Writing in 1798 my ancestor Richard Hall notes: “July 1st publish’d. Price one shilling.Ornamented with an Engraved head of Miss Hannah More and two Ladies dressed in the Sutton Wrap and Curricle Robe, beautifully coloured according to the fashion. No 1 – The Ladies Monthly Museum – a polite Repository. Sold by Vernon & Hood, London”

I confess: I have never been a particular fan of Toby Jugs, but the fact remains that they made an appearance in England in the Eighteenth Century and became hugely popular. Collectors will say that a true Toby Jug has to show the entire figure (if it is head-and-shoulders only, it is technically a ‘character mug’) and they emanated in the Staffordshire potteries of the 1780s.

Image courtesy of the Lewis Walpole Library

In all probability the inspiration came from a popular tavern song by Rev. Francis Fawkes called ‘Brown Jug’ about a Yorkshire sot called Toby Fillpot (otherwise Sir Toby Philpot, a legendary 18th century drinker). The song was first published in 1761 and was popularised in an etching by Robert Dighton ( 1752 – 1814) showing the corpulent seated gentleman, foaming pint in hand, and with the words of the song below the picture. Toby was a popular word of the time to describe a thief (either ‘low Toby’ for a street thief, or ‘high Toby’ if it was used to describe a highwayman). The earliest Toby jugs appeared in the 1760s and there is some argument as to where the credit should go for the first one – likely candidates include Ralph Wood 1 (who made particularly well-modelled Earthenware figures with translucent coloured glazes) and Thomas Wheildon and John Astbury. Many of these early figures resemble the Dighton illustration. The jugs appear to have been used to carry the beer from the barrel to the table – they have stoppers in the form of a tricorn hat which are good for pouring, but difficult to drink from. The early jugs held about a quart (that is to say, two pints).

An ‘Ordinary Toby Jug’ dating from around 1800

After the ‘Ordinary Tobies’ came the different varieties – based on often fictional characters. You get the Thin Man, Squire, Hearty Goodfellow, Lord Howe, Man on a Barrel and my favourite, Martha Gunn. Martha was a real person, who lived in Brighton and had a job as a ‘dipper’ i.e. assisting bathers emerge from the bathing machines into the briny, where they would be unceremoniously dunked. Martha became notorious when she extended her duties to dipping the Prince Regent – then in his twenties. Cue much ribaldry, since men generally bathed in the nude.

The Thin Man, a style made popular in the 1770s

Martha Gunn, unusually with a beer mug rather than a gin bottle in her hand.

By the early 1800s dozens of potteries were churning out these jugs, tending to use enamel rather than a coloured glaze. Factories such as Wedgwood, Royal Worcester, and later Clarice Clift and of course Royal Doulton carried on the tradition. Royal Doulton are famous for their limited editions of different figures, and there is a museum at Evanston Illinois in the States devoted entirely to the genre (see http://www.tobyjugmuseum.com/history.php )

If ever a man deserved the term ‘villain’ rather than ‘hero’ it was William Douglas, Third Earl March and later Fourth Duke of Queensbury. Born in 1725 (four years before Richard Hall) he outlived Richard by nine years, dying in 1810. The man was a disgusting old lecher, a rake who never married but had a penchant for young girls, particularly dark Italian ones. He was also a prodigious drinker, a keen follower of horse racing, and an inveterate gambler. He was 52 when he inherited the dukedom in 1778, his two cousins who were direct in line having predeceased him. Thereafter he became known as ‘Old Q’. Arguably the faults which would have been permitted in a younger man only became notorious with Old Q simply because he never did reform, or repent his wicked ways, or give up debauching young girls. He was nothing if not consistent, right into old age.

It is a curious thing, fate. Most people comply with the adage of Master Shakespeare (‘some are born great; some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them’) but then occasionally you get a person who lives a squalid, mean little life, and yet who is immortalised and lionised as a hero while nothing could be further from the truth. An example of the latter person was Dick Turpin. That he lived is not in doubt. That he was ever the derring-do hero who lived a life of passion and swaggering nonchalance is unlikely. That he owned a horse called Black Bess, or rode it from London to York in a day is not only false but a straight lift from the exploits of a much earlier criminal. Why, Turpin was not even a highwayman for most of his life. He was a thief, a sadistic torturer, a murderer and a thoroughly unpleasant guy. So how come he is immortalised as some kind of folk hero?

One suspects that Turpin would be the most amazed of all at the transformation. He had been born in Essex in 1706 the son of a famer John Turpin, who at one time was proprietor of a public house called the Crown Inn. He was apprenticed as a butcher, in Whitechapel, but apparently “conducted himself in a loose and disorderly manner.”
When his apprenticeship finished he reputedly married a local girl called Miss Palmer. He subsequently opened a butcher’s shop in Essex, but gained a reputation for dealing in beef and lamb stolen from local farms, and venison poached from the deer parks and forests of the neighbourhood.

Richard Hall’s version of a deer park.

He also tried his hand at smuggling, but failed miserably. He himself was not averse to a little cattle rustling, being caught in the act of stealing two oxen. He fled the scene and went into hiding and at some stage became a member of the notorious Essex Gang a.k.a. the Gregory Gang.

Their ‘speciality’ was raiding remote farmhouses, often late at night, terrorising the inhabitants before stealing their valuables. He was not averse to torturing his victims to help them remember where they kept their valuables – on one occasion holding his elderly female hostage over the open fire until she revealed the hiding place. On at least one occasion the gang raped a young servant. Hardly the stuff of legend…

According to the Newgate Chronicle ‘they fixed on a spot between the King’s-Oak and the Loughton Road, on Epping Forest, where they made a cave, which was large enough to receive them and their horses. This cave was inclosed within a sort of thicket of bushes and brambles, through which they could look and see passengers on the road, while themselves remained unobserved. From this station they used to issue, and robbed such a number of persons, that at length the very pedlars who travelled the road, carried fire-arms for their defence: and, while they were in this retreat, Turpin’s wife used to supply them with necessaries, and frequently remained in the cave during the night.’

The gang ventured further afield, becoming notorious throughout the Home Counties not least because of their ruthlessness and their willingness to resort to torture. Their offences were regularly reported in the Press and by 1735 the London Evening Post was reporting that the Crown had offered a reward of fifty pounds for the capture of the gang. Two of the gang were caught, but Turpin escaped through a window just as the constables arrived. For a while he lay low in the depths of Epping Forest. Here he met up with Tom King – a far more likely candidate for a person having a reputation as a swash-buckling ne’er-do-well.

The Newgate Calendar is a fascinating publication – albeit one not necessarily too worried about following strict truth. It was a sort of National Enquirer of its day. It started as a monthly bulletin of executions, kept by the Keeper at Newgate Prison, but the name was appropriated by others and became a byword for the sort of chapbook which delighted audiences in the Eighteenth Century, who could not get enough lurid prose listing the heinous exploits of rapists, thieves and murderers, particularly when they got their come-uppance. Who cared that the events described were not always accurate: they were thrilling tales of criminals, and by the middle 1770s it was described as being one of the three books most likely to be found in the average home (the other two being the Bible and Pilgrims Progress).

Meanwhile back in Epping Forest…The exploits of King and Turpin had led to the reward for their capture being increased by one hundred pounds – enough to tempt a gamekeeper in the forest called Thomas Morris to track Turpin down. Turpin was cornered, and shot Morris dead. The murder was reported to the Secretary of State and the Newgate Calendar takes up the story:

“It having been represented to the King, that Richard Turpin did, on Wednesday, the 4th of May last, barbarously murder Thomas Morris, servant to Henry Thompson, one of the keepers of Epping Forest, and commit other notorious felonies and robberies, near London, his Majesty is pleased to promise his most gracious pardon to any of his accomplices, and a reward of 200 pounds to any person or persons that shall discover him, so that he may be apprehended and convicted. Turpin was born at Thackstead, in Essex, is about thirty, by trade a butcher, about five feet nine inches high, very much marked with the small-pox, his cheek-bones broad, his face thinner towards the bottom; his visage short, pretty upright, and broad about the shoulders.”

Shortly after this, Turpin decided that he wanted to get rid of his own nag, and took a fancy to a fine horse belonging to a Mr Major. He stole the new horse at gunpoint (horse-stealing being a hanging offence, ranked as high as murder on the scale of felonies). Mr Major would not take the loss lying down: he had handbills printed and circulated around pubs in the London area; he described the horse and named Turpin as the perpetrator. In fact Turpin had stabled the horse at the Red Lion in Whitechapel, but it was Tom King who came to collect it and who was faced by two constables lying in wait. To follow the Newgate Calendar:

King … drew a pistol (and) attempted to fire it, but it flashed in the pan; he then endeavoured to draw out another pistol, but he could not, as it got entangled in his pocket. At this time Turpin was watching at a small distance and riding towards the spot, King cried out, “Shoot him, or we are taken;” on which Turpin fired, and shot his companion, who called out, “Dick, you have killed me;” which the other hearing, rode off at full speed.

King lived a week after this affair, and gave information that Turpin might be found at a house near Hackney-marsh; and, on inquiry, it was discovered that Turpin had been there on the night that he rode off, lamenting that he had killed King, who was his most faithful associate.”

Turpin fled North and settled near York under the identity of ‘John Palmer’. He continued to rustle cattle in neighbouring Lincolnshire and in 1738 became involved in an incident when he shot a rooster belonging to his landlord. When the landlord (named Mr Hall, but as far as I know no relation) remonstrated with Turpin, our hero replied that if he would give him long enough to reload his gun he would shoot him also. The constables were called, and people started asking questions about how Mr Palmer was able to finance his lifestyle. People had noticed that when he disappeared to Lincolnshire he invariably returned with a different horse and was flush with funds. The magistrates had him locked up on suspicion of horse stealing. And here the tale takes a curious turn. The Newgate Calendar reports:

“After (Turpin) had been about four month in prison, he wrote the following letter to his brother in Essex:

“Dear Brother,
York, Feb. 6, 1739.
“I am sorry to acquaint you, that I am now under confinement in York Castle, for horse-stealing. If I could procure an evidence from London to give me a character, that would go a great way towards my being acquitted. I had not been long in this county before my being apprehended, so that it would pass off the readier. For Heaven’s sake dear brother, do not neglect me; you will know what I mean, when I say,
I am yours,
“JOHN PALMER.”

Apparently the brother declined to pay sixpence for the letter, since he knew nobody of the name Palmer in York, and the letter was returned unopened to the local Post Office in Essex. Here fate intervened: the letter was seen by a school-master by the name of Mr Smith. He had taught Turpin and amazingly claimed to reconize the handwriting, and he rushed off to tell the local magistrate. The letter was opened and the true identity of John Palmer was revealed. The Newgate Calendar continues:
“Hereupon the magistrates of Essex dispatched Mr. Smith to York, who immediately selected him from all the other prisoners in the castle. This Mr. Smith, and another gentle man, afterwards proved his identity on his trial.

On the rumour that the noted Turpin was a prisoner in York Castle, persons flocked from all parts of the country to take a view of him, and debates ran very high whether he was the real person or not. Among others who visited him, was a young fellow who pretended to know the famous Turpin, and having regarded him a considerable time with looks of great attention, he told the keeper he would bet him half a guinea that he was not Turpin; on which the prisoner, whispering the keeper, said, ‘Lay him the wager, and I’ll go your halves.’

When this notorious malefactor was brought to trial, he was convicted on two indictments, and received sentence of death.”

Only at this stage did Turpin begin to show the flamboyance and style for which he is now remembered. He reportedly bought himself a new fustian frock and a pair of pumps (so that he could look his best on the way to his execution) and paid ten shillings to each of five men to act as mourners. They accompanied him as he waved gaily to the crowds when he was placed in a cart and wheeled off to York racecourse on 7th April 1739. Or, as the Newgate Calendar put it:

“On the morning of his death he was put into a cart, and being followed by his mourners … he was drawn to the place of execution, in his way to which he bowed to the spectators with an air of the most astonishing indifference and intrepidity.When he came to the fatal tree, he ascended the ladder; when his right leg trembling, he stamped it down with an air of assumed courage, as if he was ashamed of discovering any signs of fear, Having conversed with the executioner about half an hour, he threw himself off the ladder, and expired in a few minutes.”

It wasn’t quite the end for Dick Turpin. He was buried six feet down but that first night body-snatchers exhumed the corpse and absconded with it. It was apparently found the next day in the garden of a local doctor, whereupon it was coated with quick lime and re-interred.

And the fables? They started immediately after his death with the publication of a book entitled ‘Life of Richard Turpin’ but only really gained credence when Harrison Ainsworth published his novel ‘Rockwood’ in 1834. He was the one who introduced Black Bess, and who attributed to Turpin a ride to York which was actually made thirty years before Turpin’s birth, by one John (‘Swift Nick’) Nevison. The tale was told and re-told, becoming more and more embellished in the re-telling, and slowly a charmless, cruel and murderous young man who killed his own partner was turned into ‘dandy highwayman, folk hero of his day’. But whoever said that life was fair?

The papercuts are all made by my ancestor Richard Hall, mostly dating from the 1780s (lots more are to be found in The Journal of a Georgian Gentleman).

THIS POST IS A DUPLICATE TAKEN FROM MY MAIN BLOGSITE at http://blog.mikerendell.com

David Brewster, 1781 – 1868, an engraving by William Holl.

Occasionally I come across a scientist who suddenly steps off his academic perch and comes up with something totally unexpected. One such man was David Brewster, born in 1781 in Jedburgh Scotland. His range of interests included that of a physicist, mathematician, astronomer, inventor, and writer. He was a scientist who studied light – prisms, polarisation of light, mirrors, stereoscopes, lighthouse lenses, etc., He was a Member of the Royal Society, was showered with medals and awards, and was made a knight of the realm in 1831. He is also credited with having invented the sea thermometer. He was an eminent scientist yet in 1815 he came up with the kaleidoscope, an invention which he patented two years later.

He had originally intended it as a scientific tool. It consisted of a tube with two mirrors at an angle at one end and a translucent disc at the other through which diffused light could pass. In between he placed coloured beads. With two mirrors the beads were shown in multiple reflection, the patterns illuminated against a black background. Introducing a third mirror placed at 60° produced six duplicate objects, with eight if the angle was 45°. The three mirrors meant that the patterns filled the whole field of vision.

Brewster turned to a famous lens developer Philip Carpenter to develop his invention once the patent came through in 1817. It was a sensation, with over 200,000 kaleidoscopes sold within three months in London and Paris alone. Carpenter simply could not keep up with demand and Brewster was forced to seek his permission to bring in other manufacturers. He hoped to make a fortune from the invention, but unfortunately for him a mistake on the patent application meant that others were able to copy it with impunity.

In later years he was to become Principal of St Andrews University (1837 to 1859) and then of Edinburgh University (1859, up to his death nine years later). He was devoutly religious, highly strung and often highly irritable with people who disagreed with his views. His scientific works are sufficiently obscure as to be quite beyond my limited abilities to understand. Suffice to say that Encyclopedia Britannica delivered this obituary after his death in 1868.

“His scientific glory is different in kind from that of Young and Fresnel; but the discoverer of the law of polarization of biaxial crystals, of optical mineralogy, and of double refraction by compression, will always occupy a foremost rank in the intellectual history of the age.”

And the name kaleidoscope? Well for those of us who never woke up in time for Greek lessons it is a combination of three words from ancient Greece meaning ‘tool for observing beautiful shapes.’ In other words, it does what it says on the tin. Thanks Sir David, and many happy returns of the day! (His birthday was on the Eleventh of December).

NB This post echoes my main blog at http://blog.mikerendell.com (go there for up to date posts)

It is interesting to see how many of the key names and traditions of modern horse racing date back to the second half of the eighteenth century. Think Jockey Club (founded 1750); think Tattersall’s (bloodstock auctioneers, founded by Richard Tattersall with headquarters off Hyde Park in 1766) ; think thoroughbred stud books (John Weatherby produced the first one in 1791 and it has been maintained ever since by the Weatherby family/company, meticulously recording every thoroughbred birth in England and Ireland). Add to these the fact that the Oaks was first raced in 1779 and the Derby in 1780.

The period also saw the introduction of racing colours, known now as silks, in 1762. Their use was adopted by the Jockey Club with the record as follows:

“For the greater conveniency of distinguishing the horses running, as also for the prevention of disputes
arising from not knowing the colours worn by each rider, the underwritten gentlemen have come to the resolution and agreement of having the colours annexed to the following names, worn by their respective riders: The stewards therefore hope, in the name of the Jockey Club, that the named gentlemen will take care that the riders be provided with dresses accordingly”

Nineteen owners were listed: seven Dukes, one Marquis, four Earls. one Viscount, one Lord, two Baronets, and three commoners.
The Duke of Cumberland chose: “purple”
The Duke of Grafton chose: “sky blue”
The Duke of Devonshire chose: “straw”
The Duke of Northumberland chose: “yellow”
The Duke of Kingston chose “crimson”
The Duke of Ancaster chose: “buff”
The Duke of Bridgewater chose: “garter blue”
The Earl of Waldegrave chose: “deep red”
The Earl of Oxford chose: “purple and white”
The Earl of March chose: “white”
The Earl of Gower chose: “blue”
Viscount Bolingbroke chose: “black”
Lord Grosvenor chose: “orange”
Sir John Moore chose: “darkest green”
Sir James Lowther chose: “orange”
Mr. R. Vernon chose: “white”
The Hon. Mr. Greville chose “brown trimmed with yellow”
Mr. Jenison Shafto chose: “pink”

Sir J Lowther proved indecisive and failed to make his mind up in time…

Originally, a black velvet huntsman’s cap was the only type used by the riders and was more or less associated with the colours listed above, but this gave way to caps varied in colour as we know them today. Of those listed, one family have kept the same set of colours throughout the ensuing two and a half centuries – the Duke of Devonshire with his straw colours.

Both William Douglas (1725-1810) who later became known as ‘Old Q’ once he became the 4th Duke of Queensbury, and the Honourable Richard Vernon of Newmarket chose White. In fact ‘Old Q’ reverted to using his black and red racing colours for an astonishing 57 consecutive years of racing between 1748 and 1805. He was an infamous old roué but a great supporter of Racing and a devoted gambler. No mean amateur jockey himself, on one occasion his chosen jockey informed him that bookmakers were offering him money to throw a race. The Duke advised him to take the money – and then on the day of the race inspected his horse in the parade ring before announcing that it was such a fine horse that he would ride it himself – and promptly removed his great coat to reveal his red and black silks underneath. He won the race.

An all-black strip has been associated with some of the great names of the horse racing world – first with Viscount Bolingbroke. Frederick St John, 2nd Viscount Bolingbroke (1732-1787) kept a stable of some twenty racehorses. He owned several famous horses including Gimcrack, who was painted by George Stubbs with the jockey in black colours. He also owned the great racehorse (and later great stud) Highflyer – who was undefeated in fourteen race starts. Highflyer had to be sold during his racing career because Lord Bolingbroke had racked up a huge gambling debt. The purchaser, paying £2,500, was Richard Tattersall, who made at least £15,000 a year out of stud fees for the heroic animal (enough to pay for the building of a fine mansion for Tattersall, appropriately called Highflyer Hall

Gimcrack on Newmarket Heath, painted by Stubbs in 1765

The black colours then passed to the Duke of Grafton before being adopted by the 9th Duke of Hamilton (1740 – 1819). Jockeys wearing his famous black silks won seven St Leger wins in the period between 1786 and 1814. A later all-black owner, John Bowes, won the Derby on no fewer than four occasions between 1835 and 1853.

In 1787 the then Lord Derby changed his colours from “green and white stripes” to the famous “black with white cap” which is still used by his successors today. Due to a superstition which followed Lord Derby’s Sansovino win in the 1924 Derby the jacket always has one white button amongst the black.

In 1799 the Grosvenor family dropped the all-orange and adopted “yellow with a black cap” colours which have been used by the Dukes of Westminster ever since.

For many years there was a free-for-all with horse owners choosing all manner of colours and combinations. Finally in 1971 the Jockey Club laid down a list of just 18 permitted colours. This means that in accordance with the rules of the International Federation of Horseracing Authorities there are 18 colours, 25 body designs, and 12 sleeve designs. This gives a huge number of permutations (Weatherby’s have over 19,000 combinations registered).Oddly you do not even have to own a horse to own a set of colours – some are bought as an investment – yes, there are people who buy ‘cherished’ colours as an alternative investment particularly if these have a particular historical connection. If any of the original ‘pure’ colours comes up for auction, expect to pay tens of thousands of pounds as with the plain emerald green strip sold in Ireland (for charity) in 1995. For a time these cherished colours were sold “under the counter” and so in 1996 the British Horseracing Board introduced a sale of currently unregistered colours. There were a dozen of them, and the sale fetched just under £130,000 with the highest figure (£28,750 ) going to a plain dark-blue set of silks. That is dwarfed by the £69,000 paid by stable owner John Fretwell for his plain lime-green colours or by the plain pink set bought by Mrs Sue Magnier. Mr Shafto, who had the registration for plain pink back in 1762, would have been amazed (and no, his jockeys didn’t wear silver buckles at their knees – that’s a different Shafto altogether…).

The Battenberg The Chocolatier

The Obama The Traffic Cone

The Cruella de Vil The Lighthouse

Pictures courtesy of the British Horse Racing Authority site at http://www.britishhorseracing.com/goracing/racing/racingcolours/default.asp showing racing silks supplied by Allerton & Co.

A visit to Mrs Wright's Waxworks in Pall Mall.

Mrs Wright was an interesting character, and one who played a part in the American War of Independence. She was born into a particularly strict Quaker sect as Patience Lovell, in around 1725, probably on Long Island, New York. She was the fifth of nine daughters born to a farming family, and as a child she and her sisters apparently made model figurines out of clay and dough, which they then coloured and dressed in clothing.

In her twenties she ran away to Philadelphia and married Joseph Wright in 1748. She said of her husband that he had "nothing but age and money to recommend himself to her" but she bore him five children, one of them born after Joseph died. She then discovered that Joseph had left her (and the fifth child of whom he had no knowledge) virtually nothing in his will. She turned to her sister Rachel Lovell Wells for assistance. This sister had continued her childhood hobby of modelling and showed Patricia how to make life-sized sculptures in wax. These they exhibited in a travelling show, earning commissions to sculpt likenesses along the way. Eventually Patricia had her own permanent exhibition in New York, but a fire in 1771 destroyed most of the exhibits. With the help of her sister she re-stocked and opened in Boston, where she met Jane Mecom, who was the sister of Benjamin Franklin. Jane gave Patricia a letter of introduction to her brother, and Patricia came to England intending to use the connection as an entree into London society so that she could meet and sculpt prominent figures of the Age.

Portrait courtesy of the National Portrait Gallery.

London society flocked to have their likenesses made, including the King and Queen whom she addressed as 'George' and 'Charlotte' in true egalitarian fashion appropriate to a colonial! Well, she did until the King withdrew his support for her when she became too strident in her support for the Americans in the War of Independence. But by then she was famous and crowds clamoured to see her models, often full size, because of their uncanny likeness and life-like qualities. Apparently her party piece was to install one of her models in a reception room and then wait for people to realize that they were talking to a dummy! Walpole welcomed her into his circle of friends, calling her 'the artistress'

By all accounts she was no great oil painting, with sallow complexion and masculine features, but she soon became famous for her quick wit and coarse language. Not everyone liked her - the outspoken Abigail Adams, who later became the First Lady when her husband John became the second President of the United States (and a woman well known for a choice 'bon mot') succinctly called her "the Queen of sluts."

A London newspaper of the day reported that "the ingenious Mrs. Wright, whose Skill in taking Likeness, expressing the Passions, and many curious Devices in Wax Work, has deservedly recommended her to public Notice." Another described her as 'Promethean' and another as 'the American Sybil' because of her almost magical ability in seeming to catch the soul of the sitter. She made models of royalty, the nobility, scientists and politicians - and on her own admission would secrete plans and overheard gossip about British plans for America and its preparations for war, and put them inside the wax models before shipping them Stateside to her sister.

In 1780 her daughter Phoebe married the English painter John Hoppner, and in the same year her son Joseph Wright (not to be confused with his namesake who chose to be known by the epithet 'Joseph Wright of Derby') had his first picture exhibited at the Royal Academy. It showed his mother, apparently making a wax effigy of the head of Charles 1st immediately prior to his execution, while casting a meaningful glance at portraits of King George III and his wife Queen Charlotte in the background. That didn't go down too well, and Mrs Wright hurried off to Paris to escape the fuss engendered by the portrait, taking her son in tow. Both made likenesses of Benjamin Franklin and after the war was over Joseph headed back to America to paint the portraits of the new leaders. His mother longed to follow but first of all returned to London in 1782. To her dismay she was no longer in demand, and people dismissed her as mad or bad, or possibly both. She made enquiries to see if her help as an informant i.e. in passing on British plans might be rewarded with a gift of a small piece of land back in her homeland. She also wrote to George Washington and gained his approval to the idea of her making a model of him. But alas for poor Patience it was not to be: she had a bad fall after visiting the American Embassy, and died in London on February 25th 1786.

Very few of her wax models survived her, but there is one of William Pitt the Elder, full-sized, still on display in Westminster Abbey, and this likeness of Admiral Howe is attributed to her and was made in about 1770. It is shown courtesy of The Newark Museum.

Admiral Richard Howe, 1726 - 1799

We may never know the truth about her espionage activities, but she was certainly well-connected as a result of her link to Benjamin Franklin: who is to say what indiscretions passed the lips of politicians and military men as they sat before her, while she moulded and scraped the warm wax which she kept covered by her apron?

The wall plaque in Patience Wright's home town of Bordentown, New Jersey

(This post is a copy of an article written by me for London Historians - do have a look at their website at http://www.londonhistorians.org/  )