And No Questions Ask'd: Retrieving Lost and Stolen Goods in Georgian London

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Before there was a police force, it is easy to imagine victims of crime or misfortune as without resources to redress the balance.  For serious fraud, murder and crimes against the body, there were the courts, but what if you were burgled, had your pocket picked, or were just a bit careless and had lost your engagement ring?  Then you needed a warning-carrier.

Warning-carriers operated as part of the Goldsmiths' Livery Company.  Livery Companies were essentially large, regulatory bodies for their own members.  They policed and protected every part of London's trade (salters, drapers, tanners, fishmongers, butchers and many more all have a company).  As such, some of them, like the Goldsmiths', became rich and grand, but their purpose remained the same: protection of their members' commercial activities.  Their effectiveness during the Georgian period is for another post, but in the context of the warning-carriers, they provided an intriguing and valuable service.

For a set fee (not cheap at a fraction over 11 shillings), Goldsmiths' Hall would print and distribute details of what you had lost and where, any pertinent facts, instructions on what to do should the goods be discovered and any reward offered.  These notices would then be distributed to beadles who visited every banker, goldsmith, jeweller, pawnbroker and 'toyman' (trinket shop) in London within three hours.  Three hours!  This was all done on foot, by goldsmiths who had fallen upon hard times and were employed as beadles.  The fliers were also pinned up at Goldsmiths' Hall where anyone who had found something could go along and see how they might claim a reward.  Most of the notices are for bank notes ('stop'd at bank' interestingly enough), and jewellery that has been either lost or stolen.  The amount of lost and really rather large diamonds sculling about London is astonishing.

December 6, 1728
Dropt out of a Lady's Ear, on Wednesday or Thursday, in the Hay Market or thereabout, a Night Ear Ring, set with three Brilliants weighing about three Grains...Whoever will bring it to Mr Jacob Levy, jun. Jeweller at the Upper End of Haymarket; or, at Chadwell's Coffee house behind the Royal Exchange, shall have Two Guineas Reward.

March 14, 1728
Stole this Morning being the 14th of March, out of the House of Mr Christopher Randel, a Gardener living near the Blue Anchor in S. Mary Magdalen's Parish Bermindsey, a full Quart Silver Tankard, mark'd on the handle CRM, Value about Ten Pounds, with three silver spoons of different Marks. If offer'd to be pawn'd, sold or valued, you are desired to stop them and the Party, and give notice to Mr Randel as above, and you shall have Two Guineas reward for the Whole, or for the Tankard alone.

February 7, 1726-7
Lost or mislaid last Week, a Brilliant, weight nine Grains, and sixteen square, Stone white and clean.  If offer'd to be sold, pawn'd, or valued, pray stop it and give notice to Mr Morris, Master of Robin's Coffee-house, and you shall have Ten Guineas Reward, and no Questions ask'd; or if anybody has found it, and give Notice as above, shall have the same Reward.

Two very interesting conclusions can be drawn from these little fliers: they were effective, it couldn't be otherwise judging by the amount of warnings carried; the original owner of the goods nine out of ten times preferred to remain anonymous and brokered the retrieval of their goods through a banker or a coffee house.  The valuable sentence 'No questions ask'd' is included at the tail of almost every notice.

This is a tiny example of the thousands of mechanisms running through daily life in Georgian London.  There is often an assumption that it was a lawless or chaotic place before an organised police force, but examples such as the warning-carriers show that there were established protocols in place dealing with every aspect of life in the city.  Bearing in mind how long it can take to get a response to a burglary from the 21stC police, that a private body visited every likely outlet within three hours makes this system both remarkable, and admirable.

'A tear in each note and a sigh in each breath': The Castrati

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Castration has been used as a punishment, for religious purposes, and also for musical purposes.  By the 18thC, men were castrated only as a punishment for sodomy (and not in England), or to keep their voices high and sweet (and only in Italy).  Italian castrati were popular throughout Europe for the extraordinary quality of their voices, usually ranging from soprano to contralto but able to sing very high notes without the forced quality of falsetto.  

Music was very highly valued and anticipated in the 18thC, and almost every person receiving a rounded education was taught to appreciate music on a level not as common today.  Musical artists were superstars and their arrival in London was keenly anticipated.  The most famous of all the artists were the castrati, who were usually Italian born.  If their voices proved exceptionally sweet as young boys, they were given the option (I hope they were given the option) of retaining their voice at the expense of their testicles.  The operation was deemed most successful after the age of eight, but before puberty, and was carefully timed so as to allow the boy to develop some male characteristics, but to beat the voice change.  The centre for castration was apparently Naples, but this may little more than an old wives tale, and certainly Charles Burney, who roamed Naples in an attempt to find a surgeon who carried out the operation, was disappointed.  It is estimated that during the 18thC, three to four thousand boys were castrated every year in Italy, for the purpose of pursuing a musical career.

If you are still attached to your scrotum, in every sense, feel free to skip this paragraph. Imagine a pair of lobster crackers, with blades instead of grips; that's pretty much was a castratori looked like.  A quick incision would be made around the scrotum with a lancet to allow for some loose skin to close the wound, then the castratori would be applied to a no doubt drugged little boy and clamped down for a period of up to five minutes.  When it was decided that the bleeding had stopped and there was no risk of haemorrhage, the castratori and the testicles were removed together, and the remaining skin stitched back together.  There are no statistics on how many of the boys survived this operation, but I think the vast majority must have done, no matter how awful it sounds.

Growing up as a castrato couldn't have been much fun.  They grew tall, with long ribs, arms and legs, making them an unusual, gangly barrel-shape.  Even if their voice didn't break, there was no guarantee that it could be trained into a world-class opera 'voice' and most ended up singing in cathedral choirs. They were prone to weight gain, and had chubby, androgynous faces.  Their hair was thick and fine, as early castration prevents male-pattern baldness (the thing that works, but no one wants the cure) and they rarely wore wigs.  No facial hair, and little body hair spoiled the picture of smooth childhood grown to adult size.  Much is made of the ladies of the 18thC going wild for castrati, but whilst they may have been charming and talented company, their penis remained child-sized and their sex drive was low.  

The greatest castrati appeared in London in the 1720s and 30s, when Handel was at the peak of his influence.  The comparatively few numbers of properly trained female singers meant that castrati were in demand for the female roles.  I find the idea of a portly castrato playing a lead female part ridiculous.  This does not make me right, and the cognoscenti of the opera world went wild for the likes of Senesino and Farinelli.  

Senesino in particular was very popular in England as an artist, Farinelli more so as a heart-throb.  Senesino originated from Siena but loved the life of an English gentleman and made friends with the top artisans and designers of the day, such as William Kent and Paul de Lamerie.  He had waited until thirteen for castration, and was more facially and physically developed than many castrati, so often played the older parts.  Farinelli once played the young lead to Senesino's despot and there is a famous incident recounted by Charles Burney where Senesino became overwhelmed by Farinelli's singing, forgot his part entirely and embraced his young prisoner.  Velluti is thought to be the last of the great castrati to perform in London, in 1829, although Pergetti came after in 1844.  Both struggled with poor critical reception in England, largely due to changes in attitude amongst the audience.

The later life of a successful castrato was a solitary in 18thC terms, where family and extended family all relied heavily upon each other: they had no children but a great deal of money, so were often surrounded by hangers-on and toadys.  Prone to diva tendencies, they hadn't made life easy for their friends and many came to lonely ends.  Very few people suffer for their art in the 21stC.  They might equate brief poverty, or a squalid drug addiction as part of their artistic learning curve, but very few would be prepared to live with the consequences of such a life-changing surgery.  Thankfully, by 1800, the craze for castrati had all but died out, although the last castrato Alessandro Moreschi, was not to die until 1922.  His voice was recorded in 1902 and can be heard here.  Castration for musical purposes was made illegal in 1870.  

In recent years, an astonishing phenomenon in the form of Michael Maniaci has appeared on the opera scene.  His larynx developed only very slightly during puberty, and he retains an extraordinary soprano voice as an adult male.  He has been called 'the modern castrato'. You can witness part of one of his performances here.  I find it astonishing and rather unsettling.

Slum Living: London's Rookeries-

In 1904, the last slum was cleared from central London in a fit of Edwardian sanitizing.  Whilst the most famous rookeries were the Rats' Castle in St Giles (where Seven Dials still sits) and Jacob's Island in Bermondsey, this slum was a little closer to the heart of things: The Strand.  At the end of my last post, I mentioned the redevelopment of the Strand slums, in which around four thousand people were displaced.  

London has managed to retain much of its character over the centuries, although much of its fabric has been lost.  It can be argued that the Victorians did more damage than the Great Fire, and the town planners (or village idiots, depending on your perspective) of the 1960s destroyed more than the Luftwaffe.  The photographs in the gallery give an idea of what London was really like in the late 19th century.  I have deliberately relied on photographs (with one exception), because I think the Victorians, Dickens included, did an enormous amount to create the modern stereotype of the London 'Rookeries', and I think it is useful to see how they sprang from the communal construction and courtyard living of medieval London.  The idea that one could walk into a rookery by accident and not walk out alive was no doubt based upon the truth, but the fact is, these sinkhole slums existed right in the heart of London and every day people issued forth from them to work and trade with the rest of the city.  Sometimes they were no more than a medieval courtyard or two that had survived the Fire and then become ever more down on its luck; sometimes they were vast warrens of streets (the Strand rookery stretched from Temple to Charing Cross).

The Victorian slums were extreme, but their roots began in the 18th century, when London began to grow at an unprecedented rate.  Medieval buildings which had survived the fire were suddenly old-fashioned, and did not have all the new amenities, such as piped water.  They were reliant upon the wells and pumps which were increasingly polluted by nearby cess-pits and the street-borne filth trickling through the gratings.  (One excellent little snippet I discovered today: it was the done thing for men who were caught short to stand on the edge of the pavement and urinate into the road, rather than against a wall, which was the property of another and therefore, rude.  The traffic was expected to ignore being splashed, although foreign diaries record Continental disgust at this 'low habit'.)  Medieval and early modern buildings became cheap and were bought up by shrewd landlords for cheap lodgings, or as brothels.  A prime example of this is Dyott House, which stood in Dyott Street near St Giles-in-the-Fields Church.  An early Victorian account of the St Giles slum is very interesting, and the bare bones of how the people lived in his record are very unlikely to have changed much since the Georgian period.  Henry Mayhew's writings cover the industries of the slums, the crime, the accommodation and the people, and they are very interesting.  

On visiting a room in the garret, we saw a man, in mature years, making artificial flowers; he appeared to be very ingenious, and made several roses before us with marvelous rapidity.  He had suspended along the ceiling bundles of dyed grasses of various hues, crimson, yellow, green, brown, and other colours to furnish cases of stuffed birds.  He was a very intelligent man and a natural genius.  He told us strong drink had brought him to this humble position in the garret...

Charles Dickens is one of the most famous authors to write about the London slums.  I try to steer clear of quoting his fiction, but Sketches by Boz (1839), although three years beyond my period, is valuable as an account of how desperate things became under later population pressures:

Wretched houses with broken windows patched with rags and paper: every room let out to a different family, and in many instances to two or even three - fruit and 'sweet-stuff' manufacturers in the cellars, barbers and red-herring vendors in the front parlours, cobblers in the back; a bird-fancier in the first floor, three families on the second, starvation in the attics, Irishmen in the passage, a 'musician' in the front kitchen, and a charwoman and five hungry children in the back one - filth everywhere - a gutter before the houses and a drain behind - clothes drying and slops emptying, from the windows; girls of fourteen or fifteen, with matted hair, walking about barefoot, and in white great-coats, almost their only covering; boys of all ages, in coats of all sizes and no coats at all; men and women, in every variety of scanty and dirty apparel, lounging, scolding, drinking, smoking, squabbling, fighting, and swearing.

The strong-backed, hard-drinking Irish labourers, upon whom so many London fortunes were built, made up a large part of the slum-dwelling population, and were frequently derided for it, as in this later account:  

St. George's-in-the-Borough, with its back courts, where the refuse of Ireland vegetate; or Kent Street,- the thieves' district,- which years since drew forth the indignation of the topographist; or Pearl Row, St. George's Road, Southwark; or Red House, Old Gravel Lane, Borough; or a lodging house for thieves at the back of Holborn, where 100 thieves are to be seen, at eleven o'clock at night, on an average, six sometimes in one bed ; or the lower part of Bell Street, Paddington, for the lower class of thieves, such as costermongers, &c.; or the courts and alleys leading out of Tooley Street, City, all the courts inhabited by Irish thieves, &c.; or Rents Buildings, York Street, Westminster, inhabited by pickpockets and juvenile thieves...

By 1816, a Parliamentary Committee had been set up to establish the problems of the London slums, and what might be done about them.  Professionals were called in to give evidence and to account for their experience of the slums.  One London doctor, William Blair, had this to say:

Human beings, hogs, and dogs, were associated in the same habitations; and great heaps of dirt, in different quarters, may be found piled up in the streets. Another reason of their ill health is this, that some of the lower inhabitations have neither windows nor chimneys nor floors, and were so dark that I can scarcely see there at midday without a candle. I have actually gone into a ground floor bedroom, and could not find my patient without the light of a candle

The darkness was largely a result of unscrupulous landlords shutting up windows to avoid window tax.  As intolerable as these dark lodgings were, there was always a respite: the pub/lodging/pawn-shop/repository for stolen goods/brothel, or flash-house as they were known:

There are above two hundred regular flash houses in the metropolis, all known the police officers, which they frequent, many of them, open all night: that the landlords in numerous instances receive stolen goods, and are what are technically called fences; that this fact is known also to the officers, who, for obvious reasons, connive at the existence of these houses; that many of house are frequented by boys and girls of the ages of ten to fourteen and fifteen, who are exclusively admitted, who pass the night in gambling & debauchery, and who there sell and divide the plunder of the day, or who sally forth from these houses to rob in the street.

One rather bizarre aspect of many of the accounts of the slums is that of the young (borderline legal at 12ish, the age of consent at the time) girls who lure men into the dark alleys on a promise of prostituting themselves for a very low price, and then their boyfriend/pimp robs the man who was just counting his lucky stars.  If he was very unlucky, he'd also get a bit of a beating and have his pants pulled down before being kicked back onto a busy street, as a mark of his shame.  Every single account takes the view that these girls are the lowest of the low: not honest prostitutes, but 'bilkers'.  Thus, in 1816 we can already see the seed of hypocrisy that would come to full flower during the ensuing century.

The Victorian quest for modernisation and sanitation cleared the Georgian slums and Victorian rookeries, sweeping away the very last of medieval London.  The inhabitants slunk away, but not far, setting up home in Bermondsey, Brixton and Hackney, disturbing the Victorian gentry with their thieving, conniving, pawning and best of all, their bilking.

 

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The Tart Hall Sale-

 

Part of what I do (when I'm not blogging, tweeting or shouting at the lost and noisy tourists in the courtyard) involves finding things: finding reference to them in old auction catalogues, or when they were sold through the 'Three Dees': death, divorce and dearth.  People, houses, even original drawings by interior designers, or Rate books, surveys, taxes, letters, newspapers and even laws: references to objects turn up everywhere, not just in Wills.  

For as long as there have been old objects of great beauty, there have been those who collect them.  The most notable of the early recorded collectors is Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel (1585-1646).  He is most famous for the Arundel Marbles he bought in Italy on his Grand Tour, but he was a voracious buyer of anything that interested him.  Thomas was born into a family with plenty of title and no money.  The Howards were eternal plotters, and could not reconcile their Catholic faith with the Protestant Elizabeth Ist, and understandably she did not favour them.  However, Thomas married well and his wife provided the vast estates in Yorkshire and elsewhere that would form the basis of a massive fortune extant today.  Employed on the Continent by Charles Ist, Thomas kept buying, but he also bought up home grown treasures, as we will see.  I happened upon a brief description of parts of Tart Hall (next to Buckingham 'House' - see map section), their London home, written in 1641, which included carpets of yellow leather in rooms hung with green and yellow taffeta, Titians, a Tintoretto, a Bassano and a Honthorst.  Obviously, a hovel.

Upon Thomas's death in 1646, the family rapidly backed the wrong horse (again), and Cromwell came down on them, hard.  A nasty divorce in 1700 further split the collection, and in 1720, Henry Charles Howard died and parts of the Arundel Collection were sold off in a sale at the house.  Tart Hall was then pulled down, for reasons that are no longer clear.  I would dearly love to see an auction catalogue for this one, and indeed there is record of one being printed, and marked at the sale by a member of the Howard family.  Applebee's records some details for the sale as follows (I have highlighted in bold what one might term 'the star lots'):

The Sale of that part of the Old Arundel Collection as belong'd to the late Earl of Stafford, and after his Demise devolv'd to the Honourable Henry Charles Howard, deceas'd, about a Month ago, for whole Use it was sold, is over, and appears to be the greatest of its kind that ever was known in England, the whole amounting to near 30000l. being one half more than was expected it would sell for.  Among many other Rarities were sold these following, Viz.

-A Cabinet of Ebony, finely painted, and Silver Ornaments, in the Inner Room, and Mosasick Work, being the Curiosity in Europe, for 310L. to a Lady in Soho-Square.  
-A Folding Japan Chair, the finest that ever was seen in England, for 47 Gunineas,  
-A Knot of fine Rubies set in Gold, worn by Queen Elizabeth, sold for 27l. 6s.  
-Twenty four Buttons of Gold and Pearl, worn by the said Queen, sold for 42l. 11s. both bought by Sir Andrew Fountaine for her Royal Highness the Princess.  
-A curious Head of Jupiter in Brass, bought by Sir Andrew Fountaine for his Royal Highness the Prince, for 43l. 1s.  
-A fine Persian Carpet, sold for 299l. 5s. to Baron Swartz, the great Jew.  
-Two Manuscripts of about 1200 Years standing; the one being a Translation of the New Testament; and the other a Book of Prayer; the former sold for 60l and the latter for 76l. bought by the Lord Edward Harley, Son of the Earl of Oxford.  
-A Pack of Cards, the first that ever were used in England, sold for 15l. 4s. 6d. to James Bateman, of Soho-Square, Esq; 
-The Handle of a Brush of Japan, not a Foot in length, for its Workmanship the finest in Eurpe, sold for 13l 2s. 6d. to the same Gentleman.  
-A gilt Box with 30 Cards, made of Silver, sold for 6s. 3d. per Ounce, to the same Gentleman.  
-A Coronet and a Buckle of some Diamonds, sold to the Prince for 4l. 1s.  
-Nine Lotts of curious Japan Wares, the like not in Europe, were bought by her Grace the Dutchess of Marlborough.  
-The Two Parcels of Combs of great Antiquity, belonging to an Empress of Germany, sold at 32s. 6d. and the Person who bought them was the next Day offered 5l. for each Comb. 
-A fine large Eagle Stone, sold at 38l. 8s. 6d.  
-A Representation of Heaven, and the Saints, Father, Martyrs &c. in Painting, by Rottenhamer, sold at 52 Guineas.  
-The Head of John Vanike, done in Oil by himself, he being the first that invented the Art of Painting in Oil, sold at 52 Guineas, and 300l. has since been bid for it.  
-A Dagger worn by King Henry the 8th, set with Jacynths in Gold sold at 43l. 1s. bought by Sir Andrew Fontaine for the Prince. 
-A Profile, with a white agate Head and Busto, rarely done, sold at 294l.  bought by a Foreign Minister.  
-Two Bottles of gilted China, made 1500 Years ago, sold at 116l. 11s.
-Ditto, a Madonna of the Holy Family, sold at 57l. 15s.
-Fourteen Drawings by Julio Romano, sold at 110l. 5s. 
-Two Stone Tables, said to be Oriental Marble, a great Curiosity, at 42l.
-A Gold Pair of Scales, sold at 55 Guineas to Mr. Warner, a Goldsmith.
-Some certain pieces of Plate, sold at 26s. 21s. 20s per ounce, being the Workmanship of Veanna, the most celebrated silversmith of his Age.  
Many other surprizing Curiosities and Rarities were sold, the Particulars of which are too tedious to insert.

The last line is immortal.  One of the things too tedious to insert was the remarkable 'Head of Homer', purchased by Dr Mead and not in the collection of the British Museum.  I have tracked down a few of the pieces from this sale for the sake of this post (although I'm not sure about the Henry the VIIIth dagger), and as a simplified (and very glorified) illustration of what I do, and you can see them in the gallery.  The importance and magnitude of this sale is astonishing, as is the amount of money raised, in the tens of millions in today's money.  The early 18thC was the very beginning of real art and antique collecting amongst the English aristocracy, and through extant records it is possible to track some of the most important works of art in their journeys down the centuries.  They often disappear for a while, but I like to think that is because people are using or enjoying them quietly, before one of the Three Dees forces them back onto the market.  

 

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The Westminster Bridge Lottery and Catherine the Great's Wine Cistern-

This is a story of many little strands, but they knit together so please bear with me.  My posts so far have focussed on the incomers; this one focusses on the working trades already resident in London during the early Georgian period.

I have written before about the Huguenots and their influence upon Georgian London.  Not everyone took kindly to their arrival in the years following 1685, and the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes.  A rash of petitions were presented to every public body in London protesting about the 'foreigners' who worked for less, undercutting British journeymen.  The goldsmiths gathered together to sign their petition again the 'aliens' in 1697, and again a few years later.  Amongst them was the English Catholic Goldsmith Anthony Nelme.  The fact that he was a massive hypocrite, who bought cheap but excellent goods from the immigrant workers, and later replicated them himself seems to have escaped him.  

Amongst Nelme's apprentices was a boy names Henry Jernegen.  Jernegen was from a family of landed gentry and the apprenticeship with Nelme was probably a smokescreen to ensure the boy became free of the Goldsmiths' Company, and so would hold a prestigious position when he became a banker, which he rapidly did.  Henry Jernegen was in no way a working goldsmith, but employed others to produce commissions for his clients (rather like ordering a set of cutlery from Garrards now).  Jernegen was lucky, or unlucky enough to land Littleton Pointz Meynell as a client.  Meynell was raised as a banker, but instead became a massive gambler, in a way only possible in the 18th century.  His wins were mammoth, his losses, likewise.  In between winning and losing, Jernegen made attempts to divert his client's capital into 'fashioned bullion', essentially works of art in sterling silver.  This helped Jernegen in two ways: he could mitigate his losses through commission, and make sure his client had some money in commodities.  

In 1730, Jernegen and Meynell (pronounced Men'll) came up with an astonishing idea: to create the biggest wine cistern ever.  Wine cisterns are modernly called coolers, which is wrong.  A wine cistern had a companion piece to a fountain which spouted wine into the cistern and into which guests dipped their glasses, rather than wait for a servant.  (sounds an excellent idea)  The largest ever cistern had held 20 gallons, made in 1721.  The Meynell cistern was to hold 60 gallons and weighs over a quarter of a ton, making it the size of a bathtub (see the image in the gallery).  I have posed for pictures in an exact copy of this cistern, and when seated on the bottom, you can just see my eyes over the top. It is enormous.

The silversmith commissioned to make it was Charles Kandler, originally from Saxony (an immigrant then?). At some stage, Kandler became a Roman Catholic, and married into a well-to-do Catholic family.  He made huge amounts of silver for the Norfolk family of Arundel, indicating he was favoured by Catholic families.  Charles Frederick Kandler is widely thought to be a relative of Johann Joachim Kandler, talented modeller for the Meissen factory, which explains the amazing handles on this piece.

Clearly, a piece of silver weighing more than a quarter of a ton takes time to make, and when it was finished, so was Meynell: he had no money to pay.  Jernegen sued him, but had no luck, because Meynell was broke and Jernegen was stuck with this enormous White Elephant.  It just so happened that the State was stuck for money at the time, and holding a lottery to rebuild Westminster Bridge.  Jernegen offered the cistern as first prize, in hopes to avoid financial embarrassment, and was accepted (taking a percentage of the ticket sales and so recouping his losses).  Not enough tickets sold, and it wasn't until 1737 that a second huge and prestigious state lottery offered the cistern as a prize in hopes to fund the bridge rebuilding (the image in the gallery details the catalogue for the cistern).  A Dorset farmer won first prize, but there being little call for a rococo silver bathtub in Dorset, he sold it.

Another mystery ensues.  No one knows who the cistern was sold to, but by the following year (1738), it was in Russia and forming part of Catherine the Great's collection.  (My personal wager is on Paul de Lamerie, and his underground network. It was probably sold over lunch as soon as the lottery was drawn.)  It remains in the Hermitage Museum, the largest extant piece of antique solid silver in the world.  It is a huge folly, and a beautiful one: utterly dispensable yet extraordinary.  

 

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Messrs. Drummond Goldsmith Bankers, and a Remarkable Advertisement-

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Flicking through the Gentleman's Magazine, I came upon this remarkable little advertisement:

April 26th 1731. Lost or mislaid, One
Pair of large Brilliant Diamond Ear
Rings, with Drops of the first Water and 
one odd Night Ear-Ring, with three Bril-
liant Diamonds: three large Bars for the
Breast, set of Rose Diamonds.
If offer'd to be sold, pawn'd or valued,
pray stop them and the *PARTY, and give
Notice to Mr. Drummond, Goldsmith at
Charing Cross, and you shall receive Two
Hundred Guineas Reward for the same.
--------------------------------------
*Especially if it be a young Lady.

This advertisement is extraordinary for two reasons: the first being its mention of Andrew Drummond, the Goldsmith Banker, and further for the remarkable sum offered in reward.  Two hundred guineas is around £36,000 in modern money.  That isn't the worth of the diamonds, it is the reward only.  The young lady in question would no doubt have been sought high and low, and there is clearly more to this story than meets the eye.  Who was the lady thief and where did she find such spoils?

Andrew Drummond was one of an emerging class of 'gentlemen' goldsmith bankers during the late 17th and early 18th centuries.  Goldsmiths had fortified premises and/or workshops to protect their stock, bullion and takings.  They employed round the clock security and spent time and money establishing relationships with their clients.  They took in large sums, and so had money to lend.  By 1696, Huguenot goldsmith David Willaume is recorded as 'running cashes' at his shop near the Savoy Chapel (more on him in another post).  Running cashes meant taking in money or silver/gold/jewellery and issuing a 'cash note' to the client.  The cash note was of course, no more than a piece of paper, like a receipt quoting figures, so it was imperative that the goldsmith was a man of impeccable integrity.  Early bankers were upstanding members of their own communities, in possession of enormous cash stocks and the respect of influential (and sometimes but not always, hard-up) aristocrats and also the middle-classes who preferred to have their money kept safe.

Messrs Drummond went on to become part of the Royal Bank of Scotland, an event that no doubt has Andrew Drummond twisting in his grave.  His portrait, by Johann Zoffany is one of the 2,200 estimated works of art belonging to the Royal Bank of Scotland (which is, of course, 70% owned by the tax-payer).  The bank no longer employs a curator (which would cost a paltry sum in the scheme of the massive financial balls-up of RBS) and there are worries parts of the collection may have been lost, or damaged, or that the bank simply may not know where the pictures are.  They are currently refusing to disclose a full list of what is in their possession, although the collection is said to contain at least 46 works of historical importance.  I think this is very naughty indeed.

'Lost. A garnet heart in the Royal Exchange-'

Some of you fellow tweeters may think me entirely overcome by love this past week, but I promise 'tis not so.  I started collecting Georgian love tokens almost ten years ago, and this piece was one of the first, photographed on the tiny linen bag it was probably presented in.  Little hearts (this one is no bigger than a twenty pence piece) were given as tokens of love from around 1730.  This one dates from around 1765, when they became smaller and the gold quality stabilized at 14k.  The value of the gold is negligible, and the garnets are nicely polished, but worthless even in 1765.  Its worth is only the spirit in which it was given.  

Jewellery was not only bling during the Georgian period, it carried messages in the stones.  Garnet stood for constancy, good health and sex.  It is very popular in courting and betrothal jewellery, but less so in anniversary presents.  The last picture here is of a regard ring, spelling out the word in the colour of the stones (dearest, and names were also popular).  This was a common gift from a husband when a wife bore her first child, much like a modern eternity ring.    

The Gentleman's Magazine carries many forlorn advertisements regarding lost jewellery, from grand diamond pendants to little things such as this.  There was a sophisticated service emanating from Goldsmiths' Hall dealing with lost and stolen jewellery.  Beadles issued forth each week to visit the goldsmiths on their 'beat', enquiring as to items bought and tallying them with the list in their possession, gleaned from reports, news-sheets and magazines.  Jewellery was recovered, and rewards split amongst the various parties before the owner regained their property.  This was a serious business, and in 1690, David Willaume, Huguenot immigrant goldsmith/banker/gentleman nonpareil placed an advertisement in The London Gazette on the 9th of March which read:

Lost, on the 4th instant, a ring with 7 diamond stones, the middle one is of a large bigness, having 3 little ones on each side, all inlaid with silver.  The ring is of gold, fit for a little Finger, of the value of about 50 Lewis d'Ors (proving the French immigrants were still reckoning in their own currency, four years after arrival).  Whoever brings it to Mr Willaume, a goldsmith at the sign of the Windsor Castle near Charing Cross, shall have a good reward.  

To put this into perspective, 50 gold Louis is about 7,000 pounds now, for a pinky ring.  With no real police force, a certain amount of bartering and indeed, amnesty was necessary in Georgian London.  But that is an entirely different post.

 

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Paul de Lamerie

To follow up the Armory vs. Delamirie post, and yesterday's post on child labour, today's subject is Mr Delamirie himself.  This is quite a comprehensive mini-biography, but Paul de Lamerie represents two of my main interests: he was a Huguenot immigrant (although a tiny baby at the time) and an artisan.  The plain fact that items fashioned from solid silver (often referred to in the Georgian period as Plate) could be turned back into money at any given time has led them to be widely regarded as a commodity rather than works of art.  I would argue Paul de Lamerie's production is equal to that of any 18C artisan.  

As Paul de Lamerie regarded young Armory across the court in the spring of 1722, he may well have thought There but for the Grace of god go I.  He was born on the 9th of April 1688 in Bois-de-Duc (modern 's Hertogenbosch) in the Netherlands.  His father, Paul Souchay de la Merie was a minor French nobleman, a soldier and a Huguenot, and had taken service with William IIIrd after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes expelled the Huguenots from France in 1685 (post to follow).  This service was not to last however, and in February 1686, he was paid off and released from the army along with many others.  Paul Snr's role in life is fairly vague.  He doesn't appear to have pursued any particular trade, but what is clear that by the time they had their only son baptized, five days after his birth, they had made the decision to leave the Netherlands, evidenced by their request for a copy of his entry in the baptismal register (noted to the side).  They were following William of Orange to England, and would need to prove their son's identity on arrival.  

They came to London and took up residence in Berwick Street, Soho.  How they survived we cannot know, but Paul Snr was clearly not without resources.  In Pall Mall 'over by the Duke of Schomberg', a goldsmith named Pierre Platel worked (and probably lived).  Even in those days, it was a remarkable address, testifying to Platel's business acumen and solid finances.  Platel was a shrewd and cautious man, active within the Huguenot community.  He apprenticed only four boys during his working life.  Why he agreed to take on Paul, aged 15, on the 24th of June 1703, is a mystery.  Platel had spent time in the Netherlands at the same time, perhaps he and Paul Souchay had met there.  Perhaps Paul Souchay was a very charismatic and persuasive man, as his son was to become.  

The De Lameries were without funds.  They had never applied to be denizened in England (like a visa, with indefinite leave to remain but not a citizen), and had to do so to allow young Paul to take up an apprenticeship.  Father and son appear in the Denization Lists on the 24th of June 1703 and in July 1703, Souchay applied to the Huguenot relief fund (a community church-based charity) for the £6 he had to hand over to Platel to take Paul on.  Only when the money had been obtained did Platel sign the indenture of apprenticeship.  

Six pounds is worth about a thousand pounds in today's money.  Certainly no fortune to a man like Platel, so he must have seen promise in the boy.  The money was a token, supposed to feed and clothe the apprentice for the seven years of his term.  This was a more literal payment for English apprentices, who tended to travel a long way to take up a place in London (a deliberate ploy as it made the boys more dependent upon the masters, and less likely to leave once they had served their term).  However, Soho and the Strand were Huguenot strongholds, so much so that the predominant language on the streets was French.  Paul was serving less than a mile from his family home and he may even have lived there whilst working in Pall Mall.  Whatever circumstances his family lived in, it is clear he was an educated boy at fifteen: his handwriting is beautiful, as you can see from the image of the ledger.  Many English apprentices signed with a cross at this time.    

In 1711, he had served his time.  He almost disappears for nearly two years before finally registering his mark at Goldsmiths' Hall on the 4th of February 1713.  This was unusual: most apprentices were keen to register their freedom on the day it became available, even if they stayed on as journeymen and never had their own work marked.  It was a sign of no small achievement.

(It is probably necessary to say a few words about the working life of London goldsmiths here.  They had to serve a seven year apprenticeship, upon the completion of which, they became 'free'.  This meant they were allowed to register a maker's mark at Goldsmiths' Hall which they applied themselves to accompany the hallmark on any piece they submitted for testing, or assay, at the Hall.  Providing the piece came up to standard, it was hallmarked and returned to them for sale: if not, it was destroyed.  Goldsmiths' Hall houses the Goldsmiths' Company, both a protective and regulatory body, with its own internal 'court'.  During Georgian times it kept a tight leash on its members and had the Devil's own job stopping infighting between English goldsmiths and the French 'interlopers')

It was previously thought that Paul de Lamerie stayed on with Platel as a journeyman, but now it looks unlikely.  Invoices have come to light proving Lamerie was dotting about London selling large and expensive items to the nobility.  He had no maker's mark himself, and the items are lost to us so it's impossible, for now, to tell where he got them from; probably Platel, but what is clear is that he was already an independent operator, selling directly to high net worth individuals, which is not bad for a twenty-five year old.  It should be borne in mind that he would have served in Platel's shop front, no doubt making excellent contacts in Pall Mall.  Returning to Goldsmiths' Hall in 1713, he enters his first mark, giving his address as 'in Windmill Street near the Haymarket'.   

By 1714, his utter disregard for authority is already making itself plain.  He was had up before the court at Goldsmiths' Hall for failing to have his work hallmarked.  As silver objects were made from the same standard as coin (Britannia standard at the time, which was higher than sterling to prevent coins being clipped to make hollow ware, thus devaluing the currency) it was illegal to sell objects which hadn't officially been converted from one type of bullion to another.  Furthermore, every ounce of fashioned silver passed for hallmarking was taxed by the government; one of the few taxes at the time, and bitterly resented by both goldsmiths and their customers.  A large amount of pieces by Lamerie are not marked other than with his own maker's mark, proving he was avoiding duty (dodging) and selling to people who trusted him to provide them with objects of superior fineness.  

The court fined him £20, over three thousand now.  It was a sharp and rather spiteful rap, considering the court failed to prove the extent of his crime, but Lamerie pushed back almost immediately by presenting large quantities of basic domestic silver for assay.  It's all of decent quality, but very plain and much of it lacks the flair one would expect of him, and that's because he didn't make it: he took in work from anonymous French silversmiths (you are only a goldsmith if your freedom is registered at Goldsmiths' Hall) working in the back streets of London and had it hallmarked as his own.  He would have charged for this.  So by the summer of 1715, he was back up before the court because he 'covered Foreigners work and got ye same toucht at ye Hall'.  Other Huguenot goldsmiths got into trouble for this too, but no one on the scale of Lamerie.  He was up before the court for it again in 1716.

By 1717, in what was becoming an annual event, Lamerie is referred to as 'the King's Silversmith' (why no one is quite sure, most likely King's restorer rather than supplier) when being charged with 'making and selling Great quantities of Large Plate which he doth not bring to Goldsmiths' Hall to be mark't according to Law.'  However, the Hall realized they had to admit defeat: Lamerie was simply becoming too big a player to be ignored.  Shortly after the court appearance, he presented a vast quantity of spoons for assay and on the 18th of June was summoned to the Hall.  The Goldsmiths' records show Lamerie 'being discoursed with by ye Wardens about his admission into the Livery and he accepted thereof'.  The Livery is the first stage of the upper hierarchy of a Company.  I'd imagine Lamerie was as surprised as anyone.  He probably thought he'd been summoned to explain why he'd changed his maker's mark, completely illegally, the previous year.  

To understand Paul de Lamerie, it's necessary to gather up the tiny details of his life and pick them apart in context.  On the 7th of February 1717, he applied to the Archbishop of Canterbury for a marriage licence and four days later married Louisa Julliot in the Huguenot church in Glasshouse Street.  The bride's uncle conducted the service, which is probably the only reason they married there.  The application for a licence means Lamerie was not a churchgoer.  He wasn't interested in attending for the reading of the banns and general obedience marrying in a Huguenot church required.  Either that or he was desperate to marry.  Seems unlikely given the level of calculation he applied to everything else in his life.  Anyway, from this time on, he is rated for two neighbouring properties in Windmill Street.  Their daughter Margaret was born the following year, and baptized at St James' Church in Piccadilly, and Anglican church, proving Lamerie had little interest in his Huguenot background.  It won't have hurt that the influential and well-connected Samuel Clarke was the pastor either.  

In 1722, the silver and jewellery shop in Windmill Street was doing well if the insurance policies are anything to go by.  Then, the Armoury case.  Not Lamerie's finest hour.  Although it is difficult to state with certainty, it appears he shut the shop in Windmill Street and did something extraordinary, proving himself wily and adaptable.  The Sun Insurance records show that Lamerie maintained a lower policy upon the Windmill Street premises (where the workshop remained), and took out a joint policy with Ellis Gamble, a silver engraver and Hogarth's old master.  Gamble was neither a goldsmith, nor a jeweller, but suddenly seems to have had the money to open a fairly grand shop. The policy detailed £1000 worth (about £150,000 now) of merchandise held on a property named at the Golden Angel in Cranbourn Street (see the image of Hogarth's trade card for the shop).  Five years later, the shop was doing exceptionally well, and the partnership was dissolved. Gamble had served his purpose.  One of the last pieces of Hogarth's engraving on silver also appears that year, on a salver bearing Lamerie's mark (see image).  In that year Hogarth vowed to stop engraving on silver as soon as possible, it being very hard work in comparison to copper.

Not content with building a serious London-based business, Lamerie was expanding into the export trade.  Once again, it is a court report which reveals the details, although this time, Lamerie wasn't in the dock.  Robert Dingley was a City-based goldsmith and jeweller who had connections to the Russian court.  He took orders for certain items, had them made by Huguenot craftesmen in Soho, then stored them until he had a large cargo to send out.  He wasn't in the habit of paying the tax on them before they were exported.  In August 1726, officials from Goldsmiths' Hall tried to seize the cargo as it lay aboard ship near Customs House.  However, as usual, Lamerie was a step ahead of them.  He had probably been tipped off by someone at the Hall.  Dingley was waiting for the officials and took them to the Vine Tavern in Thames Street to discuss the matter, as the ship was moored nearby.  As soon as they were inside, the ship sailed for Russia and Goldsmiths' Hall were thwarted.  It's easy to imagine Lamerie standing in some shady part of the dock waving it off before taking a water taxi back to the shop via the Savoy stairs.  

Dingley was brought before Guildhall court, where he testified that the 18,000 ozs of the Czarina's plate were all properly hallmarked.  Of course, no one in London was at that time disposed to go and check, but most of the Czarina's collection, by item, is not hallmarked.  More than half of it bears only the maker's mark of Paul de Lamerie.  Despite his roguery, or perhaps because of it, Lamerie was very popular amongst MPs, and despite often being referred to as the King's silversmith, it appears he got precious little work from the King.  In 1731, his rise through the ranks at Goldsmiths' Hall continued, when he was made Assistant to the court, 'on condition that he paid a fine of forty pounds cash to the use of the company'. In 1732, he decided to abandon the Britannia standard, even though he had continued to work in the superior fineness long after it had ceased to be a legal requirement.  He was still in Windmill Street, but now at the sign of 'The Golden Ball', the location associated with him thereafter.

Something unknown tipped the scales for Lamerie in the early years of that decade.  He was now a grown man rather than a young boy on the make.  He was respected by his customers.  He was a family man, although sadly half his children and both his sons died in infancy.  The quality of his extant work begins to soar.  It must be noted that Paul de Lamerie, whilst possessing all the skills to make silverware, was unlikely to have done so after his apprenticeship ended.  He was primarily a business man and designer.  Paul Crespin is thought to have physically manufactured a great deal of silver bearing the maker's mark of Paul de Lamerie.  The sheer volume of work bearing Lamerie's mark could not have been made by one man, and certainly not one running a successful retail business, a family, and taking part in the community.  Like Platel, he only took four apprentices, and one of them, Peter Archambo never even trained with him; it was done as a favour to Archambo's father.  It is thought he employed at least one full-time clay modeller (probably the brilliantly talented James Schruder), a metal chaser (fine detail) and a gilder.  This is no way reduces his genius.  Faberge didn't make things either.  Some of Lamerie's finest pieces can be seen in the V&A.  They get a bit ignored in the rush for other things, which both mystifies and grieves me. 

During 1733, he had made enough money to start investing in property, and purchased a parcel of land in Piccadilly.  He even bought land in Gloucestershire in the end, and lent money on mortgages within the French community.  In 1735, Paul Souchay de la Merie died and was given a pauper's burial at St Anne's, Soho on Boxing Day.  It was clear there was no love lost between father and son.  Paul Jnr wasn't exactly low on funds at the time, and immediately after his father's death, Paul moved his mother out of lodgings and in with his family.  After his father's death he joined the Wesminster Militia.  Based on the Huguenot tradition of soldiering, it was a group concerned with keeping order in the area and Lamerie attained the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel by the time of his death.  It is telling that he did not engage in the militia when his father, a former soldier, was alive.  

With his father dead, Lamerie took more pride in his heritage, and even had Hogarth engrave a bookplate for him showing the Souchay crest (see the three stumps in the centre of the image).  Bookplates indicate he was acquiring a library, fitting for the gentleman he had become.  His standing at Goldsmiths' Hall had changed too: he was no longer the shady rogue grudgingly accepted because of his success.  A court note from 1736 records the fireplace of the Standing Parlour at Goldsmiths' Hall had need of repair to the metalwork.  The Clerk was charged with writing to Lamerie, to request him 'to be so kind to the Company as to come & view the same, and desire him to take such assistance as he think proper, the Committee esteeming him one of the best of Judges of that fine Workmanship and ye Company will be very ready to recompense his trouble & charge therein.'  The Goldsmiths' Company is arguably the grandest in London.  There is no other example of grovelling in their records.  

In December 1737 he was appointed to a Parliamentary Committee to prepare a bill 'to prevent the great frauds daily committed in the manufacturing of gold and silver wares for want of sufficient power effectually to prevent the same'.  The main clause intended to restore the Goldsmiths' Company's medieval right to search the premises of free goldsmiths.  This was the same year that Lamerie sold a massive duty-dodging ewer to Lord Hardwicke.  Unsurprisingly, he insisted the clause be 'entirely left out of the new intended bill'.  This was agreed at the second meeting and he failed to turn up for the subsequent ones dealing with the more trivial matters.  The act was passed in 1738 with his signature attached.  This was the year he moved to Gerrard Street: his final and most successful retail establishment.  There is no extant trade card for Paul de Lamerie, so far, but there'll be one.  It's waiting in a pile of Victorian household accounts somewhere.  There is no portrait either, more's the pity.

During the 1740s, Lamerie had a relatively uneventful decade, by his standards at least and made his finest pieces to commission, some of which are in the gallery below.  He was at the peak of his powers and his rise through the Goldsmiths' Company continued.  He was never made Prime Warden, and it has been intimated this was due to the 'long and tedious illness' he eventually died from in 1751.  More likely it was just beyond his reach, history counting against him.  One dissenting voice would've kept him out.  He died on the 4th of August and was interred in St Anne's Church, Soho, with his parents (his mother having been buried there in 1741).  St Anne's was bombed in 1940, destroying the tomb.  Paul wouldn't like the new church much.  

His obituary appeared in the General Advertiser thus:

Last night the corpse of Mr de Lamerie, Silverworker to His Majesty, was interr'd in a handsome manner in St Anne's Church, Soho.  His corpse was followed to the grave by real Mourners, for he was a good man, and his Behaviour in and out of Business gain'd him Friends.

His will was detailed and meticulous, as to be expected.  His journeyman and former apprentice Samuel Collins was to oversee the finishing of any work in hand, and the vast lot of it, including diamonds and jewellery, was to be auctioned by Abraham Langford.  A month after his death, 45 properties were auctioned, for the benefit of his family, proving just what an empire he had accumulated.  

It would be easy to cast Paul de Lamerie in the mould of villain.  Allowing his father to die a pauper when he himself lived in comparative luxury, cheating a chimney-sweep and lying to anyone in authority are all aspects of his character made much of by historians seizing on the scant details of his life.  I prefer to take a view, of a boy who bootstrapped his way up to become the greatest ever English silversmith.  Again, it is the tiny glimpses of the man behind the metal that tell us the most.  Isaac Gyles was Lamerie's book-keeper, and was left 40 guineas (about seven thousand) in recognition of his 'long and faithful service'.  Samuel Collins came to Lamerie as an apprentice and never left, and was charged with obtaining the best price for the stock in trade on behalf of Lamerie's widow.  

Finally, the chance discovery of a document pertaining to the French Hospital for Huguenots ties Paul de Lamerie to an act of utter decency, and one typical of the close-knit French community in Georgian London.  James Ray was a silversmith, most likely a gilder (heated mercury sent gilders mad, as with hatters) and in 1734 he began 'running about the streets like a madman, forsaking his business and crying "oranges and lemons".'  He may have worked for Lamerie, there is no record.  It was Louisa Lamerie's uncle who took James Ray to the hospital to be admitted, being a respected minister and able to have him incarcerated legally.  Before admitting a violently 'distracted soul' to any hospital, it was customary to find a member of the community to stand surety for any damage caused by the patient.  The signature on James Ray's bond is that of Paul de Lamerie.  

 

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Today

Today I went shopping with a friend who is getting married.  When at last, I managed to pry her away from shops filled with grossly over-priced wedding frippery, we went for tea near Berkeley Square.  Weddings mean green tea and no cake apparently.  Bad luck for her.  All the more for me.

Looking around the faux-grand tea room, being served by the desultory waitress, I was inspired to come home and dig through my images of trade cards for Signor Negri's trade card.  If only we had been to the Pineapple, where we could have been served by plump putti bearing little tazza filled with pistachio and brown bread ices.  

D. Negri
Confectioner at the Pineapple
in Berkeley Square
Makes and Sells All Sorts of English, French
& Italian wet & dry'd Sweet Meats
Cedrati and Bergamot Chips.
Naples Diavolini and Diavoloni
All Sorts of Biskets & Cakes, fine and Common
Sugar Plums, Syrup of Capillaire, Orgeate and
Marsh Mallow, Ghimauve or Lozenges for Colds
and Cough, all Sorts of Ice, Fruits and Creams in the 
Best Italian maner. Likewise furnishes Entertainments in
Fashions, Sells All sorts of Deserts
& Glass work at the 
Lowest Price.

 

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The very finest artificial teeth-

Img_0465

Teeth were a problem in Georgian England, but not nearly so much as the makers of period films would have us believe.  There would have been more crooked teeth, as there were no braces to straighten them, but the image of Georgian Londoners with black, gappy mouths is most likely not correct.  Sugar was widely available, but people knew it caused tooth decay and they were also very conscious of plaque build up, hence the masses of toothpicks/toothpick boxes/home scaling sets in shagreen cases.  To have 'scales' or 'scurf' of the teeth was frowned upon and to pick one's teeth at the table was deemed vulgar, but judging from the amount of advertisements and concern for tooth whiteness/general appearance in personal correspondence, there is no doubt people did take time and care over their dental hygiene.  

Toothbrushes had been invented, but were imported from France and Turkey, where they had perfected the 'little brushes for making clean of the teeth'.  Toothpaste was available, and usually contained some form of ground abrasive such as cuttle-fish bone, coral, alabaster and various sweetening agents such as rose or orange-flower water.  It could be bought as a powder and mixed to a paste as required, or as little rolls known as 'dentifrice', which presumably, were chewed and used with the brush.  

The biggest problem with teeth in Georgian England was what happened when they fell out.  Barber surgeons, and travelling dentists were known to transplant teeth (yuck!), but with what measure of success there is no way of knowing.  French dentists were considered to be the best, which brings me neatly onto two of my favourite subjects: artisans and trade cards.  The trade card featured here is for Pezé Pilleau the Younger.  His father arrived in England as a Huguenot refugee and went on to make an array of excellent silverware, but he was also skilled in the manufacture of artificial teeth.  In February 1696, The Postman reported, 'Mr Pilleau as French Goldsmith does give Notice that by and Experience of 18 Years he has found out a way to make and set Artificial Teeth in so firm a manner that one may chew with them.'  This of course, was the Holy Grail of denture manufacture.  False teeth had been made for a long time, from bone, ivory (hippo tusk being the finest form as it remained white whereas other ivory was known to yellow in the mouth), and precious metals.  Many had false teeth just for show, but they were useless for eating, rather limiting the ability to dine out, I'd imagine.  

In January of 1719, The Postman reported, 'Mr Pileau (sic) continueth to make and set Artificial Teeth and whole Jaws or Rows with the utmost nicety'. The Pilleau here is Pezé junior.  It was common for a son to issue a new trade card when he inherited the business, and here the younger Pilleau's speciality is clearly advertised.  I wonder what proportion of the business the dentures made up, as the card is certainly pre-occupied with dentistry, rather than goldsmithing.  

P. Pilleau Goldsmith
at the Golden Cup
in Shandos Street
Makes, & Sells, Gold, & Silver Plate,
He Likewise Succeeds his Father
Lately Deceased
Who lived at ye corner of Newport
Street, & St Martin's Lane
in ye Art of Making and Setting
Artificial Teeth
No ways discernable from Natural ones