Recent Investigations: How was this bustle dress worn?

The 'before' shot. Three pieces of netting made
into some kind of dress. Could be fabulous, but
it's hard to tell on the hanger. Scroll all the way
down for the after shot.

A couple of weeks ago I purchased a three-piece dress on an antiquing jaunt in Pennsylvania. At first glance on the hanger it looked like an early 20th-century gown because sheer gauzy white dresses were so big then, and the bodice lacked the fitted darts I would expect of a 19th-century garment. That was deceiving though, because it seemed to have a bustle skirt, which could make it at least 20 years older than I thought it was. But bustle dresses are usually tightly fitted with crazy boning and a tiny waist to go over an hour-glass corset; this had no seams to contour the bodice whatsoever. Fortunately, my shopping companion was a fellow costume enthusiast, so we held out all of the pieces, talked it through, and decided it was probably a bustle dress for a girl who had yet to develop the curves that would necessitate darts in the bodice. Had. To. Have. Obviously.

I don't have much experience with true bustle dresses though, so even after putting this find on a dress form, I am longing for an owner's manual. The three pieces are an underskirt, a bodice with attached bustle overskirt, and a sash. At first I thought I "got" everything except for what to do with the sash. I was so wrong. I had several questions, and in some cases, I still don't know the answer. Here are the questions I've been considering:

1) Exactly how old is this dress? My theory that it was bustle-era for a young girl was trumped when I discovered that it fit my adult dress form just fine- lady curves included. The netting material is stretchy, so the lack of fitted seams and darts wasn't helpful for dating at all. At first I thought the bustle was just a hint of volume as the popularity of the huge backside-shelf petered out, but once I realized how much I had to stuff up under there to make it look right, I knew I was wrong. The bustle is is the variety with a fairly flat draped front and ties to keep the 'fluffy' back over the bum. It had to be from the height (pun intended) of the bustle-era (1870s or 1880s). So I started looking for comparable garments. Alas, that was easier said than done, even with the availability of online collections and Pinterest pages. The vast majority of three-piece dresses from this period consist of an underskirt, overskirt, and separate bodice that buttons up the front. My dress buttons up the back and doesn't have a separate bodice. The best comparable I could find was a plaid ca. 1880 dress from the Museum at FIT. The only other dress I thought had the right look was a sea-side ensemble with bodice, skirt, and belt from Augusta Auctions. It also dates to 1880. So 1880-ish it is!

The best matches for my net dress are a sea side

ensemble from Augusta Auctions (left) an a plaid

bustle dress that buttons up the back from The 

Museum at FIT (above). Both date to c. 1880.

 2A) What would you wear under the sheer bodice? The material is practically transparent, so with visibility of undergarments at roughly 90% they have to be just right. I tried a period-appropriate corset cover, but it buttons up the front and looked wrong to have those buttons under the netting. I didn't even bother to try a chemise pulled on over the head because that would get all bunched up at the waist and the wrinkles would show through. I suspect this had a specialized corset cover that either had a flap to conceal the closures, or it attached under the arm instead of down the front. I don't have anything like that for the 1880s, but the look improved when I tried an early 20th-century camisole with concealed hooks & eyes. It looks better even with lace showing through the netted pattern. I wonder if the woman who wore this would have a similar lace trim on her corset cover as a little peek-a-boo at her fancy underthings?

Here you see the dress over a button up corset cover ca. 1865-1890 (left),

and an early 20th-century corset cover with concealed hooks & eyes (right).

This ca. 1868 corset cover has a 

concealed closure that wouldn't show

under a dress made of netting.

2B) Same problem, different location: What would you wear under the skirt?  I tried using a bustled petticoat but it you can see every wrinkle and pleat through the netting and you can see the bustle ties. It just seems kind of tacky. I am wondering if it had a lobster-tail style bustle of some kind that was designed specifically to look clean under the netting while concealing all ties and attachments. If only I could find one of those at a reasonable price...

You can see every gather in the petticoat through the skirt,

as well as the ties that keep the overskirt in place. In short,

it isn't the cleanest overall look.

3) What's the deal with the sash? My first thought was that it was some kind of belt, but the waist of the over-dress is finished and doesn't really need a belt to cover it. The neck band, by contrast, is made of the same plain linen as the waist of the underskirt (below), so I suspect it is meant to be covered up. Using the sash for that had the most ridiculous results though. Giant bow tie anyone? Dubious. 

No, based on a closer look at seam placement I think my initial thought of a belt was a better guess. On every part of this garment, the location of seams is significant. The underskirt, for example, has an off-center closure, but the waistband has a seam at the center back anyway. There's no structural reason for the seam, so it's probably there to help you orient the skirt properly. Like many bustle-era petticoats, the underskirt has multiple horizontal seams on the back and vertical seams at each side. The seams aren't meant to show though, so they have to be oriented just right.

The sash as a giant bowtie is way gaudy even by Victorian 

standards.

The neck band (right) is a bit too boring to go 

uncovered. It  needs a little something. 

Emphasis on "little" though...

Ultimately, this helps with the issue of the sash because that also has a random extra off-center seam that needs to be hidden by the final look. There is also an area of decoration that is off-center and begs to be seen. When I put the seam at the center back of the waist, ran it around the waist and made a loop just long enough to display the middle decoration, whaddya know? Everything looked wonderfully placed and bustle-y. Also, it covers up the bustle ties that show through the overskirt. I pinned the sash in place instead of tying a fancy knot. Yes, that could be a shortcut, but the bustle era was big on bar pins of various sizes to get everything draped just so, and there is no reason to think this sash didn't attach with one or two.

Seam montage! At left you can see how the underskirt has an off-center closure, but there is an extra seam on the waistband to help you orient the skirt so the bustle seams are where they need to be. The sash (center) has an unsightly seam that shouldn't show, and an area of extra decoration that should show. When draped over the bustle with one loop (right), things seem to match up juuuuust right.  

4) If the sash wasn't for the neck, was there something else to go there? I don't really know, but my guess is that there was. Maybe a lacy necktie, a ribbon, a fake flower on a band. Accessories happened; it's just hard to know what form they would take.

John Lavery's A Game of Tennis shows how to pull off

a backhand shot in a full bustle.

6) Where would one wear this little number? Maybe if I could figure that out, it would be easier to envision the proper accessories to go with it. In my search for comparables, I made some progress on this. The outfit was no doubt for summer and has the whimsy and airiness for the beach or even for a game of tennis. It's hard to imagine playing tennis in a bustle, but this dress is nice and stretchy to allow range of motion. It would be way too presumptuous to assume this was a tennis dress though, so by way of accessories, I'm thinking general summer things like a flowy scarf at the neck, a parasol, and a straw hat a la Claude Monet.

In conclusion, whether I know everything there is to know about this dress or not, at the very least I know that its awesomeness is unquestionable. Now if anyone out there wants to offer their thoughts on underthings, accessories, etc., I am more than happy to hear from you!

The 'after' shot. All it needs is the accessories!

I once tried to recreate this painting in a Jr. High art 

class, so of course I thought of it as the epitome of

the look that my new summer dress represents. I am

no Claude Monet, but I'm awfully excited to be the 

owner of the kind of dress that inspired him. Love it

so much!

Recent Investigations: The Purple *Thing*

Lately I'm researching my newest acquisitions, so I'm postponing some entries on infant layettes until I'm in the mood. See, the thing about being a collector is that the having of things is less of a thrill than the hunt for said things, so the baby gowns I've got are older news. Don't get me wrong, I get jazzed about owning the stuff, too, but there's just something about not knowing if there will be a nice little surprise in the next booth at the antique mall. Finding a bargain gives me a shot of adrenaline that makes me feel all happy-buzzy. And the high is that much more exciting when you know that the seller didn't know what they had, and therefore didn't price it accordingly.

As a case in point, I found this purple silk thing labeled "bonnet?" on a recent antique trip with a friend. The seller wasn't quite sure what it was, but it was roughly the size of an adult head, so they made a guess. I'd be inclined to buy that (actually, I did buy it, but you know what I mean), except that I would have expected a 19th-century silk bonnet to be lined, and I've never seen one with a hole at the back- especially a hole defined by a shiny brown linen band with a button closure. So "bonnet" just didn't seem right.

I had seen a similar linen tape as a waistband with a button closure on a mid-19th century petticoat in my collection, so my brain went to "skirt". It was so tiny though that if I was right, then it had to be for a doll. Sure enough when I set it down with the waistband up, it made a perfect miniature 1870-ish skirt that reminded me of an amazing purplish gown in the V&A's collection. Mystery solved!

The band on the purple thing (top) looked like the waist on a

mid-19th-century quilted silk petticoat (bottom).

The Victoria & Albert Museum has the most
amazing costume collection, including this
ca. 1870 purple gown. The V&A also published
several fantastic books on the fashions in their
collection and I recommend them to anyone
interested in close-up views of some of the finest
surviving garments in the world.

Looks like a doll skirt to me. Fancy!

I wasn't sure I should I pay money for it though. Yes, it was under $20 and would be a helluva lot easier to store than an adult size crinoline skirt, but dolls kind of creep me out, so I try to limit my collecting behavior to clothes that were worn by real living people. Still, there was just something about it. Maybe the "something" was that I knew what it was when the seller didn't- I mean who doesn't love to be right like that?- or maybe it was the enthusiastic encouragement I received from my shopping buddy, but I bought it.

This is where I would tell you all about this image if I knew anything about it other 

than I found it on Pinterest.

In the end, I have no regrets. I could always sell it to the doll-collecting world if I get tired of it, and this was a fun little research avenue. The doll skirt gave me something new to look for when I'm exploring that time-sink known as Pinterest. On a recent Pin-Binge I was exploring a board with 19th-century photos and I stumbled on a wonderful shot of a little girl looking lovingly at a high-fashion doll. Most of the dolls I've seen in children's photos are being cuddled or held in some way, but this doll was placed on the chair with the back of her full crinoline skirt towards the camera. I couldn't find any details about the image, but I love having it as an illustration of how my tiny purple not-a-bonnet crinoline probably looked in its original context. Next goal: find that amazing dress the little girl is wearing for under $20!

Infant Shirts in the 19th Century

My mid 19th-century infant shirt without the flaps folded.

Behold! It's my first ever post based on a question posted in the comments! A big shout out to Lou McCulloch, who asked whether the flaps on infant shirts fold in or out. And the answer is... the flaps fold OUT. But let's back up and look at infant shirts in general and why there is any confusion about flaps at all.

I got an infant shirt for Christmas a few years ago (thanks Mom!) and I wasn't really sure what to make of it except that it had some of the finest hand sewing I had ever seen, including intricate stitching and lace work. Like most 18th- and 19th-century shirts, this piece is made using rectangles and squares of fabric instead of a curvy, contoured pattern.

Overall view of the shirt when unfolded. It is simply made with a rectangle of fabric plus some lace for the sleeves.

Detail of the shirt, showing how the seam on the flap is turned under when the flaps fold out.

My first clue about the direction of the flaps came from the super fine hem; the seam allowances on the flaps were turned so as not to show when the flaps folded out. But if the flaps folded in, neither side would be visible, so why would the direction of the seam allowance matter? I still wasn't sure, so I looked to images of 19th-century infants to see if any flaps were visible in those. I couldn't find anything. But that's no surprise, since shirts are a type of undergarment and you generally can't see such things in portraits. As the nickname implies, "unmentionables" are rarely discussed in historical documents, especially in the Victorian period.

My newest infant shirt, with reinforced armpits and fine decoration.

Then I found an infant shirt in on e-bay that settled it for me, and I needed to buy it so I could add it to this post. The flaps are embroidered, showing a distinctive right side and wrong side and proving that the flaps fold out. I also stumbled upon an image from the Dictionary of Children's Clothes by Noreen Marshall showing the many layers infants wore in the 1880s. It shows the flaps folding out over a barracoat or petticoat, followed by a slip and then the gown. That's why the flaps don't show in art and photos; they are sandwiched between two other garments before the outer gown is added. There are a lot of layers involved. Babies had a much more complex wardrobe than I had realized!

Detail of the hand embroidery and bobbin lace adorning the shirt's flaps.

Front and back views of an infant shirt as it would be worn under a barracoat. The flaps fold out over the barracoat and another slip might be added to cover both the shirt flaps and barracoat before the gown went on.

 More posts to follow on the infant layette later, but for now I will close with a big thanks to Lou. You gave me an excuse to buy some new books and a darling infant shirt to add to my collection.

Reticule Rescue Results

A natural follow up to the condition assessment I did on Ann Porterfield's reticule is a little tutorial on archival storage. For the most part, I'm not doing anything to undo damage to the bag, but I'm packaging it in a way that should prevent any further harm. This story is easiest to tell with images, so here they are.

The first step was to make an insert to go into the bag to eliminate the issue of pressed folds as much as possible. I made a simple insert by measuring the bag and making a sketch of a pattern that will be slightly smaller than the bag. It should be made so that it doesn't quite fill up the whole thing, otherwise the insert would stress the seams and be more harmful than helpful. Using this pattern, I cut out some natural unbleached cotton batting left over from my padded hanger project. I made about 8 of these to layer together as stuffing. Then I made an unbleached muslin casing for the batting layers. I left this open long enough to test the imsert to make sure that the size was appropriate. When I was satisfied with the height of the pad, I hand sewed the top to finish it.

Next, I got out my hand steamer and used it to relax the various creases. The idea here is to make as few folds and wrinkles as possible since they will make weak points over the long term. Having the padded insert in the purse helped to give it the proper shape as steam was applied without the stress and friction of pressing.  In the 'after' photos, you can barely see the crease in the middle where it seems the bag had been folded in storage.

Finally, the protective swaddling! I just happen to have some small acid-free boxes that I bought ages ago for my purse collection from Hollinger/Metal Edge, and one was the perfect size for my needs. All I had to do was line it with tissue to make a protective nest for the bag. While I generally opt for plain acid-free tissue as I mentioned in my post The Tissue Issue, for this project I used buffered tissue since I know that the bag is made entirely of cotton.

From start to finish, this padding and packaging project took me about two hours and cost approximately $10 in materials; a small price to pay for helping this little lovely survive another 200 years.

A Reticule Rescue Operation

Clearly I have not been inspired to work on the blog for a while, but I haven't been idle! I've been seeking out new additions to my collection and snapping up some really great things. I can't say that I needed these things, or even that I have space for them, but it seems that the more I learn, the more I want good examples of different time periods, accessories, garments... you get the idea. I seem to want at least one good example of everything. That is a bit problematic for the budget though, so I try to rein myself in by turning on Hoarders marathons when I peruse eBay. Only truly special or truly cheap finds make the cut.

An overall view of my most recent find; an elaborately embroidered whitework reticlue ca. 1795-1825 with the name Ann Porterfield on the front. The back depicts an urn holding flowers, which was a very popular motif in the early 19th century.

Today's feature is my most recent acquisition, a fragile but amazing embroidered bag with the name "Ann Porterfield" written front and center. This bag is not in the best of shape, but I tend to love items all the more when it's clear that they survived because they were loved, not because they were too impractical to use and were therefore relegated to storage. After all, I don't plan to pack it with my wallet and keys and go out on the town; its purpose in life at this point is primarily to serve as an object for my adoration. I'll probably study it, too, and maybe find a way to exhibit it, but mostly I'll stare at it while suppressing the squeals of glee trying to erupt from deep in my belly. Did I mention that I think it it was probably made between 1795 and 1825? Yeah, it's that old. Thus the glee.

I plan to do some research on Ann Porterfield to find out more about her life if I can, but first, I'm going to do something I don't always do and make a special support for storing the bag. I have several reasons for making this a priority. First, I am about to give a little talk in a workshop about costume storage, so it'll be nice to have a small example on hand. Second, and most importantly, my inner curator tells me that this item really needs the attention. As I've mentioned before, I have enough education in conservation to fill me with a dreadful knowledge of the agents of deterioration and I can see them at work on this bag. Here is a little condition assessment:

The reticule's ruched sides and gathered top are a source of concern 

because folds and wrinkles create weak points in the delicate fabric. Also,

Use of the drawstring closure has worn through the string's casing in some

areas.

Material: Very lightweight cotton with white thread embroidery, probably also in cotton. Cotton is a plant, which is cellulose based, which is inherently acidic. Luckily cotton is fairly stable though, so acidity isn't my biggest concern.

Structure: The ruched sides and gathered closure of the reticule create wrinkles that are lovely additions to its style, but unfortunately every fold and wrinkle is a source of stress. When the folds are pressed (like when laid flat in storage) the stress leads to fiber breakage and weak points. Ever fold and re-fold paper to rip it cleanly when you didn't have any scissors handy? Same concept.

This seems to be how the reticule was stored for a long time.

You can see the crease left by folding in the overall photos

above.

Folded Storage: On a related note, the bag seems to have been folded for storage. It arrived folded into quarters in an envelope, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was often stashed that way, or at least folded in half. Even when unfolded, this unnecessary and harmful crease remains.

The Inscription: "Ann Porterfield" was written on the bag with a fountain pen, and I am ever so glad it was. But (there always has to be a "but", sorry) that means that this incredibly fine cotton has been subjected to pressure by a sharp, pointed metal object. More weak points! Why not just write your name with a scalpel, hmm? As if that's not scary enough, the ink used probably has iron in it. Just think about this for a moment. Yes, that brownish appearance of old ink is, in part, created by rust. Rust! The all-important inscription on this heartbreakingly beautiful piece of needlework is rusting.

The inscription is also a weak point. Note the separation of the fabric along the line made 

by the bottom of the "f" in "Porterfield."

At this point I sort of want to do that thing where you put your fingers in your ears and go "lalalalalalalaa!" so that I don'y have to think about it anymore, because there is nothing to be done about it. The chemical reaction that causes iron to rust can be slowed or even halted if deprived of such things as moisture and oxygen, but frankly, I don't have an anaerobic chamber in my closet, and the cotton carrying that rusting signature is, in fact, a material that has the annoying habit of sucking water molecules out of the air around it. We call that "hydroscopic" in the conservation biz, but you probably just know it as that "absorption" thing that any decent bath towel is supposed to do. So let the rusting continue...

"Other Damage" montage. A brown spot of unknown origin is featured at top left, while the top right offers a close up of a nasty rip in a zig-zag along the fabric grain. Some unidentified spongy discoloration is shown on the bottom left. In the image on the bottom right you can see a variety of small holes, including a split along the fabric grain and some round spots that may represent old pest damage.

The Unknowns: I'm kind of ready to throw up my hands and give up at this point, so before I lose momentum I'm just going to lump all of the other issues together here under the general topic of, "something bad happened, I don't know what." First, the bag has been ripped near the opening. At least I can work some magic there by just not ripping it any more. Second, there are some small holes where the fabric wore too thin and split, or a bug ate lunch or something. Again, probably avoidable in future. Finally, there are a few different categories of discoloration going on. The general overall yellowing is probably from exposure to acids; most likely something it was stored in like tissue, a box, a drawer, or a trunk. A few small brown spots could also be acid damage, but then again, they could be iron stains or bug poop. I really don't want to know. Finally, there are some brownish smudges that look sort of spongy on one side. That could be old mold stains, or contact with some acidic thing in that one spot, or even oils from the skin. Let's just call all of these issues "character" and move on.

So, time to stop whining about past abuses to this little lovely and take action! What am I going to do about it? Well, I'm not going to wash it, or try chemical intervention with stains, or sew the holes shut. Frankly, I think it's too thin for any of that and even using 'conservator approved' materials, my inexperienced hands would do more harm than good. Instead, I'm going to swaddle Ann Porterfield's Regency reticule like a newborn baby in the most safe and comfy acid-free nest it has ever known, and then I'll wrap it in a buffered tissue security blankie to keep the evil acids away. Check in next time for the after photos.

Over and Under: An Exhibit Story

A panoramic view of the temporary exhibit "Over and Under: Accessories and Undergarments of the Early 1800s"

Each year Jefferson Patterson Park and Museum, where I work, hosts an 1812 event. It used to concentrate on the War of 1812, but this year for the bicentennial we decided to include more about daily life in 1812 to appeal to visitors interested in more than the battles. As is always the case with museums though, we were trying to expand our focus without over-extending our budget, so we were trying to do as much as possible in house. Based on past success with a temporary exhibit on clothing, I thought that some of the early garments in my collection could make a little exhibit that would help flesh out the event.

The introductory panel just explained what the overall theme was and a little bit 

about the language used to discuss the time period.

My collection of clothing and purses is mostly from the 19th century, but I don't have a lot of things that date before 1840. When I pulled the early items that I do have, they fell into three categories: purses, undergarments, and sewing tools that I borrowed from my mother's collection. It didn't easily lend itself to a unified theme, but we came up with the idea of "Under and Over" so that we could focus on things that went under clothes, or over them as decoration and accessories.

With some extra show-stopper items loaned by Mary Doering, a fellow collector and a friend, we put together a neat little display if I do say so myself. Not only did I get to include family pieces in the exhibit, but I also  dedicated the exhibit to my grandmothers who both passed away last year. The Julia Waterman shift was a highlight because we had oral history to include with it.

The exhibit closed at the end of October, and I've returned my mom's sewing tools and Mary's contributions, but I took so many pictures that the display can live on here. So now I'll let the images and captions speak for themselves.

The first section of the exhibit talked about how ladies employed their fancy sewing skills to embellish clothing in the early 19th century. 

The objects in the "Over the Top Adornment" section included sewing kits and tools from my mom's collection, and a ca. 1830 dress from my collection with elaborate tambour work on the skirt.

   

The next section, "Bare Essentials" discussed undergarments and other accessories of propriety, 

like caps and stockings. Julia Waterman's shift was included here.

We had two caps in the exhibit, both of which 

were made of lightweight cotton with lovely

tambour stitching as decoration.

From Mary Doering's collection, this section included some real rarities, including a corset stamped with its owner's name, a hand carved busk, a "figure enhancer" that once strategically stuffed a corset, and a pair of chenille embroidered garters (below) that say "Halte la, on ne passe pas" which means, "Stop there, go no further." Worked into the embroidery is a picture of a guard dog holding a gun. Hilarious, no? 

Other undergarments included my hand-knit stockings with the date "1819" on them, and a pair 

of pockets from Mary's collection that tied at the waist under a lady's skirt.

The last undergarment in this section was a man's shirt, ca. 1825. We also sneaked in a top
hat with a padded carrying case, complete with compartments for hat care brushes and tools.  

And finally I put together a case of purses, including a man's tobacco pouch and several miser purses. This section explained how the narrow skirts of the early 19th century made it problematic to wear full pockets as undergarments, so the purse moved outside the skirt and became a venue for ladies to show off their sewing and needlework skills. Most of these purses are knotted or crocheted with beadwork.

This tiny early 19th century coin purse is one of the purses that my grandmother and I discovered in Nanny's closet when I was a little girl. Grammy gave it to me then, and I've treasured it ever since.

And finally, in honor of my Grammies, I included their beautiful senior pictures.

Aunt Julia's Shift

One of my top two favorite finds from Grammy's house is a simple linen shift. I got a surge of adrenaline when my mother and I found it, and that was even before I saw that it had a signature on it, "Julia Waterman."

Front

Back

A few years ago I wouldn't even have known what I was looking at, but then I was fortunate enough to see a lecture by independent scholar Mary Doering about clothing of the War of 1812. She had brought a shift and other undergarments from her collection to the lecture, and she explained that the undermost undergarment of the early 19th century woman's wardrobe was the shift. Shifts often had  embroidered initials, customized stamps, or signatures in permanent ink because they actually contacted the skin and were therefore laundered more frequently than other clothes. The markings ensured that otherwise indistinguishable garments made it back to the right family member after laundering.

Julia Waterman's signature appears on the right front of the shift, near the reinforced underarm. 

Shifts are pretty rare survivals. This was no ballgown or wedding dress that you pack away with care. Most everyday garments and underthings saw heavy use and ended up as rags. Plus, early shifts lacked the decorative lace that was more characteristic of shifts and chemises from the 1830s on, so later generations might not bother to curate them as beautiful heirlooms. In my family, "keep" is the default setting though, so we are fortunate to have such a rare and personal item.

Every seam and hem is stitched by hand.

I was pretty sure that the shift was early; the style seemed to me to be typical of the late 18th to early 19th century. It is a fine lightweight linen and completely hand sewn, with thin french seams and tiny uniform stitches. The shoulders are reinforced with an extra strip of fabric, and the front neckline has a 1/8" drawstring  for gathering. All of these characteristics are consistent with an early date.  But who was Julia Waterman? I'd never heard of her, nor did I know of any Watermans in the family. I wondered if this might have been something Nanny acquired for the fabric in her seamstress days.

The front neckline has a very thin drawstring to gather it for the right fit.

Then my dad checked his family history folders, and sure enough he found a whole description of Julia Waterman. It turns out that she is my great aunt to the fourth power, and her grand niece recorded the following recollections of her in 1965:

“Aunt Julia had known of no other home than that she had with Grandma and Grandpa Duncan [in Bath, ME]. She’d never married. She took care of the children. She was second mother to my father’s generation, always taking care of the baby when a new baby came. She took the next older one in her room, and took care of it, and so she helped bring up all five of the children. And they called her Julie- never Aunt Julia, but Julie.

She was small. I don’t know what color her hair ever was. I never saw it. She always wore a round lace cap which covered her hair entirely. She always sat in a rocking chair and when she came to our house as she did every year when her brother came to visit her from New York. All the family assembled at our home for supper, and she was always seated in a rocking chair. Except at the table, I never saw her in any other seat.

She was a tiny little woman, but she had a memory as long as her life almost. She lived to be ninety-seven years old. She was born on March 3^rd, 1798 and lived until March of 1895. Aunt Julia was very dear to all of us. We loved to go and talk with her, just sit beside her and have her tell us tales. I remember one tale she told was of – I’m not sure whether it was her mother or her grandmother- making soft soap in a great big kettle and had the baby in the crib beside her and there was a shadow in the door ad she looked up and there was a hostile Indian. She didn’t stop to think. She didn’t grab the baby or make any other motion except to dip her ladle in that hot soap and throw it in the Indian’s face and he disappeared, and was never seen again that they know of.

Another time her father went out. His name was Calvin Waterman. He went out looking for a cow who didn’t come into the barn as usual, and in the shadow of the early evening, he saw what he thought was a cow lying on the ground, and he gave it a kick to rouse it and up got an Indian and great grandfather apologized and he finally made the Indian understand what he wanted, and the Indian’s reply was “cow, place that dead folks live” and Grandpa found the cow in the cemetery.

Aunt Julia would tell of going blueberrying on what she called the Point in Bath. That’s now the center of the business district on Front Street and upper Center Street, and she would go there day after day blueberrying. And as she went, she would pass the dock where schooners, small schooners, were unloading rum and molasses from the West Indies at a point where a store, later the Desmond Store, and still later the Maritime Museum is, the southwest corner of Water and Center streets. I can’t imagine that there was ever a stream coming up that far, a stream deep enough to accommodate schooners.

She went to school in the old Erudition Schoolhouse, which stood at the corner of High and Center streets for many years where I later went to summer school one summer. It was built in the early part of the nineteenth century. I think the date was 1808, because I remember it. It stood there until the Shaw house, where now the hotel- Sedgwick Hotel- is. Al Shaw bought a lot of land and the schoolhouse was moved in back of the high school, supposed to be kept as a souvenir, a precious thing of the history of Bath, but later in the name of progress or something else, it was torn down to make more of a parking lot in back of the schoolhouse, and this would have been a great sorrow to my father who had always tried to have the old things preserved.

Aunt Julia—we were always very fond of Aunt Julia and always went to see her on her birthday and had Christmas gifts for her. I remember the first cake I ever made was a Mt. Washington layer cake, frosted in chocolate and I made it for Aunt Julia’s birthday. I must have been about ten or eleven years old at the time, and she was so delighted with that cake she wouldn’t let anybody touch it, to say nothing of eating it, for days and days- she just had to show it all the time, because I’d made it for her.  

And she always had a pocket on her apron and usually it had quarters in it, and many times we’d go home with a quarter, which was a great deal of money for us then. Always at Christmas in the toe of our stockings was a quarter from Aunt Julia until we were twelve, and then the quarter became a half dollar for all of the great nephews and nieces, which numbered a good many with all in the family.  She remembered every one.

And she lost her sight toward the last. I could see her now sitting by that south window at Aunt Avis’ home gently rocking back and forth and you could see she was just thinking. And once in a while she would say, “Do you remember so and so?”, and out would come some bits of history which we hadn’t heard before.

She didn’t ever get used to modern cutlery at the table. She ate with a two-tined fork and a broad knife- blade- on which she could balance peas and beans and anything she wanted to. She ate with her knife mostly, and that was her custom and no one ever tried to teach her any differently. She was Aunt Julia.

I asked my father one time if she ever had a beau and he said well, there were rumors that she had had, but he didn’t know, but she told me once when I grew older: she said, “I didn’t let them know it, but I liked to dance when I was a girl, and I could get out my window and slide down the drain over the porch, and get down, and I’d go to the dances with the boys and then I’d shin back up again when I got home.” I never knew who the boys were and I never knew whether Grandma Duncan and Grandpa Duncan ever knew about it. But evidently she enjoyed a good time.

As I say, she lived to be ninety-seven. Her brother, Henry Waterman, lived in Brooklyn. He was very good to her. He was the inventor of the hoop skirt wire which wouldn’t bend when you sat down. And it was said he made a million dollars out of that invention. At any rate he had plenty of money to take care of her and did kind things for the others in the family also. He always came once a year to visit her and then there was the get-together at our house. The long table, in that 35-foot dining room, would be stretched to its limit and all the family gathered. I don’t remember what we always had, but I know we had a silver dish that just held a large can of Phillipe & Cunard’s sardines. That was one of the things always on the table. And the dessert was always a boiled custard with currant jelly through it. It was served in the parfait glasses which I have owned for some time.

Then after supper we’d all go in the parlor and get out old Father Kemp’s song books of which I have a few. They’re out of print now and they are very rare, but I have a few and sing all the old songs, ‘Jerusha, put the kettle on and we’ll all take tea’ and ‘On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand and cast a wistful eye on the well, something strands’ and so forth and so on. And all those old songs, they were all printed, not as we see them now, but in the four lines of the four parts. And Uncle Henry Waterman’s voice would boom out the bass. He had a powerful voice. We had the four parts—the sopranos, altos, tenors, and basses, and Mama would play and we children tried to chime in. They were times to remember year after year to look forward to, and to remember as a part of our growing up.”

The shift is so much more special with all of this context, which makes it perfect for the exhibit we are putting together at work on early 19th century undergarments and accessories. More on that later...