Today
Bankside.
Old Slaughter’s Coffee House
Old Slaughter’s is perhaps the most famous of all the Georgian coffee houses. From the band of intellectuals and artists who congregated there, William Hogarth formed the St Martin’s Lane Academy (which became the Royal Academy).
Covent Garden had long been a haunt for the artistic: it was full of noble houses in the mid 17C, yet there were still cheap lodgings for the tutors and artists who hung on the coat tails of the nobility. The residence of Frederick, Prince of Wales in Leicester Square was to become a meeting place for those who patronized the arts, and it was the clever artist who was on hand to be called upon. There was a topsy-turvy food market, theatres, whores and plenty of cheap drink. When coffee became the thing, rather than early morning small beer or thin wine, the houses which served it proliferated. It was no surprise that Old Slaughter’s became the focus of so many creative and intellectual types as soon as it opened in 1692 at numbers 74 and 75, St Martin’s Lane.
Coffee houses had advantages over taverns, although they did also serve wine and food. Firstly, they were a bit more civilized, and there were no women. Taverns had become the focus for whoring, like theatres. Coffee houses were places men could go to be together and talk, with no ‘distractions’. The interiors were bare, almost like offices, with plain tables and chairs. Furthermore, the proprietors were quick to cater to the prevailing taste within the establishment. ’Running boys’ were employed to dart between offices, businesses and other places, gathering news relevant to the clientele, which was then chalked up behind the counter. The clearest example of this is the Baltic Coffeehouse in Threadneedle Street, specifically opened to cater for the traders to the Baltic. Stock prices, and news of the coming and going of each vessel was chalked up at hourly intervals.
The news on the board at Old Slaughter’s is lost to us, more’s the pity, but details of those who patronized it are not. One of the most valuable sources are letters addressed to particular individuals at the coffee houses, which acted as both post boxes, and post drops. Many of the artists and intellectuals who patronized Old Slaughter’s, and Rainbow’s around the corner, lived in lodgings or boarding houses, and would move often. The coffee house provided a safe place to send and receive mail. For one or two of the more seditious clients, it was a good way to avoid letting anyone know where they lived. The Huguenot journalist Pierre Des Maizeaux received most of his mail (including a good deal of international correspondence) at the Rainbow.
One of the reasons Old Slaughter’s is the most famous is its spectacular list of regular visitors, including:
William Hogarth, English artist and engraver
William Kent, English artist and designer
Hubert Gravelot, French engraver
François Roubiliac, French sculptor
Francis Hayman, English artist
Thomas Gainsborough, English artist
George Moser, Swiss enameller
Richard Yeo, English medallist
Isaac Ware, English architect
James Paine, English architect
Henry Cheere, English sculptor
Thomas Hudson, English artist
Johann Muller, German engraver
Louis and Joseph Goupy, French miniaturists
Abraham de Moivre, French Huguenot mathematician
Robert Adam, architect and designer
William Hallett, cabinetmaker (although he made chairs, mostly)
John Linnell, cabinetmaker
Two famous residents of St Martin’s Lane never joined the St Martin’s Lane Academy, but I think it unlikely they did not visit Old Slaughter’s. Thomas Chippendale took the lease opposite the coffee house in 1753, and made them his premises for the rest of his working life. Matthew Lock, engraver of the majority of Chippendale’s Director, gave competing life drawing classes from the premises Chippendale later took over.
Old Slaughter’s is just one of the coffee houses in Georgian London, each based around its own speciality. Any student of this aspect of Georgian life owes a great debt to Mark Girouard, as do I.
Today
I imagined today to be the last day of summer, and took myself to the Golden Gallery of St Paul’s cathedral, above the rotunda. The railings were replaced in 1834, and since then, nothing has changed. Beyond the cathedral walls everything has changed, as you can see from the photograph.
Goodbye summer, see you next year.
The very finest artificial teeth-
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
Today
As anyone who follows me on Twitter will know, I like mudlarking. I’m not a metal-detector-anorak-type mudlark, but still. Living by the Thames is a constant reminder of the fact London is built upon thousands of years of river commerce. The Thames foreshore (particularly in the City where I am) throws things up all the time, both natural and man made, from centuries of habitation. Every day I walk my small nuisance of a dog down on the beach of either Bankside or the North Bank and kick about in the debris. Amongst the broken clay pipes, 20C pottery, 18C nails and things best not picked up, there are sometimes nice little bits and pieces from another age.
Today’s find is a hagstone which, as everybody knows is both good luck and protects a property from witches. I like this one a lot, because it is pale and freckly (not unlike me) and most stones on the foreshore are black or grey. Hagstones made an excellent key-ring in the 17C, empowering your lock against the evil crone intent on cursing your household. They could also be placed on a window-sill or a doorstep to prevent the witch sneaking inside. Legend has it that looking through the hole of a hagstone reveals deceit and sometimes, pixies.
Hungerford Market
I find the history of Hungerford Market and the surrounding area fascinating. It was full of grand but rotting buildings, street and river traffic, French and black immigrants, booksellers, printers (often of rather dicey material) and also a burgeoning luxury goods trade. Closer to the large houses of the nobility than the City, it was also more squalid and often dangerous. Much more interesting than the rows of gaudy theatres and chain stores standing there now.
Sir Edward Hungerford was born in 1632 and rose through the ranks during Charles IInd’s exile, serving as a Knight of the Order of the Bath at Charles’s coronation. Edward had inherited a fortune in Wiltshire property and a London house, Durham Yard, which sat between the Strand and the Thames, on the site of Charing Cross Station.
Heavy debt sustained at the tables made Edward Hungerford unable to repair the mansion and the smaller buildings on the site, and they fell into disrepair. The area at the time was one of faded grandeur. The labyrinthine old royal and ducal palaces sat by the water, crawling with damp and neglect. Durham House had one huge advantage: the Hungerford Steps, leading up from the Thames. Originally the lading dock for the house, and the manner by which the family took to the water to travel to the City, it was a convenient place for traders to land their commodities for sale at nearby Covent Garden market to the north. In a time of no supermarkets, London relied on its markets, each specializing in something different. Nearby Covent Garden supplied fruit, vegetables, pot and pans, and gardening tools. Rather alarmingly, it was also London’s pet shop. Fish, newts, parrots, and even monkeys could all be yours for a price.
In the 1670s the Strand area was a warren of residential property. Hundreds of people lived and worked in a small area. They all needed to eat, and all the food had to be brought in. Small street markets were everywhere, and it soon became apparent that the densely populated area of the Strand needed its own market. Edward Hungerford applied to the King for permission to establish a market on the site of Hungerford House, stating his own house, and the buildings attached to it to be ‘soe old and ruinous that the same could not be rebuilt without great expence.’ A meeting was held at ‘le greyhounde taverne in le Strand’ to discuss the matter with local residents, and in 1678, the market was approved, with additional stall-holders allowed on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays.
It opened in 1682; a thriving shopping mall-type affair with a covered piazza. The immediate reception was favourable and Hungerford must have breathed a sigh of relief before returning to his cards. He died in reduced circumstances in 1711.
Thriftless himself, but lyke the good manure,
His rotten waste did fertilise the lande,
And others’ thriftye toile hath wrought the cure,
A goodlie mercatt joines the busie Strand.
Unlike most London markets, Hungerford had no particular speciality. It sold fish, meat, and all types of fruit and vegetables. After 1685, the area became very popular with the French Huguenot refugees, and the market was known for selling ‘furren’ foods. Christopher Wren and his partner Stephen Fox purchased the market in 1684, and held it until Wren’s death, when it was sold to Henry Wise. A bust of Wren can be seen in the niche between the upper windows in the engraving. There was a large meeting hall upstairs, which in 1688 the refugees established as Hungerford Market Church, although presumably it still functioned as a meeting room outside services. It remained a church until 1754, when the market itself was already in decline. However, demand for a market in the area remained high, and so many people came and went via Hungerford Stairs, that it limped on for another century, when Peter Cunningham, in his Hand-book of London, declared its failing as being ‘of too general a character and attempts too much in trying to unite Leadenhall, Billingsgate, and Covent-garden Markets’.
Despite attempts to revive it, including building a suspension footbridge to the South bank, Hungerford Market failed, and was eventually pulled down to make way for Charing Cross Station, completed in 1864. The footbridge was replaced with a railway bridge, and the suspension chains were removed to Bristol, where they completed Brunel’s Clifton Suspension Bridge.
So-
These are some of the types of images I work with. I started out writing about specific pieces for private collectors, and illustrations such as these help to explain how a piece would’ve fitted into an interior. As I began to work with more important pieces, it became possible to connect them to extant designs. Sometimes, they were the item from the drawing. When this can be proven, it adds value. Sometimes a great deal of value.
Over the past decade I have worked on silver, gold boxes and enamels, all types of engraving, portrait miniatures, furniture (including mirrors) and sculpture. In particular, I have researched how these objects were manufactured within London. I am so tedious even to have mapped connected workshops and retail shops and I’m working on an interactive google earth overlay of 1690s London artisans. I can identify the engraving of Robert Clee by sight (you can read about that in the book pictured in the gallery), and I know that where Covent Garden Tube Station now stands, once lived two old French ladies with no teeth, who made a living chewing paper to make ‘moderne’ papier-mâché mirrors. Whilst useless out of context, this knowledge enables me to put together the story behind an item or interior, giving a greater understanding of how our friends in the 18th century valued their surroundings and created the legacy we see today. If my work regarding objects or interiors is of interest, please get in touch here.
It can’t be this easy-
Can it?
Lucy
Lucy Inglis grew up in rural Lincolnshire before moving to London to trade antiques and reconstruct historic interiors. A chance discussion about Regency pornography in 2002 led to the start of her writing career, and in 2009 she began blogging on the lesser-known aspects of the capital during the Long Eighteenth Century – including food, immigration and sex (though not all at once) at GeorgianLondon.com
Writing credits include: The RIBA Journal, The Georgian Magazine, Fire & Knives, The Rare Book Review and a contribution to Silver in London, the V&A book on silver retailing in 18thC London.
In 2010, Lucy will be speaking in London, America and Europe on the 18th century city, the London ghettos and immigration, and also the role of social media in promoting history. With an informal, fun way of presenting, she uses visual media, period objects and audio to effectively illustrate a subject. She maintains large databases: of images from 1600 to 1900 that relate to the fabric of London during the 18thC, of notable immigrants, and a database of artisans and their works which can be searched by name, location, date, work, or trade associations. She lives in modern day London with her husband and their lazy but lovable terrier. When not working she can be found somewhere near the cricket.
Lucy is represented by Kirsty Mclachlan at David Godwin Associates.
