The Lipton Collection at S.J. Shrubsole

SHRUBSOLE

S.J. Shrubsole

26 East 81st Street New York, NY 10028 Tel: (212) 753-8920 Fax: (212) 754-5192 inquiries@shrubsole.com www.shrubsole.com

Regular Hours: Monday to Friday, 10:00 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.

Saturday, 10 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.

Summer Hours: (Memorial Day to Labor Day) Monday to Saturday, 10:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.

Copyright 2022 S.J. Shrubsole, Corp.

All rights reserved.

They Made This Place An Exhibition Featuring The Lipton Collection

16 May – 17 June 2022

S.J. Shrubsole is pleased to offer for sale a collection of exceptional English silver tea wares, first assembled some seventy years ago by Eric Shrubsole and the leadership of the Lipton tea company.

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A Brief History of the Lipton Collection Timothy Martin In 1948, after six years in the US Army at Fort McClellan, Alabama, Eric Shrubsole arrived back in New York City determined to become what he called a “top-dealer”—a term he used to mean the kind of dealer whose inventory was—through rarity, condition, provenance, or a combination of the three—in a class by itself. If there was one customer more than any other which set him on that path, it was the Lipton tea company.

Sir Thomas Lipton started a small grocery store in 1870s Glasgow. By 1910 he had a chain of them spanning the UK, and through his passion for yachting was friends with Edward VII and then George V. He had many successful investments around the world, but it was his decision to bypass traditional British tea importers that led to his extraordinary success: buying his own plantations in Ceylon and growing and shipping his own tea directly to England. With his lower prices he was able to sell tea—thitherto reserved for the upper or at least the upper-middle class—to everyone, and to make a fortune doing so. Lipton divided his colossal wealth between his two main passions: charity and winning the America’s Cup. He lost all five of his challenges for the America’s cup—but his genial shrugging off of loss after loss made him a household name in the US , and may have done more to advertise his tea than any print campaign ever could.

After Sir Thomas died, Unilever bought the business.

In a move that today seems quaint, they decided that to run the American branch of the company, only an American would do. So, in August of 1938, Unilever PLC took a quarter-page ad in the New York Times, looking—imagine seeing this ad today—for someone to be the President of the Lipton tea company in America.

They received 500 responses and interviewed seventy

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candidates, including a forty-two year old man named Robert Smallwood. He was from a small town called Londonderry, Ohio. He had been educated at Ohio State, pitched for the varsity baseball team, and had come to New York to work for Borden Foods. He told his interviewers that he did not know anything about tea, and that he would worry about learning about it if they gave him the job. Which they did.

Lipton’s tea was popular in England and around the world, but neither Lipton’s nor anyone else’s tea was really popular in America. This vast land, teeming with descendants of English, Irish, Welsh and Scots, for some reason (which apparently everyone at the time traced in a knee-jerk way to the Boston Tea Party), was simply not a nation of tea drinkers. That had to change, and changing it was now Bob Smallwood’s job.

If you were head of a corporation in or around New York in the 1940s or 50s and you wanted to appeal to the public, you would hire an advertising agency. But if you were looking for a way not merely to advertise your product but to somehow change the entire culture in order to create a market for it, you might try the emerging field of Public Relations. Smallwood decided to try the most colorful of New York’s new PR men, Ben Sonnenberg.

Sonnenberg had been raised dirt poor, in a wooden hut near Brest-Litovsk in what was then Russia. He emigrated to the US with his mother in 1910, aged 8.

He was educated on the Lower East Side. Through the help of the Henry Street Settlement he got a place at Columbia College, where he started writing about the College’s sports for the Brooklyn Eagle. (Those were the Lou Gehrig days, I’m not sure there’s been much to write about since...). But like many an entrepreneur then and now, Sonnenberg was bored. He dropped out.

After a few years travelling and working odd-jobs, he was back in New York writing what amounted to press releases for a variety of Jewish organizations—until he was hired by Bergdorf-Goodman to celebrate the store’s

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50th anniversary. He organized an A-list fashion ball at the Plaza Hotel; he put live models in the windows of the store. It was a smashing success, and he was immediately approached by the owners of Bloomingdales, Abraham and Strauss, and Filene’s. He was soon up and running as one of New York’s most powerful PR men, eventually advising clients like Samuel Goldwyn, William S. Paley, David O. Selznick, and a vast assortment of corporations.

His strategy for Smallwood, and for Lipton’s Tea, was multifold. Lipton’s would of course spend millions on advertising (“A luxury? Yes!—but not in price!”). They would spend millions more on medical research in a quixotic effort to find some science behind the then ubiquitous doctorly advice: “stay in bed, and drink lots of hot tea.” And last but not least, they would spend millions in a years-long effort to reshape the American perception of tea and tea drinking. Sonnenberg’s idea was to assemble a major collection of antique English silver tea wares. The collection would travel, with a curator and a PR team, from one museum to another all around the country. Invitations would be sent to patrons and board-members for an educational lecture followed by elegant and sumptuous teas served with Georgian teapots, kettles, urns, creamers, caddies, trays, salvers, tazze, etc. The idea was to create an experience that people would want to replicate at home, and that if Lipton’s, and tea generally, caught on with the well-to-do, the taste would trickle down and vastly increase sales.

Last but not least, Lipton would spend millions in a years-long effort to reshape the American perception of tea and tea drinking.

Smallwood liked the plan, so Sonnenberg invited all the players to one of his legendary and massive parties at 19 Gramercy Park. One of the finest private houses in New York City, it had been renovated in the 1880s for Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish by none other than Stanford White.

By the twenties it had been cut up into apartments, and in 1931 Sonnenberg saw an opportunity. He bought

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the entire building, using its grand rooms more for entertaining clients than for living in himself.

So there they were: Sonnenberg, Smallwood, some ad-men, some doctors keen to proclaim tea an elixir, and a host of prominent New York silver dealers: Robert Ensko, Ralph Hyman, Edward Munves, Sr., Seymour Wyler, and, the youngest by far, Eric Shrubsole. As drinks and hors d’oeuvres were passed, Sonnenberg gathered two of these elder statesman, then Eric, and then beckoned Smallwood. “Bob,” he said “these are some of the gentlemen who might be able to help you with the silver collection.” But here one of the elder statesmen jumped in: “well, some of the gentlemen, but, Mr. Smallwood, I would not entrust the formation of such a collection to someone as young, and as inexperienced, as Mr. Shrubsole.” All were stunned, none more than Eric.

But whether it was the rudeness, or the presumption, or the slight to a man nearly the same age as Smallwood himself when he got the Lipton job, it backfired. As Eric told it, “Bob Smallwood looked right at me, reached out, shook my hand, and announced: ‘Gentlemen, I will be entrusting the formation of the collection exclusively to Mr. Shrubsole.’ and we were off to the races.”

“Bob Smallwood looked right at me, reached out, shook my hand, and announced: ‘Gentlemen, I will be entrusting the formation of the collection exclusively to Mr. Shrubsole.’ and we were off to the races.”

At the time, of course, Eric had no idea what this would mean. But over the next ten years, the Thomas J. Lipton company bought 950 objects from S.J. Shrubsole—an average of two items a week for ten years. It is a rate inconceivable for any antique store today , and probably ever. Some were quotidian items like a pair of teaspoons, or a caddy spoon. Some were great masterpieces, like the Edward Wakelin tray now at the Virginia Museum, or the amazing cup and cover by John Edwards. Some, like the wildly inventive and almost unbelievably pristine set of tea caddies by Paul de Lamerie (pp. 24-25), deserve

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to be considered amongst the finest items ever made in English silver.

Eric became the Curator of the Lipton Collection. He travelled far and wide, museum to museum, building relationships with curators and patrons. He tried to show people something he himself truly believed and acted on all his life: that there was nothing nicer in the world than a cup of tea—preferably accompanied by something sweet! And to judge by Lipton’s success in this country, it worked. Smallwood had taken the helm in 1939. By 1953 sales were up 1,000 percent. By 1958, Lipton’s US sales passed the one-billion-dollar mark. I like to think my stepfather had a hand in that success.

Our wonderful old porter Charlie Glazer, who worked for Eric from 1937 until 1996, said of Lipton: “they made this place.” And I guess they did. All the great clients who would come after: the Woolworths, Judge Untermyer, James F. Bell and General Mills, Joseph Atha and Folger’s Coffee, the Hearsts, Florence Gould, the Dorrances and Campbell’s Soup, Arthur Houghton, Arthur Gilbert, Rita Gans, the list goes on….they came because they knew that here could be found great works of art in silver, guaranteed genuine, and in beautiful condition.

That we were in fact a—perhaps the—top dealer.

As for the Lipton Collection between then and now: Lipton’s at some point (I like to think it was when Eric got tired of touring) decided to focus on iced tea, and thus to focus on sponsoring tennis tournaments like the Lipton Invitationals. With Unilever such a sprawling business, the part of the silver collection which had been used at the parties was at first warehoused, and then pruned down by a succession of CEOs who apparently either gave things away or sold them. But the core of it, the star lots—presented here—remained on display at Unilever headquarters in Englewood Cliffs, presented rather drably next to old packages of Hellman’s Mayonnaise, Dove Soap, and of course, Lipton’s Tea. At some

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point in the 1970s the entire collection was transferred to the ownership of the Unilever United States Foundation, a charitable foundation dedicated to providing clean water and healthy food to people in need. Finally, with Unilever’s recent sale of Lipton’s Tea, the Foundation decided to sell the collection, and as we had been taking care of it for the last, oh, seventy years , they called us.

It is amazing, and a delight to us, seventy-four years after Eric met Robert Smallwood, to present this superb collection of English tea wares. By chance, the collection also includes some Liptoniana with which we had nothing to do—paintings of tea clippers by Montague Dawson, a 1930 model of Sir Thomas Lipton’s yacht Shamrock V, and three portraits of Sir Thomas himself, one of which I am tempted to keep and display in the gallery as a nod to the role his firm played in my step-father’s charmed life and in the ongoing life of our firm. They made this place.

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The Collection As noted, the emphasis of the collection is tea-related silver from England, but it also includes paintings and even a model ship. They are all, at present, available for sale.

Silver-Gilt Tea Bowl and Saucer, English, c. 1685 Diameter of saucer: 4 1⁄8 in.; Weight: 2 oz. 18 dwt.

Silver-Gilt Tea Bowl, London, 1684, maker’s mark IG Diameter: 3 3⁄4 in.; Weight: 1 oz. 15 dwt.

Teacup, London, 1693, maker’s mark RM Height: 2 1⁄8 in.; Weight: 1 oz. 11 dwt.

An erroneous story told about English silver teacups is that they were comically impractical (hot tea makes for a cup too hot to handle), which is supposed to explain why the form was abandoned almost as soon as it was introduced in the late 17th century. The form was indeed short-lived, but the true reason is slightly different and reflects better on silversmiths’ common sense. In the early days of English tea-drinking, it was customary to serve tea not hot, but lukewarm, making a metal cup rather pleasant in the hand and very much practical.

By the end of the 17th century, however, the custom had changed to serving hot tea, which demanded an insulated material like porcelain.

Regardless, silver teacups appear only in a very brief window and are today among the rarest objects in English silver.

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The Teapots Teapot & Stand, London, 1782/4,

by Hester Bateman Length: 9 1⁄2 in.; Weight: 18 oz. 10 dwt.

Hester Bateman is among the most recognizable names in English silver. Widowed in 1760, she took the reins of her husbands rinky-dink wire-drawing company and transformed it into a dominant commercial enterprise, churning out enormous quantities of relatively inexpensive silver, ripe for acquisition by London’s emerging upper-middle class. This teapot is a characteristic example in good condition, with the telltale rolled sheet silver and bright-cut engraving that built the Bateman empire.

Teapot & Stand, London, 1791,

by Charles Hougham Length: 10 7⁄8 in.; Weight: 19 oz. 19 dwt.

The elaborate, expertly engraved cartouche and the green-stained ivory finial elevate what would have been an ordinary George III teapot into an eye-catching piece.

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Teapot, London, 1761, by Richard Gurney & Thomas Cooke Length: 10 in.; Weight: 23 oz. 9 dwt.

An especially elegant and unusually large George II teapot.

Bachelor’s Teapot, London, 1798, by John Emes Length: 7 1⁄8 in.; Weight: 7 oz. 6 dwt.

Engraved with the monogram WLM and a bishop’s mitre—because what object could be more suitable for a bishop than a bachelor’s teapot?

Its original owner may have been one of two candidates: First, William Lort Mansel (1753-1820), Master of Trinity College and Bishop of Bristol. Second, William Markham (1719-1807), a renowned scholar who tutored the Prince of Wales and served as Archbishop of York, Lord High Almoner, and privy councillor.

Though in fact both these men of the cloth did marry, the Anglican prohibition on clerical marriage having been lifted in the 16th century.

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Teapot, London, 1707, by Benjamin Pyne Length: 7 1⁄2 in.; Weight: 21 oz. 14 dwt.

Though the arms are slightly later and Rococo, this is a beautiful teapot with fine proportion, excellent color, and well-struck marks.

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Teapot, London, 1725, by Samuel Wastell Height: 4 7⁄8 in.; Weight: 13 oz. 15 dwt.

A pristine example of one of the most attractive designs of the early 18th century: the “bullet” teapot.

Teapot, London, 1855, by John Figg Length: 7 in.; Weight: 9 oz.

The date is Victorian, but the design is George II, making this an early example of revivalism—if not outright reproduction—in English silver.

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Bachelor’s Teapot, London, 1718, by Jacob Margas Height: 7 1⁄4 in.; Weight: 11 oz. 16 dwt.

This charming teapot is a wonderful example of refashioning. Wealthy families in eighteenth and nineteenth century England had their silver and their furniture refashioned regularly. Refashioning means, of course, making something again, and the term was often used to describe the process of completely melting down the old silver to buy a new service in the latest fashion; but sometimes the term was used simply to describe making something fashionable again, bringing something up to date. The best known example of this is probably a pair of soup tureens made by Lamerie for Baron Edgcumbe which are now at the Victoria &Albert Museum. They are hallmarked for 1722, but at some point in the 1740s the family sent them back to Lamerie for refashioning, and they came back rococo. Lamerie didn’t melt them down, he removed the 1722 strapwork decoration from the bodies, and replaced it with rococo feet, handles, and cartouche—strangely, he left the covers as they were. This teapot is a similar case. Made in 1718 by the great Jacob Margas, it was sent back around 1740 and engraved around the cover with delicate rococo scrolls—a simple and inexpensive way of bringing it up to date. There is a chance that it was refashioned this way because it was the cheap way to do it, but I like to think it was done this way because the owner, or the silversmith, or both, simply couldn’t bear the thought of melting down such a delightful little object. It continued to exert its charm into the 19th century, when it was acquired by a member of the family of the Duke of Hamilton. The Hamilton crest is on the side.

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Teapots & Stands, London, 1784/96,

by A. Fogelberg & S. Gilbert Length: 11 1⁄2 in.; Weight: 47 oz.

This “pair” of teapots, as the various catalogs of the Lipton collection bill them, are…not. They are two nearly identical pots by the same silversmithing partnership: Andrew Fogelberg and Stephen Gilbert. Fogelberg and Gilbert were in the vanguard of fashion in 1780s London, and worked to the designs of William Chambers and Robert Adam. These pots were probably designed

by Chambers, and it is a famously chic design. But the story of them becoming “a pair” is another amusing piece of Shrubsolean and/or Smallwoodian alchemy.

As you can see from the letters reproduced here, Eric’s father, Sidney, got hold of one of these teapots, and somehow knew that the Queen had another. Naturally, he offered her his. But Her Highness, who was known as an inveterate wheeler-dealer, turned around and offered him hers—naturally, at the same price. Of course, he had to buy it.

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Teapot, London, 1775, by Charles Wright Height: 4 1⁄2 in.; Weight: 14 oz. 18 dwt.

Style is cyclical, and the austere geometry of this charming pot must have given whiplash to English aesthetes of the 1770s still reeling from the throes of Rococo maximalism.

Old Sheffield Plate Traveling Tea Set, c. 1800 Height of teapot: 6 in.; Length: 9 3⁄8 in.

This highly unusual group is a traveling tea-set. The handle comes off the creamer so it fits in the sugar, and the sugar then fits in the teapot, and the handle of the teapot comes off and fits inside the lid, so it all gets condensed into a handle-less teapot, the distinctive feature of which is an extremely short spout. Though we’ve seen lots of traveling chambersticks and traveling altar cruets, we’ve never seen one of these.

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Teapot, London, 1802, by John Robins Length: 9 7⁄8 in.; Weight: 21 oz. 7 dwt.

A particularly nice and capacious, workaday teapot for the drowsy collector who needs four cups of tea.

Argyle, London, 1788, by John Scofield Length: 13 1⁄4 in.; Weight: 40 oz.

This argyle is an example of the very best Shrubsolean salesmanship. It is an argyle: that is to say, a double-walled vessel designed to keep gravy hot. It is probably the finest and largest argyle known. It is a wonderful example of neo-classical silver. It is a tour-deforce of bright-cut engraving, the style of which tempts me to think it was commissioned by a Baltimore family.

It looks at first glance very like a teapot, but it is not. It is not a teapot. So why, you may ask, is it in the Lipton collection? Well, at some point in its life someone made for it a curious little oval insert that looks like it probably used to have attached to it a muslin bag so that it could be used as a teapot, so Eric, enterprising man that he was, sold it to Lipton as a rare “Argyle-Teapot.” It is, again, and to be perfectly clear: an argyle.

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Tea & Coffee Service, London, 1804/5, by Digby Scott & Benjamin Smith Height of urn: 14 1⁄2 in.; Weight: 370 oz.

Around the turn of the 19th century—primed by generations of Grand Tour adventures, alongside a proliferation of archaeological excavations around the Mediterranean—England was home to an explosion of interest in Greek, Roman, and Egyptian antiquities. The decorative arts world responded in force with rams’ heads, Greek keys, Doric columns, Romanesque arches, satyrs, masks, and of course, sphynxes. This service is among the very best examples of classical revivalism ever produced.

Eric Shrubsole described it as the best tea and coffee service from the George III period, rivaled only by the Jamaica Service in the Royal Collection. Digby Scott and Benjamin Smith made this service for Rundell, Bridge & Rundell, Royal silversmiths.

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The Tea Caddies Pair of Tea Caddies, London, 1726,

by Edward Gibbon (left) Height: 4 3⁄4 in.; Weight: 12 oz. 14 dwt.

Sorry, not THAT Edward Gibbon.

Tea Caddy, York, c. 1797, by John Hampston & John Prince (below left) Height: 5 1⁄8 in.; Weight: 16 oz. 8 dwt.

A pristinely preserved object, of uncommon quality for provincial silver.

Tea Caddy, London, 1804, by T. Ellerton & R. Sibley (below) Length: 7 7⁄8 in.; Weight: 41 oz.

Probably the largest surviving tea caddy in English silver, this behemoth is nevertheless elegant, largely due to its beautiful design, fine proportions, and pristine condition.

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Pair of Tea Caddies, London, 1755,

by John Jacob (right) Height: 6 1⁄4 in.; Weight: 24 oz. 11 dwt.

Gestures toward Chinoiserie, with pagoda covers and a ginger jar profile.

Set of Three Tea Caddies, London, 1753,

by Henry Morris (below right) Height: 6 1⁄4 in./5 1⁄2 in.; Weight: 30 oz. 8 dwt.

The upward spiraling flutes give these caddies a thoroughly Rococo sense of movement.

Set of Three Tea Caddies, London, 1774, by Peter Gillois (below) Height: 9 in./7 3⁄4 in.; Weight: 46 oz. 16 dwt.

Stately French style from a Huguenot silversmith, a tea caddy specialist.

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Set of Three Tea Caddies & Case, London, 1738, by Paul de Lamerie Height of central caddy: 6 in.

The caddies shown here are among the finest pieces of rococo silver ever made in England. They were made in 1738

by Paul de Lamerie for Sir James Dashwood, a fantastically rich sugar merchant whose house, Kirtlington, is second only to Blenheim as the grandest house in Oxfordshire. In 1933 the Metropolitan Museum bought the dining room, because it is one of the great masterpieces of English rococo plasterwork.

These caddies are in a class by themselves. They are massive, wonderfully heavy, wildly sculptural, and seem to represent some crazed dream of a dragon writhing in the spume and shells while visions of exotic lands bubble up through the foam. They bear the unmistakable characteristics of Lamerie’s great modeler of the 1730s, whose name is lost to history but who has become known as the Maynard Master.

In my opinion, the only comparable rococo items in English silver are the Marlborough inkstand, the cups and covers at the Fishmongers’ company, the magnificent coffee pot we sold to the Folger coffee collection, the Lequesne coffee pot, and the Maynard sideboard dish. Of these, only the Marlborough inkstand and these caddies survive in pristine condition.

Perhaps the best way to bring home the power and singular beauty and strangeness of these caddies is to tell the story of their acquisition, in 1952, by a trepidatious Eric Shrubsole.

The caddies came up in a sale at Anderson Galleries, the predecessor to Parke-Bernet, in turn the predecessor to Sotheby’s. They were correctly cataloged, but even though Eric had handled plenty of very fine English silver in his career, these were so unusual, so magnificent, so wild that after buying them, he didn’t dare sell them without his father’s telling him they were alright. So, Eric put the caddies in the bank vault and held his breath for four months till his father came over on the Queen Mary. His verdict stands: “Son, that’s the best lot you’ve ever bought. It may well be the best thing you’ll ever buy.”

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Other Silver Soup Tureen, London, 1752, by Elizabeth Godfrey Length: 15 in.; Weight: 99 oz. 10 dwt.

The one piece in the collection with no apparent relation to tea. Elizabeth Godfrey is one of two women silversmiths represented in the collection. Her father was the great Huguenot silversmith Simon Pantin; her first husband was the great Huguenot silversmith Abraham Buteaux; her second husband was the great Huguenot silversmith Benjamin Godfrey. From 1741, presumably after her second husband’s death, she ran her business independently under the name Elizabeth Godfrey.

Salver, London, 1762, by Richard Rugg Diameter: 13 in.; Weight: 38 oz.

A fine salver with a beautifully engraved Chinoiserie cartouche.

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Tea Kettle, London, 1740/44, by Paul de Lamerie Weight: 72 oz.

A very fine kettle with features that all but scream Lamerie: the masterful claw feet, the just-so floral chasing, and above all, the organic, sculptural spout.

The arms and crest are those of Ballard of Cradley, Herefordshire.

Tea Urn, London, 1801, by Peter, Ann & William Bateman Height: 16 1⁄4 in.; Weight: 92 oz.

The spherical form is highly unusual, not to mention technically demanding.

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Royal Tea Urn, London, 1790, by Edward Fernell Height: 23 in.; Weight: 117 oz.

This large and elegant urn, with its sleek sweeping handles and its clean geometric base and ball feet, is an embodiment of all that is best in late neoclassical or “Adam” silver: it is a triumph of proportion over decoration. Such items were not uncommon in the period, but what sets this one apart is its remarkable provenance.

On the front of the urn is the cypher CR with a crown above. Though rarely seen on silver, this is for Queen Charlotte, George III’s consort (“Charlotte Regina”). On the back, in the same script, are the initials JdM, sans crown—and, helpfully, on the base is engraved “The Gift of Queen Charlotte to Julie de Montmollin.”

There are of course many other Royal gifts that survive, but ninety-nine percent of them are Christening gifts to the King’s (apparently innumerable) godchildren. This urn is one of the very few known pieces given as a gift by an English Queen. The recipient, Julie de Montmollin, was an intimate member of the household—she was the French and needlepoint tutor to Charlotte’s younger daughters. According to Flora Fraser, the preceding French tutor to the young princesses had been Julie’s cousin Charlotte-Salome de Montmollin, and when she married, “the Queen took as much trouble with the trousseau as if it had been her own daughter marrying.”

Perhaps the Queen was as fond of Julie, and perhaps this too was a wedding gift...but we will probably never know.

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Tea Urn, London, 1810, by Paul Storr Height: 16 1⁄4 in.; Weight: 197 oz.

Tea urns are a great canvas for the silversmith: large, stable objects with plenty of room for decoration and plenty of opportunity for flair.

Paul Storr made large numbers of tea urns but this is among the finest and most ambitious, with elaborately modeled dolphins and enormous claw feet.

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The Paintings

Sails of Dawn, Foochow, Clipper Ship Ariel

by Henry Scott, c. 1960 40 in. x 29 1⁄2 in.

Provenance: Macconnal Mason, London, circa 1965.

A similar picture of the clipper ships Windhover and Thermopylae at anchor at Foochow was sold at Sotheby’s October 30, 2006.

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The Timaru

by Montague Dawson, c. 1950 50 in. x 40 in.

The collection Bob Smallwood assembled for Lipton included a number of paintings, with emphasis on marine themes—including these two by celebrated Royal Society of Marine Artists painter Montague Dawson (1895-1973).

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The Great Race

by Montague Dawson, c. 1950 50 in. x 30 in.

A premium was awarded to the first tea clipper to arrive in London with the new Chinese tea crop. In 1866, the frontrunners were these two vessels—the Ariel and the Taiping—which arrived neck-and-neck in London, after a 99-day journey across 16000 miles, docking within 20 minutes of one another.

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A Portrait of Sir Thomas Lipton’s Yacht Shamrock IV

by Charles Pears, c. 1920 39 1⁄2 in. x 49 1⁄2 in.

It’s rather unusual to be celebrated for losing; yet Thomas Lipton’s arguable claim to fame, aside from Lipton Tea, is that he lost the America’s Cup—five times. So unsuccessful was he that a special cup was designed to honor him, “the best of all losers.”

The five losing vessels were all named Shamrock. After the race, Lipton opened up this fourth iteration of the Shamrock for public tours, and some 35,000 visitors came on board over a three-day period.

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Model of the Shamrock V

by Boucher, c. 1930 Height: 45 in.

Lipton’s fifth and final try for the America’s Cup. This model was made by Horace Boucher, a Frenchman who imported the European tradition of model shipmaking to the U.S.

Back Cover:

Tea Caddy, London, 1765, John Parker & Edward Wakelin Height: 4 3⁄4 in.; Weight: 19 oz.

Heavy, crisp, and in pristine condition. This is an all-around superb example of 18th-century Chinoiserie.

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