Passing Strange

Inspiration: gown, 1740s (silk) remade 1775-1780. Colonial Williamsburg 2000-133

In representing Magdalen Devine at the Museum of the American Revolution’s Revolutionary Philadelphia event, I decided to make a brown silk gown. This is an easy and solid choice for nearly any (every) woman in any location in the Anglo-American colonies in the latter half of the eighteenth century. If you want another option, go blue. But the reason I chose brown is not just because it’s common, or because I have achieved a certain age, but because both Magdalen Devine and Anne Pearson, although members of the Church of England, were associated with prominent Quakers. 

Magdalen Devine, known to Elizabeth Drinker as “Dilly,” accompanied Drinker on trips to Bath at Bristol, Pennsylvania, where the two visited the waters. In what is now Bucks County, these baths were chalybeate or ferruginous, meaning they contained iron salts. These mineral baths,  initially described as “nasty,” were eventually sought for their medicinal uses. (There is a handy book on American spring resorts called They Took to the Waters: the Forgotten Mineral Spring Resorts of New Jersey and nearby Pennsylvania and Delaware.

Devine and Drinker visited Bath several times in July and August of 1771. Drinker seemed hesitant to take to the waters at first, and while it is not clear whether “Dilly” helped her overcome her nervousness, the two made multiple trips over the course of several weeks. Eventually, Drinker recorded sharing a bed with Devine, so the two must have achieved a level of comfort, if not friendly intimacy, with each other. (You can read the diary entries here.

A Lady, ca. 1747-1752 watercolor by Paul Sandby. Royal Collection Trust, RCN 914415

There is nothing in Drinker’s diary to suggest Devine’s appearance or clothing, which, although disappointing, is normal for a diary of the period. But this level of comfort suggests that Devine projected a pleasing, non-jarring appearance and blended in with Drinker and her family and friends fairly well. This could easily be achieved in a brown, grey, or other dull-colored gown. Any of these colors would have been appropriate for Devine, who by 1771 was likely in or approaching her 50s, having been married in Dublin in 1748. (Lest you think Dublin means Catholic, Devine was married at Saint Catherine’s Church, https://www.saintcatherines.ie/our-story, an Anglican church originally built in 1185 and rebuilt in 1769. The Catholic St. Catherine’s in Dublin was completed in 1858.)

Similarly, milliner and trader Anne Pearson is recorded visiting Dr. John Fothergill in London in February 1771. Fothergill wrote to James Pemberton of Philadelphia:         

“Dear Friend,

I have just got the enclosed in time to send by our valuable acquaintance Nancy Pearson, who has been so obliging as to see us as often as her business would permit. We were pleased with it as she acts the part of a mutual Friend; brings us an account of our esteemed Friends with you, and carries back all the intelligence she can get that may be acceptable to you.” Pemberton Papers, Etting Collection, II, 65, Historical Society of Pennsylvania.

I know this is Anne Pearson, because she wrote to William Logan of Pennsylvania describing her meeting with Dr. Fothergill. Anne was known as “Nancy” to her mother and family. “Nancy” is described in a footnote by editors as “A Quakeress, well esteemed in her ministry,” but I believe they have mistaken the meaning of “mutual Friend.” 

Hannah Lambert Cadwalader (Mrs. Thomas Cadwalader). Oil on canvas by Charles Willson Peale. Philadelphia Museum of Art, 1983-90-2

Did Fothergill assume Anne was a Quaker because she came from Philadelphia? Or did she dress in a manner that suggested she was a Quaker? It would have been easy enough to achieve a level of “plain” dressing with a brown gown and simple accessories like a white handkerchief and apron, and a lappet cap or a relatively unadorned cap. Did Anne and Magdalen (Nancy and Dilly) dress in ways that made their Quaker customers feel at ease? It would be possible to dress both plain and well, with neatly made fine accessories that would appeal to the eyes and instincts of Quakers and Anglicans alike. Perhaps. While there is no way to know for certain, and two passages do not make data, they do suggest something about these businesswomen and their ability to move among and between distinct groups.

Furniture Check

The original, in 2013.

Lo these many years ago (one dozen) I embarked upon a gown-making folly based on the familiar Oyster Seller image. There was collective interest in this gown 12 years ago, probably because the original painting came up for auction at Christie’s in London. There’s more than one of these out there, and mine was not the best. I am okay with that.

I think we were using the print derived from the painting as a justification for the cross-barred gown, along with a bunch of silk cross-barred sacques. I don’t remember whether or not I’d clicked onto the Barbara Johnson album page with the “red and white Irish [stuff? skiff?] sack, April 1752” swatch. Good stuff, that, and I would be delighted to find fabric like that. However, I had a cross-bar in hand in a form that I did not love.

Barbara Johnson Album, Victoria & Albert Museum

I didn’t alter the gown at the time because… I was embarrassed by the failure. The person who pointed it out to me was renowned for lack-of-tact, and did not offer any solutions, suggestions, or offer assistance. (That behavior is why people leave all kinds of hobbies, folks. Being kind really ain’t that hard.)

But it is hot this month, and getting hotter. So although I went to storage to look for, and not find, another wardrobe option, I did see this old gown. Did a klaxon sound? A siren? A choir of angels?


Furniture check on an upholsteress? How could I not?

Equipped with more knowledge, and one hopes, more skills, I spent Friday night and part of Saturday disassembling the gown. 
What I like about this project is that not only will I end up with a new gown, I’ll have a new gown that is obviously remade from an old gown. Props to me for developing the patience to do this.

It’s not a huge change, but the modifications include making the back pleats actually make sense, and doing them the way Adventures in Mantuamaking taught me to; tweaking the overall silhouette to match the sleeves and cuffs; and adjusting the robings. This should also prevent the various wardrobe malfunctions previously experienced.

I did recut the back lining from fresh linen; the back strikes me as the most critical structural element, so I made sure to replace that. I then stitched a center seam in the upper back, as you do, to mark the center of the back and set the total bodice back length. Overall, the back seemed far too long, and the front too short.

Re-pleated and stitched, the back was ready for new fronts. These required piecing (which is period) and I almost managed it on the lining, but they needed extra work. Even if the piecing is “correct,” it will likely be hidden by an apron.

Fortunately, the sleeves worked with the new bodice shapes, and are actually a better match to the style– they are too narrow for the initial style. I have enough to to rework the robings, but I don’t think I can get a stomacher out of what I have– not unless it’s massively pieced, which is also OK. 

I spent some time digging into Pennsylvania newspaper advertisements looking for checks, check’d, and check fabrics. They’re there– plenty of them– though linen checks for women’s gowns are a lot harder to find. Oops. 

Still: I found  “check’d mantuas” (silk for gowns) and “Holland, Laval, Britannia, check’d and striped, linens.” Holland linens tend to be heavier, utility linens; Laval designated linen woven in Laval, in Pays de Lorraine (northeastern France), a town noted for fine linens. Could one of those be a lighter-weight check, suitable for a working woman’s gown? (That’s from the Pennsylvania Journal or Weekly Advertiser, December 26, 1781). It’s hard to say there weren’t checked linen gowns, just as it is hard to say there were. The possibility exists, partially because myriad types and patterns of linen were available in Philadelphia, and partially because we lack visual documentation of non-elite women in the Anglo-American colonies.

Pennsylvania Journal, or Weekly Advertiser, December 26, 1781

The runaway ads describe some Scots women and one English servant running away in checked gowns from 1753-1778. This does suggest checked gowns are associated with “lower sorts,” which isn’t exactly what I’m going for, but since I portray a working woman while also not melting, I’ll keep going. 

Pennsylvania Chronicle, July 10, 1769

A Blue Homespun Gown

How long does fabric need to ‘season’ in your stash? 

I like to savor yardage for half a decade or so, as once I have fabric I really like, I never think I’m adept enough to use it. I need to build up more skills before I cut into that silk/wool/what-have-you.

So, five years ago or so, I bought some lovely blue homespun from a friend who had determined she would not manifest her plans for it. It’s the same Burnley & Trowbridge fabric that Mr. K’s 1824 coat was made from, just not washed, and thus retains a smoother texture.

There was not quite five yards, but that never matters. Josie and I argue about whether or not I can make what I have work, and while she always says no, I can usually get an English gown out of four and a quarter to four and a half yards if the fabric is wide enough.

It took long enough to make that the fabric became a bed for the cat.

I was interrupted in the process: I took two classes this semester, taught a workshop, went to a friend’s birthday party in Philadelphia, tried to buy a house, and endured the world. I was glad to get back to the work, though, since sewing is always satisfying. It’s “just” another English gown with a pleated back and stomacher, in classic blue. I wore it to the Makers’ Event at the Museum of the American Revolution in May, just days before my final papers were due.

To make it fully a colonial lady stereotype, I wore it with a blue petticoat. The petticoat was remade from the first gown I ever made. Not only did the gown no longer quite fit, it wasn’t made to the standards I live by now. The linen was far too nice to let sit, another Burnley & Trowbridge fabric from over a decade ago.

A Case Cover for a Chair

With a brief, sort-of-break from school, I have time to think about the research and making I’ve done recently, if “recently” can encompass the past two-ish years.

Last May, I made a slipcover or case cover for a Chippendale side chair. I love this chair very much and while I have not (yet) recovered the slip seat in something more appropriate, a case cover seemed appropriate.

I am under no illusion that this chair is Cadwalader quality, but it offers the opportunity for crossover between my upholsterer and Cadwalader obsessions. When John Cadwalader was outfitting his townhouse on Philadelphia’s South Second Street in 1770-1772, he ordered covers in fine Saxon Blue check, with fringe, for his chairs.  

I started by making a muslin to create a pattern; this seemed like a better idea than just using measurements. It’s really a simple design: a top (the seat), front and sides, and a ruffled skirt. I based this on an original at Colonial Williamsburg. The cover attaches at the back with quarter-inch linen tape. I ordered fringe, but not enough, so for now, the cover remains fringe-less. 

Checked or striped linen was a common material for covers, durable and easily washable. Yes, this is where “furniture check” comes from: the large-scale checks used for these and other covers. (Samuel Johnson’s are particularly bold.)

Wilson, Benjamin; Conversation Piece; Leeds Museums and Galleries; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/conversation-piece-38209

Linen covers protected expensive upholstery (wool or silk damask, for example) from wear and light damage. Covers could be switched seasonally, but they were almost always made “en suite,” that is, in the same color as the wall coverings and/or curtains. The Cadwaladers had a blue room and a yellow room, both of which must have been like walking into a jewel, with shimmering silk damask on the walls, as curtains, and upholstering the furniture.
My cover may be simpler, and my house un-jewel-like, but I love it just the same. (It also fits other chairs, like this one at Historic Lewes.)

A Brief Bibliography:

Baumgarten, Linda. “Protective Covers for Furniture and Its Contents.” American Furniture. Chipstone Foundation, 1993. https://chipstone.org/article.php/376/American-Furniture-1993/Protective-Covers-for-Furniture-and-its-Contents.

Graves, Leroy and Luke Beckerdite. New Insights on John Cadwalader’s Commode Seat Side Chairs. American Furniture. Chipstone Foundation, 2000. https://chipstone.org/article.php/437/American-Furniture-2000/New-Insights-on-John-Cadwalader%E2%80%99s–Commode-Seat-Side-Chairs.

Prendergast, Susan Margaret. “Fabric Furnishings Used in Philadelphia Homes, 1700-1775.” University of Delaware, 1978. http://udspace.udel.edu/handle/19716/26040.

Swain, Margaret. “Loose Covers, or Cases.” Furniture History 33 (1997): 128–33. http://www.jstor.org/stable/23408074.