So Who Wore Round-Ring Pattens in the 18th Century?

Susan reporting,

I wrote earlier this week here about the wavy-ring 18thc pattens - a kind of overshoe with a wooden sole and a metal ring intended to raise the wearer's shoes above wet or otherwise unpleasant terrain - that were being recreated and worn as part of the Historic Trades program at Colonial Williamsburg.

In the course of my discussion about the pattens with apprentice tinsmith Jenny Linn and journeywoman blacksmith Aislinn Lewis (both of whom were involved in the creation, wearing, and research of the replica pattens), we also spoke of a slightly different kind of 18thc pattens. Although the wooden sole and leather straps and laces are much the same, these pattens feature a round metal ring as a support. While the wavy-ring pattens offer plenty of surface area and almost resemble the treads of modern winter boots, the narrower base of the round-ring style would be much more precarious for both balance and walking.

This, however, may be because they weren't intended for walking. Jenny and Aislinn suggested that this type of pattens served an entirely different purpose. In 18thc prints, the round-ring style is usually shown worn by housemaids indoors, and often with a  a bucket and mop nearby.

Examples include Piety in pattens, or, Timbertoe on tiptoe, upper left, with a tall maidservant made even taller by very high round-ring pattens.  In How are you off for soap, middle right, the ring-bottom pattens are worn by a laundress, whose work would also include splashing soapy water.

The maid of all work in Roberteena Peelena, lower right, not only wears the round-ring style, but has pinned her petticoat up to avoid the wash-water. The maid in the painting A City Shower, lower left, has stepped outside with her bucket, and vigorously twirls her wet mop while poised (rather daintily) on her round-ring pattens. (A side-note: apparently rolling the mop's handle across the forearms instead of with the wrists looks like it was the accepted method of mop-twirling.)

When the round-ring style appears in prints being worn outdoors in the streets, they seem to be a way that the caricaturist is indicating that the wearer is of a lower or serving class, and a woman who is (in the cruel manner of 18thc caricatures) humorously lower class, unstylish, or down on her luck (here and here.)

From these sources, it appears that the the round-ring style was worn primarily indoors rather than out, to raise the wearer above soapy water spilled on a wet floor. They may also have served to protect a clean, wet floor from dirty shoes, rather than protecting the shoes from the water. Unfortunately there doesn't seem to be any primary source documentation in the form of letters or journals to explain this further. If anyone has come across such research, I hope you'll share it.

Many thanks to Jenny Lynn and Aislinn Lewis for their assistance with this post.

Upper left: Pattens, leather, wood, & iron rings, c1780-1800, Victoria & Albert Museum.
Upper right: Piety in pattens, or Timbertoe on tiptoe, published by M. Darly, 1773. Walpole Library, Yale University.
Middle left: Detail, How are you off for soap, published by William Elmes, 1816. Walpole Library, Yale University.
Lower right: Roberteena Peelena, the maid of all work by William Heath, 1829, British Museum.
Lower left: Detail, A City Shower by Edward Penny, 1764, Museum of London.

Recreating (and Wearing) a Pair of 18thc Pattens

Susan reporting,

Writing about the past is an ever-changing (and ever-exciting) challenge, and research is one of my absolute favorite parts of the process. I'm always eager to read or hear of new discoveries or fresh perspectives on old ideas, and I never know what may inspire a new character or plot twist.

All of which has brought me back to pattens, a kind of 18thc under-shoe raised up on a metal ring. I've already written a post about them here on the blog.

But while on a recent visit with some of my friends in the Historic Trades program in Colonial Williamsburg, I've come to realize that the subject of pattens is much more complicated.

Fragments of c1770s pattens with a wave-like base, or ring, were discovered in several archaeological digs in Williamsburg, Virginia, and inspired a project at Colonial Williamsburg to recreate them. While pattens would have been the specialized work of a professional patten-maker in 18thc England, in 21stc Colonial Williamsburg they required the skills of several different tradespeople.

Aislinn Lewis, journeywoman blacksmith, made the wavy rings and hardware that held the ring and straps to the sole, and completed the final assembly. Jay Howlett, journeyman artificer and leatherworker, made the leather straps and leather laces. Paul Zelesnikar, journeyman wheelwright, carved the wooden soles from ash. Jenny Lynn, apprentice tinsmith, has worn the finished pattens as part of CW programming. All of them contributed historical research and construction suggestions.

While the fragments were clearly worn in colonial Virginia, no documentation has yet been found to prove that pattens were being made or even sold in the colony at that time. It's probable that the pattens were imported from England, and possibly considered such mundane objects that they weren't listed for sale in newspaper advertisements.

The replica pattens are based not only on the fragments, but also on other, more complete examples that survive in other museum collections. Pattens were inexpensive, workaday footwear that likely didn't have a long life. The flat wooden soles were carved to fit beneath the wearer's shoes, and were held in place by a leather strap that tied across the instep. The metal ring raised the wearer about an inch above the muck of 18thc life, protecting her shoes.

But as Jenny Lynn actually wore the pattens, she discovered a number of things that scholars hadn't realized. First of all, walking in pattens is an acquired skill. Jenny likens it to walking in high-heeled mules. Because there's no back-strap, the wearer's weight must push forward onto the ball of the foot, or she'll walk right out of the soles. An 18thc woman who wore pattens regularly would have been familiar with how best to walk in them, but a certain amount of shuffling must have been unavoidable.

While the assumption has always been that pattens were worn on the notoriously unclean 18thc city streets, Jenny found that this kind of patten would be almost impossible to wear on cobblestone streets, where the rings would slip and tip and lead to sprained ankles and falls. They seem much better suited to the softer surfaces of a more rural life, like an unpaved path or street. Jenny found they work particularly well in mud or wet grass, though if worn by a wealthier woman than a lowly apprentice (sorry, Jenny), the pattens also probably served for making a short journey from a house to a waiting carriage.

The photos here show Jenny (in the blue petticoat) and Aislinn (in the red petticoat) holding the various components to the pattens, as well as close-ups of the soles and rings, and the pattens both on and off the foot. Perhaps my favorite photo is lower right, with the distinctive marks left by the patten-rings mingling with the modern sneaker-treads of CW visitors. The video, below, shows Jenny walking in them.

Many thanks to Jenny Lynn and Aislinn Lewis for their assistance with this post!

All photographs ©2018 by Susan Holloway Scott.

The Cursed Silk Shoes of an Unhappy Ghost, c. 1715

Susan reporting:

While examples of 18th c. ladies' silk shoes like the pair, left, aren't rare (like these, these, and these), shoes with a lurid ghost story attached certainly are. Know as the Papillon Shoes, this pair has a fascinating provenance that's more ghost story and legend than historical fact.

David Papillon (1681-1762) was a wealthy courtier and the master of Papillon Hall, Leicestershire, lower right. "Old Pamp"'s reputation for drunken debauchery was enhanced with whispers that he was friends with the Devil, and that he possessed demonic powers sufficient to paralyze his enemies with a single glance. Other rumors claimed he kept a beautiful Spanish mistress at the Hall. There she was a virtual prisoner, locked away in the attic, and only permitted to walk along the roof for exercise. She disappeared under mysterious circumstances in 1717; one story had her die in the attic, cursing the house and promising death and disaster to any owner who dared remove the shoes in which she'd walked the lonely roof.

Soon afterwards, Papillon left the Hall permanently to marry and live with his new wife in Kent. Some judged his haste suspicious, especially considering that he left strict instructions that certain items should never be taken from Papillon Hall. Among them were these shoes.

Over the years, the Hall changed hands many times. In the mid-19th c., however, the contents (including the shoes) were left to the old owner's daughter, and removed from the house. The new owners were at once plagued with unexplained loud thumps, crashes, and voices coming from the attic rooms, violent enough to terrify the family and servants. A local clergyman recalled Old Pamp's stipulation. The shoes were found and restored to the house, and peace restored with them. On several other occasions in the next century the shoes were removed from the house. Each time poltergeist activity began and continued until the shoes were returned.

The Hall was renovated in 1903, and a long-dead body was found hidden in the walls near the attic.  While there was no way to know for sure if this was Old Pamp's mistress, the discovery fueled the legend, and more reports of paranormal activity with it. Even after the Hall fell into disrepair and was demolished in 1950, the mistress's curse seemed to shift to the remaining outbuildings, terrifying their inhabitants. The site was studied by paranormal investigators, who definitely came to believe in the curse.

After the Hall was knocked down, the shoes were left first to a Papillon descendant, and then to the local museum. Yet even that mundane transfer had its mysteries. The driver of the truck carrying the shoes became inexplicably lost. The short trip took him hours instead of minutes to complete, and when he finally did arrive, he was confused and disoriented, without any knowledge of where he'd been or what had happened. Ahh, the power of the shoes....

Above: Papillon Shoes (with single patten), silk with red leather heels, c. 1715-30. Collections Resources Centre, Heritage Services, Glenfield, Leicestershire
Below: View of Papillon Hall, built c. 1622, now demolished. Photograph courtesy of Lost Heritage.

The Long-Lost Slippers of Pauline Bonaparte Borghese, Princess of Sulmona, 1820

Susan reports,

It's a known fact that Loretta and I have a Thing for shoes (it says so right up there, under the blog's title.) When we come across shoes that also have a history - like these or these - we're in heaven. And when there may be a mysterious romance tossed in with the history – well, we can't ask for more, can we?

Dating from the 1820s, the leather slippers, trimmed with now-faded silk, left, were recently "rediscovered" in the King's Museum, University of Aberdeen. As occasionally happens in even the best of collections, these shoes had been long ago tucked away and forgotten, until an enterprising curatorial assistant, Louise Wilkie, came across them, and researched their background to be able to identify them as they prize they are.

The slippers have been identified as having belonged to Pauline Bonaparte Borghese (1780-1825), below right, Princess of Sulmona and sister of Napoleon Bonaparte. One clue was an old engraving on the shoes' soles: "Pauline, Rome Jan 20 1824." Another was the diminutive size of the shoes themselves, equivalent to a UK child's size 2; Pauline was famously known to have very small feet.

But Ms. Wilkie discovered a much stronger connection. The shoes were included in a collection of belongings of Robert Wilson (1787-1871.) Born in Banffshire, Scotland, Wilson served for several years as a ship's surgeon with the Honorable East India Company. The experience quelled his interest in medicine, but made him into an intrepid traveller. His journeys took him throughout Europe as well as to Egypt, Syria, Arabia, and India - all the more extraordinary given the unsettled times in which he was travelled.

While visiting Italy in 1820, he met and formed a close friendship with Pauline. Exactly how close they became remains a tantalizing mystery, even given Pauline's reputation for sexual adventures with many lovers. Still, entries like this one in Wilson's diary hint at their intimacy: "I passed a fortnight in the vicinity of Pisa with the Princess Borghese in a state of almost perfect seclusion, and afterwards accompanied her to the Baths of Lucca."

Perhaps the Princess found the straight-forward Scotsman a refreshing change from her more exotic lovers. Perhaps they simply were friends, and no more. But she did give him many gifts, including these slippers, as mementos – mementos that he carefully packed away and saved for the remainder of his long life, and bequeathed with his papers to the university at his death.

Above left: Slippers belonging to Pauline Borghese, King's Museum, University of Aberdeen.
Bottom right: Princess Pauline Borghese, by Robert Lefevre, c. 1808. Palace of Versailles.

From the Archives: What the Mantua-Maker's Apprentice Wore, c. 1775

Susan reporting:

Since I'm currently mired deep in deadline-itis, I'm sharing another older post from 2012 featuring the clothing of 18thc. working women.

Collections of historic clothing are usually filled with the clothes of the rich and famous, which can give the misguided impression that everyone in the past wore silk and lace. Not quite; but the dress of ordinary folk is more difficult to find (and, for us writers, to imagine), because not much of it survives. Clothing was expensive, and most was worn until it was worn out. Garments were patched and mended and handed down, refashioned (see here) and recut until there was often nothing left. Even rags were useful, with a gentleman's fine linen shirt eventually ending up as bandages or rags for the paper maker.

All of which is why I especially enjoy seeing what our mantua-maker friends in the Margaret Hunter Shop, Colonial Williamsburg, are wearing to work. While they might be stitching fine silk, for the most part they're dressed as their 18th c. counterparts would have dressed. A shopkeeper's assistant or apprentice in the fashion trades was expected to dress as stylishly as possible within her means, and their clothes often reflected the latest fashions sewn in more modest fabrics. Stylish was good for trade - she was, after all, a walking advertisement for the shop - but not so stylish that she rivaled the customers by dressing above her station. (As always, please click on the photos to enlarge to see details.)

Here Sarah Woodyard is dressed as a mantua-maker's apprentice c.

1775. Her gown is a reproduction of a closed-front English gown with the skirts looped up into two puffs in the back. While this style would have been most fashionable in silk, it's here made up in block-printed cotton. The printed pattern features a meandering vine and tassel motif which would also have been copied from expensive woven silks. The single color would have made the fabric more affordable, too, but the design of the gown – carefully cut to make the most of the cloth's pattern – more than compensates.

While the gown has no costly silk ribbons or trimmings, the apprentice's fine linen cap features not only a wide silk bow, but also extravagant pleating for maximum effect. Her kerchief and apron are also fine white linen, and her white thread stockings and quilted petticoat also contributes to the impression of a neat and tidy assistant. I like the subtlety in the white-on-white textures; if you look closely, you'll see that there's a woven check in her neck kerchief, and diamond-patterned quilting in her petticoat. There's another spot of color in the heart-shaped red pincushion - an essential part of the trade - that hangs ready at her waist, and more in her red ribbon garters. Everything except the stockings was cut and stitched by hand by Sarah herself, just as any good apprentice should.

But it's her shoes that are truly eye-catching. As we've seen before, the 18th c was a glorious time for women's shoes, and these are no exception, made from red silk with yellow leather-covered heels and brass buckles. Sarah is particularly proud of these shoes, since she made them herself while working in CW's shoemakers' shop – see her carving the heels from wood here.

Many thanks to Sarah Woodyard for assistance with this post.

All photographs copyright 2012 Susan Holloway Scott.

The Cost of Fashion

Loretta reports:

In response to a recent fashion post, a reader asked, “What class of women could afford this cape? What was the cost of fashion and what fabrics were used to create the cape?”

High fashion was expensive then and it’s expensive today. La Belle Assemblée, where those plates came from, was aimed at upper class women. A very rough analogy would be today’s Vogue or Harpers Bazaar. The fashions are mainly for wealthy women.

The Regency History site provides some LBA prices in the Regency era here. And Mike Rendell has info here. On my own, I found that LBA in 1826 cost 3 shillings. Ackermann’s Repository cost 4s. In 1833 The Royal Lady’s Magazine sold for 2s 6d.

Compare this to the Ladies Cabinet of Fashion which sold for 6d. The Lady's Pocket Magazine, the source of the fashion plates on this page, was another low-priced magazine. These were smaller, and the plates weren’t cruder. But the low price indicates readers at a lower economic level, who still wanted fashionable clothing. Basically, this would mean using less expensive material, since labor costs were negligible.

In Nicholas Nickleby,* a seamstress’s terms of employment are as follows: “Our hours are from nine to nine**with extra work when we’re very full of business, for which I allow payment as overtime ... I should think your wages would average from five to seven shillings a week; but I can’t give you any certain information on that point until I see what you can do.”

But a seamstress is a lowly position. How about this ad from The Sheffield Independent, and Yorkshire and Derbyshire Advertiser for February 1835?

Wanted.

A widow and her daughter, Members of the Church of England, to undertake the Management of the GIRLS’ CHARITY SCHOOL, in this Town, and the Instruction of the Children. Piety, Ability, and Activity are necessary qualifications; and references as to these must be given, as well as to general Respectability of Character ... Salary. £ 52. 10s. a year.

I also happened on this:
“Ladies fashionable Side-laced Boots, Black and Coloured, 4s 6d to 5s6d per pair.”—Brighton Patriot and Lewes Free Press etc. Tuesday, August 18, 1835

A pair of those shoes would take a sizable chunk of Kate’s weekly wages.

I couldn’t track down Luxmore. What I did find was:
"Luxor—A soft, ribbed silk satin: used as dress fabric: also an obsolete French woolen dress goods."— Louis Harmuth, Dictionary of Textiles.

Since this post is already too long, I'll continue with fabric costs and wages at another time.
*Dickens, who was a journalist at heart, tends to be pretty reliable in terms of living and working conditions.
**Six days a week.

Clicking on the image will enlarge it.

A Stylish Pair of Red & Green Brocaded Wool Shoes, c1735

Isabella reporting,

I saw these 18thc. shoes earlier this year as part of the exhibition Cosmopolitan Consumption: New England Shoe Stories 1750-1850 held by the Portsmouth (NH) Athenaeum. I've written about other shoes and garments from the show (here, here, and here), but there's something about the cheerful red and green brocade of this pair that made me want to share them now in December.

These shoes are made not of silk, but of wool brocade. Long-wearing and easily dyed, wool was a popular choice for women's shoes in the 18thc., but not many survive in modern collections. Wool is a protein-fiber that's a tasty treat for moths, and while these shoes have been expertly conserved, there is still moth damage along the sides and fronts that reveals the linen lining. The shoes would have been fastened with buckles through the straps across the top of the foot; buckles were considered fashion accessories that were switched from pair to pair.

These were fashionable shoes, too. Not only was the brocade expensive, but the high, curving heels were more stylish than practical, and it's likely the shoes belonged to a wealthy woman. While their complete history isn't known, the label pasted inside one of the shoes shows they were made by John Hose, a prominent London cordwainer (shoemaker) whose shoes were imported to the American colonies. The shoes are "straights," without a defined left or right, and were probably not bespoke, but bought from the shopkeeper who had imported them.

There's another clue that these shoes were valued. Look closely at the vamp, below the straps, in the photo, right. At some point, the shoes were widened with a gusset, an inset piece of solid-colored cloth. Did the original owner need the additional room because of pregnancy, age, or illness? Or were the alterations made by a later owner? No matter the reason, the shoes were clearly important enough to the wearer to have them carefully adjusted for longer wear - a very different philosophy from today's "fast fashion."

Many thanks to our good friend Kimberly Alexander for assistance with this post. For more information about these shoes and many others, stayed tuned for her upcoming book Georgian Shoe Stories From Early America (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2016.)

Above: Women's shoes, made by John Hose & Son, London, c1730-40s. Collection, Historic Deerfield, Inc.
Top photo courtesy of Historic Deerfield, Inc. Bottom photo ©2015 Susan Holloway Scott.

A One-of-a-Kind Pair of Wedding Shoes, 1764

Isabella reporting,

In the world of fashion history, it's usually the materials or the creator that contribute to an item's rarity. But with these shoes, it's the wearer herself - and the adjustments that were done for her - that make them truly one-of-a-kind.

When Mary Wise (1741-1792) of Chebacco (now Essex), MA, was preparing for her 1764 wedding to John Farley, she must have wanted the same thing that every bride wants: to look her very best on her wedding day. No doubt she wore a gown that might have been made of the same floral silk brocade as these shoes. But because skirts in the 1760s were short enough to show a lady's feet, the shoes would have made their own fashion-statement, perhaps with a glittering pair of silver or paste buckles to catch the light with every step.

But in Mary's case, the shoes must have had extra significance. From illness, accident, or birth, one of Mary's legs was significantly shorter than the other.  In 18th c. parlance, she would have been considered halt, or lame. Her wedding shoes - imported from London, or the work of an expert colonial shoemaker - were either especially made for her, or customized to accommodate her needs. The left shoe is built up with a higher heel and a platform sitting on an extended sole for extra stability. The platform is covered with more of the same silk as the shoes, and beautifully finished. The difference between the two shoes is nearly 1-1/2", but the solution is as elegant as possible.

There's no way of knowing now if the special shoes helped Mary walk without a limp, or if she might still have had to lean on the arm of her new husband for support. Nor do we know if the rest of Mary's shoes were similarly modified, since none of them survived. But I'm sure that on her wedding day, Mary must have felt beautiful and special, and that's what matters most to every bride.

These shoes were included in the recent exhibition Cosmopolitan Consumption at the Portsmouth, NH, Atheneum. (I've already shared other shoes from the show here and here.) Many thanks to our good friend Kimberly Alexander for a personal tour, and for assistance with this post. For more information about these shoes and many others, stayed tuned for Kimberly's upcoming book Georgian Shoe Stories From Early America (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2016.) In the meantime, please check out her blog, Silk Damask, for more fascinating fashion and textile history.

Above: Silk brocade wedding shoes, worn by Mary (Wise) Farley, 1764. Maker unknown. Collection, Ipswich Museum. 
Top photo: ©2015 Susan Holloway Scott
Bottom photo: ©2015 Kimberly Alexander

An 1836 Wedding Gown with Matching Slippers

Isabella reporting,

June is the month for brides, and here's an 1836 wedding gown with matching slippers to usher in the season. Both are included in the same exhibition (Cosmopolitan Consumption: New England Shoe Stories 1750-1850) that I mentioned here on Monday, and earlier here.

Sarah Eliza Smith married Mark Langdon Hill in Bath, Maine, on October 11, 1836. This was a fashionable wedding. Not only are the bride's wedding clothes made of a costly silk damask, but the bridegroom was from a prominent New England family, the great-nephew of Governor John Langdon, a Revolutionary War general, a signer of the US Constitution, and a prosperous merchant and ship-builder.

Certainly the bride was dressed for the occasion. While some 19thc. brides were choosing white for their gowns (as we've noted before, this was by no means traditional at this point, and no, Queen Victoria did not "invent" the white wedding dress), Sarah Eliza chose an elegant shade of celadon green silk damask, which has unfortunately faded to beige over the centuries.

Although the name of the dress's maker is now forgotten, she was clearly very skilled. The tiny pleats, tucks, and gathers of the sleeves and bodice were all beautifully stitched by hand, with many of the seams trimmed with matching piping as well. The dress would have originally been worn with feather-stuffed sleeve puffs to fill out the sleeves to give it the extravagant silhouette shown in this fashion plate. (Today the silk is too fragile to manipulate for any "stuffing" for display.) The full sleeves might also have made the bride appear almost as wide as she was tall; from the size of her dress, Sarah Eliza must have been tiny, probably only about 4'10" or so.

Her matching slippers have silk rosettes on the toes and leather soles, and are as insubstantial as a feather. They still follow the shape of flat, Romantic-era slippers. The thin silk cords for tying around the foot and ankle to help secure the delicate shoe to the foot still survive, too. It's easy to imagine Sarah Eliza dancing with her new bridegroom, her skirts swirling over the silk rosettes - perhaps even attempting that a daring European dance, the waltz.

Many thanks to our good friend Kimberly Alexander for assistance with this post. For more information about these shoes and many others, stayed tuned for Kimberly's upcoming book Georgian Shoe Stories From Early America (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2016.) In the meantime, please check out her blog, Silk Damask, for more fascinating fashion and textile history.

Wedding Dress and Slippers, 1836, worn at the wedding of Sarah Eliza Smith to Mark Langdon Hill. Portsmouth Historical Society.

Photographs copyright 2015 Susan Holloway Scott.

Pink Silk Shoes & an Intriguing Invitation, c. 1785

Isabella reporting,

Yesterday I finally visited the delightful small exhibition at the Portsmouth Athenaeum that I first mentioned here. Cosmopolitan Consumption: New England Shoe Stories, 1750-1850 was exactly that - a collection of beautiful shoes, many with tantalizing glimpses into the lives of their long-ago owners.

Today no woman would think of preserving the old sneakers she wears while gardening; it's the shoes she wore to her wedding or other special event that are carefully tucked away in the closet. It was much the same with women two hundred years ago, which is why many surviving shoes in museums and historical societies tend to be of the costly variety, beautiful creations of brocade or silk that carried rich memories for their wearers.

The shoes shown above and right most likely belonged to Martha (Patty) Rogers (1762-1840), the youngest daughter of Rev. Daniel Rogers of Exeter, NH. With their small angled heels, these were the latest style in the 1780s, made by the London shoemakers Chamberlain & Sons and imported to America - proof that trading had once again resumed between the two countries with the end of the American Revolution. Now faded to a pale pink, the silk satin was once a brilliant cherry, as can still be seen on the tongue (the white padding is for modern display.) Imagine them worn with a set of glittery buckles, peeking out from beneath a silk gown and ready for dancing.

And Patty did dance. When these shoes were donated to the Portsmouth Historical Society by family descendants, the small wallet (purse), left, accompanied them. The wallet was likely made from a remnant of silk brocade dress fabric, and lined with more silk that's close to the original color of the shoes.

As charming as the wallet is, the real treasure was tucked inside: a tiny note, folded into an origami-like shape known at the time as a tulip - a special fold favored by lovers - with a handwritten message:

"–––Parkers compliments to Miss Rogers. Would be glad to wait on her this evening to a dance at Capt True Gilman's Friday 10 Oclock."

Did Patty meet with Mr. Parker at Capt. Trueworthy (Trueworthy!) Gilman's? Did they dance together? Was this Mr. Parker's first overture, or was there a long-standing romance between the two? Was the note carefully preserved, or absently tucked into the purse and forgotten?

Although the romance-writer in me longs for a happily-ever-after, it didn't happen for these two. The most likely author of the note was Nathaniel Parker (1760-1812). He later married another lady named Catherine Tilton, while Patty Rogers never wed.

Many thanks to co-curators Kimberly Alexander and Sandra Rux for the personalized tour, and assistance with this post. For more information about these shoes and many others, stayed tuned for Kimberly's upcoming book Georgian Shoe Stories From Early America (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2016.) In the meantime, please check out her blog, Silk Damask, for more fascinating fashion and textile history.

Above left: Silk Satin Shoes, Chamberlain & Sons, London, 1780s. Portsmouth Historical Society.
Right: Wallet, silk brocade from 1750s. Portsmouth Historical Society.
Lower left: Invitation to a Dance, probably mid-1780s. Portsmouth Historical Society.
All photographs copyright 2015 Susan Holloway Scott.

Shameless Self-Promotion: Historical Shoes!

Isabella reporting,

Since one of the purposes of this blog is to talk about shoes (we say it right up there on our masthead), it seems only fitting to mention a shoe-related exhibition and symposium for you lucky folks in the Northeast.

Fellow shoe-fanatics and nerdy-history-folk: can you say "road trip"?

Cosmopolitan Consumption: New England Shoe Stories 1750-1850 is the name of the exhibition, now on display through June 5 at the Portsmouth, NH Athenaeum. Not only does the exhibition include stunning historical shoes - many from small collections that are seldom on view - but also explores how the owners prized, celebrated, and displayed their shoes as markers of fashion and genteel sensibility. Click here for more information as well as directions.

The symposium connected with the exhibition takes place on Friday evening, May 29 - Saturday, May 30. Experts will discuss historical shoes, their manufacture, and their places in the wearers' lives. While I'm not a scholarly expert, I am definitely a shoe consumer and devotee, and as such on Friday night I'll be speaking on why shoes have always occupied such a much-loved place in the wardrobe. I hope you'll join us, and if you're a TNHG reader, please don't be shy - introduce yourself!

Click here for more information.

UPDATE: Sadly, the symposium has been cancelled. If you have already registered, you will receive a refund check shortly in the mail. However, the exhibition is still running until June 5, and I hope all you shoe-fanatics in the northeast will be able to visit!

Above: The Shoe Peddler, or The Shoemaker's Wife, by Martin Engelbrecht, c. 1750. Bavarian State Library.

Clogs for Keeping an 18th c. Lady's Shoes Clean

Isabella reporting,

While I was visiting Colonial Williamsburg last week, I had a most interesting discussion there with interpreter Nicole Rudolph of the Margaret Hunter Shop about what 18th c. English ladies used to protect their shoes. With their high curving heels and uppers covered in silk or silk brocade, the footwear worn by Georgian ladies is among the most elegant and dainty in the history of female shoes. Keeping such shoes clean in the streets of London must have been quite a challenge.

The most likely truth, of course, is that the stylish shoes that survive in museums today most likely never ventured into the city's mean streets, but were worn only indoors. Still, there were those few steps to cross between a carriage or sedan chair into the house where the ball was being held, and this is where some kind of sole-saving overshoe was necessary.

Modern collections refer to these by various names: clogs, pattens, overshoes all appear. I've always thought of pattens as more heavy-duty protection, like the ones I wrote about here. Clogs seem generally to refer to the lighter, less substantial companions to dress shoes, like the ones worn over the shoes, above left. (The buckles have been removed from the shoes.)

Often made in a matching or complimentary fabric to the shoes they would protect, most mid-18th c. clogs like these, right, protected the shoe's sole and little else. Some scholars also suggest that the clogs might also have acted as a kind of arch support, making it easier to walk in the high heels (think of it as an early version of a wedge heel.) The clog tied on over the toe of the shoe, and fitted beneath or around the heel. Surviving examples show the shoe and clog as a matched set, one made for the other, and it's likely that when a lady bespoke a pair of new shoes, she also ordered the matching clogs at the same time. There are as many variations in clogs as there are shoes, including how much (or how little) of the shoe is protected. Here is yet another pair in an earlier blog post.

In addition to her duties as a mantua-maker and seamstress, Nicole has studied 18th c. shoes, and has made replicas using 18th c. techniques. Recently she made this pair of clogs, lower left, based on extant examples, to fit a pair of of her silk satin shoes. (The buckles on her shoes have been removed.) These clogs and shoes are in the style of the late 1770s, and, since Nicole does not have a carriage, the clogs offer a more substantial protection when she walks to work on wet days. The clogs are made from leather, and cover not only the toes of her shoes, but fit entirely, and snugly, over the heels as well. The laces on the front help to keep them in place. Nicole reports they work quite well, and definitely have helped keep the white leather heels of her shoes white.

Hmm...perhaps this is another fashion that could be ripe for revival?

Many thanks to Nicole Rudolph - visit her blog here.

Above left: Pair of silk-covered leather shoes with velvet-covered leather clogs, Great Britain, 1730-40. Victoria & Albert Museum.
Right: Pair of silk brocade shoes with overshoes, England, 1740-50. Powerhouse Museum.
Bottom left: Pair of silk-satin covered shoes with leather clogs, made by Nicole Rudolph, 2014. Photograph © 2015 Susan Holloway Scott.

Heels or Flats? Two Pairs of 18thc. Women's Floral Shoes

Isabella reporting,

All the fashion pundits are predicting that floral-patterned shoes will be big for spring. We agree - and offer these shoes from the 1730s-1750s to prove that flowered footwear is always in style.

The heeled shoe, above, is from the 1730s; only one of the pair survives. I love how it's all swooping curves, from the white leather heel to the slightly upturned, pointed toe with a metal tip. It would have been worn with ribbons or laces, now missing, and probably a pair of brightly colored stockings.

What's amazing to me is that all those swirling flowers are embroidered in tent stitch, the diagonal stitch that's used for needlepoint. This is worked at a very fine gauge – from the photograph, I'm guessing it's about 20 stitches to the inch – to create the flowered fabric of the shoe. The description suggests that this needlework was done by the owner herself, and then made up by a professional shoemaker. What a delightful stitching project that must have been!

The shoes, below, likely date from the 1740s-1750s, and in an era when most women's shoes had heels, these are flats. (For another look at mid-18th c. flat shoes, see these reproductions made by the craftspeople of  Colonial Williamsburg.) Their rarity implies that they were bespoke to suit a particular lady's taste; perhaps she was an older lady who wanted the stability of a flat shoe. These shoes would have been fastened with a decorative buckle through the latchets. They are made from a costly ribbed silk fabric, lavishly embroidered with a floral design in shades of pink and green silk with silver threads. As shoes of any vintage go, these achieve that rarest of qualities: they managed to be both comfortable, and beautiful.

Unlike shoes that we've shared from various museums, these shoes are currently for sale on this dealer's site, which also has more photographs and information. If the shoes are bought by a museum, then we can hope that once they're studied, catalogued, and preserved, they'll still be available via a web site. But if they're purchased by a private collector (perhaps one of our readers?) they may disappear entirely from public view - so enjoy them now, and think of their long-ago first owners who wanted to welcome spring with a pair of flowered shoes.

Above: Embroidered women's shoe, 1730s.
Below: Embroidered women's flat shoes, 1740s-1750s.
Both from Meg Andrews; photographs copyright Meg Andrews.

An Upcoming Exhibition for Lovers of Historical Shoes

Isabella reporting,

Anyone who reads this blog knows our great love for shoes. We're not shy about it; we state it right up front, over there beneath our selfie.

With that in mind, I'm delighted to announce an upcoming exhibition devoted not only to historical shoes, but also the women who wore them. Cosmopolitan Consumption: New England Shoe Stories 1750-1850 will be opening on Valentine's Day (how appropriate!) at the Portsmouth Athenaeum, Portsmouth, NH, and will run through June 5, 2015. Over forty pairs of shoes borrowed from various collections will be featured as well as a number of costumes and accessories, and admission is free. The 1750 print of The Shoe Peddler, above left, appears on the invitations to the exhibition, and the peddler's wares hint a the diversity of the show as well.

One of this blog's good friends, Dr. Kimberly Alexander, is co-curator of the exhibition, and she has generously shared advance photos of several of shoes with us.  In the past,"the ankle and instep were considered sexually charged," she notes. "How much of a glimpse of that region the onlooker captured had to do with flirtation....You can learn so much from the way people wore their shoes, altered, their shoes, saved their shoes. [Men and] women's shoes give us a chance to talk about what their lives were like."

Take the story of the shoe, right, (and yes, it was once part of a pair that was split so that two of the wearer's children could each have a memento.) The shoes were worn by Sally Brewster Gerrish, the newlywed daughter of innkeeper William Brewster. President George Washington visited Portsmouth in 1789, and of course a ball was given in his honor. Since Washington slept at the tavern kept by Brewster, Sally was asked to ride in the carriage with the president, and these were the shoes she wore with her ball gown. The once-stylish shoes have crumpled a bit over the centuries, the silk has faded, and the decorative buckles that closed them have long since been removed, but the magic remains in the slippers a young Yankee lady wore to an unforgettable ball.

The detail of the shoes, below left, tell a story that's more about evolving tastes and fashions. By the end of the 18th c., women's dresses had changed dramatically. Gone were the wide skirts and stiff stays to shape the body. In their place were softer, more narrow gowns with raised waists that reflected an interest in classically-inspired silhouettes, combined with exotic accessories such as plumed turbans and paisley patterned shawls from India. This shoe is as flat as an ancient sandal, with a sharply pointed toe that accentuated the new narrower skirts, and the Eastern-inspired design printed on the leather brought a touch of exoticism to the now-unknown New England lady who wore it. (And I have to admit that I'd love to wear these now myself.)

I'll be sharing more images and stories from the exhibition over the next weeks. See here for information about the exhibition.

Above left: The Shoe Peddler or The Shoe Seller's Wife, by Martin Engelbrecht, c. 1750. Bavarian State Library.
Right: Brocade shoe, maker unknown, c. 1789. Portsmouth Historical Society.
Lower left: Fine grained slipper with "Alhambraesque" detail, c. 1790s, Portsmouth Historical Society

Keeping Warm: Carriage Boots for Ladies, 1880-1900

Isabella reporting,

Winter is definitely here in all its February bluster, and keeping warm involves as many layers as possible. But whenever Loretta and I look at the fashionable clothes from the past, we always wonder exactly how those ladies kept warm in the days before central heating

In the later decades of the 19th c., carriage boots came to the rescue - at least for the affluent ladies who had not only the boots, but the carriages in which to wear them. Carriage boots were worn on the way to balls and dinners, protecting dainty evening slippers and keeping feet in silk stocking warm. (This furry footwarmer was another option.)

Some were worn over the slippers, while others were exchanged for shoes on arrival. The ones in collections seem to be primarily American - though I don't know if this is because they were a practical but showy fashion favored by Americans, or because it was colder in America.

The boots were designed for luxurious warmth, and usually lined with fur. The outer fabric was most often understated black velvet or silk, tied with black ribbons, and always tastefully appropriate for evening (like these.) But as the three pairs here show, even a carriage boot could make a fashion statement.

The boots, c. 1880-1890, top left, come from the Russian virtual shoe museum known as Shoe Icons. It's the undulating emerald green velvet that really makes these special. Did they match a special evening gown, or were they just made to suit a lady with flamboyant taste?

The flat wool boots, right, (from the Brooklyn Museum Collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art) aren't quite as fashion-forward, but they do make a statement. The patterned wool fabric is actually a wide ribbon, most likely designed for the upholstery trade. Despite their date (1870-1890), they look very street-style modern - almost like fur-lined high-tops.

And then there are these boots, c. 1900, lower left, from the Bata Shoe Museum. These must have been the highest of high-end carriage boots. They're made of cream-colored silk brocade, and lined with matching mink. Luxury, indeed.

Think carriage boots look more cozy and chic than a pair of Uggs? One of our TNHG friends, American Duchess, sells replicas of historical footwear - and among their newest models are these 1880s carriage boots.

A Rare Pair of Embroidered Silk Sandals, c. 1805

Isabella reporting,

Western women's fashion relaxed towards the end of the 18th c., incorporating classically inspired silhouettes and soft fabrics like cotton muslin and fine linen. But the gowns weren't the only things that changed: the heeled, buckled shoes that had been in style for the previous hundred years gave way to heelless slippers and, for the most fashion-forward ladies, sandals that tied around the in the ankle in the antique manner.

These silk slippers – they would also have been called sandals – are a stylish compromise that look surprisingly modern. Hand-stitched for an American lady in the first years of the 19th c., they feature pink satin two-piece vamps embroidered with twisting flowered vines, and open sides, backs, and toes. They might have been made to match a favorite gown, or simply to provide a touch of color with an all-white ensemble.

Green satin ribbons that echo the vines lace the vamps together, as well as holding the shoe on the foot by tying around the wearer's ankles. (I hope you'll also excuse my haphazard positioning of the laces for this photo; I only had a few moments to arrange the slippers for the picture, and alas, there were no ladies about with sufficiently dainty feet to model them.) The soles are flat, stitched suede, and there are removable quilted silk insoles. These were sandals meant for informal indoor wear, and with their flat soles and adjustable lacing, they must have been as comfortable as they were stylish.

Above: Slippers/sandals, early 19th c., embroidered silk satin with suede soles. Chester County Historical Society.

Return Engagement: The Cursed Silk Shoes of an Unhappy Ghost, 1715

Isabella reporting:

While examples of 18th c. ladies' silk shoes like the pair, left, aren't rare (like these, these, and these), shoes with a lurid ghost story attached certainly are. Know as the Papillon Shoes, this pair has a fascinating provenance that's more ghost story and legend than historical fact.

David Papillon (1681-1762) was a wealthy courtier and the master of Papillon Hall, Leicestershire, lower right. "Old Pamp"'s reputation for drunken debauchery was enhanced with whispers that he was friends with the Devil, and that he possessed demonic powers sufficient to paralyze his enemies with a single glance. Other rumors claimed he kept a beautiful Spanish mistress at the Hall. There she was a virtual prisoner, locked away in the attic, and only permitted to walk along the roof for exercise. She disappeared under mysterious circumstances in 1717; one story had her die in the attic, cursing the house and promising death and disaster to any owner who dared remove the shoes in which she'd walked the lonely roof.

Soon afterwards, Papillon left the Hall permanently to marry and live with his new wife in Kent. Some judged his haste suspicious, especially considering that he left strict instructions that certain items should never be taken from Papillon Hall. Among them were these shoes.

Over the years, the Hall changed hands many times. In the mid-19th c., however, the contents (including the shoes) were left to the old owner's daughter, and removed from the house. The new owners were at once plagued with unexplained loud thumps, crashes, and voices coming from the attic rooms, violent enough to terrify the family and servants. A local clergyman recalled Old Pamp's stipulation. The shoes were found and restored to the house, and peace restored with them. On several other occasions in the next century the shoes were removed from the house. Each time poltergeist activity began and continued until the shoes were returned.

The Hall was renovated in 1903, and a long-dead body was found hidden in the walls near the attic. While there was no way to know for sure if this was Old Pamp's mistress, the discovery fueled the legend, and more reports of paranormal activity with it. Even after the Hall fell into disrepair and was demolished in 1950, the mistress's curse seemed to shift to the remaining outbuildings, terrifying their inhabitants. The site was studied by paranormal investigators, who definitely came to believe in the curse.

After the Hall was knocked down, the shoes were left first to a Papillon descendant, and then to the local museum. Yet even that mundane transfer had its mysteries. The driver of the truck carrying the shoes became inexplicably lost. The short trip took him hours instead of minutes to complete, and when he finally did arrive, he was confused and disoriented, without any knowledge of where he'd been or what had happened. Ahh, the power of the shoes....

Above: Papillon Shoes (with single patten), silk with red leather heels, c. 1715-30. Collections Resources Centre, Heritage Services, Glenfield, Leicestershire
Below: View of Papillon Hall, built c. 1622, now demolished. Photograph courtesy of Lost Heritage.

Foul-Weather Footwear: Pattens

Isabella reporting,

Several readers noticed the odd-looking footwear of this 1825 woman negotiating a snowy street in last week's blog. She's wearing pattens, a kind of primitive kind of protection against foul weather, and fouler streets.

According to the Bata Shoe Museum, pattens have been in use in Europe and North America since at least the 12th century. Pattens were overshoes, a thick wooden sole with a leather top that slipped on, or buckled or tied over the wearer's regular shoes, and served to lift the foot away from mud, snow, or just the general filth that collected in early modern city streets. The example, upper left, is Dutch, from the 1400s.

Pattens were primarily worn by working-class women, and when they appear in prints like the one I showed, they were meant to imply a comic, low-brow effect. They must have been awkward to walk in  - imagine the worst pair of ill-fitting platform shoes - and likely made a clumping sound, too.

Late 18th c. and early 19th c. pattens, upper right, featured an iron ring fixed to the wooden sole. In a nod to style, the soles were shaped to reflect the shape of the shoes being worn. These must have been a bit lighter to wear than the clog-like styles,  although they would have made a ringing sound as they struck paving stones.

The patten, lower right, from around 1830 is more genteel. Known as a "promenade clog" or "carriage clog", this features a neatly made upper with decorative cutwork and stitching. The sole is thinner, and is made from light-weight cork.

Like so many things, technology finally signaled the end of pattens. In the 1850s, vulcanized rubber galoshes became widely available, replacing the wooden and leather overshoe with a waterproof one.

A fashionable version of the functional patten appeared for 18th c. ladies. More often called clogs, these were a light, second sole that tied over a lady's heeled dress shoe, and usually were made of the same fabric as the shoe to form a matching set, like the ones, lower left. Since the surviving examples show so little wear, it's unlikely that they served the same heavy-duty protective service that their sturdier country-cousins saw. Instead they must have been worn for very short walks from a carriage to a door, or perhaps to create a wider sole to prevent heels from sinking into gravel while strolling a genteel garden path.

Upper left: Wooden patten, Dutch,  1400s. Bata Shoe Museum.
Upper right: Pattens, European, second half 18th c. Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Lower right: Patten, Great Britain, 1825-1835. Victoria & Albert Museum.
Lower left: Shoe & matching patten, England, 1735-1750. Bata Shoe Museum.

The Long-Lost Slippers of Pauline Bonaparte Borghese, Princess of Sulmona, 1820

Isabella reports,

It's a known fact that Loretta and I have a Thing for shoes (it says so right up there, under the blog's title.) When we come across shoes that also have a history - like these or these - we're in heaven. And when there may be a mysterious romance tossed in with the history – well, we can't ask for more, can we?

Dating from the 1820s, the leather slippers, trimmed with now-faded silk, left, were recently "rediscovered" in the King's Museum, University of Aberdeen. As occasionally happens in even the best of collections, these shoes had been long ago tucked away and forgotten, until an enterprising curatorial assistant, Louise Wilkie, came across them, and researched their background to be able to identify them as they prize they are.

The slippers have been identified as having belonged to Pauline Bonaparte Borghese (1780-1825), below right, Princess of Sulmona and sister of Napoleon Bonaparte. One clue was an old engraving on the shoes' soles: "Pauline, Rome Jan 20 1824." Another was the diminutive size of the shoes themselves, equivalent to a UK child's size 2; Pauline was famously known to have very small feet.

But Ms. Wilkie discovered a much stronger connection. The shoes were included in a collection of belongings of Robert Wilson (1787-1871.) Born in Banffshire, Scotland, Wilson served for several years as a ship's surgeon with the Honorable East India Company. The experience quelled his interest in medicine, but made him into an intrepid traveller. His journeys took him throughout Europe as well as to Egypt, Syria, Arabia, and India - all the more extraordinary given the unsettled times in which he was travelled.

While visiting Italy in 1820, he met and formed a close friendship with Pauline. Exactly how close they became remains a tantalizing mystery, even given Pauline's reputation for sexual adventures with many lovers. Still, entries like this one in Wilson's diary hint at their intimacy: "I passed a fortnight in the vicinity of Pisa with the Princess Borghese in a state of almost perfect seclusion, and afterwards accompanied her to the Baths of Lucca."

Perhaps the Princess found the straight-forward Scotsman a refreshing change from her more exotic lovers. Perhaps they simply were friends, and no more. But she did give him many gifts, including these slippers, as mementos – mementos that he carefully packed away and saved for the remainder of his long life, and bequeathed with his papers to the university at his death.

Above left: Slippers belonging to Pauline Borghese, King's Museum, University of Aberdeen.
Bottom right: Princess Pauline Borghese, by Robert Lefevre, c. 1808. Palace of Versailles.