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.