George Washington lost his first tooth at age 24. By the time he took the presidential oath in 1789 he had only one natural tooth left. Those numbers come straight from his own diary entries and the ledgers kept at Mount Vernon. A researcher who spent weeks with the surviving dentures — call her Dr. L — described the steel springs that forced the jaws apart and the lead base that pressed against raw gums. She noted how the contraption must have clicked and shifted with every word spoken in public. That single surviving set now sits in a case at Mount Vernon, its materials documented in detail rather than left to legend.
The materials that actually went into the dentures
Washington owned at least four sets over his lifetime. The only complete surviving example contains hippopotamus ivory carved for the base, human teeth set into it, cow and horse teeth for some of the chewing surfaces, brass wires, gold fittings, and steel springs. No wood appears anywhere. The ivory discolored quickly from wine and food, which probably fed the old story that the teeth were wooden. Dentist John Greenwood in New York handled most of the later work; he left a deliberate gap in one lower plate so Washington’s last real tooth could still anchor the device.
Records show Washington paid for teeth removed from enslaved people on his own plantation in 1784. The entries list nine teeth bought “on account for” the French dentist Jean-Pierre Le Mayeur. Historians still debate whether any of those specific teeth ended up in Washington’s own mouth. The ledger phrasing suggests the purchase was for Le Mayeur’s general stock, not a direct transplant into the president’s plates. Either way, the transaction sits in the financial books alongside purchases of livestock and produce.
Photo by The Metropolitan Museum of Art on Unsplash
What one 2016 research paper adds to the record
Jennifer Van Horn’s article in Early American Studies examined the physical dentures alongside period medical texts, satirical prints, and portraits. She argues the devices let Washington perform the visible self-control expected of a republican leader even while he lived with chronic pain and facial distortion. The springs and bulky bases altered his jawline and lip position; artists such as Gilbert Stuart captured the resulting bulge in the lower face. Van Horn shows how concealing that disability became part of the public image rather than a private medical matter.
The paper does not claim new materials or new teeth. It places the existing artifacts in their cultural setting: a man whose private suffering shaped how he appeared in official likenesses and how later generations remembered him. Readers can find the full text through the journal’s site or academic libraries.
How common was tooth loss in Washington’s era
Eighteenth-century dental care relied on extraction when pain became unbearable. Calomel treatments for other illnesses and simple diet contributed to widespread decay. Washington’s case sits at the severe end of a common pattern; many adults of his generation reached middle age with few or no natural teeth. What stands out is the documentation: repeated diary notes, payments to multiple practitioners, and the decision to retain pulled teeth in a desk drawer in case they could be reused. Most people left no such trail.
Dr. L, the same researcher who handled the Mount Vernon set, pointed out that the springs required constant adjustment. Greenwood received shipments of the plates from Philadelphia or New York whenever they loosened or caused sores. The maintenance routine itself reveals how imperfect the technology remained even for the wealthiest patient.
Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash
Portraits, discomfort, and lasting image
Washington complained in letters that newer plates pushed his lips outward “as if swelled.” The effect shows in the Athenaeum portrait used on the dollar bill. Earlier images from the 1770s show a fuller lower face; later ones reflect the changes. He took laudanum for the pain and kept the problem out of official correspondence when possible. One intercepted letter about dental tools during the Yorktown campaign even helped mislead British commanders about American troop movements.
The surviving dentures now serve as primary evidence rather than curiosities. Mount Vernon displays them with clear labels listing every material. Visitors see the hole left for the final natural tooth and the rivets that held everything together. The objects correct the record more effectively than any single article.
What this means for anyone reading history today
The wooden-teeth story persisted in textbooks well into the twentieth century because it was simple and memorable. The actual record is messier and more instructive: advanced materials for the time, real human cost in sourcing some of those materials, and a public figure who managed visible disability through constant technical fixes. The next time the old myth surfaces, the concrete step is straightforward. Open the Mount Vernon pages on Washington’s teeth or request the Van Horn article through a library. The artifacts and the ledgers are still there to check.