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.
What happens when classical simplicity meets feminine extravagance? Well, here’s a dainty survivor from long ago, with a feature quite fashionable in its day – sooo very “Regency.” The sleeves remind me of a three-scoop ice cream cone! They’re called by various names today, but I can find no specific period name for them. Like other fashions that tend toward “profusion,” they were subject to satire.
Enough fluff, do you think? Le Bon Genre numéro 54 : Manches en Spirales, Profusion de Garnitures, 1812″. Paris, Musée Carnavalet.CC0
Revealing and concealing – and quite a few scoops of ice cream! “Le Bon Genre, N°50. Les Garnitures. G.10779″ by Anonyme, graveur. CC0 1.0.
And a lot of scoops on this one as well! It’s not satire, but a fashion plate. “Morning Walking-Dress: A round robe dress of white figured muslin, with worked bosom, made high on the neck–vandyked collar of lace–long sleeves, made full, and drawn across in five or six divisions–to tie in small bows of light blue ribbon:–the robe trimmed at the feet with a triple row of light blue ribbon: the shoulder-straps and bracer, ribbon of the same color.”The Lady’s Magazine, August, 1814. www. lacma.org
Sadly, the bodice has lost its collar, possibly removed for use in another garment. It may have lost something else, too! It could have been worn as a habit-shirt/tucker/chemisette, but there are signs that it was originally attached to a skirt.
A lot of the fashion plates I’ve seen depicting these multi-puffed sleeves are c.1810-15, but I’m not knowledgeable enough to date this one with any certainty. I am, however, always wildly curious to see how unusual styles were contrived and constructed. How did they make the puffs puff? It was fun to peek inside and see.
The bodice itself is simple enough. It opens in the front, with two double buttonholes at the top for linked buttons, and one glass button (original?) at the bottom. There are adjustable gathering tapes at the “waist” front and at the wrists. There’s piping at the shoulders and a single tuck on the upper arms. (I forgot to fold it down for the photo.) There are gathers on the shoulders and at the center back. Each puffed “scoop” is gathered to a narrow band made out of the same fabric. It’s not one long, full sleeve piece gathered or tied at intervals.
Here’s my chance to slip in plain sewing stitches: the view from inside shows the backstitching that was used to attach the sleeve, the overcasting that prevented raveling, and the whipped gathers that attached the fullness to the plain band. (Click the image above and below for a larger view.)
And now the most curious part: the puffs are held in place with tacked-on cord! It looks just like any cotton string you can buy today. Can you imagine the effort of getting the lengths all set and the placement just right? I imagine it felt a little awkward to wear, too.
The fullness of the back is gathered and tucked in between a linen tape and the dress fabric, and then sewn to a cord on the inside to hold the gathers in place.
One tiny, beautifully worked darn is hidden under the arm. It’s easy to see how vulnerable these fine fabrics were to damage. Even in its youth, the muslin was fragile and the lightest pull or snag could mean disaster. Not to mention laundering, which could have been as hazardous as wearing!
A perfect darn. Click for a closer view.
So there you have it, inside and out. I wish I knew the history – I’ve seen pictures of this same bodice on the internet, so I know it’s been through other hands. But alas, I may never learn its story. I also wonder whether the gown was worn starched so that the puffs would be full, or whether they were allowed to droop gracefully. Because of the sleeves’ crepe-like texture, and no trace of starch, I vote for drooping. Although when posed on the mannequin, gravity makes it look like the ice cream is melting. But then gravity eventually does that to us all!
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?
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.
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!
Click to enlarge and see the decorative dot in the center of each diamond.
Not only do I have a weakness for plain sewing, but for miniature things as well. Tiny garments like doll clothes, or the samples that girls made when they were learning to sew are irresistable! That’s why I was thrilled to find this half-size treasure from – can it be the 1820s? At first I thought it must have been made for a doll, but it would have required a pretty large little lady for that time, and the incredible detail seems extreme for a doll. Maybe it was a shop model, or sent from a corset-maker to a client as a style sample? It’s certainly a puzzle, so I’d welcome any expertise!
Signs the lacing was pulled too tight…hmm…
The side view shows how the pattern was designed for the well-endowed! It’s not as noticeable from the front.
It’s seven inches in length, 12 around the waist, made of two layers of cotton sateen, bound with twill tape, and of course, hand-stitched. The silk laces are in place as found, laced closed. It’s sewn with very fine silk thread which I believe was originally white, but has now yellowed a little more than the cotton fabric. I can see whalebone inside one of the boning channels where there is a slight separation at the end. I have no idea what the cording is, but the backstitches that hold it in place are worked about 20 per inch!
Click to enlarge for better view – their stitching wasn’t totally perfect, but a whole lot better than mine!
Compared to earlier 18th century stays that were heavy and heavily boned, or to later corsets that might contort and constrict the female torso, this style – excluding the busk – seems pretty comfy. That didn’t stop the lectures on tight-lacing, even during the early 19th century. The Poughkeepsie Journal opined in 1823:
I deem the corset of the present day to be the perfect engine of torture, and infinitely worse than the stays of days gone by. These last besure were injurious, but they left the resemblance of a female shape; the corset on the contrary presents the waist as regularly round and untapering as a white lead keg. The olden stays I remember were laced with a silken string of the size of the finest twine, but the corset requires a cord equalling the bow-string of a Kickapoo Chief.
What on earth is a white lead keg? Well, I checked. There was such a thing. Like a metal paint bucket today – just don’t use it to draw your well water! The author insists
no other animal could survive it. Take the honest ox, and inclose his sides with hoop poles, put an oaken plank beneath him and gird the whole with a bed cord and then demand of him labor. He would labor indeed but it would be for breath. Splinter and belay a pig in the same way and a whine might be aspirated, but it would be a whine of expiration.
Assuming your ox was honest, it would probably agree with the author. Unfortunately, the belayed pig wouldn’t have a chance! (It’s not often that 19th century prose make me LOL, but that last sentence succeeded.)
In the 1820s, Dr. Godman, a physician, anatomist, and naturalist who lived a remarkably full but too-short life (click here to follow a quick rabbit trail) denounced busks – lengths of flat wood, bone or steel inserted into a channel down the center front of a corset – as especially injurious:
Another instrument of torture is added in the form of a steel or hickory busk, which is pushed into its sheath in the already too tight corset, extending along the whole length of the breast bone… to keep the body from bending forward in the centre, and to prevent the dress and corset from ‘hooping up,’ as it is called.
The following scene occurred at a boarding-house in Philadelphia. The girl of the house … filled the tea-kettle, and brought it to the kitchen hearth, where she placed it on a bench. To place it over the fire required considerable stooping, and this, as it turned out, was impossible to her. Repeated and fruitless were her attempts, by a sort of crouching attitude, to accomplish her object; there was no one present to assist or to relieve her from the restraint which prevented stooping, and in despair she gave up, and stood by the kettle as if debating what she should do. The mistress came to inquire if the water was boiling, and found it not yet on the fire! – to her utter amazement, ‘the young lady’ confessed that she had her ‘long-busk’ on – that her ‘lacing,’ which was excessively tight, was in a ‘hard knot’ and that she ‘could not possibly stoop’ to put on the kettle!
He wasn’t without humor either:
Can anything on earth be more ungraceful than the gait, the walk of a female who is extremely corsetted? From the shoulders down, as stiffly inflexible as the parlour tongs, she can only advance by a sideling shuffle of the feet, which appear to get forward by stealth…
Here you can see the bottom of the busk pocket from the outside and the eyelet holes for a tape or cord to hold it in place.This is the bottom of the corset showing the inside of the busk pocket. I’ve used a broken ivory fan stick to show how it was inserted.You can see the top of the busk pocket has a curved row of stitches to keep the busk in place.One strap is tied with a tape, and the other with a narrow cord. I can imagine a little girl doing this for her doll.
Maybe I’ll never know what this little corset was made for. The workwomanship (assuming it was a female stitcher) is exquisite, which suggests a model, either to exhibit skill or make a sale. But a few signs indicate wear, which makes me think it adorned a doll. Maybe its history included it all: made as a specimen of skill, served as a model or sample, and then retired to spend its later years on a later doll. Of ‘corset’ doesn’t really matter, whatever its past, it’s still a work of art!
I know what lappets are, costumely speaking, and with regard to women’s millinery. They’re those long, lacy, streamer things that hang down from a headdress. The fanciest ones were made of fine lace and could be terribly expensive. They were popular in the 18th century but seemed to fade by 1800 when the classical look was in vogue, and then regained favor, at least with “mature” ladies, in the middle to late 19th century. Early ones were usually found in pairs, or occasionally joined slightly shaped in the middle, while 19th century ones could be . . . more creative.
But what have I got here? Two different long strips of fine white muslin, neatly (but probably not professionally) embroidered with whitework. Are they one-piece lappets, or something else?
They appear to date to the late 1700s or early 1800s, judging by the materials and floral patterns. One is 58″ x 4″ and the other is 63″ x 3.” The design on the wider one is mirrored on both edges, while the other is worked along one edge only. All edges are scalloped, and there’s a join on both at 20 inches (not the middle) from one end which the embroidery carries right across. Found together + like patterns + like materials = same maker? The design was embroidered to fit, which indicates they weren’t cut from another garment. They seem too fragile for a sash and too narrow for a scarf.
So how in the world would you wear them? It seems like draping across the top of your head would be a bit awkward. I’d feel about as graceful wearing a length of toilet paper.
The most fabulous book on accessories of this era is Heather Toomer’s Embroidered with White, and I searched it for clues. It has beautiful photos of lappets. In pairs. With dense embroidery. Sigh. In her book on the next time period (just as brilliant), lappets appear as extensions of other accessories, such as fichus and pelerines. So I’m still wondering what these were for. Help!
The fabric is joined about 20″ from one end (not centered) on both pieces.
The darning is finer than the embroidery!
While on the subject of long narrow textiles, I’ll present my next puzzle: tuckers. I’m wandering into dangerous territory when discoursing on 18th century costume, since I know so little. However, I had no trouble finding period references to tuckers. Their wearing location on female anatomy guaranteed attention, one way or another.
Tuckers, as defined in 18th century dictionaries:
TUCKER, tuk’-ur. f. A small piece of linen that shades the breasts of women.
-A Slip of Linen or Lace, pinned along the Top of Women’s Stays -A border of linen or lace on the bosom of a shift -A fine piece of lace, cambrick, &c. pinned or sewed round the neck of a woman’s shift, gown -A shred of linen &c., about the neck of a woman’s shift -A slip of fine linnen, run in a small kind of ruffle, around the uppermost verge of the women’s stays -A strip or ornament of linen worn by women at the uppermost verge of the stays
Then we have Garsault’s 1771 L’art de la lingère, where I’m up to my tucker in speculation:
Tour de gorge en mousseline festonnée. Il se fait d’une aune de long sur un seizieme de large. Painfully translated: Scalloped muslin tucker. It is made one [≈yard] long by one sixteenth wide. A 1788 French-English dictionary defines “tour de gorge” as “tucker,” and “tour de dentelle” as a lace tucker.
This post is already too long to include Joseph Addison’s slightly naughty essay on the tucker – although if you’re curious, you can find one of many reprints here.
There’s no lack of period illustrations of tuckers, but it’s the logistics that have me baffled. Sure, you can tuck a straight band of fabric around the top of your stays – but then all but a few inches in front is hidden under a gown. You can tuck a straight length around the neckline of your gown – but then you have to negotiate the curves, and my mystery pieces seem awfully wide to do it without looking rumpled.
A Lady’s Maid Soaping Linen c.1765-82 Henry Robert Morland 1716-1797 CC-BY-NC-ND 3.0 I don’t presume to know if she wearing a “separate” tucker, or if that’s trimming on her shift. Or neither. But it’s a good illustration of the trickiness of turning corners!
A Laundry Maid Ironing c.1765-82 Henry Robert Morland 1716-1797 CC-BY-NC-ND 3.0 Her frill seems to be a little fuller.
Many paintings show gathered ruffles at the neckline, whether lace or embroidery, although the Lady’s Maid Soaping doesn’t look very frilly. Of course you could always adorn your own tucker, if you were good with a needle.
A pretty pattern from 1772.
Now here are the four long strips of linen that perplex me, ornamented along one edge, all owned by a woman who lived from 1760-1805, in France. They measure a bit over 40″ long and the linen is @3.5″ wide. If they’re not tuckers, what the heck are they and how did she wear them? Maybe they were part of a headdress. Folk costume. Dresser scarf. Tourniquet with feminine flair.
A closeup of the careful mending. The darns are as fine as the other plain sewing.
There’s a bit of lace on one end only, and a cambric border on one edge. You can see there’s also a good bit of wear.
This one is in better shape, has lace along the edge, no trim on the ends. And her “marked” monogram.
A beautifully simple one, marked with both initials, although the cambric trim on this one didn’t fare so well.
I’ve called these pieces lappets and tuckers, but I truly don’t know. Research didn’t settle anything for me this time, so any help is welcome. Maybe someday in the future our descendants will ask the same questions about our garments. I know I’ve shopped for workout clothes and been just as confounded – these strappy scraps of spandex go how?!
Gertrude. “My dear Jessie, what on earth is that Bicycle Suit for?”
Jessie. “Why, to wear, of course.”
Gertrude. “But you haven’t got a Bicycle!”
Jessie. “No: but I’ve got a Sewing Machine!”
Reading old magazines. Really old. It’s what happens when you’ve been stuck at home too long.
VIRTUE UNREWARDED
Melissa Melinda McCann
Projected a laudable plan
To reform woman’s dress
On a standard no less
Than the models affected by man.
She invented remarkable ways
Of belaying her garments, and praise
Was distinctly her due,
For the neighbours she threw
Into constant and breathless amaze.
Unmindful how some might deride,
She determined her skirt to divide;
No change was too radical—
Transient—nomadical—
Each idea new should be tried.
All draping she wholly abhorred—
Her vials of wrath she outpoured
Upon tailors and dress-makers
Calling them mess-makers,
Banded in fiendish accord.
Point de Venise was as bad—
Never a trimming she had;
For her no chimerical,
Cheap, millinerical, Passementerical fad.
And so she elected to go
Unadorned from her crown to her toe;
A strong common sensible—
Quite indefensible
Funny old feminine crow!
These were the thanks that she got;
From naughty newspapers, hot shot;
From her friends, levity—
Hints of longevity—
Tragical, quite, was it not?
Two Threads Back 