There’s nothing particularly complicated or exceptional about the construction of the table’s frame other than possibly, the (aforementioned) upper gate pivot.
After drawboring all the joints, I assembled the gates (securing the rails to the stiles with 1/4″ oak pegs) before incorporating them into the table’s frame and pegging it too (fig. 1).
Fig. 1. The assembled table frame.
Fig. 2. The gates operate within the frame.
Fig. 3. Shaped upper end rails.
Fig. 4. Braganza feet.
Jack Plane
I don’t mind the recent 13°C (55°F) days, but a week of virtually continuous rain has prevented me assembling the Queen Anne gateleg table which is made and awaiting assembly.
G. M. Woodward, The Blue Devils, circa 1799.
Jack Plane
With this particular style of gateleg table – where the gates pivot within the table’s frame – it is important that the gates do not impinge upon the lowered leaves when closed. To this end, the flying gate stile and lower gate rail are halved where they intersect to allow the gate to close flush with the frame (figs.1 & 2).
Fig. 1. Halved flying gate stile and lower gate rail. (Wakelin & Linfield)
Fig. 2. Gate closed flush with table frame. (Wakelin & Linfield)
There are a couple of variations in the upper hinge rail with this type of table; the simplest of which, again, has the upper frame rail (the same thickness as the legs) halved to accept the halved flying gate stile (figs. 3 & 4).
Fig. 3. Full thickness upper hinge rail halved to accept flying stile. (Christie’s)
Fig. 4. Flying stile halved into full thickness upper hinge rail. (Bonhams)
Full thickness upper hinge rails offer the same advantage in accommodating the gate’s pivot holes as the lower hinge rails; however, not all gateleg tables made use of full thickness upper rails.
A great many gateleg tables – my Queen Anne elm table included – employed substantially thinner upper hinge rails which presents the problem of the upper pivot hole location.
One solution was to nail or screw a doubling block onto the face of the frame rail (fig. 5) and bore the pivot hole into the combined rail and block. Nails and screws can, over time, corrode away to nothing in oak due to its high tannin content – with predictable results.
Fig. 5. Doubling block screwed to face of upper hinge rail. (Christie’s)
Nailing or screwing a wide pivot block to the underside of the hinge rail was another common method (fig. 6).
Fig. 6. Pivot block attached to the underside of the hinge rail. (Bonhams)
Letting a captive pivot block – such as an H-shaped block – into the bottom edge of the upper hinge rail offered good lateral support for the gate while obviating the requirement for nails or screws. The Queen Anne elm table that I’m copying has, what appear to be, inset pivot blocks in its upper hinge rails (fig. 7), though their lack of substance would indicate they are not of the H-shaped variety.
Fig. 7. Pivot block on the Queen Anne elm table. (Robert Young)
In light of the quality of the Queen Anne elm table, I tend to think the blocks are dovetailed into the rails (fig. 8). No glue or fasteners are necessary as the dovetailed blocks are a hammer-in fit in the rails. Should the blocks or rails ever shrink to the point where the blocks become loose, the hinge stiles would prevent them from dropping down.
Fig.8. Dovetailed pivot block let into upper frame rail (photographed upside down).
“Why”, you might ask, “is it necessary for the drop leaves to cling to the side of the table’s frame? Why can’t they sit further out from the frame, creating more space for simpler hinging of the gates”?
There are two reasons why the width of the fixed leaf should be kept to a minimum. Firstly, due to the nature of hinging drop leaves, the unsupported edges of the fixed leaf already overhang the table’s frame by an appreciable amount (fig. 9). Increasing the overhang to accommodate an alternative gate system would place the fixed leaf’s edges in a precarious position. When the table is in use, the edges of the fixed leaf are subject to stresses which can, on occasion, result in their breaking.
Fig. 9. (Moxhams)
The second consideration is aesthetics: if the fixed leaf – and by association, the table-leaf joint and hinges – overhang the frame unduly, the drop leaves will dangle in a rather lugubrious configuration (figs. 2, 10 & 11).
Fig. 10. Converging drop leaves. (Bonhams)
There is also the possibility the partially unsupported fixed leaf may not remain flat, resulting in an undulating top (figs. 11 & 12).
Fig. 11. Cupped top and converging drop leaves. (Bonhams)
Fig. 12. Cupped top. (Bonhams)
Jack Plane
In the comments following Additional Examples of Maritime Case Furniture there was some conjecture about the proliferation of cabin furniture on board ship in the eighteenth-century and how it was secured while on the high seas. A fair amount of quality eighteenth-century maritime furniture survives and along with conventional tables and chairs, cabins were ostensibly well furnished… even while at sea.
Figure 1 shows a watercolour by the antiquarian and chronicler, The Reverend Thomas Streatfeild (1777–1848), depicting two army officers sitting on (and amongst) chairs around a baize-covered table. The ship may not be riding a tempest; however, it is clearly underway as evidenced by the helmsman at the wheel.
Fig. 1. The Reverend Thomas Streatfeild, A cabin scene with two army officers sitting and reading at a table, circa 1820.
Notwithstanding it is a cartoon (though it does bear the inscription ‘Done from an Original Drawing by a British Officer’), the coloured print shown in figure 2 depicts Sir Roger Curtis (in the guise of a dog) at the feet of First Admiral of the Fleet, Lord Howe. The furniture and accoutrements are accurately rendered and contemporary, so one must assume they were all typical contents of an admiral’s cabin… right down to the pot sitting atop the commode stool.
Fig. 2. H. Humphrey, What a Cur’tis!, circa 1795.
Thomas Rowlandson’s print shown in figure 3 has two naval officers sitting on contemporary upholstered chairs (despite there being adequate fixed seating around the cabin), while a third figure pours tea at a drop-leaf table. The ship is evidently heaving as the officers are betting on the movement of a plumb-bob and the manservant is restraining the table with his foot as he struggles to keep the tea in a cup.
Fig. 3. Thomas Rowlandson, Sea Amusement, circa 1785.
Not being a sage tar, I had speculated that loose furniture may have been lashed to hooks or eyes attached to the ship’s bulkheads or decks. A reader opined that the captain of a ship might have taken a dim view of people drilling holes in his vessel. I countered that captains and masters weren’t in the least bit discommoded by the odd spike or other fastening being driven into their timbers. Pictures immediately to hand would tend to support this.
In a second watercolour by The Reverend Thomas Streatfeild (fig. 4) a landlubber is reposing on a contemporary (Regency) chair – in an otherwise sparsely appointed cabin – beside his canvas-covered sea chest which appears to be lashed to either the deck or bulkhead.
Fig. 4. The Reverend Thomas Streatfeild, A cabin scene with a man relaxing in a chair, circa 1820.
Pocock’s watercolour (fig. 5) portrays four, seemingly largely unfazed, figures in the cabin of a violently rolling ship examining a chart upon a table. The characters at either end of the table appear to gain some support from the table which one would naturally assume would be highly mobile in such circumstances and therefore, insecure… until one observes the rope tethering the table to a ring on the floor between the boy’s feet. Presumably there would have been a second tether at the opposite end of the table.
Fig. 5. Nicholas Pocock, The Consultation, circa 1810.
Of course, even the best housekeeping on board ship could come undone on occasion (fig. 6).
Fig. 6. George Cruikshank, An Interesting scene on board an East-Indiaman, showing the Effects of a heavy Lurch, after dinner, circa 1818. (ANMM)
Whether on land or at sea, there’s nothing like a fracas, to set a terrier off!
Jack Plane
Standing well short of the standard dining table height of 29-1/2″ (749mm), these diminutive gateleg tables were used by one or two persons for the purpose of taking tea or consuming informal meals in the privacy of a parlour or cabinet. At only 26″ (660mm) high, this Queen Anne elm gateleg table is at the lower end of the norm.
Fig. 1. Queen Anne elm gateleg table circa 1710. (Robert Young)
I am intrigued by anomalies, eccentricities and idiosyncrasies encountered in British furniture: Tradition would dictate this table, like the thousands of other extant examples, should have been made of oak (fig. 2) – or occasionally fruitwood, walnut and yew – yet here is one beautifully made of elm.
Fig. 2. Late seventeenth-century oak gateleg table.
The elm table is of standard form with an oval top comprising a narrow fixed (centre) leaf flanked by two drop leaves which are supported in the open position by gates that pivot within the frame. The turnings on these little tables can easily look overwrought (fig. 3), but the restrained gun-barrel-turned legs of this elm table are quite elegant and terminate in braganza feet[1].
Fig. 3. Oak gateleg table circa 1705. (Christies)
There is much planing of elm to be done.
Jack Plane
[1] Charles II (r. 1660 –1685) married Catherine of Braganza, who would have brought personal possessions with her from Portugal including, presumably, chairs and tables sporting the characteristic Portuguese curlicue feet. Catherine purportedly introduced the custom of tea-drinking to Britain too.
George William Frederick was born on the 4th of June 1738 at Norfolk House, 31 St James’s Square, London. His father, the Prince of Wales, died in 1751, making George the heir apparent. George succeeded his grandfather, George II, to the throne in 1760.
George III is unfairly remembered largely for the loss, during his reign, of the North American colonies following the British surrender in 1782; and his bouts of mental illness in later life. However, George was a gentle soul, father of fifteen children and unusually, took great interest in his nation’s politics, farming and sciences.
By 1810, George’s porphyria caused permanent derangement whereupon his eldest son, the Prince of Wales (later George IV), was appointed regent.
George III reigned from the 25th of October 1760 until his death at Windsor Castle on the 29th of January 1820.
George III by Allan Ramsay, c1762.
Jack Plane
In most circumstances, ensuring hinged elements are level and secure is essential: A table with misaligned drop leaves is certain to topple a glass at some point, and baize or leather writing surfaces that bridge uneven hinge lines will inevitably tear or split (figs. 1 and 2).
Fig. 1. Circa 1760 baize writing surface, torn along hinge line.
Fig. 2. Circa 1705 leather writing surface, split along hinge line.
The minimum number of hinges required for a table leaf or bureau fall to function is two and while adding a third hinge to a long table leaf (fig. 3) might be an obvious remedy to address misalignment; adding a third hinge to a bureau fall would be a hindrance as the hinge knuckle would be somewhat obtrusive.
Fig. 3. Circa 1700 long oak drop-leaf table with three hinges.
In these days of abundant and affordable hardware, installing one or two additional hinges on a table leaf would certainly be an option, though in the seventeenth- and eighteenth-centuries, blacksmith-made iron hinges would have been costly and not so readily available.
The square adjoining edges of early gate-leg table tops and drop-leaves are often an unhappy coincidence (figs. 3 and 4).
Fig. 4. Circa 1710 oak table with square edged top and leaves.
Alignment, at least, was improved with the introduction of mating bead-and-flute-moulded edges (fig. 5).
Fig. 5. Circa 1730 walnut table with beaded and fluted edges.
The greatest development in table-to-leaf interfacing – and the one most readers will be familiar with – came in the form of scotia (female) and modified ovolo (male) moulded edges; correctly termed a table-leaf joint (fig. 6) – and not the more common ‘rule joint’ (folding wooden rulers with their similar looking joints didn’t appear until the mid-nineteenth-century).
Fig. 6. Table-leaf joints, circa 1740.
There is another means of locating adjacent hinged edges that was employed – albeit infrequently on tables – which was both simple to implicate and efficient in use.
Sounding peculiarly like a good English ale house, the ‘lug and mortice’ comprises two short (an inch or less) narrow mortices chiselled into the mating edges, into one of which is glued a short piece of wood – the lug. The protruding end of the lug is lightly bevelled, rounded, or even tapered to allow ease of entry into the opposing mortice (fig. 7).
Fig. 7. Circa 1740 oak table with lugs and mortices.
Lugs and mortices found favour with cabinetmakers; bureau falls being one such instance (figs. 8 and 9).
Fig. 8. Walnut bureau bookcase, circa 1750. (Max Rollit)
Fig. 9. Lug and mortice on the fall hinge line. (Max Rollit)
Lugs were capable of keeping the wide expanse of otherwise unsupported falls aligned with the carcase side of the writing surface. In such an intimate environment, this was essential and allowed baize and leather linings a reasonable lifespan.
Lugs were also employed on bachelor- and dressing chests with fold-over tops; the lugs affording much needed support during the pressing of clothes with the tops folded out (fig. 10).
Fig. 10. Lug and mortice on circa 1730 bachelor chest top.
While projecting lugs are not particularly attractive, they are effective at keeping hinged elements aligned as long as dust and detritus aren’t allowed to build up around the lug or in the open mortice.
Lugs are not a cure for falls already bowed or warped: A distorted fall – if not manually assisted at the appropriate point as it travels through its arc – can foul the lug, which, acting as a fulcrum, can easily break soft brass hinges or tear them from their settings.
Jack Plane
From Great English Furniture 21st May to 1st June
George II walnut master’s chair circa 1750. (Mallett)
An extremely unusual and oversize walnut armchair with concave-vase-shaped splat and broad sloping shoulders ornamented with carved and gilt acanthus and volute terminals. The central splat inlaid with floral marquetry and motto, “FOR OUR COUNTRY,” the side rails further inlaid with husk pendants. The arms terminate in finely carved lions’ masks, above compass seat supported by cabriole legs ending in pad feet.
Possibly by Francis Brodie of Edinburgh, c. 1745–60
PROVENANCE
Bought from a Scottish source by Aldric Young (Antiques), Edinburgh, 1974
Private American Collection
LITERATURE Christopher Gilbert, Furniture at Temple Newsam House and Lotherton Hall, Vol. I (1978), p. 76, no. 58; Vol. III (1998), p. 720 (ill.) Sebastian Pryke, ‘The extraordinary billhead of Francis Brodie’, Regional Furniture, Vol. 4 (1990), pp. 81–99 (pp. 87–98 and fig. 16) Height: 70 in (175 cm) Width: 33 in (84 cm) Depth: 30 in (76 cm) This remarkable armchair is likely to have been made for use in a dining club of members of the Anti-Gallican Society, whose motto, ‘FOR OUR COUNTRY’, is inlaid at the top of the splat.
The Anti-Gallican Society was founded in the resonant year of 1745, to promote British arts and manufactures as against those of France. The chair was sold in 1974 in Edinburgh, apparently with a Scottish history of ownership, which has given rise to the suggestion that it was produced in the workshop of the Edinburgh wright Francis Brodie. His billhead features an armchair of somewhat similar profile (though more domestic proportions). A closely related ceremonial armchair, retaining its original carved cresting, was formerly in the collection of Percival Griffiths and is now at Temple Newsam House, Leeds. The Temple Newsam chair is cut from slightly different templates (notably in the outline of the splat) and has different marquetry in the back, so it was not necessarily a companion chair to the present one. However, it was undoubtedly made in the same workshop; and it conceivably also has Anti-Gallican symbolism, in the large eagle that surmounts the cresting, for one of the Society’s armorial supporters was an eagle – though a double-headed one. The Temple Newsam chair is also made partly of elm, which would be consistent with a Scottish origin. How far the Anti-Gallican Society was active in Scotland in its early years is uncertain, but a likely promoter would have been Lord Blakeney, who vigorously defended Stirling Castle, of which he was Governor, under siege during the ’45 Rebellion. Another Scottish connection is attested by a silver-gilt badge of the Society in the Victoria and Albert Museum, which is engraved on the back with the MacKay arms; its Rococo style suggests a mid-eighteenth-century date.
Jack Plane
When reading up on species of wood, have you ever wondered what the ‘L’ signifies following a tree’s binomial name? Take that of English walnut for example – Juglans regia L. – the ‘L’ signifies the tree was classified by Linnaeus.
Alexander Roslin, Carl von Linné, circa 1775.
The great naturalist Carl Linnaeus was born in Råshult, Smâland, Sweden on the 23rd of May, 1707, the eldest son of a Lutheran pastor, and amateur botanist, Nils Linnaeus. Linnaeus developed the binomial system of nomenclature, systematising the mineral, plant and animal kingdoms. Linnaeus received a title in 1761 and took the name Carl von Linné.
Strangely (for someone of Linnaeus’ enlightenment), Linnaeus was not conversant in our language, though his Systema Naturae (1735), Fundamenta Botanica (1736), and Species Plantarum (1753) were published in English.
Sir Charles Linné, A General System of Nature, London, 1806.
Following his death in 1778, Linnaeus’ library formed the heart of the Linnaean Society of London , founded on the 26th of February 1788 at the Marlborough Coffee House.
Jack Plane
The chair illustrated below was recently offered for sale by an upmarket antiques dealer who described it as eighteenth-century Irish Chippendale, made from dense first growth mahogany.
Fig. 1. A nice enough, though robust side chair.
Stylistically, I don’t see anything Irish about the chair at all; in fact, it displays features more prevalent in chairs from the north of England and across the border in Scotland (the ‘V’ carved into the knees of the front legs is a frequently occurring feature of Scottish chairs).
It is not uncommon for dealers to bestow antiques with sentimental or utopian origins – especially of Ireland. Although it irks me, it wasn’t the geographical misattribution that caught my eye on this occasion, but the ascribed timber and justification for citing it.
With regard to the chair’s colour, I can see how it might be mistaken for some faded cuts of mahogany, though the unvarying grain and absence of pronounced figure are wholly uncharacteristic of early mahogany. The bland timber employed in the chair’s construction (figs. 2, 3 & 4) is distinguishable as common alder (Alnus glutinosa) which would lend credence to the geographical origin of the chair being the north of England or Scotland where alder was widely employed as a cheap substitute for mahogany…
In Scotland and the north of England, this [alder] wood is frequently used in furniture.[i]
Alder is an unusual choice of material, for this wood is not extensively used elsewhere in the English chair making tradition, and is, therefore, often useful in providing a key to the origin of a particular chair design to the North West.[ii]
In the Highlands, where few other timbers were available, alder logs were sometimes immersed in peat bogs after felling, when they assumed an attractive reddish stain. This “Scots mahogany” was then used for furniture making.[iii]
Fig. 2. Somewhat featureless wood.
Fig. 3. The knee exhibits characteristic alder end grain.
Fig. 4. Typical alder grain.
Old growth mahogany is indeed dense stuff, yet alder is relatively light… perhaps another case of dealer sophistry.
The final piece of evidence in repudiation of mahogany is its resistance to attack from furniture beetle and conversely, alder’s marked susceptibility to it (figs. 5 & 6).
Fig. 5. Furniture beetle flight holes.
Fig. 6. Extensive woodworm damage.
Caveat emptor.
Jack Plane
