1770's Stays - Complete!

I started my 1770’s stays in December, a novice historical costumer with a gleam in my eye and a spring in my step. Now, after hours and hours of handstitching, a lovely new callous on my middle finger from jabbing myself repeatedly with the needle and a cramp in my hand, my stays are complete!

My tale of woe is not intended to dissuade anyone from making their own stays. On the contrary. Now that I have a fully finished pair, I am thrilled at what I was able to accomplish. I’ve never taken on anything like this before so I didn’t have any idea how complicated or time consuming stitching nearly 200 channels then boning and joining the 10 sections together would be. But that was the easy part. Quarter inch linen tape covered the joining channels attached with minute stitches; it was a delicate task trying to roll the stays and attach the tape without hearing the unmistakable crack of a reed snapping within a channel. Adding the kid leather binding was the most abusive on my poor fingers and hands.  Sure, in theory, it’s like attaching seam binding to a hem, but it's definitely not as easy as attaching seam binding to a hem!  I bent and contorted 3 needles pushing my way through the layers of leather, linen and wool and lost count of the expletives.

The blue checked lining was added in pieces; the center covered stay sections one and two, flanked by two side pieces covering sections 3, 4 and 5. The tabs were covered separately, so they can easily splay over the hips.

Now I understand why men were stay makers!

Pamphleteer and founding father Thomas Paine was the son of a stay maker. Paine himself apprenticed at the trade for seven years, but his efforts as a stay maker failed. After he sailed for America in 1774 he never practiced the staymaking trade again, but his inability to bone up (no pun intended) were never forgotten. In London, Paine's revolutionary writings were dismissed and ridiculed as the works of "Tom, the Bodicemaker."

Francis Oldys (pseudonym), in the work 'The Life of Thomas Paine, the Author of Rights of Men' (1791) wrote about stay makers: ‘The art of staymaking require patience, skill and the Quakerly ability to sit for hours in busy silence, cutting, and shaping woolen cloth, boning between each row of stitching, and lining the patterned stay with linen. Women of the notable classes wore stays or corsets, stiffened with whale bone and laced at the rear, especially underneath their mantuas, a style of dress called the robe á l'Anglaise by foreigners.’

While I consider the callous a badge of honor for a job well done, I’ve invested in some serious hand cream and ordered another batch of coin leather thimbles. (The dog ate the others. I wish I was kidding.) They’ll be here in time for me to start my next pair of stays! (Okay. I am kidding. I’ve got other things to finish first.)

Many thanks to Steph and Hallie at The Sign of the Golden Scissors for the great stays workshop, their patience and for answering my too frequent emails. 

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Shifting Direction

I think I have sewing ADD.

Since starting my 1770's stays in December, I've also started a 1780 hybrid stays pattern, modified a Victorian walking skirt pattern to be wearable as 21st century office attire, am working on my English gown, the petticoat is waiting to be hemmed and I recently bought material from William Booth for my bed jacket. The 1770's stays need binding and lining, the English gown is on hold until the second half of the workshop (in March) and the petticoat can't be hemmed until I finish the gown. The 1780 hybrid stays were a test pattern, and while they are the only piece I've completed, they need adjustment in the bust and under the arms. Like I said, test pattern, but that hasn't stopped me from thinking about pulling out some material and whipping up another version.

[Whipping up, she says, as though a new pair of stays is something that can be done in a few hours!]

With a trunk full of material and several more patterns waiting in the wings (in addition to the bed gown), I decided to take a step back and shift direction. Literally.

My shift pattern kit, another offering from Larkin & Smith, came complete with pre-cut linen material, linen thread, a beeswax cake and instructions. Rather than obsess over my English gown and the growing list of patterns I've squirreled away and those I'd love to purchase, I turned to the simple shift for something close to hand sewing's version of immediate gratification.

The shift was the first of the layers garments that built the shape of 1770's feminine fashion. Loose fitting, about knee length and made of linen for durability, the shift was a utility garment worn by day under clothing and by night to sleep in. Standard construction was as simple as its use: felled seams, precise hand-stitching (8-10 stitches per inch using linen thread), underarm gussets. The pieces of the garment were rectangles or squares, except the triangular gores attached for fullness at the hem, were judiciously cut from a single piece of the precious fabric to avoid waste. In the days when fashionable outer garments were rarely washable and a bath more of a luxury than the course of daily hygiene, the shift kept sweat and body oils from ruining the expensive gowns.

Eighteenth century shifts were carefully cut from linen woven for that specific purpose; the selvedges an important part of the garment's construction. Ads or fabric inventories from the era promote Irish linen sold as "3-4, 7-8 and yard wide," meaning ¾ yard wide (27"), 7/8 yard wide (31.5") or 36" wide (yard). Robert Ruggles posted an advertisement in the June 30, 1774 edition of the Massachusetts Spy advertising "linnens" and other sundry for sale.

Because shifts were well-used, very few 18th century examples survive. Paintings and prints provide glimpse of the edges of the shifts, and documents only mention them in passing. The 1789 sewing manual, Instructions for Cutting Out Apparel for the Poor, provides information on sizing, materials and patterns for linen shifts, as well as aprons, petticoats, stays, cloaks, bonnets, caps, gowns and more. The manual, published in London, also provides information on the "expence of cloathing" for poor men, women, children and infants.

So, I'm stitching my shift, determined to finish it before the weekend when I'll pull out my new Tow & White striped linen, just arrived from William Booth, Draper, and start the bed gown. And I'll ignore my hubby when he tells me that if I don't start to watch the "expence of my cloathing", I'm going to put us in the poor house!

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The English Gown Project

A few weeks ago, I took part one of a two-part English Gown workshop with Hallie & Steph using their brand new Larkin & Smith pattern. The end result will be a fully authentic, hand-stitched gown ready to wear for the Patriot's Day activities in Minute Man National Park this April.

I had a fabric design in mind, something I'd seen in Colonial Williamsburg (of course) and spent hours trolling boards on Pinterest, historic and costuming blogs and other sites featuring gowns of the 18^th century looking for something to document my decision.

The workshop was held, fittingly enough, in the parlor of one of the historic buildings in Minute Man National park. Six women sewing in stays must have been an interesting sight. I left the class with the back skirt pleated (it’s one piece incorporating the bodice and skirt), sleeves complete and front bodice pieces cut. Doesn’t seem like much for a 6 hour class, but trust me, the pleating alone was tedious, and everything – I mean EVERYTHING - is done by hand.

In the days since, as part of my “homework” in preparation for the second workshop on March 8, I’ve finished the 4 skirt panels and attached the front bodice. Sleeves, cuffs and robing are ready. And a beautiful, complimentary light blue chintz petticoat to wear with it is nearly complete.

English gown back

English gown sleeves

My historical clothing vernacular has expanded, or more specifically, gone retro, as I’ve taken on more of these 18^th century projects. I’m used to a Victorian wardrobe and glossary after spending years with the Hackettstown Historical Society, whose focus was the small NJ town’s Victorian heyday. Underthings included bustles, chemises and corsets. Now I’m wearing a bum roll, shift and stays.
 
The Victorian petticoat was an explosion of frills, and ruffles, the ultimate symbol of femininity in the era. It was worn under the dress, and depending on the decade, it was expected to have several swishing beneath your skirts. One would think that with such attention paid to the detailing of a Victorian petticoat, with their crisp white fabrics, beautiful eyelet embroidery and delicate lace, they would be an outer, not under garment. The highly visible 18^th century petticoat was worn as part of the gown (not dress) or on its own. And, of course, a Victorian woman would never leave the house in her bed jacket or apron!

Examples of Victorian petticoats from the Metropolitan Museum

Considering this is my first 18^th century gown, I am very impressed with how it is coming together. Of course, I’m already planning my second gown and ordered 6 yards of tow & white striped linen from William Booth, Draper, (along with material for my bedgown, but that's for another blog) even though I’ve told myself I need to finish my stays before I start another gown. It's a bit like the parental negotiations to get your child to finish their dinner before they get dessert.

Wait! I am the parent…

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