Lace is about as far as you can get from plain sewing, but this little collection is so sweet it deserves a bit of attention. “Point Lace, The Royal Point Lace Instructor,” by Mlle. Riego de la Branchardiere was published in 1869, and provided ladies who had crafty fingers, and some free time, with all they needed to make their own tape lace.
This handwritten version of Mlle. Riego’s book belonged to a woman born only a couple of years after the original was published. “Nanny” was a widow who worked as a children’s nurse for a family in Devon, England in the early 1900s. In 1901, she made a copy of the published book in a notebook of her own, and meticulously traced the patterns and illustrations onto tissue paper.
A large tissue pattern for a border or insertion of Venetian Point Lace.
In a 1960s letter, a previous owner of the lace work recommended a needlework supplier, Mesdames Mace and Nairn, that may still be supplying embroiderers today!
The collection comprises samples of unfinished work tacked to two layers of ground fabric. There’s one with a heavy canvas backing with a lighter cotton front, and two strips that are puzzling. They have a muslin back and pink glazed cotton front that has the lace pattern inked on it. What makes them unusual is that they’re constructed like old-fashioned sewing roll-ups (kits), bound with purple silk ribbon. You can see where they’ve had the tapes tacked to the pattern and then clipped off in places. Were they used for teaching? For reference? They’d be easy to roll up neatly and carry in a work box or bag! Or maybe they just allowed Nanny to work on a length of lace at a time, untack it, and then do another, while the “roll-up” kept the fabrics together and prevented raveling?
A deep blue pattern with bright points of light shining through the old tacking marks – like a starry night!
The largest piece is made of blue glazed cotton which appears to be stamped with a pattern, probably purchased from a shop. It has a pattern number (reversed) and a crown logo. It’s obviously been used. I wonder if the finished project is still tucked in a drawer somewhere or in a stack of old linens in an antique shop.
A closeup of the fine work that she did. Apparently the instructions gave her no problems at all!
This last photo shows how pretty the lace is when finished and cut from the backing. It would have made lovely trimming. Some clues about Nanny and her life survived with the collection, showing the path it traveled over a century. The stories are as much a treasure as the relics!
P.S. This collection (along with other “old” things) is ready for a new home, I will be listing it soon! Check my Etsy shop as I downsize, a little at a time!
Dressing dolls in a rich or showy manner, is among the earliest and most effective means of forming in little ones a taste for a similar style of dress in themselves or others. The toy baby or lady is arrayed in fine colors, gossamer fabrics, or rich silks, and loaded with all the trimmings and ornaments which fashion permits. This gaudy or splendid object is admired by everybody, and every part of the dress commented on by the wondering owner, in terms of enthusiasm, worthy of Victoria’s bridal paraphernalia. Who can wonder that the little girl receives the impression that the style of dress which calls forth such rapture is exceedingly beautiful, and all–important?
Give children dolls dressed in accordance with the taste which you would wish to form in them, and a style which you would like to have them imitate. And never allow a doll’s dress to be commented upon as though it were a matter of any importance, except in reference to tidiness.
A true taste and correct principles in regard to dress may be formed in young children under proper management. –The Mother’s Journal, 1843
Well, thank heaven my mother didn’t follow that advice! I loved every bit of glitter, color, sequins, or lace that I played with, wore, or admired from a distance. It certainly didn’t affect my dress taste as adult. Maybe it would have been better if it had, since now I’m more likely to ask “do I have to wear shoes?” when I’m invited anywhere!
I still love extravagant doll clothes. In fact, this project didn’t start with a doll, it started with a doll corset. I bought it because it was hand sewn (and a bargain) even though 1– I didn’t have a doll to wear it, and 2– it was the wrong period for the Romantic and Gothic styles I wanted to sew. No problem, I thought, just make a doll body to fit it. And then find a doll head to fit the body and the fashions!
So what if I’d never made one before? So what if I knew (still know) nothing about 1830s-40s dolls? But just like making Pharaby, “faint heart never won fair lady,” let’s have some fun! So here’s a look at what turned out to be years of fun.
I made the body with 2 layers of fabric so the sawdust wouldn’t leak through. It’s dyed with tea to match the complexion of the head which was reproduced by Royal Copenhagen in the 1970s from the original molds. Warning: if you make skinny ankles out of muslin and sawdust they will flop. Solution: orthopedic surgery with wooden dowels. That wasn’t fun for either of us, although termites might have enjoyed it.
The arms were custom made of leather by a doll-making pro (it’s why they look so good) and then colored by me to match her complexion (it’s why the color doesn’t). Her chemise is pretty standard, similar to my other dolls’, which are gores, gussets, and rectangles pieced together. Her drawers are “open” style and they close with antique linen buttons – also used on the straps I added to her corset. You can see the outline of the whalebone busk down the corset’s center.
She also got plain tucked and corded petticoats. The corded one needs some alteration because I didn’t like how the cords showed through the muslin. Which is why it didn’t make the photo shoot.
Her green silk shoes weren’t as hard to make as Pharaby’s because she has (dare I say it?) not-dainty-feet.
The shoes were lined with glazed linen which was excruciatingly difficult to do.The silk knit stockings were custom made by a pro. I knew there was no way on earth I could make them myself to fit the awkward combination of skinny ankles and not-dainty-feet.
We had to have sleeve supports! Those ginormous gigot sleeves that were so fashionable couldn’t stand on their own. Ladies of the era contrived a way to save sleeves from collapsing by wearing supports resembling little pillows or cages. If you’re already wearing a dozen undergarments, a couple more can’t hurt. I stuffed them with wool instead of down. The sawdust was messy enough. Me with feathers? Unthinkable.
This was the first dress I made. I love the historical cotton prints available for quilting, but bemoan the weight. It won’t shape and drape like period calico did, and that’s especially evident in doll clothes.
The bodice is lined with vintage glazed linen and the waist is covered with vintage tape. I’ve forgotten how many tries it took to get the skirt gauging (gathering) to fit. Suffice it to say more than one.
Of course every lady needed a pelerine or fichu or canezou or whatever name this ethereal embroidered kerchief was called. This one is refashioned from a rescued/repurposed vintage bit of whitework.
The next dress was an adventure in pattern making; I was aiming for an early ’30s ballgown that would work with sheer oversleeves and I had pink silk satin that was begging me to use it. The scalloped collar (see the first image) was an ordeal – making it fit and lie properly on the shoulders and then meet like it should in the back – arrghh!
However, that was nothing compared to figuring out the sleeves. Workwoman’s Guide and Patterns of Fashion to the rescue.
Unfortunately, with sleeves, you have to make two. And here’s the kicker – they have to match – as mirror images! It looks like the back of the silk is a different color here, but that’s just the lighting.
Sleeve attached. WITH piping! You’ll notice, however, that there are no photos showing both sleeves together. See caption above.
My favorite part! The oversleeves. Until I started searching for examples to go by, I had no idea they were such “a thing.” But the internet is full of portraits of women wearing them. The buckle was a lucky find on Etsy. Vertical rectangular buckles were also very much “a thing.” (Hint: I have one listed there myself right now!)
Moving towards 1840s here, with tighter sleeves and long pointy waists, as my lady became a young matron and wanted a more dignified style. And guess what? Scarlett wasn’t the only one who could make a gown out of curtains! I bought this silk years ago for windows. It was the perfect weight for a doll dress. You might say we “just saw it in the window and couldn’t resist!”
Let’s see… what went wrong during construction? First I tried to use some vintage glazed lining that wasn’t up to the job. Too many needle holes and it cracked. Started over. Then realized I’d cut the bodice in a totally modern way. Started over. Then made yards of sleeve trimming which I trashed because it looked awful on the sleeves. Started over.
After all that, the skirt was too easy. Except that I hemmed it first for convenience, then left the wrong edge open for the waistband. Started over. Maybe there’s no such thing as too easy?
This gown was a pleasure to sew because the cotton was so thin, like original calicos and ginghams. The sleeves were cut like the floral dress, then gauged (gathered) to fit close to the arm.
A tippet! Can’t have an 1830s wardrobe without at least one!
My lady needed a nightdress and I had an unfinished project that was doomed to remain that way. So I used parts of it for her gown. I shouldn’t say what’s inauthentic about it, but I will: the hem shouldn’t have tucks, but it does.
To compensate for taking liberties with the nightgown, I went the extra mile for her night cap and actually sewed the strings (ties) like originals were done, instead of using ribbons. The hems are tinier than they look in the photo, and my vision is now a little worse.
I’ve never watched a horror movie, ever. But making this dressing gown felt like I was living one. I had only a few online images to go by (e.g. Augusta Auctions here). Figuring out how to make the lining fitted in the back and tie around the front and the yoke attach to the front skirt and the sleeves fit it all… I was within an inch of setting fire to days of tortured work. So I put it away for a long time, then got it back out and fought it till I won. NEVER AGAIN. (Photo of me using my patented paper towel pattern method.)
Last of all, a cloak for cold weather. It’s made of a dull gold cotton velveteen, lined with ivory silk which is quilted with wool batting. It’s edged with silk ribbon unraveled into fringe and a curly silk trim.
The quilting took ages and I had to stitch it flat on a table to keep it straight. Some of the lines are crooked anyway.
I really should add another gown or two to her wardrobe, perhaps some more accessories and a bonnet. She’s also missing something else important, and I can’t seem to find the perfect fit. She needs a name! Suggestions welcome – if they show a True Taste. We won’t worry about Correct Principles.
“About 1849.” Except for the owner’s name, that’s really all I know about the history of this particular little sewing album. It’s bound with marbled paper card stock, edged with silk ribbon, and the colorful pages have the feel (and unfortunately the quality!) of children’s construction paper. Written inside the front cover is “made about 1849 by Mary M. Quiston, later Mrs. Reid, later Mrs. Porter.” (The “M. Quiston” might be “McQuiston.”)
Samplers of cross stitch (marking), embroidery, or darning skills have a long history in Britain, America, and Europe, but the popularity of books containing specimens of plain sewing stitches began in England in the 1810s. They were developed as part of the “monitorial” education system where pupils who had mastered a skill instructed the ones who were just learning it.
This system of “mutual education” was originally applied to basic reading, writing, and arithmetic, then to plain needlework since it was an essential part of female education. Understanding sewing instruction techniques was much easier if you had a small sample to see. Books with samples of hemming, stitching, seaming, marking, etc., were originally intended to help a teacher follow “the system” in her classroom, but also developed into treasured collections preserved by the girls who had worked them in order to demonstrate their accomplishments.
This is one of two caps included in the 1816 British and Foreign School Society manual, a book intended as a guide for educators who were using their monitorial system. It’s attached to the page so I can’t fold it out to show it well, but there’s a tiny number “1” marked in red cotton barely visible on the left. The other cap is marked (surprise!) “2.”
The earliest books might include a miniature shirt, cap, or apron, but it wasn’t long before they added other items like stockings, sleeves, dresses, trims, etc. to the classes. Educators appreciated the savings in time and expense that using small samples offered (and heaven knows charity schools needed to economize!) but maybe they had another reason as well: it was fun making tiny garments that were just like doll clothes! Here are some of my favorite pages from Mary’s book.
This dress is a simpler style than the sheer one above and it’s made of printed cotton.
Mary sewed this child’s dress with nine tucks in the skirt, gauged gathers, and trim she (probably) made herself.
We can’t forget the MOST important garment in the Plain Sewing repertoire: The Shirt. No course in plain sewing was complete without this accomplishment!
Here’s an example of the practice cuffs or wristbands that would have been worked before she advanced to making the above shirt. Knitting was also an essential needlework skill for women, and most 19th C sample albums included examples. There was a single full-sized stocking tucked into the book also.
Plain and fancy! Mary did all the hemming, seaming, and making buttonholes in her earliest lessons, but she obviously got to learn some fancywork as well. If you get a thrill looking at daguerreotypes of that time (Pinterest is sooo addictive) you might recognize the vandyke collar pattern that was so popular then.
Nope, it’s not a walrus mustache. It’s some pretty (or not!) wool trim, useful for Victorians who didn’t know the meaning of restraint in decor. Mary also made a hexagon quilt patch and worked a scripture verse on punched paper. I don’t understand why 19th C needle workers seem so untroubled by words that run out of roo– m. Why???
Two pairs of undersleeves were kept with the book. I assume they were Mary’s work because they have her initials marked in cross stitch. I’ve circled them in the photo to show how small they are. The sleeves show wear, so I don’t know if they were part of her sewing instruction or later work that stayed with her album.
The marked initials are less than 4mm tall. I never cease to be amazed at the tiny stitches they could make. The letters look like M B Mc to me. McQuiston?
I wish I knew more about Mary. How old was she when she learned to sew? Did she have daughters who wanted to take the dresses for their dolls? I would have! Did she use her skills for the rest of her life, or pack them away, back “around 1849”?
I’ve heard the old adage “a stitch in time saves nine” since I was a child, but I think I was an adult before the light clicked on. It made no sense to me: saves nine what? My ten year-old self thought it was silly. My grown-up self got the point, but still thought it was silly.
A few decades later, I can almost appreciate it ‘as written’. According to Thomas Fuller in 1732,
Because Verses are easier got by heart, and stick faster in the Memory than Prose; and because the ordinary People use to be much taken, with the clinking of Syllables; many of our Proverbs are so form’d, and very often put into false Rhymes; as, A Stitch in time, may save nine…. This little Artifice, I imagine, was contriv’d purposely to make the Sense abide the longer in the Memory, by reason of its Oddness and Archness.
Of course it means that attending to a problem now will save you many times the work later. When clothing or linens need mending, it’s better to do it before the damage gets worse. In the 19th century, mending and darning could take as much time as making and were an important part of plain sewing since the pile of work never diminished. Period fiction rang true, as in this excerpt from The Christian World Magazine, 1869:
I have so much to do – there are so many little ones, and mamma is so very often poorly. And the fact is, we are not rich. I have to make and to mend, and to turn, and to return, and so we never come to an end of the sewing. I sometimes speculate on the foot of a stocking, and wonder whether there is half an inch of the original fabric left in it! One darns it first quite neatly, and then one darns the darns, not quite so neatly, of course; and lastly, one cobbles as well as one can the darned darns, till it becomes quite a work of art, I assure you.”
Lots of quick and clumsy patching abounded (by necessity I’m sure!), but I’m amazed at the delicate repairs you can find in finer clothing (examples here, here, and here). One day last summer, I temporarily lost my mind and decided to try it myself on a baby gown in need of repair. Before starting, I looked at a similar gown with a neat mend to see how they’d accomplished it. It had a 3/4″ darn right in the center front.
Can you spot the period mend on this c. 1810 infant gown? Front and center. It’s right below the “Uh-oh!”
Here’s a closer view of the darning.
The one I wanted to repair had eraser-tip size holes on one sleeve and a tear at the back opening. My first problem was finding thread to darn with. Even the finest cotton thread I had looked wrong – too white, too glossy, too thick. So I raided a bag of “damaged beyond saving” muslin scraps and used the closest color and weight match, pulling threads from the fabric itself, trying to get strands long enough to use. I reviewed old sewing manuals for directions, but since I was being adventurous anyway, decided “Never mind manoeuvres, always go at them!”
Here you can see the holes on the front of the left sleeve. It was a daunting task for a first try. But how could I make it any worse?
I worked from the inside to keep it less visible on the outside.
No more holes!
The tear on the back was a little easier because it was straight along the weft. And I’d had a little practice by then!
By this time I was actually having fun with these tedious tiny stitches and went looking for more. I found a couple of pin sized holes and Saved Nine again!
The gown did have one period repair: a three-cornered or “hedge” tear. (At least that’s what it’s called in late 19th century manuals. I only found one earlier reference to hedge tear, 1850s.) I can’t take credit for this darn, darn it. It was neatly done, and I didn’t even discover it until I was part way through my own mending!
A nicely darned tear, done in the gown’s younger days.
All in all, I was pretty satisfied with the results. They wouldn’t stand professional scrutiny, but they work for my purpose and were way more fun than I expected. I’d like to do more. But wait. Does that mean I do or don’t want to Save Nine?
Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, FSA/OWI Collection
My dear sister Fannie, As I have just dropped my scissors in the well, have no more sewing cut out, and can conscientiously spare the time, I will write you a few lines. Indeed I would have written you before this, but I have no time at all to do anything for myself. I’m teaching the boys from eight till time for doing my cooking. All of us are quite well, so are all Pa’s folks.
Pa has not settled down steadily to work since Ma’s death. Keeps us uneasy all the time. I have set no hens yet, but intend to raise a lot this year. What luck are you having with your chickens and geese this year?
Can your baby walk yet? Mine is beginning to talk, has eight teeth and four more in sight. He is not much trouble now, only he climbs and can go up the stairs a good deal faster than I can. With much love to yourself, Ben and the children, I am as ever, Yours affectionately, Mollie
1882 Letter to to Fannie Dudley in Florida from her sister in Georgia1
You can’t sew without scissors, right? Seems like a pretty good excuse to me! I haven’t been sewing much lately either, but I’ve managed to entertain a few leisure hours with good books. Here are some I’ve found so interesting that I thought I’d share.
The Accomplished Lady, A History of Genteel Pursuits, c. 1660-1860 by Noël Riley is a guilty pleasure for this plain sewing enthusiast, since it’s far from plain. It’s a fabulous look at the 17th-19th century crafts, hobbies, and amusements that women who could afford leisure pastimes enjoyed. It covers the things you’d expect such as music, dancing, and cards, but I found the chapters on needlework, beadwork, shellwork and other nature crafts especially fascinating. Seaweed pictures, straw work, paper filigree… so many ways to exercise talent and display creativity! There’s even a bit on theorem or “poonah” painting. It’s beautifully illustrated – got to love the eye candy! – but the scholarly research which sets it all in context (without the tedious academese saturating so many similar works today – thank you, Ms. Riley!) makes it a valuable resource. The Accomplished Lady is definitely worth a book search or trip to the library!
Another happy find is closer to my plain sewing focus. Sweet & Clean?, by Susan North. While the title is the topic, personal cleanliness in early modern England, there is a lot of information on the making, wearing, and washing of underlinen (shirts, shifts, etc.). That, of course, means plain sewing figures prominently!
The exhaustive research on the most private areas of daily life kept me engrossed through every chapter. If you have an interest in clothing, health, and domestic life during those years, you’ll find answers to questions you didn’t even know to ask. Sweet & Clean? might be overwhelming if you like to rush through historic site tours to get to the cafe. But if you’re someone who lingers and wants to explore behind all the closed doors, this one’s for you!
Not all my reading is print – books that are available online can be just as entertaining. Old catalogs are lots of fun to browse, and I’ve found that sewing time can dwindle because of them. Mollie’s lost scissors may have been much like these. Which, no surprise, actually look a lot like those in my sewing basket now. The image below is from Carson, Pirie, Scott & Co. Wholesale Drygoods Catalog, 1893. Have a look, it’s like shopping the past.
1893 wholesale catalog. Note the prices per dozen!
I have one like E1646 – and it’s not antique, just old!
Maybe when you can “conscientiously spare the time,” you will have as much fun reading as sewing. And if you have any good books to share, please do! It may be a while before I retrieve my scissors from the well.
Elizabeth Armour, her work, the day before her death. November 8th, 1821. deceased November 9th, 1821.
Most of the time we never know who wore the antique clothing that we preserve and study, much less who made it and when. So it’s thrilling to find a piece with a story that connects us to a life lived long ago. Her name makes her real.
Shifts and chemises follow closely behind men’s shirts as prime examples of plain sewing. This rare linen shift has its provenance inscribed in ink across the heart. Not only does it give the name of the maker, Elizabeth Armour, but it tells when she made it, November 8, 1821, and when she died – the next day.
Occasionally notes are found attached to clothing, usually intended for family members to pass down, or perhaps when donated to museums. But I’d never seen one quite like this! How could I help but try to find out more about Elizabeth?
Elizabeth Armour’s plain shift, still in excellent condition.
Thanks to the wealth of genealogical data available online now, it was easy to search for a woman with that name and date of death. What a thrill to find her! Of course, I can’t be positive it’s the same person, but the odds seem pretty good.
Transcript of Elizabeth’s gravestone.
Elizabeth, wife of Matthew Armour, was born in London on April 7, 1757, and died on November 9th, 1821 in Philadelphia. She was buried there in Christ Church and St. Peter’s Churchyard on November 11, 1821. Her name was entered in the register of burials as “Eliza. Armor.” I don’t know whether the gravestone still exists, but at least a record of it does:
The following were her dying words: The Lord gives and the Lord takes, Blessed be the name of the Lord. Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord for they rest from their labours.
Who was Elizabeth and what was her life like? I found traces. Elizabeth Nesbet married Matthew Armour in the City of London at the church of St. Andrew Holborn on July 2, 1780. She next appeared as the mother of Susannah Nesbitt Armour who was christened at Christ Church and St. Peter’s in Philadelphia on July 3, 1785.
Wait, Philadelphia? 1785? It bargles (as my daughter used to say) the mind! More American history than I can even begin to explore. I suppose there are so many books, essays, and dissertations written on that place and time that they would collectively collapse my little local library. Even the church the Armours attended has a past so rich it makes me dizzy. Benjamin Franklin, George Washington, Betsy Ross, and many of the signers of the Declaration of Independence attended, all during the years the Armours were worshiping there as well.
In 1788, son William was born. Matthew appears on various records during those years as a house carpenter. If there were other children besides Susan and William, I didn’t find a record of them. We know the hazards of illness and accidents in those days, but in 1793 a yellow fever epidemic (here’s a compelling read) struck Philadelphia killing 5,000 of the 45,000 residents, and caused another 17,000 to abandon the city. It struck again in 1797, ’98, and ’99. Did it touch the Armours or their kin? I doubt I’ll ever know.
Matthew continues to appear in the early 1800s on tax, census, or manifest records (he made trips to England) as a carpenter. The family moved several times within the city through the years, and siblings Susan (as she was known) and William apparently never married, but kept house together and owned a dry goods store. In an 1811 affadavit sworn as a super cargo, William (at age 22) states he was 5’9″, fair complexion, blue eyes, with 3 scars on his left forefinger! There’s something eerie about knowing 200-year-old personal details like that. But perhaps no more than slipping my hand in the sleeve of Elizabeth’s chemise?
Elizabeth may have been ailing by 1821, since the cause of death was “dropsy.” We know what she was doing in the days before her death because of the inscription on her shift. More poignantly, we know how much her handwork meant to someone, probably her daughter Susan. I understand how that feels; I have handmade treasures from my late parents that move me to tears when I hold them.
Philadelphia, Nov. 9th, 1821 Died this day of Dropsy Elizabeth Armour aged 64 years.
Matthew returned to England sometime after Elizabeth’s death, where he died at Alnwick on January 1, 1824, aged 69. In 1830, Susan and William’s cousin, Martha Cheesman (b.1818), came from England to live with them in Philadelphia. William died in 1851, and Susan in 1857. She left an estate of $15,000 with bequests to Christ Church Hospital, the Northern Home for Friendless Children, her nieces, and the remainder to her “cousin Martha Cheeseman.” That was a lot of money for the time. It seems that the dry goods business was very profitable! I was getting a little lost and weary of genealogical research at this point, so I let the trail end with cousin Martha’s death in 1906. Perhaps the shift had been left in her care?
The shift is very simple. The linen is homespun and sewn with linen thread. The economic impact of the War of 1812 and then the Panic of 1819 meant times were still hard, so perhaps homespun was a necessity. The stitching is neat and even, but not particularly fine. The fabric was of insufficient width and so another piece was seamed to it to make the full width of the body, and then folded at the shoulder.
Left sleeve viewed from the back. You can also see the seamed join where fabric was added to a selvedge to make it wide enough.
The sleeves are short, and the right one is pieced. There are gussets under the arms with a small curve at the bottom. It angles slightly wider toward the hem, but has no gores. The seamed join was sewn from the outside, and because the materials were a bit coarse and the stitches a bit deep, it makes a slight ridge. I can see why it’s positioned on the outside, since it would be rather uncomfortable against the body. The inscription was made before the slit was cut for the opening, because the writing is folded under where it’s hemmed. I don’t know if Elizabeth made the shift for herself, her daughter, or a servant, but it could be considered a “comfortable” size more than a petite one.
The right sleeve is pieced, using every scrap of fabric. The left one is whole.
A view of the narrow hem and join. You can see how she “seamed” (narrow overcasting) with wrong sides together. It should make a flat, nearly invisible seam, but the linen and thread are coarse and she took the stitches rather deep.
Elizabeth Armour, maker of the shift, lived from 1757 until 1821 in England and America, through the years of the founding of the United States in a city where the most radical historical events were occurring. And what serendipity! She was there when JOSEPH LANCASTER was living (briefly) in Philadelphia! She learned plain sewing in 18th century England, and was able to make a thrifty shift of homespun linen using a minimum of fabric, in the “old” fashion – just as styles were about to change from “shifts to chemises.”
The majority plain needlework I’ve seen (or drooled over) through the years, whether manuals, samplers, or items of clothing, has been from England, and the rest from here in the U.S. It’s truly remarkable to find “threads” from England, America, world-changing history, endearing family sentiment, Joseph Lancaster, and plain needlework all sewn together with a story in this shift. I’m awed.
Patchwork projects, c1820. English paper piecing: an elegant silk “pocket” or case – perhaps for letters or needlework? – resting on unfinished panels of utilitarian cotton remnants (more pics below).
Patchwork quilting has earned a lofty place among the textile arts today, but 200 years ago a few writers felt inclined to poke fun at it. I was happily following rabbit trails, chasing plain sewing nuggets, when I came across some entertaining words on patchwork. A sketch written in 1821 found fault with the work AND the worker:
PATCH-WORK.
I have an old female cousin, who has passed a quarter of a century in rags, or rather amidst patches, destined to a most marvellous arrangement, for the furniture of a suite of apartments–a saloon, a boudoir, and a bed chamber. She began her paltry collection by begging of all her acquaintance, and wearing out every one by messages, notes, and applications for odd bits and patterns [i.e., printed fabrics].
She also told two score of lies, in order to obtain samples of different linen-drapers, but upon a very unwelcome observation of mine, she changed her operations.
Asking me one day if I did not think that the window curtains, ottomans, sopha-covers, et cætera, of her bow-windowed saloon would have a very novel, tasteful, and fantastic appearance, if composed of patch work judiciously arranged and bordered by a vandyke pattern worked by herself? I replied, “that the best patch-work which I ever saw had but a beggarly appearance, and that it would take her half her life, and lose her half her acquaintance, to collect the materials; that I always looked upon a patch-work curtain, or quilt to be fit only for a servant’s bed at an inn; that it was a complete make-shift, nay, that if she would make shifts for herself, or for the poor, she would be much more laudably employed. For I consider this patch-working something like lady-shoemaker’s work, below the dignity of the performer, and of little use when done.
All my observations would inevitably have been disregarded, for my cousin Cassandra is like many other old maids–she constantly asks advice with a predetermination to take her own way, but the term beggarly hurt her pride, and the thought of loss of company, to one who could not live without a morning gossip, and an evening casino, was very alarming; so she determined on buying remnants and small pieces of a thousand patterns; and in the long period above mentioned, she completed her patch-work hangings and furniture, which every one praised before her face, and treated with contempt behind her back. This chef-d’oeuvre of useless toil, was, however, shown to all her acquaintance, and furnished the subject of a hundred morning and tea-table conversations. –The Hermit in London, 1821
Well, that was pretty harsh! And I daresay a few million quilters today would agree. I’d rather he’d directed the fun toward installation art, but oddly enough it wasn’t around then. Satire could be brutal back in those insensitive days, and of course anything that hinted of vulgarity (patches!) was fair game. Knowing that the author was writing to entertain made me think perhaps it was a one-off, and the prevailing attitude was more favorable.
However, Lydia Maria Child (not one for tepid opinions), author of the Girl’s Own Book, was rather condescending as well when she said “we do not want young ladies to emulate their grandmothers in making patch-work quilts, or covering their apartments with hexagon- or octagon-starred carpets,” although in an earlier edition she admitted it to be a tolerable alternative to boredom:
PATCH-WORK. This is old-fashioned too; and I must allow it is very silly to tear up large pieces of cloth, for the sake of sewing them together again. But little girls often have a great many small bits of cloth, and large remnants of time, which they don’t know what to do with; and I think it is better for them to make cradle-quilts for their dolls, or their baby brothers, than to be standing round, wishing they had something to do. The pieces are arranged in a great variety of forms; squares, diamonds, stars, blocks, octagon pieces placed in circles, &c. A little girl should examine whatever kind she wishes to imitate, and cut a paper pattern, with great care and exactness. –The Girl’s Own Book, 1833
Perhaps she had a point about tearing cloth just to sew it back together! But to balance out the disparaging remarks, I found a sweet essay about a patchwork quilt written in 1845 –and it mentions PLAIN SEWING! True, the author ranks a beloved patchwork quilt below a snowy counterpane, but the following excerpt glows with the warmest nostalgia. (Other textile historians have referenced it, but here’s a link to the original if you’d like to read the whole piece without my edits for brevity.)
THE PATCHWORK QUILT.
There it is! in the inner sanctum of my “old-maid’s hall”–as cosy a little room as any lady need wish to see attached to her boudoir….
Yes, there is the Patchwork Quilt! looking to the uninterested observer like a miscellaneous collection of odd bits and ends of calico, but to me it is a precious reliquary of past treasures…. Gentle Friends! it contains a piece of each of my childhood’s calico gowns, and of my mother’s and sisters’; and that is not all.
I learned of the world’s generosity in rewarding the efforts of the industrious and enterprising…. What predictions that I should be a noted sempstress; that I should soon be able to make shirts for my father, sheets for my mother…. What legends were told me of little girls who had learned patchwork at three years of age, and could put a shirt together at six. What magical words were gusset, felling, button-hole stitch, and so forth, each a Sesame, opening into an arcana of workmanship… and a host of magical beauties!
Here is a piece of the first dress I ever saw, cut with what were called “mutton-leg” sleeves. Here, too, is a remnant of the first “bishop sleeve” my mother wore; and here is a fragment of the first gown that was ever cut for me with a bodice waist… and, oh, down in this corner a piece of that in which I first felt myself a woman- that is, when I first discarded pantalettes.
Here is a fragment of the beautiful gingham of which I had so scanty a pattern, and thus taxed my dress-maker’s wits; and here a piece of that of which mother and all my sisters had one with me. Here is a piece of that mourning dress in which I thought my mother looked so graceful; and here one of that which should have been warranted “not to wash,” or to wash all white. Here is a fragment of the pink apron which was pointed all around. Here is a token of kindness in the shape of a square of the old brocade-looking calico, presented by a venerable friend; and here a piece given by the naughty little girl with whom I broke friendship, and then wished to take it out of its place…. Here is a fragment of the first dress which baby brother wore when he left off long clothes; and here are relics of the long clothes themselves. Here a piece of that pink gingham frock so splendidly decked with pearl buttons. Here is a piece of that calico which so admirably imitated vesting, economical, bought to make “waistcoats” for the boys. Here are pieces of that to set off my quilt with, and bought strips of it by the cent’s worth – strips more in accordance with the good dealer’s benevolence than her usual price for the calico. Here is a piece of the first dress which was earned by my own exertions! And here are patterns presented by kind friends, and illustrative of their tastes.
Then there was another era in the history of my quilt. My sister–three years younger than myself–was in want of patchwork, while mine lay undisturbed. Yes, she was to be married; and I not spoken for! I gave her the patchwork.
Then came the quilting, a party not soon to be forgotten, with its jokes and merriment. Here is the memento of a mischievous brother, who was determined to assist otherwise than rolling up the quilt as it was finished, snapping the chalk-line, passing thread, wax and scissors, and shaking hands across the quilt for all girls with short arms. He must take the needle and thread. Well, we gave him white thread, and appointed him to a very dark piece of calico, so that we might pick it out the easier; but to spite us, he did it so nicely that it still remains, a memento of his skill with the needle.
And why did the young bride exchange her snowy counterpane for the patchwork quilt? These dark stains at the top of it will tell–stains left by the night medicines, taken in silence and darkness. The patchwork quilt rose and fell with the heavings of her breast as she sighed over the departing joys of life. Through the bridal chamber rang the knell-like cough which told us that we must prepare her for an early grave. The patchwork quilt shrouded her wasted form as she sweetly resigned herself to the arms of Death.
And back to me, with all its memories of childhood, youth, and maturer years; its associations of joy, and sorrow; of smiles and tears; of life and death, has returned to me The Patchwork Quilt. The Lowell Offering, 1845
Did you notice the reference to plain sewing? And making shirts? She’s singing my favorite song! An “arcana of workmanship.” Now there’s a title for a future post. Of course I don’t really think most people disparaged patchwork. There are too many survivors that show just how artistic, skillfully worked, and beloved pieced fabric was. I probably admire it more than most because I have no “pattern sense,” I can’t work with measures, shapes, design layout without a mental meltdown.
I’m happy simply to share the sentiments of the “Old Maid” above whose patchwork looked
to the uninterested observer like a miscellaneous collection of odd bits and ends of calico, but to me it is a precious reliquary of past treasures; a storehouse of valuables, almost destitute of intrinsic worth; a herbarium of withered flowers; a bound volume of hieroglyphics, each of which is a key to some painful or pleasant remembrance, a symbol of—but, ah, I am poetizing and spiritualizing over my ” patchwork quilt.”
The points of the stars are all silk, and the centers are linen.
The back is made of brown glazed linen, and the stripe on the edge is a selvedge on the silk binding.
It’s made to allow room to for holding contents (whatever they might have been!), and the decorative button is handmade of silk over a wire ring.
More of the unfinished panels. You can see closeups of the patches in the Flower Patch posts.
Who doesn’t love to watch a magic trick? I think they can be a lot of fun, at least as long as I’m not the volunteer from the audience. Especially for this trick!
1784
To pull off any Perfon’s Shirt without undreffing him or having Occafion for a Confederate.
This trick requires only dexterity, and nevertheless when I performed it at the Theater-Royal in the Hay-Market everybody imagined that the person whom I had tricked out of his shirt was in a confederacy with me.
The means of performing this trick are the following, only observing that the cloaths of the person whose shirt is to be pulled off be wide and easy.
Begin by making him pull off his stock, and unbuttoning his shirt at the neck and sleeves, afterwards tye a little string in the button-hole of the left sleeve; then, passing your hand behind his back, pull the shirt out of his breaches, and slip it over his head, then pulling it out before in the same manner, you will leave it on his stomach; after that go to the right hand, and pull the sleeve down so as to have it all out of the arm; the shirt being then all of a heap, as well in the right sleeve as before the stomach, you are to make use of the little string fastened to the button-hole of the left sleeve, to get back the sleeve that must have slipped up, and to pull the whole shirt out that way.
To hide your way of operating from the person whom you unshirt and from the assembly, you may cover his head with a lady’s cloak, holding a corner of it in your teeth.
In order to be more at your ease, you may mount on a chair, and do the whole operation under the cloak. Such are the means I used when I performed publicly this trick.
–PHYSICAL AMUSEMENTS and DIVERTING EXPERIMENTS, 1784
That kind of describes what it feels like when I’ve tried to change clothes in the car. Actually, I think this trick would require a good bit of dexterity, as well as a few practice runs. But still not as much as was required to make this little boy’s shirt. A lot of stitches went into it; decorative backstitching on the collar and cuffs measures about 32 per inch. The simple hemming was 12-14 stitches per inch and seaming (like shallow overcasting) was up to 20 per inch!
A small boy’s shirt, early 19th century. The fineness of all the plain sewing I try to photograph is hard to convey, since close-up shots make the materials seem coarser. But in a more scaled shot, it’s hard to see the dainty stitching. Maybe this one where I’m holding it adds perspective. It would fit a 4 or 5 year old.
He did get some wear out of it! There are several mends and worn spots, like on the wristband here. So this buttonhole is where the conjurer would attach the string!
The boy’s shirt is made like a man’s shirt. There were 20 parts in a “gentleman’s” shirt:
The body, two sleeves, two wristbands, two binders, two shoulder-straps, one collar, two sleeve-gussets, two neck gussets, two side-gussets, two wrist gussets, one for the bosom, and the frill.
This one, however, was made with without the shoulder straps (a strip of linen along each shoulder), binders (lining next to the armscye), wrist gussets, or a “bosom gusset.” It did have a frill and an inserted pleated front made out of finer linen
It was interesting to see that the two separate ruffles were both sewn to the wearer’s left side, and hemmed folded in the same direction, making them look correctly worn when both are folded over toward the right and exposing the pearl buttons. On all the other shirts I have or have seen, the ruffles are hemmed with each side’s hem folded inward toward the front opening.
This is the neck gusset next to the collar, and the tear at the point along the shoulder gives a hint why most shirts needed the reinforcement of “shoulder straps.” Perhaps more for strength when tugged than for abrasion!
Bet the little guy couldn’t wait to unbutton his collar – it measures barely over 10 inches when buttoned!
The neatly sewn underarm gusset.
Inside view of the sleeve gathers at the shoulder. These aren’t usually visible in surviving shirts, because they are hidden inside “binders” which weren’t used on this one. The other shoulder has two coarsely-mended vertical tears, one at the same point on the gusset.
Side gusset exterior.
Side gusset interior.
A peek inside the the shirt front, which had 4 pleats on each side of the front opening. A narrow strip of linen covers the bottom edge.
The SHIRT TRICK was republished in other books over the following decades. It even showed up as late as 1870, but by that time the cut of a man’s shirt was more fitted and complex, and I doubt the stunt would work as easily. Maybe the little fellow who wore this had a copy of the The Boy’s Own Book (1828) and had a go at it? I can’t imagine the maker would have appreciated seeing her work handled so roughly and the “person who was unshirted” might have had to conjure up an explanation!
Two Threads Back 