Fashionable Friday: Floral Embroidery Galore

Colonial Wedding dress altered 1830
Elizabeth Bull Price’s Wedding Dress. Bostonian Society, 1910.50.35

On Tuesday evening, sensibility won over sense as my friend and I boarded the T for Boston to make a long day longer. The trip was worth it, though, for the One Night Only engagement of Elizabeth Bull’s wedding dress at the Bostonian Society. In truth, I bought the tickets for the event before I was even back at work and navigating our Fair City on my own– and who wouldn’t? That dress is amazing! (Tons more images of the embroidery are in the catalog record.)

Perhaps even more wonderful than the 14-year-old ElizabethBull’s needle skills is that the dress remains with us today. Kimberley Alexander and Tricia Gilrein reminded us on Tuesday of the many ways this dress, and other remnants of Bull’s wardrobe (oh, the petticoat, and the wonderful kerchief) connect us to the past in surprising ways. Elizabeth Bull was wealthy, married to Roger Bull, a Church of England official 22 years her senior: though they lived in Boston, they were British. (They were married in the 1730s, and Elizabeth died in 1780 at about 67.)

It’s a little hard to see past the 1830s alterations, but the embroidery of the gown helps chart that course, as well as the petticoat. As important to remember is that this wedding gown was not white: it has faded from a celadon green to its current off-white color. Wedding dresses weren’t white in the 18th century, or even long into the 19th, and it’s helpful to remember that as we look at what remains and reconstruct this in our mind’s eye.

It’s easy to forget we were British first here in the United States, and that the American War for Independence did not have a foregone conclusion. We forget, too, that churchmen and their wives were socialites as much as they were people of the cloth. Put Mr Collins out of your mind, and remember (my favorite minister & fashion maven) Reverend Enos Hitchcock and his pink satin waistcoat and suits of black silk.

Photograph of the altered gown. Bostonian Society, 1910.0050.057
Photograph of the altered gown. Bostonian Society, 1910.0050.057

Like many 18th century gowns, this one was remodeled in the 19th century, its shape altered to reflect the current fashion. We are lucky to have so much preserved, not just in the gown but also in the petticoat. Paths to understanding of women’s education, the customs and habits of Boston’s colonial elite, and the persistence of past can all be found within this object.

 

The Taylors’ Instructor

Title page, The Taylors' Instructor
Title page, The Taylors’ Instructor

So who else was wondering what Mr Cooke meant by Lapsley and Queen? Wonder no longer, frustrated toile-makers and cuff-detail mavens, it is available on the vast interwebs of knowledge.

Go! Download the PDF and immerse yourself in an 1809 American tailors’ manual published in Philadelphia, with Eight Appropriate Engravings. We may note that there was excited squeaking when I located this, altering my nearest companions to A FIND, and letting them know that yes, I am back, and probably will continue to squeak on and off for some time to come.

From the introduction:

“…there is no situation more awkward than that of a TAYLOR who has cut and mutilated his own or his employer’s Cloth which will frequently be the case when a man has nothing to depend upon but the poor resource of chance or hope, that his clothes will fit.”

The Taylors' Instructor
The Taylors’ Instructor

I can tell from the text on Coats that my subjects will have to be further apprehended and measured, even against their will, but the results will undoubtedly be better than before.

Happy Reading, Historical Sewing Enthusiasts, and a big thank you and hat tip to Henry Cooke for the reference.

Coat Tales

Coat pattern version 3
Coat pattern version 3

As the Salem Maritime Festival approaches, my anxiety increases.

Whatever will those ‘gentlemen’ wear? Coats and waistcoats, and thank goodness I finished the Young Mr’s shirt and his farm trousers still fit. He has promised to be a very annoying runaway apprentice, and I have promised to chase him from the miilliners’ shop with a broom, but before any of that can happen, ‘gentlemen’ will need new waistcoats and coats.

I got out Fitting and Proper, and took a look at that coatee pattern. It’s a little earlier than I want, so I also looked at The Cut of Men’s Clothes. In truth, I did not draft up a pattern from scratch. I had a commercially available pattern that I’d purchased when it first came out, one that purported to be historically correct, researched, and came from a reputable company.

Toile number 3. One more fitting to go...
Toile number 3. One more fitting to go…

Well…so I guess the issue with the pattern is that the gentlemen in my household are not of the typically boxy build one may see streaming past tourist sites in Boston, or even lumbering across a field in historical uniforms. My gentlemen are built for the Light Infantry, so when I finished the first muslin (or toile) of the coat and fitted it to Mr S, I removed inches–yes, inches–of material along the side and center back.

I suspected this would be necessary when I first traced the pattern pieces, but went ahead because you really have to mark up a toile on the body in question to get the fit correct. Maybe it’s just this many toiles because I’m inexperienced.

Center back pattern, version 3
Center back pattern, version 3

In any case, the armscye and upper shoulder seam were re-drafted, the drape and sweep of the tails, the width of both side and center tails, the side seam of the body, and both seams on the center back piece, which originally had a flat center back seam (I ask you!), a shorter shoulder seam, and a different side seam.

I’ve left the tail length short and after toile number 4, will mark the final tail length for both gentlemen (luckily we are at a sweet spot where this fits Mr S well and the Young Mr passably, so that with minor adjustments for the lad, a second coat could be made at some time).

I still don’t believe the tail pleats entirely, but lack the time this week to draw them from an original. They still seem too wide, though I have taken an inch or more off every tail edge.

The last thing to really wrangle, after bringing the under arm seam back up, is the sleeve; the upper arm is too long, reflecting the fact that the basis for this sleeve is my Spencer sleeve, which traces its origin to Mr Cooke’s linen suit coat pattern. Both Mr S and the Young Mr have shorter humeri and femora, which put the elbow crook on their forearms which looked rather silly and uncomfortable.

In the end, the pattern I had proved useful only in saving me from the math of enlarging a pattern from a book– it got me full-scale immediately, so that I could proceed to fitting–but this project will, when it finished, reflect multiple fittings and four pattern drafts.

If there is a moral to this story, it is this: Almost nothing will fit straight out of the book or the envelope, so leave plenty of time for catching your subject and fitting muslins.

Another moral may be, “Buy muslin in bulk,” which I did thanks to a clearance sale. I’ve already used 2 yards off the bolt I bought Saturday afternoon.

Frivolous Friday: Footwear

Shoes, 1810-1820. Gift of Miss M. Lee. T.385&A-1960, Victoria & Albert Museum.
Shoes, 1810-1820. Gift of Miss M. Lee. T.385&A-1960, Victoria & Albert Museum.

Like my grandmother, I love shoes. Also like my grandmother, I have “problem feet.” Finding a pleasing ladies’ shoe in a size 11 narrow is no mean trick, and with arthritis and activity, fit becomes ever more important. Standing all day in ill-fitting shoes will not improve your ability to interact with the public in a pleasant way, nor will it improve your stamina, which you will need if you are cooking for a motley assortment of ‘gentlemen.’

Many reproduction historic shoes (and most contemporary shoes) just don’t fit me, so I can’t order from common suppliers and I can’t alter affordable fashion shoes. Like Cinderella’s stepsisters, the shoes don’t fit.

Robert Land's Regency Lady's Shoe
Robert Land’s Regency Lady’s Shoe

That means that sometimes my shoes are not quite-quite correct. For 1799-1800 events, I wear Robert Land’s 1812 shoe, which is modeled on a shoe in the V&A collection. I find Land’s lasts are long and narrow, he makes my size, and lo and behold! Last time I ordered, the shoes arrived in four weeks. My mileage has varied in that regard, and yours may, too. They aren’t cheap, but they are well-made, straight-lasted, and most importantly, they fit. (I’ve been wearing them to work this week, because their flatness is more comfortable than my modern shoes.)

Shoes, 1810-1829. Probably British. MMA 2009.300.1471a–d

Do I wish they came in silk? Yes. Do I wish he’d make ladies’ 18th century shoes? Yes. But I have a workaround for the 18th century that I debuted on Flag Day: Mules. They won’t work for every event– I don’t think these are the shoes for climbing Stony Point in July–but they have their benefits. For one thing, you can take them off. Barefoot is best (maybe not in Boston), and not having to wear stockings when it’s 80+ degrees is nice, though only permissible if you’re named Bridget and have a shirt problem.

Burnley & Trowbridge men's mules
Burnley & Trowbridge men’s mules

Burnley & Trowbridge shoes also run narrow, and their men’s mules work for me, because I like a very low, flat heel. In winter, wool stockings make up any size differential, and in summer, these flats are pretty comfortable and even walkable. They may not be perfectly correct (though documented here), but comfort plus documentation goes a long way in my book.

What I’d really like, at least for late War interpretations, are a pair of these red velvet shoes at the MFA. Latchets for buckles, low heels, and they’re red? While I wonder about the date, the features I like might outweigh any misgivings– except that I cannot afford Sarah Juniper‘s work, and I can’t make my own shoes (yet).

Pair of women’s shoes, 1780s. MFA Boston, 44.493a-b