrew. Thanks to my Jewish friends (you know who you are if you’re reading this!) for helping me with the translation!

Kiddush cups are therefore important symbolic and religious artifacts to the families which own them. They’re often purchased for, or given to children (boys and girls) during their Bar/Bat Mitzvahs and as mentioned previously – are usually silver, lined in gold. Due to their significance and their expense, kiddush cups are treated with great care. Some cups can become family heirlooms, with young family members inheriting the cups of deceased ancestors, instead of getting their own. Children who aren’t allowed to drink wine are sometimes given grape-juice to drink from their cups, until they’re of legal drinking-age.

How Big is a Kiddush Cup?

Honestly? Not very. The vast majority that I’ve seen, both online and in person, were relatively small. No more than three or four, four-and-a-half inches tall. That said, they’re not meant as a daily drinking vessel, hence their relatively diminutive size. That, and they’re meant to hold wine, not water.

How to Identify a Kiddush Cup?

Kiddush cups typically come in one of two styles: Chalices or goblets, and beakers, sometimes (but not usually) with a handle on the side. They’re almost always made from silver (anywhere from 800 continental, up to 925 sterling), and they’re almost always gilt (gold-plated) around the interior. This is to counteract the acidity of the wine which the cups usually hold.

Not all Kiddush cups are festooned in decorations. This one is simply bordered with a lovely filigree pattern near the rim. The silver-mark and maker’s mark on the base identified it as a Kiddush cup.

They’re also usually relatively small, with a cup-size (even with a footed goblet) being not more than four or five inches tall.

Their exteriors are often (although not always) elaborately decorated, with engraving, chasing, and repousse embellishments. To more readily identify them as kiddush cups, as opposed to just standard silver beakers, some cups are deliberately adorned with Jewish themes. These include Stars of David, words or phrases in ancient Hebrew text, or bunches of grapes and foliage worked into the decorations.

Judaica Silverware and the Holocaust

During the 1930s and 40s, many European Jewish families fled, or went into hiding. And where possible, their silverware went with them. Jewish families who fled Europe packed their menorahs, challah trays, kiddush-cups, mezuzahs and countless other silverware into their trunks and cases and boarded ships bound for England, Canada, Australia, America, and even China, in the years leading up to the Second World War.

Families who couldn’t make it out in time hid their silverware, or even buried it in their homes to keep it from the Nazis. Some families were able to retrieve their silverware after the war, before migrating out of Europe, and in modern times, these pieces of rare silver form an important part of their family histories, as well as being priceless heirlooms. Today, antique, pre-war Jewish silver is both rare and highly sought-after. Exceptionally fine candelabras, trays, menorahs, etc, can fetch high prices in auction-settings.

Can you buy modern Judaica silverware?

Absolutely! Silversmiths, companies and websites all exist to cater to this market, and beautiful examples of modern Jewish silver can be purchased online. One firm of note is that of Hazorfim, which has been in operation for nearly seventy years!

So, will I ever sell my little grapey Kiddush cup? I don’t think so. It’s just too beautiful to sell. On top of that, buying it has been a learning experience, showing how you really need to know a lot about history and different cultures, to fully appreciate the depth and breadth of antiques.

 
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A Solid Silver Plate

You find the strangest things in box-lots at auction. This came with a couple of old candlesticks which were in pretty lousy condition. While they were really only good for the scrapping pot, the silver plate, was in pretty damn good nick. The two or three age-marks on the surface of the metal were easily removed with a bit of polishing and sprucing up, and the heavy tarnish around the borders were eventually removed with enough scrubbing and elbow grease.

There’s really not much to be said about this plate. All-told, it measures only eight inches from edge to edge, and is perhaps an inch deep, if that. It’s circular, with a nice, wavy, raised border. It’s not as elaborate as some silver plates I’ve seen online, but at the same time, it’s not as simple as some others I’ve seen. It’s somewhere in the middle. It’s decorated enough not to look really plain, but not so decorated as to look really gaudy and flashy.

Apart from the purity mark on the back (for 90% silver) and the indications that it was made in South America, there’s nothing on it to denote its age, who it was made by, or for what purpose. I’m not even sure if this is part of a set, or not. I suspect not, but I have no way of really knowing. Like the pedestal bowl in my previous posting (see further down), I expect that this was a single piece, meant for decoration or service, rather than as part of a set, since breaking up a set of solid silver plates seems almost heretical!

Whatever the plate’s story is, and despite its simplicity of style, I think it’s beautiful. While it’s not really big enough to be a dinner-plate, it’s definitely much bigger than other silver plates that I’ve seen in person in many, many years.

 
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Footed Continental Silver Bowl (1915)

Yet another auction-win, this beautiful silver bowl is the latest addition to my modest vintage and antique silverware collection. It’s about four inches high, and eight inches in diameter, with beautiful curving decorations on both the foot and body, a wide lip and a solid base.

It’s marked on the base with an ‘800’ (for 80% silver by purity), and with a crescent moon and crown (hallmark denoting silver manufactured in Germany), and a logo for the company of M.H. Wilkens & Sohne (“M.H. Wilkens & Son”). Established in 1810, the company is still in production today. The serial-number on the base of my piece (238007) corresponds to a manufacturing date of 1915!

The detail on the side. Getting into the crevices to rub out the tarnish was a long and frustrating process which still isn’t fully complete…

Polishing this piece has proved tricky. The wavy lines and decorations, while very attractive, are a real nuisance to clean! Getting into the crevices to rub out the tarnish has been almost impossible. I’ve needed a lot of patience just to get the dish to an even halfway decent appearance. That said, it’s not a bad job so far.

The Manufacturer: Wilkens & Sohne

In business since 1810, M.H. Wilkens & Sohne (today just ‘Wilkens’), is one of Germany’s longest-operating silverware manufacturers, making everything from bowls to cups, porringers, cutlery, bowls and tableware. Their website lists a wide range of merchandise in both silver, and silver-plate.

The Wilkens marks. The spindle-press (left) for Wilkens. The 800 for 80% silver, and the crescent and crown, for German silver.

Researching the manufacturer of the bowl was a tricky process. I already knew a bit just by looking at the marks, but not much. I knew that it was 80% silver, and I knew that the bowl was made in Germany, and after 1886 (the crescent and crown didn’t show up until then), but nothing else. Researching German makers’ marks revealed that the odd shape – the press – was the hallmark of Wilkens & Sohne, which led to me finding their German wikipedia page, which told me about their production-dates and serial numbers, as well as the link to their official website.

The production number, 238007, helped me to date the piece to 1915!

Purpose of the Bowl?

Honestly, I don’t know! I suspect it may be purely decorative, or it may have been used as a fruit bowl or serving bowl of some kind. It’s not really big enough to be a soup tureen or punch-bowl, but it’s not small enough to be something used for individual service. There doesn’t seem to be any indication that it ever had a lid, or an underplate or tray, either.

The inside of the bowl.

Measuring eight inches across, and four inches high, it’s not exactly small, but on the other hand, not really that huge. That said, it weighs the better part of a half-kilo of silver, so it’s not really light, either! It’s probably the heaviest piece of silver I’ve bought so far and apart from one or two pinhead dents, it’s in spectacular condition.

Fixing the Bowl

The underside of the bowl, showing the decorated foot. The hallmarks denoting manufacture, date and purity, were struck to the inside edge.

There were one or two minor issues with the bowl when I bought it. First were the pinhead dents, neither of which is noticeable, so I left them alone. The more immediate problem was that the bowl wobbled. After feeling around with my fingers I discovered that this was because of a dent in the base. A handful of well-placed strikes with a padded, ballpeen hammer rounded the dent out and flattened the base, removing the wobble and restoring the shape! Not all such dent-removal is so easy, but sometimes, you can get lucky in popping, hammering and pressing out dents with a careful application of force.

 
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Treadling Away: Fixing a Singer 66k Seven-Drawer Treadle Sewing Machine (1926)

Well over a year ago, now, a family friend got me on my own during a get-together on a public holiday, and asked me all about antique sewing machines. She was having her house renovated and when the renovations were complete, one of the new rooms was going to be a sewing room.

The problem was, she didn’t have a sewing machine. Or at least, not one which worked. The one machine she did have was broken. It was one of those modern white plastic junky things which runs off electricity and has a million bells and whistles on it. It was expensive, fragile and unreliable. Because of this, she wanted something more reliable and robust – hence the questions about antique machines. She already had a pretty good idea of what she wanted: It had to be antique, in good condition, with nice decorations and decals, it had to be in full working order, and it had to be a treadle-powered.

While I tried to keep an eye out for such a machine, eventually, she got one on her own, and she and her husband dropped it off at my place for me to have a look at it. Although a little battered, the machine was in good working order – it was just extremely dirty, grimy, dusty, and very stiff.

The machine when it arrived.

Antique sewing machines are famous for two things: Their beauty, and their robustness. Their decals, their decorations, their gold-leafing, mother-of-pearl and the various patterns and mouldings applied to the machines and their cabinets and cases were a deliberate attempt by manufacturers to sell their machines to an initially skeptical public in the 1800s.

Because machines were so expensive to buy (most did so through hire-purchase schemes), they had to be strong and robust enough to work for long hours without wearing out, and take a beating without breaking! In some cases, they had to take several beatings, because despite being made for the domestic market, a lot of them were (and still are) used in medium-scale manufacturing. This means that the machines had to be made strong enough to run almost nonstop for hours every day.

The beauty on this machine was more or less intact, but the robustness was wanting. Decades of non-use meant that the entire mechanism had seized up. Once the machine had been dropped off with me, I got to work pulling it apart, cleaning it, and oiling it!

“So What is this Machine?”

It’s a Singer Model 66-K, made in Kilbowie, Clydebank, Scotland, back in 1926. It’s a round-bobbin machine that uses class-66 bobbins, and it is decked out in “LOTUS” decals. My parents’ friend purchased it at a local antiques shop and brought it round to our place for me to give it a bit of TLC. I’ve always loved these machines and told her that if she ever got one, I’d be happy to give it a once-over to ensure proper operation!

The 66-model came out in 1900 and at the time, was the most modern and up-to-date type of machine available, a big boost from the much older-style shuttle-type machines, used in the second half of the 1800s. The machine was quieter, was easier to use, and had fewer components, which meant that there was less to go missing, less to break, and less to worry about when it came to using the machine.

The 66 was a full-sized machine, meant for regular, heavy use, compared to the smaller models like the 28 or the later Singer 99, which came out in the 1920s, which was basically the little brother of the 66.

“What did you Have To Do?”

The restoration of this machine involved about six different steps. They were, in order…

Disassembly. 

Pulling the machine apart. Removing plates, covers, unscrewing components, removing the clutch-wheel and balance-wheel and basically taking the machine apart as far as possible without requiring heavy tools. During this stage, I also removed the electric motor that was mounted onto the side of the machine at sometime during its life. My friend’s mother didn’t want an electric machine, she wanted a treadle one, so off went the motor, which not only restored the machine’s original look, but also reduced the overall weight of the machine.

Removing the side-mounted motor.

Cleaning & Lubrication.

Once I’d pulled off as much as I could, I cleaned everything out with tissues and cotton-buds and stuff. Then once the grime and dust and grease and grit had been scoured away, the next step was to lubricate the machine by dousing the entire mechanism in sewing-oil.

The motor, power-cords and foot-pedal, all removed…

This was tipped over the gears, poured down the holes in the top of the machine (which are there for that purpose), and then carefully working the machine’s mechanism to get it moving properly. On some machines which are really, really stiff, that can be a massive challenge – but on this one it wasn’t too difficult. Don’t worry about being too forceful with these machines – they were designed to take a beating.

Removing the balance-wheel for cleaning and oiling.

Replacing the Treadle Belt!

The next step was replacing the treadle-belt. I was lucky enough to find the original belt and securing-staple inside the drawers that are built into the machine-cabinet. It was in pretty good condition, so I measured it up, looped it around the machine and the drive-wheel, and then started to splice the cord together.

The belt is made of leather, and originally, it would’ve been joined simply by punching a hole in either end, feeding the staple through it, and then clamping or crimping it together with pliers. First step was to punch the holes. I did this with a steel spike and hammer. I punched one hole, fed in half the staple, wrapped the belt around the mechanism, and then marked where the other end of the staple would go through the other end of the belt.

The belt back on the machine!

I removed the belt from the machine, punched the other hole, wrapped the belt back around the treadle mechanism, fed the other end of the staple through the second hole, made sure everything lined up properly, and then crimped everything shut with a pair of pliers. I left a bit of slack in the belt so that the machine could move freely, and so that the belt wouldn’t get any undue strain. The next step was to test the running of the machine.

Testing the Machine…

The finished machine!

Once the belt was on, I started testing the machine, oiling it where it squeaked, checking that the motion was smooth and regular, and that everything worked – that it sewed, that the tension was correct, that the bobbin-winder spun around smoothly, and that it would actually fill a bobbin. Once that was done, it was simply a matter of wiping the machine down, polishing it and ringing up my friend to tell him that his mother could come by and pick up the machine whenever she wanted to!

All in all, it took me about two or three days to get the machine back to functioning order, working in sections. I’m very pleased with the results!