There is William Blake, who dreamed as great dreams as Joseph of old, who gave imaginary sittings to Pontius Pilate, who wrote wonderful poetry, and who died in a garret. Copper-plates were dear, but he had no poverty of invention, and since the days when as a child he saw angels following the reapers in the corn, he lived for posterity and left his record. But have gravers on silver and inventors of symmetrical goblets of gold less blood than those who drew lines on copper? There is something human missing in these strings of initials and bare names so sedulously gathered together by dry-as-dust compilers. In furniture, makers’ names have become household words. Chippendale, Sheraton, Hepplewhite have created styles of their own. Of Sheraton we have personal details piquant enough to add fresh lustre to his satinwood creations. There is the story of the one teacup in the back street of Soho, which was handed to his Scottish apprentice in the little shop whence he issued his religious pamphlets. In china the personal note is dominant--Josiah Wedgwood with his wooden leg smashing vases at Etruria with “This won’t do for Josiah Wedgwood.” Or Thomas Cookworthy dying of a broken heart in Virginia after his life’s failure at Plymouth. Or the Brothers Elers with their secret underground telephone in Bradwell Wood in Staffordshire. In silver ware the Elizabethan and the Stuart periods run parallel with furniture; the names of makers are rarely known. But in the eighteenth century besides Paul de Lamerie, Paul Storr, F. Kandler, Peter Archambo, Pierre Platel, and a few others the claim to fame of the individual silversmith has been obliterated by the heart-searchings of collectors for periods, such as the Higher Standard or the style termed “Queen Anne.”