A Snuff-Coloured Cloak

On January 24, 2025January 24, 2025 By kittycalashIn Clothing, making things

In August, the Museum of the American Revolution contacted me about making a snuff-colored cloak. Although many 18th-century women’s cloaks were red, some were not. Newspapers carry ads for stolen goods and runaways in brown camblet cloaks lined with baize; white silk cloaks; black silk cloaks; and cloth cloaks, which are probably “cloth colored” wool– what we would think of as drab or beige. The Museum referenced an ad from the Pennsylvania Gazette of April 30, 1777, May 7, 1777, and May 21, 1777.

Run away from the subscriber, living in Evesham township, in the State of New Jersey, Burlington county, on the 20th of April. 1777, a certain Sarah McGee, Irish descent, born in Philadelphia; she is about 23 years of age, about 5 feet 7 inches high, very lusty made in proportion; she had on when she went away, a snuff coloured worsted long gown, a spotted calico petticoat, stays and a good white apron, a snuff colored cloak, faced with snuff coloured shalloon, a black silk bonnet, with a ribbon around the crown: She was seen with her mother, in Philadelphia, who lives in Shippen street, where it is supposed she is concealed. Whoever takes up said servant and brings her to her master, or puts her in confinement, so that her master gets her again, shall have the above reward, and reasonable charges, paid by Barzillai Coat — Pennsylvania Gazette, May 7, 1777. page 3

“Run away from the subscriber, living in Evesham township, in the State of New Jersey, Burlington county, on the 20th of April. 1777, a certain Sarah McGee, Irish descent, born in Philadelphia; she is about 23 years of age, about 5 feet 7 inches high, very lusty made in proportion; she had on when she went away, a snuff coloured worsted long gown, a spotted calico petticoat, stays and a good white apron, a snuff colored cloak, faced with snuff coloured shalloon, a black silk bonnet, with a ribbon around the crown: She was seen with her mother, in Philadelphia, who lives in Shippen street, where it is supposed she is concealed. Whoever takes up said servant and brings her to her master, or puts her in confinement, so that her master gets her again, shall have the above reward, and reasonable charges, paid by Barzillai Coat”

I was not clever enough to latch onto the snuff-coloured shalloon facings, but I made up a hooded cloak with a snuff-coloured silk lining and dispatched it just before school started. (I doubt I could have achieved a happy color match in any modern “shalloon.”) I’d picked up the wool and silk in Natick, Massachusetts on a summer trip in 2018, and had planned — and put off– a snuff-coloured cloak of my own. Oh well.

a hand drawn sketch of a cloak layout, showing an arc with measurements — Highly Scientific

As the semester drew to a close, the cloak started gnawing at me. That was really nice wool! And such a nice color! I really had wanted my own cloak. I succumbed to ordering some substitute wool, and over the winter break, made myself a cloak. They only a day or so, once you’ve done the math to chalk and cut the pieces. I have a handy diagram to help me figure it out, adapted from Sue Felshin’s classic post on cloaks. You don’t need much else.

This wool is heavier than what I’ve used before, and I’m not fully enamored with the drape. Still, this will go a long way towards completing the Cinnamon Toast Crunch Quaker look when I wear it with the brown gown I made this past summer. I love my red cloak, but for a Philadelphia Quaker’s brown gown, a snuff-coloured cloak is a better match.

The making is really simple. You do want to start with a well-made wool broadcloth or coating that will hold a cut edge– that eliminates a lot of hemming, and takes advantage of the natural characteristics of the wool just as 18th-century makers did. You don’t need a lot; I used 1.75 yards of 52-60” wool, which makes an acceptable length cloak even for me (I am 5’-10”).

a snuff colored wool cloak on a female mannequin — The finished cloak (and a fancy petticoat)

The cloak neck edge is pleated to a neck size that suits you (annoying, I know, but that’s how this works). The hood is stitched up the center back (I used a butt stitch), with the last 6” or so pleated. This is the trickiest bit. Even strokes make a nice array, but the real trick is stitching the pleats flat so that they hold the shape. Sometimes it turns out better than others; heavier weight wool will be harder to wrangle, as this was.

a tan and beige cloak hood seen from inside, piecing seams visible — Piecing is period, and appropriate for the inside of hood.

I ended up piecing the silk for the hood lining (piecing is period) and I’m pleased with how that turned out. I barely had the patience to do it, but the result was pleasing and I saved silk, so there’s that. For ties, I used some silk satin ribbon purchased for some other, now-forgotten project. I tend to save materials, thinking I’m not “good enough” to use them– that is, not skilled enough. Well, if not now, when? The cloak and its ribbon ties mean much more worn than that they will stashed in storage. Eat the cake. Buy the shoes. Make the dress, the cloak, the apron, the ruffles. Make whatever brings you joy.

Bending an Elbow at the Seven Stars

On August 9, 2024 By kittycalashIn Living History, material culture

detail of an early map of Philadelphia — Detail, map of Philadelphia.

In 1769, Philadelphia had roughly one tavern for every 120 residents. They were clustered most densely in the area Chestnut and High (now Market) Streets, west from the Delaware River to what is now 5^th Street. One of the oldest, the Crooked Billet, is called out on the 1762 map of the city by Nicholas Scull, reprinted and now at the Library of Congress. Run for decades by Rebecca Terry, the Crooked Billet primarily served the sailors and men in the maritime trades. Terry was not the only woman with a tavern license in the city—at least three other women, including Sarah Hayes, were long-time tavern keepers.

Sarah Davies Hayes owned two pieces of property on Elbow Lane and another on Chestnut Street; a Quaker, she married Richard Hayes in 1741. He seems to have been a shopkeeper, based on the probate inventory made after his death at the age of 34 in 1748. The inventory includes a side saddle, wearing apparel, a cradle, a fowling piece, and “remains of shop goods.” What kind of shop remains a mystery, as Hayes left no trace in newspaper advertisements beyond an ad placed by his executor in January 1749. Sarah Hayes bought one piece of property on Elbow Lane in 1761, and the second in 1763; the Chestnut Street property was purchased in 1771. Hayes is listed in tavern license petitions for decades (see the Historical Society of Pennsylvania’s Tavern and Liquor License Records (1746-1863)) and appears in tax lists as an innkeeper or tavern keeper from the 1760s until at least 1780.

Tavern keeping was not an unusual occupation for a widow in the 18^th century, even if she did not inherit the business from her husband. Some colonies, like Virginia, thought widows particularly well suited to the business, given their skills in household management and stereotype as sensible and moral (and not merry) matrons. In Philadelphia, licenses were issued annually (at a fee of £1/10) to those who successfully passed the scrutiny of the licensing board. (You can see a list of petitioners here.)

The history of the Seven Stars is hard to follow: Benjamin Randolph Boggs (HSP AM.3032) places it at 20 Bank Street, which the Mapping West Philadelphia Project gives as a calculated modern address for property owned by Sarah Hayes, which seems clear enough, though modern streets can be hard to map against historic property lines.* Tyler Putman dug into the history of this parcel and Elbow Lane in general. (Spoiler: there’s nothing to see at 20 Bank Street.) Here’s how Boggs starts his history of the Seven Stars:

“A short distance below the White Horse, also on the west side of the lane, at the spot now covered by the structure know as No. 20 Bank street, stood in very early times a small tavern known as the Sign of the Seven Stars, occupying a lot having fifteen frontage and a depth of fifty-six feet. John Eyre, or Eire, purchased the ground as a vacant lot from Ebenezer Large, currier, on September 19^th, 1733 … Eyre was a joiner or carpenter by occupation, and upon his lot he erected a brick dwelling in which he kept a tavern, meanwhile working at his trade.”

After Eyre’s death, his widow, Mary, sold all the brick house and all his other property, as ordered in his will. Jacob Shoemaker purchased 20 Bank Street, lot and improvement and almost immediately re-sold the property to Mary Eyre, who continued to keep the tavern. Boggs describes a number of real estate transactions, concluding with the sale of the property and tavern to Thomas Rogers, “who succeeded her as proprietor.” How this squares with Mary Eyre’s appearance in the 1771 list of petitioners who received a tavern license is beyond me. Bogg’s data comes from Philadelphia Deed Books and newspaper advertisements, though he notes that the Seven Stars “may have been open down to the outbreak of the Revolution, but the newspapers of the period disclose nothing further about it.” (HSP AM.3032, Chapter 20, p. 498-499).

malone-1973-0561-frame — Settling the Affairs of the Nation. Winterthur Museum 1973.0561

Who kept the Seven Stars? Was it really at 20 Bank Street? Tax records and directories show a lot of taverns and inns on Elbow Lane, so even if the selection of Seven Stars as a name and Sarah Hayes as a proprietor is somewhat random, I know at least that Hayes, the Seven Stars, and the Lane were all real, existed together over three decades, and overlap in some possibly complicated way involving deeds, ground rents, insurance, and competition. Hayes will do to represent the archetype of the widowed tavern keeper of the Revolutionary City.**

Tavern Interior, oil on panel, 1762, John S C Schaak. Sold by Bonhams.

The material world of taverns is much more satisfying to research and compile, though I did get hung up on which shape of bottle held which kind of alcohol, how beer was distributed from the brewery to the customer, and at what level of tavern one would find a Monteith bowl and a silver lemon strainer. The questions are legion: how many glasses? How many mugs? Were basins used on tables the way dishes were washed in early Federal New England? Prices posted or not when the Pennsylvania legislature and provisional government did fix prices in 1778? Some of these questions are answered in paintings from the Sea Captains in Surinam to the John S. C. Shaak Tavern Interior, others can only be guessed at until I find an inventory, if there is one to find.

Then, how do you communicate alcohol to visitors? They can’t taste anything so you can only let them smell the oleosacrum that’s the basis of punch, or the shrubs and cordials popular at the time. Happily, these come in beautiful colors and enhance a table display. My hope with a bench at the table was to invite visitors to sit at the tavern table, and with refinement, perhaps I can achieve that in the future. Reenactors, at least, can bend an elbow at the Seven Stars.

*There’s a compelling argument that someone could untangle the confusion between Jacob Shoemaker’s lot, 20 Bank Street, the lot Sarah Hayes owned, and just who owned the Seven Stars, and where, exactly, it was, but I am not that someone.

**If you are thinking at this point that I have a problem with research and perhaps belabor a question, you are correct. My superpower is overthinking anything.

Objects and Time

On April 15, 2024April 15, 2024 By kittycalashIn History, Research

The antiques I own stretch back in time, objects passed from hand to hand, connecting me to the past. It is particularly fine when they connect me to America, a place my people came to more than a century after these things were made. A paste shoe buckle. A chair. A portrait. There was once a fad for fake ancestors, buying a past you did not inherit, and the objects I collect are something like that, only less ostentatious– if only because the portrait is a miniature and not full size.

Let’s start with the chair, the most expensive piece of furniture I’ve ever bought. (My bicycles cost more, and were, for a long time, the nicest and newest things I’d ever owned. It’s weird to talk about money and things, and what those things cost; we’re taught not to. That makes it even more important to be honest about context, even if I never tell you what I’ve paid.)

The chair.

I follow an antique dealer on Facebook, and in the spring of 2023, he posted a photo of a chair he’d just picked up from a collector in Delaware. It was a handsome chair, mahogany cabriole legs, ball-and-claw feet, shaped rear legs, pierced center splat, curved crest rail. It was marked on that crest rail: W. Hall.

This was a Philadelphia chair, with classic signs in the shape and tension of the feet, the raised line around the arched piercings of the splat, the rhythm of the crest rail. It was simpler, plainer, cheaper, than a Thomas Affleck–the knees on those chairs— but the ogee (cyma) curves stepping down from seat rail to leg spoke of an eye for balance and for structure. There was elegance in the way that chair was built, an adherence to the style books but with a local flair. That was a Philadelphia chair. Delaware being close to Philadelphia, W. Hall was probably a Philadelphia man.

There were not many candidates for W. Hall, despite the anodyne name. A few were laborers– they were unlikely to manage the fine, typographical incision on the crest rail, even if they’d once been able to afford a mahogany chair. Even less likely given that chairs like these were typically sold en suite, a set, two armchairs plus four or six or eight side chairs. Probably six; this wasn’t a Cadwalader-quality chair resplendent from the shop of Thomas Affleck with carving by James Reynolds and covers from the shop of Plunket Fleeson.

So not a laborer’s chair.

There was Richard Hall, a whitesmith, whose estate owned a lot on the east side of Second Street between Chestnut and Market Streets, on what was called Hall’s Alley, in 1777. There was Charles Hall, probably also a whitesmith, in Hall’s Alley, also in the Chestnut Ward.

In the 1774 tax lists were James Hall, an innkeeper, and John Hall, a tanner.

The chair was probably made in the mid-1760s, a decade or so after the publication of Thomas Chippendale’s Gentleman and Cabinet-Maker’s Director . . . of Household Furniture in the Gothic, Chinese and Modern Taste.

In the 1750s, Philadelphia high-style Chippendale chairs typically had exuberant carving– furry knees, complicated, twisted pretzel splats, shells positioned like merkins in the center of the seat rail, along with their ball-and-claw feet. But makers knew there was a market for good-quality affordable seating, and William Savery filled that bill. Is that where this chair comes from? Is it the mid-market, aspiring merchant’s or artisan’s chair?

*William Strahan Hall, by William Williams, 1766. Winterthur Museum 1959.1332 A*

Because there is another W. Hall, William Strahan Hall, the son of printer David Hall. If David Hall seems familiar, that is probably because he was Benjamin Franklin’s partner. Franklin hired Hall in 1743 as a journeyman printer; by 1748, Hall was Franklin’s partner. Hall bought Franklin’s portion of the business in 1766, and established Hall & Sellers with Wiliam Sellers. After David Hall’s death in 1772, his sons William Strahan and David Jr. assumed his part of the business, maintaining government contracts and printing, among other things, Continental currency.

1766. The year David Hall bought Franklin’s portion of the business. The year David Hall commissioned portraits of all three of his children (William, David Jr., and Deborah) from William Williams. Was this flush, banner year when David also ordered a suite of chairs from a Philadelphia maker? Were the chairs then bequeathed to William, the eldest son, who inscribed one, claiming ownership? Maybe. Maybe this chair was someone else’s chair, some other W Hall somewhere among the years it traveled from Philadelphia to Delaware to Maryland to Baltimore.

The story is the thing that makes the chair, however you imagine it. I know enough to know that calling this chair “in the style of William Savery, possibly from the family of David Hall, printer,” stretches every truth I know. But that sentence lifts the curtain on the past, on the webs of kinship and friendship that connected makers, buyers, and users in late-18th-century Philadelphia. David Hall, on Market Street near 2nd Street in the High Street Ward, was around the corner from William Savery on the east side of 2nd Street in the Chestnut Ward. These wards were packed with milliners, ship captains, merchants, and artisans, all aware of fashion and change, all aware of the ways that consumer goods expressed their refinement and sophistication, whether chairs, paintings, books, or bonnets. This is the story the chair can tell, populated with real people and places.

Split Shift

On April 12, 2024April 12, 2024 By kittycalashIn making things

Once upon a time, I made a shift for the early 19th century– and promptly had to mend it. I have been mending that shift ever since (8 years!) whilst complaining that I need to make a new shift.

Never mind that I could commission one. Never mind, never mind.

Over the intervening 8 years, I learned more about sewing and shifts, and made a shift for the 1770s that I’m pleased with. That shift combined unbleached linen hand-woven by Rabbit Goody and purchased by my partner at a prop sale and white vintage linen found in a shop in Stockbridge, Mass.

56951198_10214538359594041_1091022036504936448_n — Underarm gusset of vintage linen

The vintage linen has a stain running along the center fold, but is otherwise white, soft, and more densely woven than most linen available today. It’s true that the more you make something, the better you get, and the better you will understand what you’re making.

Another path to understanding is looking at originals (yes, reading counts, too). I’ve been lucky enough to find and acquire two antique shifts, both from the early 19th century. While they’re not documentation for the period I interpret most often, they do provide clues to construction methods, and those clues are that aside from seams being felled for strength and durability, shifts are inconsistent. One shift uses the selvedge as the hem– which means the grain runs counter to the usual vertical orientation– while the other dispenses with the notion of bodice necklines to double down on the squares-and-rectangles trope.

Shifts are hard to date since they’re so basic (squares and rectangles) and don’t necessarily follow the lines of fashion. The sleeves here place this in the 19th century, though it could just be late (after 1785) 18th century. I’m pretty sure it’s not, but the possibility points to the staying power of the basic bag-like form.

Using this shift as inspiration, I decided that instead of patching that worn shift one more time, I would chop-and-top, that is, I would replace the top, worn section, and append it to the perfectly fine lower body of the shift.

I measured the extant top, measured my bicep, and cut the pieces accordingly after drawing threads to create straight lines. I had one rectangular piece with a slightly shaped neckline, two rectangles for sleeves, and two squares for gussets. Although I started this process in December, I was “overtaken by events” that included a yard sale, teaching a workshop, preparing a presentation, and taking a workshop. With a possible outing in late April and an 1820s dress workshop coming up in early May, I decided it was time to finish this.

Most of the work was in the gussets, four seams in all, two to attach the gusset to the sleeve, and two to attach the gusset to the shift body. Once the seams are backstitched, the offset side is folded over and felled all the way around the gusset. It is best not to count the number of seams you stitch for each sleeve and just keep sewing instead.

Over the course of a couple of days (Monday afternoon, and Tuesday and Wednesday evenings) I finished the neckline hem, attached the gussets, cut off the top of the old shift, and grafted the new top to the old body.

Removing the old top was not the neatest job, as I discovered part-way through the task. I decided to pull a thread across the bodice starting just under the underarm gusset. This worked well across one side but drifted badly across the other. (In which I discovered that I did NOT, in fact, cut that shift strictly on the grain.) I managed to fudge the situation but there’s no guarantee the seam and the hem don’t wander. They won’t be visible when worn, thank goodness, so I decided to live with the wobble and do better next time.