Magpies, Squirrels and Thieves by Jacqueline Yallop Page B

Burma, scraps from German prayerbooks, illuminated medieval missals, books of hours and fine bindings; Napoleonic memorabilia; gems, ivories and enamels; engravings, cartoons, the occasional oil painting and examples of local Liverpool pottery. There were few things he could resist if they had the scent of history about them.
    Mayer’s table was littered with Roman and Etruscan antiquities, with candlesticks and antique figurines. But what he chose to hold in the portrait, in the end, was a miniature vase, shaped like an ancient Greek urn and set on a pedestal. It was small enough to fit comfortably in one hand, light enough for him to hold up through the long sittings, and pretty enough to hold Daniels’ attention. But, in fact, it was a very ordinary piece, an example of English pottery from the Wedgwood works and unfashionable. It was not a status symbol; it did not testify to wealth or learning; it had not been unearthed during a risky foreign voyage. It was just something Mayer liked and apparently it did not disturb him that it was relatively new, or that in the 1840s no one else seemed to share his taste in china. Wedgwood pieces pleased him; he admired their colours and forms and their strong references to the ceramics of the past. It was, he thought, a fitting object to include in his portrait.
    Within a few years, the room which Daniels had so carefully depicted had disappeared. By 1844, Mayer had given up the smart house in Clarence Terrace, and the gentleman’s study, and had moved instead into modest and simple accommodation above his business on one of Liverpool’s busy shopping streets. He had been apprenticed at the age of nineteen to his brother-in-law JamesWordley and had been a successful partner in the business since the early 1830s, but now he was looking for change and greater independence. In 1843, he broke the partnership with Wordley, acquired premises a few doors down, and set up alone. Without ties, he could do as he pleased. He could try his hand at designing and making his own silver, and he could begin to establish his own name in the trade.
    Mayer’s new workshop flourished. He became highly skilled in designing large, often ceremonial pieces of gold and silver plate, spectacular trophies and civic regalia, and he studied innovative techniques, exploring the commercial potential of affordable new processes like electroplating. The business became respected and thriving; the shop imposing and magnificent. Mayer presented himself within the tradition of Renaissance silversmithing, and he designed a new building to invoke a sense of monumental art and of continuum with an impressive past. Either side of the entrance door were two massive frescos, one of the Renaissance smith and sculptor Benvenuto Cellini, and one of the seventeenth-century goldsmith and royal jeweller George Heriot. Two huge busts, one male and one female, gazed down from the balustraded façade on to the shoppers below. Immense plate-glass windows were piled high with objects to the height of three or four men, and Mayer’s name was emblazoned, twice, above the display. Inside, watches and clocks, cameos, precious stones, heraldic engravings and a glittering array of silver and gold were all carefully arranged in specially designed showcases.
    With such a prosperous showroom, it was not enforced economies that persuaded Mayer to give up the ease of the Clarence Terrace house. It was the lure of collecting. All his energies and resources became focused on finding and buying objects: it became his obsession, his life’s purpose. Unlike J. C. Robinson, he could not bear to have the distractions of fashionable living divert his attention, and his money. He was fascinated bythe past, and the objects it had left behind, and he did not mind giving up the comforts of the present if it meant bringing him closer to history.
    While Mayer contented himself with simple living in the rooms above his shop, he was