1830s-1840s Underpinnings

Here are my 1830s-1840s underpinnings, as worn last week with my blue late 1830s ball gown (seen hanging in the background of all these pictures). They were also worn in December with my brown wool Dickens Fair dress.

The finished effect:

Now let's break down what goes into giving me this silhouette.

First, a hand-sewn chemise made from diagrams and instructions in the Workwoman's Guide. It is a transitional style, bridging the gap between the squares-and-rectangles shifts of the early 19th century and the curved and gathered yoke chemises of the 1850s and 1860s. It is still cut entirely in rectangles and gores, but has full, gathered sleeves and a front flap to cover the top edge of the corset:

I wish I had pressed it before taking these pictures.

I based my chemise primarily on this historical example:

1830s National Trust Collections

Luckily for me, this chemise is documented in Costume in Detail (pg 173-4). It also has many traits in common with chemises in the plates for the Workwoman's Guide. Mine is hand-sewn from pima cotton broadcloth (though it should more properly be linen). I think it is beautiful, and it is perfectly comfortable to wear under my day dress, but I don't think I'll wear it again with a ball gown. It is very difficult to get it to sit right with a lower neckline, and when dancing the shoulders tend to fall down. They then bind and pinch and make my shoulder/upper arm very uncomfortable — not ideal for an evening of dancing. This doesn't happen when worn with a higher neckline, as the chemise can then sit properly up on my shoulders. 

Over the chemise, I wore my go-to mid-19th century corset, a heavily modified version of Simplicity 9769: 

It fits pretty well, is fairly comfortable, and gives a nice silhouette. However, I wish it had more hip flare (something my corsets pretty much always need). I also experience some lower back pain after a few hours of dancing in it, probably a consequence of not having enough room in the back hip area.  I think this summer I will make a replacement, maybe something with gussets and hip gores to allow for a curvier shape. 

Next I added a bustle pad:

I find that despite my natural rear padding, my skirts don't achieve the desired fluffy bell curve in the back without some additional padding. I initially tried a smaller round-ish pad, maybe 6-8" across and 5" or so deep. (I wore that bustle with my Dickens Fair dress.)  I found, however, that it didn't provide quite enough floof for my taste, and so made this larger, thicker bustle the morning of the ball. It extends all the way to my sides and is more tightly stuffed than my last bustle. In these pictures, it almost seems like too much bustle, but the wool batting inside compacted slightly as the night wore on, and I'm quite happy with the resulting shape. It is sewn from white linen, with cotton twill tape ties. 

Now for the petticoats: 

First is a simple base petticoat of two 45" panels of pima cotton broadcloth, hemmed to lower-calf length: 

The next layer is a corded petticoat:

I labored over this for months (all hand-sewn, remember), but I think it was well worth it. It is two 45" panels of plain cotton muslin with Sugar 'n' Cream cotton yarn for the cording. When I started, my plan was to fold up a deep hem, sandwiching rows of cording between the fabric layers, as shown in this tutorial by The Laced Angel. You can see that there are about 35 rows of cording at the hem of the petticoat done in this style. Those 35 rows took forever!! (Did I mention I was doing this by hand?) 

Miles and miles of cording!!

I decided to speed things up a bit by changing to another method of cording, the one demonstrated in this tutorial at Historically Dressed. Each row of cording is sewn into a small tuck in the fabric, wrapped tightly the same way you would make your own covered piping. With this style of cording, each tuck takes out a little bit of the petticoat's length, so remember to plan accordingly. Otherwise, you'll have to do what I did and add some extra fabric on top to make the petticoat long enough. This method went much faster and enabled me to actually finish the petticoat, instead of throwing it away from myself in frustration. I started by spacing my cords about 1/2" apart, but the spacing got wider as I went up the petticoat (and grew increasingly impatient to be finished with it). Luckily, that was a common look in period examples, like this one:

1830s Metropolitan Museum

As an additional FYI, I find that this second method of cording gives much more volume and support than the first method. They both stiffen the fabric considerably, especially with a good starching, but the tucked cording resists crumpling more than the sandwiched cording. 

On top of the corded petticoat is a plain petticoat with a deep hem and one 1/2" tuck (added to shorten the petticoat):

And one final petticoat, this time with a shallower hem and eight 1/2" tucks (it started with seven, as I prefer the aesthetic symmetry of odd numbers, but this petticoat also needed shortening):

These two outer petticoats are both made from two and a half panels of 45" pima cotton broadcloth, to a total circumference of ~110".

Look at that fluff!! Who needs hoop skirts anyway? I love the soft bell silhouette, and all those layers are wonderful to move and dance in. Instead of the pendulous swinging of a crinoline, you get a soft, rustling swirl of fabric. It's delightful.

So much floof!

The crucial step to ensure that you get the desired volume with petticoats alone is to starch the heck out of them. I use plain old cornstarch. The process in brief:

1. Make a solution of starch and water. It doesn't take much — 1/4 cup starch to a quart of water, dissolving the starch in a small amount of water first before adding the rest. 

2. Boil it for a minute or two until it thickens. 

3. Let it cool, and dilute it as necessary. 

4. Dunk the petticoats, then squeeze out the excess (I use a spin cycle in my washing machine). 

5. Hang to dry. 

6.When you're ready to press them, it's best to dampen them slightly first. This gives them a smooth glossy finish.  

Here's a great shot of my petticoats after starching (but before pressing): 

They are literally standing up on their own. 

(The cat is included for scale — no, he was just being nosey.)

Starching takes a long time, and must be repeated every time you wash the petticoats, but it is so worth it. Not only does it greatly enhance the floof factor, but it makes the fabric crisp and rustley — very satisfying.  

To see what these petticoats look like under dresses, visit these previous posts:

Late 1830s Ball Gown

1840s Day Dress

Late 1830s Ballgown

Well, I've had a busy couple of weeks! Two different balls, two completely different costumes — so much sewing and preparation, I haven't had a lot of time for blogging. Time to catch up!

Two Saturdays ago, I attended the Gaskell Ball in Oakland, wearing a dress I made and wore for the first time last year, but never properly photographed. This time around, I had my husband take a ton of photos so I could share them here.

The finished ensemble:

There is a bit of back story to this dress — it has has actually been through a few incarnations. I bought the fabric about 4 years ago to make my very first "Victorian" ball gown. It was also the first large sewing project I tackled when I started sewing again after college. Fearless and over-confident in my meager abilities, I bought 5 yards of very nice blue silk shantung and jumped right in. I had no idea what I was doing, but managed to pull off a fairly accurate-ish 1850s gown that I wore a few times, re-trimming it over and over again with varying degrees of success. The skirt was made to fit over a (rather too large) round hoop, and the bodice was draped with the help of a friend, but never fit well enough for my taste. I can't seem to find a single decent picture of the early incarnations of this dress. (This is why I started this blog, so I won't wear costumes without photographing them!)

After re-trimming it for the third or fourth time, I grew tired of the thing, and tossed it in the closet. I then made a series of new ball gowns, most of which were made to fit over a gigantic mid-1860s elliptical crinoline, and forgot about the blue dress entirely.

Last year, I decided to take a break from large hoop skirts and made a series of petticoats that would suit the 1830s and 1840s. I wanted a ball gown to wear with them for the summer Gaskells, but I didn't have time to plan and make a whole new dress. Just when I was starting to contemplate wearing one of my old dresses instead, I happened to find 1-1/2 yards of the same blue silk shantung at a remnant sale at the shop where I originally purchased my fabric. The universe seemed to be telling me to resuscitate the blue ballgown languishing in the back of my closet. I snatched up the remnant and got to work. I used the skirt from my original dress (3 panels of the 54" wide silk), but shortened it and pleated it to a new waistband. The remnant of silk became a new late 1830s bodice and I had a brand new (looking) dress!

My goal was to achieve that slightly frilly, yet relatively restrained look that served as a transition from the over-the-top Romanticism of the 1830s and the tight, angular Gothic sensibility of the 1840s. The style of my dress fits into a narrow window of about 1837-1840, when the giant gigot sleeve of the mid-1830s had collapsed, pleated tightly to the upper arm, but with fullness retained just above the elbow. Here's a fashion plate illustrating the silhouette:

1839

My bodice is taken from the Truly Victorian Romantic Era dress pattern (TV455), but with a sleeve I drafted myself. Without the pleating on the upper arm, the sleeve would be simply a giant puff. All the extra fullness is controlled on top with narrow knife pleats that were stitched in place before the sleeve was made up, leaving a puff at the bottom. I covered the stitching lines with bands of a not-quite-matching blue velvet ribbon, which I also used to trim the bow on the front of the dress.

The dress was made in a hurry, and the pattern was easy and well-drafted (I've really come to expect that from Truly Victorian). It actually fits me a bit better than it looks in these pictures — my corset was laced a bit tighter than it should have been. I used hook-and-eye tape for the back closure, the first time I've done such a thing for a period dress. Apparently it is less incorrect than it seems. Anyway, it worked and was faster than sewing the hooks and eyes one at a time.

The black netted silk mitts were purchased from Lacis in Berkeley. The store owner told me that they were commissioned for the store back in the 1970s, and were made using an old machine from the 19th century. Pretty fabulous, I think. They only cost $30, and held up perfectly to a night of vigorous dancing.

I am wearing a black velvet neck ribbon, fastened at the throat with my grandmother's cameo (which makes frequent appearances with my costumes). I don't know much about it, but I'm guessing by the style of the pin closure that it is from the 19th century. It has a small hinged loop that allows it to be worn as a pendant as well as a brooch. So versatile and appropriate.

I carried a cheap paper fan that happens to match my color scheme perfectly. (I bought a handful of these fans at Daiso last year —they are cheap enough that I wouldn't mind losing them, but work well for keeping me cool between dances.)

My headpiece is a recycled and re-trimmed bit of fluff — silk ribbons, assorted flowers, and a scrap of antique chantilly lace, stitched delicately onto a frame of covered millinery wire. 

All those elements come together quite nicely, I think. The outfit was fun to wear and was just different enough from the typical 1850s cupcake dresses that are usually seen at Gaskells. 

Curious about what's going on underneath that skirt? Underpinnings are coming up next!