The Allure of a Chain Cent

I purchased a chain cent at a large coin show a few years back. The deal happened rather quickly in contrast to the months of acquisition fantasies that came before. The cent was dark and granular – a mosaic of minute corrosive pimples. It was a “chain-only” specimen, and like an impressionist canvas, it had to be admired from eight inches back to discern the links. Wear softened its bruises, except for a reverse planchet crack between twelve and one. To my eye, the cent had appeal.

Cent collectors know the story well. This lowly cent was struck on a primitive press mounted on a wooden horse in early March of 1793. Burly laborers provided the muscle to heave the horizontal lever forward, propelling the screw in a quick downward twist. Four obverse and two reverse dies, shallowly cut by the inexperienced hand of the engraver provided the impressions. The coins were substandard from the start: “an exceedingly crude piece of work,” one numismatic researcher remarked. The motif was ugly enough to provoke public outcry: Liberty “in fright” and “in chains” went the admonition. When the copper blanks were exhausted two weeks later, coining halted. The chain cent became an anomaly, as a new wreath design was introduced in April.

For twelve months, I had been watching the chains. Two of the most prolific auction houses offered 55 specimens in the previous year with 15 of these grading between poor and almost good. What a motley lot: not one of them resembled the wonderfully toned red, brown, and yellow darlings – like autumn leaves – that William Sheldon described in his classic reference book Penny Whimsy. No, these cents were more akin to dark and mangled leaves heaped at the root.

Prices realized at these auctions accurately captured their individual appeal better than any grading standard. Each design element can be priced á la carte: the chain alone brings about one thousand dollars; add a ghost head and a few letters and the price is twice; all this, plus any hint of a date numeral is three grand. If you can read “1793” the coin sells for four thousand minimum (unless it is bludgeoned or just too scary to hold). With this elementary grade/price scheme, I set out on the hunt with the inquiry: “Do you have any chains in grades poor to almost good?”  I boasted a limit of five big ones; but really, I just wanted the chain – á la carte!   After all, I am a collector of modest means.

Fifteen links is all that is needed to build that mythical bridge to the past that collectors like to talk about. History texts nurture these flights of fancy, as we imagine those early days at the fledging mint on Seventh Street: drafty, dimly lit rooms with few appointments; long hours of physical exertion; a chest of copper blanks along one wall, and a keg of newly minted cents on the other.

The muses of the numismatic historian rouse our imagination, but it is the minted copper in your hand that transports you. You see, chain cents were there – in the dimly lit room. The very room where Washington, Jefferson, and Hamilton cast their shadows: watching the muscled men as they heaved the counterweights of the screw press. There is immediacy to holding a chain cent that cannot come from historic prose. To experience this kind of magic, it does not matter if we rate one coin as poor and another as fine. All chain cents were there; they are the beginning!

It was a privilege to examine one of these magical vessels up-close, to actually touch it at a dealer’s table. I was handling an immutable piece of American history. Imagine my shock at the irreverence that some dealers displayed, as they plunked their “low-grade” chain cents down on the glass case (with a sharp slap!) while curtly announcing a “bargain” price. Some used expletive grading terms not typically found in coin guidebooks, as if to belittle them as ugly ducklings. Not all dealers were so graceless; I noticed how one particular dealer gently slid the coin out of its holder, taking time to point out what was there, and what was not. His attitude was respectful. It was not a “filler” – but something special.

Chain cents are special because they are survivors from an inauspicious beginning. Centuries of commerce, closets, and collectors have etched their marks in the soft copper. We celebrate, and are humbled by, their durability. Susan Pearce, professor of Museum Studies, put it sharply in her book Collecting in Contemporary Practice: “[An object] … which carries meaning is able to do so because unlike ourselves who must die, it bears an “eternal” relationship with the receding past, and it is this that we experience as the power of the actual object.”

To possess a chain cent is to directly control contact with the past. It is a powerful experience that defies rationality. We want to touch the chain cents like talismans. And we can! This is the power of ownership; this is why viewing one in a museum will never suffice. It is all about the power to touch it at will. This is why we collect. Yet, numismatic correctness prevails: chain cents are to be touched and not touched – it is a power that begets strong, simultaneous approach and avoidance tendencies!   Indeed, there is responsibility attached to possession of a chain cent.

I desperately wanted to feel the contours of the chain with my fingertips. There was very little relief remaining on the coin, and I felt compelled to explore this. As I pondered the urge, I found myself mechanically performing the rituals of numismatic correctness: I consulted a few thick references, examined the cent with various lenses under different lights, attributed the die variety by discerning the numerals of the fraction despite knowing that some ambiguity would have to suffice.

I carefully brushed it with camel hair and then slipped it into a snug holder. I did not touch the links. Inexplicably, a momentary distraction had derailed the idea (a senior moment perhaps?), and I became engrossed in the above sequence of inclusion activities. Later, I found myself thinking about how the coin had asserted itself, relegating me to the well-practiced role of a dutiful curator.

After the coin was secured in its protective holder, the images of the dimly lit room returned. The urge to touch it presented itself again. But the chain cent was now protected. I relaxed. And I let my imagination wander – I was a time-traveler. Isn’t this the purpose of magic?

Life is frail and fleeting – at my age, seasons go by in a flash. We are challenged at every pause to make sense of it all. Chain cents help us confront these challenges: to understand the world in our own unique way. I think about Henry Voigt: an aging clock mechanic turned die-cutter, making do with few tools while burdened by criticism from others who could not possibly appreciate the hardships faced: this is a tale that I can identify with. It is my story too, and maybe yours.

We all build collections to create a storyline that reflects our view of the world. For me, the chain cent stands alone amongst many other collecting interests. I am drawn to its humble beginnings in the dimly lit room. Yes, the coin is steeped in history; and yes, maybe George Washington picked this one out of the bin to admire.  

But there are reasons deeper than history that shape my relationship with this special coin. To wit, it is a survivor, too worn for serious study, too corroded for an investment – a true collector’s coin. It has all the magic while still being an everyman’s coin! “Big medicine for a lowly warrior who works nine-to-five in an office.”  Is this how I see myself? Perhaps it is. I know that I am not alone, as others will undoubtedly stand in line to have their turn to possess this marvelous chain cent. But for now, this chain cent represents all that I love about collecting.

*A version of this article appeared in my book: One Coin is Never Enough, published by Krause in 2011.