Taking the Singer 28 K Handcrank Sewing Machine for a Spin: It Sews Thick Fabrics Easily, as I Thought It Would

 

Do you recognize the tablet-woven band? Yes, it’s done!

Yesterday I took the Singer for a first spin. Had already spent some time making sure it was pristine-clean and oiled well. While it wasn’t dusty a bit, it sure was thirsty, and a little more oil went on to help get the bobbin winder humming.

Knowing by experience that antique and early vintage Singers are good at handling thick or dense fabrics, I expected no less from this machine, and wasn’t disappointed. The tablet-woven band wasn’t the issue, as you can poke a needle through the twisted and woven threads easily. It was the manufactured guitar strap, which is two thickish layers. As I hoped, the machine didn’t blink or hesitate as I cranked it. Oh, it makes a pretty seam. Just as precise as the Wilcox and Gibbs, which by the way you can see on video below, too, and many times in blog posts.

I’ve demonstrated the foray into sewing on the Singer 28. You can hear its version of purring - relative to a motor, anyhow, it’s pretty quiet, but not as quiet as the Wilcox and Gibbs, which is nearly silent.

Listen to the Wilcox and Gibbs here, for a comparison.

All About a 1934 Singer 28K Handcrank Sewing Machine, and Its Journey from England, Through Turkey, Spain and Further

 

I didn’t plan to come home with a sewing machine yesterday, truly I didn’t. On seeing it sitting on top of its case under a table in Feather Your Nest, a local antique mall, the chrome shine on its hand wheel caught my eye and I had to take a look, just like a magpie. 

Me at that moment, making a beeline… Photo from Grungaloo, Wikimedia Commons

Ooh, it was in gorgeous condition! Ooh, there was its case, with a drawer (!), and an international shipping line’s label (!) pasted outside, ooh, and an original manual, and goodies in that little drawer. The price being fair, at that moment I thought, home it comes. I’ll have to sell the Singer 27, but home it comes.

And here it is now, a member of one of the more storied models of Singer, known for its simplicity of design, its durability (obviously), its long reign (1880s to 1960s!) and its lovely stitching ways. If you look up “Singer 28” on YouTube, you will find a lot of loving views and stories. 

But in this case, there’s much more.

Singer 28K serial number Y9309795
Made in May 1934 in Kilbowie, Clydebank, Scotland

Here’s that label, hinting at overseas travel…

That’s American Export Lines, a major cargo shipping service in the Mediterranean, from New York, gaining that particular name in 1936. The stamp on top shows that this piece of cargo was inspected by the United States. The shipping line kept that name until 1964.

Does this whet your interest…a portable sewing machine that traveled? Come with me as my son Noah and I explore the machine and discover that it has quite a story, that it belonged to two women who taught at the American Girls College in Istanbul, that it was first in Canterbury, England, that it later went to Spain, and finally came to the U.S. in the 1960s, probably when that shipping label was applied and the stamp on top. 

What a tale, occurring as it did in the turmoil of the Depression years, the darkening of the globe before World War II, the terrifying War years, and the rebuilding, realigning period afterwards. Because the machine was so beautifully cared for, and because the second owner, sensing that this little machine had a special history, left a letter explaining it, tells me that she and her predecessor probably would have been nifty to meet, what with their skills and experiences, including teaching abroad during such a swathe of the 20th century.

Here is a video all about it, including the moment I discovered the letter, along with other surprises. I hope you enjoy the trip!

Edit November 26th: yesterday I oiled the machine...no need to clean it as it had been lovingly cared for...and used it for a tiny project. It sews beautifully :)

Oh, the last installment of the 1901-1903 Edwardian summer gown, setting it into its milieu, is not far from being ready, but with the Season almost upon us, I am not sure when I’ll have it posted. Meantime, all safety, health, and cheer to you.

Tablet Weaving My Son a Guitar Strap

Nutmeg is involved in all projects. She’s thinking of coming up on the sofa for a nap, which in the end she did, to my delight.

Late last spring, on encouragement from my friend Sarah, who is a whiz tablet weaver, I thought to try the method to make a guitar strap for one of the twins, as an alternative game for the brain and something to do in short bursts. Finding an excellent, blow-by-blow tutorial on YouTube by Melissa of Impending Looms, titled “Beginner Tablet Weaving: Getting Started with an Oseberg Variation”, off I went.

All went fairly well with the warp setup, or so I thought, until I began weaving, when I discovered that first, the resulting woven band would be too narrow, and second, that I had missthreaded at least one of the cards, so that the pattern was broken. Unlike regular weaving, the warp threads are interlaced with each turn of the cards, and unless you are experienced, it’s easy to make a mistake.

So, I added warp threads to each side of the originals to make the resulting band wider and with added stripes, and “fixed” the threading. Then laid the project aside in the bad corner for months. Picking up the project today, weaving went merrily along, and I am finding that the pattern is easy to follow, but discovered that not all the missthreadings were corrected. Despite Melissa’s careful explanations, I had still put threads in the wrong order. Plus, the band is still too narrow: there’s a lot of pull-in from the sides as tablet-woven work is dense and very strong, due to the combination of twisted and woven threads.

Oh my. Looking at the short woven bit, I rather liked the pattern, which reminds me of waves or air currents, and so kept on going. There is only one other feature of the tablet pattern that I don’t care for…at the end of each full pattern repeat, a little bump is inserted in the threads, that breaks up the flow a little. Eh.

If this band is ever going to be used as a guitar strap, I will have to mount it to a thick, wide cotton tape. Ah, no big deal. Main thing is, it must be done by Christmas :}

The inkle loom is from TwoPlyFiberArts on Etsy. It is super. While I keep most crafts hidden in closets, this is worth having out as it’s a handsome blend of art and utility.

The jury is still out on whether I like tablet-weaving or not. It certainly creates beautiful results and moves along at a decent clip. The patterning is brain-bending, though. I still can’t figure out exactly where the goof is :}

Antique Edwardian 1900-1903 Summer Gown: Part 2, the Skirt

In July I introduced you to a circa 1900-1903 Edwardian summer gown. After looking at the dress as a whole, we had a deep, detailed look at the shirtwaist portion of its construction, for this gown was unlined and its bodice not built on a fitted foundation. This time, we are going to examine the skirt in just as much detail. Are you ready?

The dress as a whole is shown above. It has been set over a corset cover and a single trained petticoat, but there is no corset as I have none that fit. Had there been one, the dress would sit differently, with a slightly enhanced dip in the front to emphasize the bodice pouch, and a higher set to the back of the skirt, with again, an enhanced roundness there, especially if a hip pad were worn. Do watch the Sew Through Time YouTube video called  “Getting dressed: 1903 summer vs winter” to see how this is achieved, layer by layer, although note that the video author does not purposely dip the skirt in front.

Exploring the Skirt

You can tell from the photos above that the skirt is smooth across the front and then gathered tightly in back, with a center back closure. 

You will also notice that it has a very tall flounce, which is higher in the back than in the front, an elegant look which elongates the line of the dress and accentuates the train in back.

Finally, you will see from the above as well as photos below that the skirt is trained. In some Edwardian evening wear, the trains are very long, but this is a day dress, and the train is shorter—daywear with a train was popular from the end of the 1890s through the into 1905 or so, unless the skirt was for working or sports, or for a rainy day, in which case it was fashionable to wear a skirt, often wool, above the ankle!

A Trumpet Effect, without a Trumpet Cut

Ideally, the skirt will puddle around the front of the feet, too, as if the wearer were a mature tree rooted to the ground, or as if the bottom of the skirt was the bell of a trumpet. How to get this shape?

You might think that the skirt pattern itself would be cut such that each piece curved outwards on both sides to create a curved flare towards the bottom of the skirt. In the case of heavier winter skirts, this was a popular cut. 

Another popular way to achieve the flare was to apply one or more circular flounces to a straight-gored skirt. A circular flounce is cut such that both top and bottom are cut on a curve, with the bottom length being longer than the top. The tighter the curve, the more pronounced the flare.

The circular flounce can be applied to a full length skirt so that the base skirt can be frilled with a dust ruffle, and the flounce sit outside. One or more flounces could be stacked this way. Or, a single circular flounce could be attached to a a shorter main skirt, one only about 2/3 of the length needed.

In the case of this dress, the main skirt’s gores are straight. The flounce is very slightly circular, but it is made by cutting several widths. Each width is wider than the gore it goes with, and each one is set in tiny, not quite even pleats onto its gore. The flounce is so long that the pleats fade out by the bottom and the fabric fans out. The fanning is strengthened by three tiny horizontal tucks taken in the flounce plus an applied frill. Add in the excessive length and you have the trumpet effect.

We will address in part 3 how people were advised to walk (!) with a skirt that long.

Cut and Measurements

Rather than attempt to draw the cut myself, I found an existing diagram of the basic skirt design in a January 1901 issue of Vogue magazine, then a rather new magazine heavily focused on fashion and striving to be both au courant and still court an reader on a budget. Here is the cut for an evening gown, on page xii, near the back of the issue. The pattern pieces marked with the blue arrows are the ones we’re interested in. They show the basic cut of my dress’s skirt fairly well. If you want to know how the gown is constructed, the article that goes along with the pattern describes it well. The magazine included a pattern about every other issue, for a year or two. Oh, how I love them!

Here is the skirt laid flat and turned inside out. You can see the bottom of the flounce serving as the skirt’s hem. Frills are mounted to the outside of it, and the flounce has three tucks above that.

The skirt is cut so that the waistline dips in front, because the front and side front pieces are not cut straight across the top. The cut is in line with that of the shirtwaist, which has a lower front point and a very high back. The straight-fronted corset almost surely worn with the dress would encourage the low position in front, while the higher back of the skirt and the upwardly canted back of the corset would help the skirt sit higher there.

You can see clearly here how the asymmetric tall flounce is lowest at center front and very soon thereafter starts to rise on each side.

The main skirt is made of the same tucked cotton lawn as the shirtwaist, while the flounce is made of smooth lawn. The band between skirt and flounce is where the lace used to trim the shirtwaist has been applied to the outside of the skirt to cover the join.

The back of the skirt, shown below, shows that the angle that the flounce rises in the back is gentler, and that the center back placket closure is not that long relative to the skirt’s back length.

Now, for my skirt’s measurements. Because the garment is delicate, I haven’t poked and prodded it much; measures are approximate.

The waist is 24 3/4” around.

The skirt is cut in 5 gores: 1 front, 2 side, 2 back with the center of the back on a seam, which therefore is necessarily on the bias.

Here are the dimensions of the main, tucked portion of the skirt, without the flounce added:

• The front gore: cut straight of grain at the center. 4” wide at waistline and 12 1/2” wide at the bottom. Gore is 29” long at center front, outer seams are 28 1/2” long. There is a barely discernible curve to the bottom.
• The two side gores: cut straight of grain on the front-facing seam, which is 28 1/2” long. Back-facing seam is 26” long. Width 4” across the top and 11” along the bottom.
• The back gores, which are of indeterminate width because they are gathered so closely that I cannot ascertain whether the pieces are as wide at the top as the bottom: 
• The right side: 6” across the top, stroke-gathered for 1 1/2” from the closure edge, 26 1/2” wide at the bottom. Front facing seam is cut on the straight of grain and is of course 26” long, but so is the back, center seam. The back center line of each of these gores is on the bias. Because the fashion fabric is tucked, the center back forms upward-pointed chevrons, a pleasing and elongating effect.
• The left side: 7” across the top, stroke-gathered for 1 1/2” to seam with the under-placket. Extends 1 1/4” further for under-placket.
• Closure is 10” long.
• Added together, the circumference of the main, tucked portion of the skirt is 87 1/2 inches.

Then there is the flounce. It too is in pieces, but their seams do not match up with those of the main skirt. Instead, they are arranged such that there is an unbroken length across the front, and another across the back, with a piece to either side. While I am not entirely certain, I believe that the flounce pieces are circular-cut. The illustration below shows a skirt with the circular-cut flounces. You can see the curved flounce pieces laid out in the schematic to the right of the illustration. Because the skirt also is trained, at the back the flounce pieces are taller than they are at the other end so that the flounce is longer there. My skirt’s flounce is like that.

Vogue, June 13, 1901, p. Xii

Here are the approximate locations of the four pieces that compose the flounce and their dimensions.

• Piece spreading from right side of front to left side of front: 24” wide at top, 42” wide at bottom. Very lightly gathered across top.
• Side piece: left side of front to well in back: 24” wide at top, 42” wide at bottom. Very lightly gathered across top.
• Center back piece: 15” wide at top, 45” wide at bottom. Medium-gathered at top, except for about 3/4” to each side of center back, which is stroke-gathered.
• Side piece: almost center back to right side of front: 24” wide at top, 42” wide at bottom. Lightly gathered across top.
• Flounce heights as measured at seams:
• Center back flounce seam length: about 23”.
• Side flounce seam length: about 21”.
• Front-ish flounce seam length: about 14”.

Skirt Seams and Hem

The lawn of which the outfit is made is fairly closely woven and doesn’t fray that much. 

Waistband, Back Gathers and Skirt Placket

Whereas the front of the skirt is laid flat into the waistband, the back of the skirt is stroke-gathered tightly into the self-fabric waistband. The back panel of the skirt is actually very wide in order for there to be fabric enough to gather this tightly.

Stroked gathers are set so close together that there is no space allowed between them; they are nudged up together by hand with the blunt end of a needle—to my knowledge a machine cannot create them. Years ago I wrote a tutorial on how to create stroked gathers in a mid-19th century petticoat; you see them commonly in very fine antique lingerie and on garments such as 18th century men’s shirts.

It is the luxurious fullness of the back of the skirt and its extra long flounce that creates the fullness of the train. The skirt has such a small waistband that it doesn’t close on the mannequin. Imagine how full that center back fall of skirt into train would be if it actually closed!

Here is how the skirt closure would look if the skirt were properly closed.

This skirt placket only consists of an under-placket. The top part of the placket, which would often be a smooth band of fabric on the inside of the skirt closing edge that would meet up with the under-placket, doesn’t exist. The gathered fabric on the waistband just closes over the under-placket and that’s it. 

The under-placket is wide and is simply doubled fabric, with the selvage at the inner edge so that there is no need for a hem. The placket width ensures that the skirt will not gape open. Interestingly, the under-placket is barely sewn to the back of the skirt fabric at the placket bottom, as you can see in the photo below.

Here is the back side of the under-placket so that you can see its construction.

Here also is the underside skirt closure that closes over the under-placket. You can see that the waistband was fiddled with a bit.

You can also see on this and the previous image how the waistband was constructed. It’s nothing unusual. The long strip of fabric which makes up the waistband was laid along the outside of the skirt’s gathered waist edge (and under-placket) and sewn, though I don’t know whether by machine or by hand. Then the other long edge was flipped to the inside, the raw edge turned under, and hand-sewn closed, probably with spaced backstitch.

Note the two sturdy brass eyes and matching hooks sewn onto the narrow waistband with rough stitches. The brass will not rust, obviously. 

Skirt Hangers on the Waistband

The skirt has two “handles” or hanging loops on the inside of the waistband, one on each side, to use to hang the skirt from a hook or perhaps an early hanger. The handles are nothing more than self fabric in a long strip, all raw edges turned in and folded in half lengthwise, then sewn by machine for the length, and hand stitched in place.

Horizontal Tucks and Frills at Skirt Bottom

The skirt’s bottom is nicely frilly and fluffy, as are so many lightweight, summery outfits of the early Edwardian period. Let’s have a look.

Here is a photo of the bottom of the skirt flounce, showing its three tucks and a frill, with annotations showing how each part of it was constructed. Of special interest to people wanting to create elegant Edwardian dress frills:

• Place your frill so that the top of it falls beneath the cover of a tuck. It looks neater that way.
• Notice how narrow the gathers are, and that not every bit of fabric is gathered. This makes the frill quite delicate and not so frilly that it stands out in waves. These days most people take rather large gathers, nipping up, say, a quarter of an inch. I would not expect that this frill is quite 2x the circumference of the skirt bottom, though I haven’t measured. However, the tiny gathers are close enough for a delicately frilly effect.

Here below is an excruciatingly close-up photo of the frill and how it’s sewn down. My eyes aren’t that good anymore, but I know that the allowance for the frill was turned over, and a fine gathering thread was, I think, used to make the equally fine gathers. Then the gathered frill would have been pinned just underneath the third tuck (which would have been pressed or pinned up to get it out of the way) and the frill sewn on from the top and right over the gathering thread. Thinking I can detect the gathering thread every so often, but might be wrong. In any case, in some places so little fabric was gathered that the result is almost flat. Afterwards, the third tuck would have been lightly pressed down over the frill header to hide the latter.

Here below you can see how the frill allowance is raw at the edge…it doesn’t show and won’t get wear as it’s sandwiched up against the skirt.

Here is the back of the skirt. You can see that the hem is quite deep and goes right up to the last line of stitching that marks the third tuck.

Last comment on the photo of the hem above. The person doing the hem was working fast, and the fabric wandered a little the machine stitched. Also, the stitch length is short — it would need to be on fabric as fine as this.

Goodness, that was a lot, wasn’t it? There is a surprisingly large amount of information that you can collect from a close look at an extant gown like this one. Not being lined, the workings are there for you to discover. I hope that you have learned something useful that you can take into your own Edwardian sewing adventures, or into whatever realm it’s needed.

Next time, placing the dress — both skirt and bodice — into the context of the fashions of the day using lots of photos and documentation, and looking a bit at just a few of the accessories that would have accompanied it.

The Autumn of the Twins’ Senior Year and College Applications

Since I last published a post in July, our family has been very busy with the whole applying to college/university process and we are not done yet, and won’t know where the boys will attend until some time next spring. I wrote, over the last 10 minutes, a description of the costs and the amount of work involved, but deleted it. I will only say that everyone is and has been pulling together, for many years already, but it will be a humungous, long row to get them safely through, and by the time they graduate, I will be viewing the shady side of my sixties. Meantime, am valuing all the moments that we have together while our boys are still kids. Poignant? And then some.

Antique Edwardian 1900-1903 Summer Gown, Part 1: Intro and Shirtwaist Construction

It took years, yet I finally found an extant early Edwardian summer gown (which we would call colloquially an Edwardian dress) that meets all of the criteria I’ve long been looking for: cotton, unlined, trained, and puddling around the feet along the front and sides. Oh, and that was within budget for purchase. Hence the years’ wait.

In this post, part 1, we will look at the gown at large and learn how the bodice was constructed. Part 2 will focus on the skirt; part 3 will explore how the gown fits into what I believe is its time period, via magazine, newspaper, and retailers publications. I thought that people might enjoy seeing a full gown like this in the closest detail possible.

Here is a short video that helps show what the gown is like in in a room.

The wearer would have sported a tall collar, probably of matching lace or eyelet: it has gone missing. She would also have worn a belt, perhaps a shaped fabric belt slightly ruched and dipped in front to follow the fashionable elongated line. Or, especially in 1901 or 2, the belt could have been a narrow velvet closing in front with a pretty buckle, all again dipped. Or a narrow sash with very long tails, tied in side front or back. Black would have been especially chic in 1901, but soft colors would also be popular, in softer tones than the super-brights of most of the 1890s. 

The photos above show the gown over a corset cover and a petticoat of roughly the same length. I had a time settling it safely on the dress form, because the skirt is small…the form is set to a 24” waist, its smallest, and is still too big for the skirt. I have no straight-front corset small enough for the outfit, and hip pads would not have worked without the skirt fitting well. Anyway, I still hope you can imagine what it was like.

Here’s an idea of the ideal gown silhouette from this early part of the Edwardian period in a partial screen capture from The Ladies Home Journal. The models show that the amount of “puddling” (my own term for extra length at front and sides) and training in back varied, from a bare amount to the quite extravagant puddling seen on gowns in La Mode issues of this time. (You will need to look up the magazine: the hosts do not like people copying their pictures.) I usually find that except in high fashion, the bust and derrière positions illustrated in magazines and advertisements are a bit much, but it almost always has been so in that arena.

Both shirtwaist and skirt are entirely unlined, as we will find out in the part 3 post, some recommended unlined gowns, while others recommended gowns with “drop” skirt linings and lined bodices: there were lots of variations to fit occasion, personal preference, and purse.

The gown appears to be local dressmaker-made or homemade. MsTips on Etsy, who is located in Minnesota and from whom I purchased the gown, believes it probably hails from her area. There is no dressmaker label, but not all dressmakers seem to have added them. It combines machined seams with hand-tacking and finishing of closures and trim. The handwork appears to have been done rapidly and mostly with large stitches that no one would see. As such, when worn the gown would have been delicate and certainly not something to last more than a season, if that, without repair. The delicacy of many summer gowns was remarked on at the time. I see no signs of rips or worn fabric which most of my other pieces have, although the skirt was made very slightly smaller in a casual way that warms my heart. 

The gown is made of a tucked fine fabric, possibly lawn, probably bought as pre-tucked goods, with a tall plain lawn skirt flounce higher in back than in front to add grace to the line, lawn eyelet plastron in the center of the shirtwaist front and sleeve ruffles on the bracelet-length sleeves, and matching applied lace on both shirtwaist and skirt which looks like Schiffli to me. 

As you can see in the detail shot below of the lace as used throughout the gown, it is actually embroidery on an applied fabric backing, with portions, but not all, cut or perhaps chemically removed. It’s the manufacturing that makes me think it’s Schiffli, but I am not a lace expert. This lace is, however, not an expensive one. In the photo, the applied lace is only running stitched with large stitches down on one side to a separate bias band of fine fabric applied to the main body tucked fabric. The other side generally holds itself in position since the band is narrow. This has been done wherever the lace is used on the shirtwaist, to keep the regular fabric from showing through the lace, and making it stand out proud more.

While the gown is very pretty, high fashion gowns that we see in museums and occasionally for sale normally use far nicer lace, harder-to-produce trims such as minute contrasting edgings and finer construction. 

The fact that it’s white in color doesn’t mean it’s a wedding or reception gown: white gowns were widely worn and gowns like this one were perfect for summertime events, garden parties, evening informal gatherings, and even street wear, though a woman was expected to hold up a puddled and trained skirt to walk in it. We discussed walking in such skirts in the last post, “A Construction Tour of Four Antique Edwardian Skirts in My Collection”, but I cannot help including the following, which describes the proper look of the more narrow, tightly gored of these skirts, as well as what it is like to move in one:

“Skirts of light weight materials will be more troublesome than usual this summer. The fashionable outline for these garments is exactly that of a reversed lily. The calyx fits as tightly and closely as possible round the hips, and the petals swing out from just above the knees, swirling widely round the feet. This arrangement renders it very troublesome to hold up a skirt effectually; and yet it is impossible to walk in it without lifting it, except by a slow gliding movement, pushing the skirt before one’s feet, as it were. Besides the inconvenience of this sliding manner of progression, considerations of hygiene and cleanliness forbid trailing a wide skirt in the streets or public parks; only on a well-kept lawn or in the house can the newest cut of jupon be worn with any propriety and comfort sweeping its full width around the wearer.” (The Ely Miner. (Ely, Minn.), May 31, 1901: “A Tendency to Crinoline Effect in Light Weight Skirts”)

The Shirtwaist Bodice

Let’s look at the shirtwaist in more detail. This will be very picture-heavy, but I hope you will appreciate seeing construction details up close!

Here below is the shirtwaist only buttoned at the topmost button at the left shoulder. The opening follows the slanting line of the lace trim from collar to shirtwaist bottom. There are relatively few, and very small 4-hole buttons. This style of closure was common in the 1890s, and was still popular in the early Edwardian years.

Here’s the closure in more detail. As you can see, a separate strip of very fine and high-thread-count cotton fabric (lawn again?), folded in half lengthwise, all edges turned in and then sewn, has had sizeable buttonholes handmade in it. Then it has been only tacked in a few places to the inside edge of the left side front piece. It has not been sewn down in its entirety. The strip can’t be seen from outside, because the flat lace trim has been applied. On the outside of the plastron, little four-hole buttons have been sewn right at the edge. When closed, the buttons are invisible and the shirtwaist has no apparent closure, a neat effect.

Note how the front of the eyelet plastron is lightly gathered at the top into a band made of the same fabric as the buttonhole piece, and then gathered again at the bottom. The gathering creates the modest pigeon-front bust that hangs just a bit below the waistline, but the blousing effect can confined to the plastron, depending on how tightly the side fronts are closed. Tastes in blousing differed, as magazines and newspapers said. By 1903 the pouching was often more opulent; that’s one reason I think the gown dates to 1901 or possibly 1902.

One more shot of that buttonhole band, this time from the inside of the shirtwaist. I am showing it separated from the side-front piece base, which has had the fine selvage edge turned in. At this period selvages didn’t have fluffy edges with the weft threads sticking out, so dressmakers didn’t have to trim and hem them. Less time, less bulk.

Here’s the shirtwaist from the side, so you can see the pouching more easily. Note how the shirtwaist peplum is necessarily split at front and progressively becomes wider at the sides and back. Also note the gentle downward slope of the shirtwaist waistline towards the front. This is a sign of the dipped front that was so much a part of the elongated, pigeon-breast front that had become popular in mid-1900 with the advent of the straight-front corset.

Below the buttonhole strip, close to the bottom of the shirtwaist, each side front piece has a small, narrow twill tape. The wearer ties this to adjust the side pieces to close at the end of the visible sides, and just above the peplum. In this way the side fronts are pulled to fit, while not stressing the plastron. Clever, but it’s interesting: if the wearer leaned far over, the inside of the shirtwaist might possibly show. 

Here are the twill tapes from the inside of the shirtwaist. They are inside a casing and are carefully handsewn to the side seam, which can take the tugging of the tapes when they’re pulled. You can also see the French seam side seams here and how the band carries on all the way across the back of the shirtwaist and right over that seam, willy-nilly, to form the waistline. 

The side front and the back pieces of the shirtwaist include the peplum when cut out. The peplum is just delineated by the sewing of this casing-cum-band, made of nothing but a piece of that fabric with the long sides turned under, and a hole at each side seam for the twill tape. The dressmaker sewed the side pieces to the back piece first. Then they made the band, perhaps encasing the tape right away and gathering the center of the back just slightly for wearing ease, sewed it down, and then added the stitches to the tape. It surprises me that the tapes actually can be seen from the exterior, but there you are. Perhaps it means they are easier to replace if one comes loose.

Here’s the back of the shirtwaist.

The back is one piece…a true shirtwaist with no back seams…note the tiny short horizontal band outside above the peplum. We will discuss it in a bit.

Note how narrow the sleeves are, and the pretty bracelet length. We’ll explore that fashion in part 3 of these posts.

The sleeve ruffle, made of a fine eyelet that coordinates but isn’t the same as the plastron eyelet fabric, is very closely gathered to the end of the sleeve, and the join covered with the applied lace. The end of the sleeve is shorter in front than in back, which is elegant and slightly reminiscent of 18th century sleeve ruffles, though those ruffles themselves tended to actually be longer at the back of the elbow.

Here below is the inside of the sleeve, showing that after it was sewn into the armscye, the raw edge was neatly bound. Also, notice the little fabric bar sewn to the binding, with room for it to loop over a hook or peg or possibly a hanger with hooks (I haven’t explored hangers at all). The bar’s at the sleeve armscye bottom. Both armscyes have one so that the shirtwaist may be neatly hung up to air and to avoid needing a pressing.

You can see that the shirtwaist was worn; thankfully stains are minimal and the wearer may have used dress shields.

One more inside view, that of the sleeve end join between the sleeve proper and the ruffle. The sleeves were finely gathered, as we can tell from the large number and small size of the resulting gathers. They were attached to the sleeve ends, obviously, probably from the inside, but we don’t know for sure because the Schiffli lace trim covers the join on the outside, and under the trim is a band of fine fabric to keep the tucked fabric from showing between the open parts of the lace. On the inside, a band of the fine fabric made of a narrow long piece with the ends turned in covers the inside join to make it smooth. It’s machined on both sides. I don’t know if the outside band was placed first, but you can see the large stitches where the lace was tacked on above one of the rows of machine stitching.

Here is the back of the outside of the shirtwaist.

As with many shirtwaists of the time, the shoulder seam is towards the back of the shoulder, not right on top of it. Please, if you make a shirtwaist, remember this; it does affect the look when worn. The seams are all French and narrow.

Here is a closeup of the little applied, double or even triple-thick band that is sewn to the outside of the shirtwaist at the level of the waistline in the back, in the center. It’s sewn on three sides, with the bottom open. It has two eyelets in it that do NOT go all the way through to the shirtwaist fabrics. I submit that these were to hold little brass hooks, like the hooks from the brass hooks and eyes, which would have been sewn to the skirt. Thus the back of the skirt could be held upwards, which would help the dipped front look, and ensure that shirtwaist and skirt did not embarrassingly part ways to show underclothing. Both are pulled out of shape with use. However, I can find no hint to date of hooks on the skirt. Might a belt have been attached here? More study of the skirt band is in order.

Here is the inside of the shirtwaist opened up, showing the side of the center plastron that’s attached. It is not machine sewn to the right side front piece. Instead it is hand-sewn on with largish stitches. Was the maker in a hurry or was this done to keep the plastron hanging loosely and smoothly? What do you think? I think the latter, because one side looking firmer than the other would have somewhat spoiled the relaxed effect of the shirtwaist front.

Pay attention to the blousing at bottom: see how the outside is a bit pulled inside by the gathering? That helps it pouch properly on the outside.

Here’s a detail shot, below. Do you see how big the stitches are? Also, do you notice that the right side shirtwaist front piece is cut on the selvage, and the selvage turned well inwards for a wide seam allowance? 

Oh, and those large tacking stitches running down the inside next to the selvage: those are the stitches just tacking on the applied lace outside. Those are not painstakingly machine sewn on, so they do not suffer an obvious line of stitching or a mashing of the lace. So, makers: be light with attaching your flat-applied lace (except insertion lace, for obvious reasons) and it will look more natural. 

Finally, observe that the top of the plastron appears to be a long piece of that fine fabric used for the buttonhole piece, folded over and ends turned in, and machine stitched to the top of the plastron. This would need to take rubbing, so machine work makes sense. Here, as elsewhere, the stitching is adequately straight, but suffers a little from wandering. Quick professional work or semi-proficient home seamstress work? I have a contemporaneous silk gown and a slightly later linen suit; in both, the workmanship is more careful.

Here’s the bottom of the plastron, from the outside. It has been gathered into a narrow space. Note that the gathering is rapidly done. You can see that the plastron eyelet fabric is similar in weight to the tucked fabric. If you look at the size of my fingers where they are shown, you will see how finely woven these fabrics are. It would be difficult to find such excellent fabric, though I may have located some cotton mull,  known as some of the finest of all.

Here is the same gathered plastron bottom, from the inside. You can see that a scrap of that fine fabric has been placed over the gathering both long and short ends turned under, and handsewn down…the stitches are visible on the left. Was this there when the garment was created, or is it a fix? Cannot tell.

The loose edge of the plastron, with the buttons on the outside, is below. It appears that the plastron may have been cut on the selvage on this side, and the end folded over and turned in, providing a doubled edge for the buttons to be sewn to on the outside.

Here’s the inside of one of the front side pieces towards the bottom, where the interior band that marks the waistline and serves as a casing for the twill tape to tie the two front pieces together. As you can see, you can adjust how smooth or eased the two side front pieces are. Note the fairly wide self bias binding that encases the bottom of the shirtwaist pieces to neaten them up. The sewing appears to have been done from the outside and at points the seamstress missed sewing the edge on the backside and had to hem those parts. I sure understand that situation ;)

That finishes examining the shirtwaist. I am hopeful that those who like to make Edwardian clothing for whatever use, will find the details helpful to their sewing projects.

I’ve already prepared most of parts 2 and 3, so I sure hope it won’t take long to post them. You never know what life will throw at you, and our sons’ college application season is upon us!

Before you go, a little treat. 

A female Eastern swallowtail butterfly has been visiting our summer phlox for its nectar. We hope she find a mate and lays a brood of eggs in her preferred trees, tulip trees, bay magnolias, and lilacs.

A Construction Tour of Four Antique Edwardian Skirts in My Collection

 

Early Edwardian antique pink cotton skirt, worn over an antique petticoat with tall flounce and an antique shirtwaist. A teaser of what's to come.

Heads Up! Long and image-heavy

I have been collecting antique clothes in a small way for decades, starting in the 1990s. Most pieces have been Edwardian, partly because these sometimes are more reasonably priced, but mostly because the era is fascinating in its complexity and in the obvious impacts of a modernizing world on the fashion industry and the women who wore the fashions. 

For the last several years the collecting focus largely has been on the early Edwardian years -- which actually covered the end of Queen Victoria's reign -- of approximately 1900-1905. Read about them in some detail on the Fashion Institute of Technology's Fashion History Timeline 1900-1909 article. 

I've long wanted to share some of these garments with the historical costuming community, focusing on construction details that aren't often easily available in photographs, and with brief commentary on how they may have looked when worn. So, one sunny afternoon in early May I spent 3-4 hours photographing petticoats, shirtwaists, and skirts -- a portion of the collection.

Here below are a series of skirts. Each is shown paired with a shirtwaist* over a corset cover, and with one of several extant petticoats underneath to help fill out the garment. 

*The shirtwaist is "bloused", a in-period term for the pigeon-breast effect, and set in a dip, not a straight line, with the blousing held in place by a handy peplum for tucking into the skirt. The sleeves have been shortened: I believe it originally had long, probably narrow cuffs. The alteration could have been back then, for elbow sleeves came in pretty quickly for daytime -- I recall a 1902 magazine saying that they were now permissible for daywear. The lace is a composite of several types, all machine-made, and the flowery 3-D effect lace mimics Irish crochet lace. High-necked, bloused shirtwaists had a long vogue in the 1900s and 1910s, but this one, with its decently long back, feels in the cut and the lace types and placement more like before 1907 than some of my clearly later examples. However, I am not certain.

A plain swishy skirt, in linen

This skirt feels mid-Edwardian, based on its fullness and ground-grazing length, but it's so plain it could span most of the period. It would have been an easy everyday summer skirt.

The linen is strong, fairly closely woven, but lightweight. You could estimate the yarn count using some of the detailed photographs.

The applied blossoms are tacked on. This is a sturdy skirt and I 
have it ready to wear for a few hours at a summertime Edwardian-inspired afternoon tea.

Here it is worn over a shoe-tip- length petticoat with a tall added flounce for body.

Here's that petticoat.

The skirt, when laid flat, could be thought of as a wedge shape of about 35% of a circle, with the top cut off. The back of the waist is a bit higher than the front to account for the probably straight-front corset worn underneath, and so the front waistline is dipped a little.

The skirt closes center back. A view of the waistband at the underside of the placket closest to the body, at the closure, shows that the skirt may have been resized some. Look at the strong eye closure at waist, with another buried in the edge. Bar closures are set down the placket. Notice the interior pleat below the hook in the center of the photo...that's actually a deep pleat.

Here's a view of the part of the closure on the outside of the placket, that's farthest away from the body. Do you see that the edge of the fabric has been turned in, once, and a placket has been applied to the inside, but then goes very far inside to create a very deep-set placket that has been reinforced.

A look at the inside of the skirt shows that deep pleat on the underside of the placket, plus the top placket. Those are strong hooks down the placket.

Did you notice that the insides of the skirt are not finished, as revealed by the frayed edges?

Another placket view.

The inside bottom of the skirt is faced to a couple of inches with self fabric. This helps the hem hang well. The skirt came with a large rent in the bottom...someone must have caught the fabric on something very stiff and sharp indeed, because the linen is still very strong, as is common for that bast fiber. You can see where I applied a patch using vintage fabric as close as I could get to the original.

The folded over waistband, about an inch wide, and more of the skirt interior.

Gauzy ruffled, trained and flaring skirt

This skirt is very long in front and sides, and even longer in back, and no, I don't believe it was made for a very tall person. Instead, it's likely an early Edwardian skirt meant to puddle on the ground when the wearer stood, and train in back. Trains could be of various lengths, with longer trains often worn for dressier occasions, but trains were indeed worn on the street, to the distress and disgust of many. More on that momentarily.

If you look carefully you will see that the fabric has been tucked with groups of tiny vertical pintucks most, but not all the way to the floor. When the fabric is released from the tucks, it gives the skirt flare at the base. This is another way of obtaining flare in very early Edwardian skirts without using a trumpet cut.

Here is the back: a moderate train. At the center back there is excess fabric drawn up into a narrow section of tiny stroked gathers just to either side of the closure. No obvious pleats or large gathers here.

The effect on the skirt when the tucks are released around shin height: extra flare! There are no curved side seams.

The skirt's only applied trim is at the bottom, in the form of two scantly gathered Valenciennes lace trimmed ruffles applied to the outside of the skirt. The construction of the upper ruffle is straightforward. Cut the ruffle -- likely straight, but a popular way to do it was to cut a circular ruffle if you wanted a more wavy, 3-D effect. Finish the top with a hem in back...this hem will show when mounted to the skirt. Finish the bottom of the strip ditto, and stitch the Val lace over the top of the bottom hem. Then find the spot on the skirt where the ruffle is wanted, say, 10 inches above the hem, and stitch the ruffle on, *very* scantly gathered, leaving a little header at the top. Press the header down over the ruffle so that it becomes a secondary ruffle. 

The bottom-most ruffle is similar except that the skirt hem is finished, then the ruffle is stitched to the hem, but on the backside, with a similar, inward facing header, for a wee bit of fluff support. The skirt hem on top reads to the viewer as a nice opaque line...narrow lines, whether self fabric or applied, were very popular looks in trims and tucks.

The ruffles from the front.

Closeup of top ruffle from outside -- see the hem showing on the exterior?

Top ruffle hem detail; the hem is on the outside of the skirt.

Ruffle header flipped up so you can see the stitching.

Back side of the skirt shows stitching.

Did you notice? Both ruffles are sewn and applied with hand-stitching, not machine. So is the waistband. The long skirt panels, all with narrow French seams, are machine sewn with very fine thread and fine stitch length. The tucks are also machine sewn. The fabric could possible have come pre-tucked.

Just showing how sheer the fabric is. The skirt weighs 4 ounces on my food scale.

Here is how such a skirt might look when worn, as shown on The Delineator June 1901 cover. The skirt is pooling out at the front and sides, and trained in the back. The wearer is holding her skirt to emphasize what may well be a drop skirt attached to -- or separate from -- the outer skirt, that functioned as a sometimes-visible lining. It would clear the ground and might include a finely tucked or ruffled tall flounce. The wearer would hold up the outer skirt with one hand in the back to draw it up, revealing the underskirt but maintaining modesty. A petticoat was often worn underneath, although in 1900 and 1901 there was a fad for abandoning the petticoat or even wearing little "garter petticoats" around each leg, so that the skirt could cling very tightly to the person.

Source: Internet Archive

That's what is happening here, I believe. This is a screenshot, c1902, of women walking in Paris' Bois de Boulogne, just at the Port Dauphine entrance. Source is A Walk in a Paris Park - c.1900 Footage Restored to Life [V.2.0], by Glamourdaze.

Another, rather well-known photo from a 1901 edition of Les Modes, a Parisienne fashion magazine known for its high fashion, world-weary attitudes, and attention to royalty and nobility. The leftmost figure's gown just barely puddles in front.

Source: Mark Hartley, Pinterest

Commentary on trailing skirts appeared in a New Zealand paper in January 1901. It was called “The Trail of the Skirt: Expert Opinions in Favor of Trailing Fashions”. Here is a portion, showing that some trailing skirts were designed to be held when walking.

Source: Wanganui Chronicle (New Zealand),January 7, 1901, p.1

Here is just a sample of public disgust with the fashion for trained skirts worn on the street:

Well. 

Pink sturdy trained cotton skirt with applied tucked ruffles

The last skirt in this post is the light clear rose pink one. The cut uses a large amount of fabric, and so, I estimate it at 1904 or 1905, when such cuts were common.

The skirt is very small waisted, under 24 inches, and so wouldn't fit my dress form. That makes it feel even fuller than it really is. The ruffles, cut of straight lengths of fabric, tucked and hemmed and "gathered" with what are actually minute pleats, give lots of body to the skirt base.

Like many Edwardian skirts, it is finely stroke gathered at center back. Notice that there is less gathering on the left, underpart of the placket, than on the right placket which sits over it. The result is a more narrow band of gathering, but added together, really full. It's shown inside out, so you can see the basic placket. This wasn't a finely finished skirt. The buttonhole is closely hand-stitched, but in white thread.

More placket fun. Both plackets are applied strips, and the bottoms are laid one atop the other, then stitched horizontally, and that's it. Compare that to other closures we have seen in this post.

Just emphasizing that placket construction.

Plain stitching on the placket to set it to the skirt back pieces.

The skirt is very, very full, by far the fullest in this post.

Now compare that to an equally small-waisted skirt, this one in linen. It still has a train, oh, yes, but employs far less fabric and, as we will see when we examine in sometime in the future, has a front side closure, but a tightly gathered back.

Let's look at the ruffles. They are applied to the main skirt, and appear to be straight cuts of fabric, with significant machine ruffling. My Singer 27 and Willcox and Gibbs, both Edwardian period, both have an attachment called a ruffler that actually very finely pleat the fabric, resulting in a gathered effect unless you look close up. Each strip of fabric for the ruffle would have been tucked and hemmed at bottom first. Then the top would have been turned over and the machine ruffling done. Then the ruffle was attached to the skirt with a second line of stitching, right across the top of the ruffle.

Pulling up the underside of the top ruffle gives you more construction information. Note how sturdy the thread is.

Here is a view of the bottom of the skirt, under the ruffles, from the inside. It has a facing applied. You can see the signs of wear, but this skirt didn't undergo the trials that the delicate gauzy skirts did. There is a large very dirty spot in one section, and some worn threads, but overall, the skirt is in good condition. I am thinking it was a home or small dressmaker product given the relatively inexpensive, sturdy but colorful materials. There is no evidence of any tag that I recall.

There ends this evening's tour. I am hopeful that it will be useful to those of you curious as to the different ways skirts could be constructed.

Whenever I get around to it, there are more skirts, a shirtwaist suit, petticoats with different styles and characteristics, and shirtwaists of different types, to be posted about. I've posted about some others in the past. I gave quite a number to Cassidy Percoco of A Most Beguiling Accomplishment some years ago, when I was quite ill for a few years, and thought at one point I'd have to give up costuming, and alas, never took pictures of most of them.

• antique early Edwardian black taffeta gown (boned bodice)

• antique Edwardian highly formal skirt (beaded, multi-layered)

• antique Edwardian heavy white skirt (felled seams)

• antique Edwardian lingerie skirt (with drop skirt)
• 1910s petticoat, scalloped