In Part II in this series, I'll be looking at the 1760-65 era, with a focus on the dress depicted in Gainsborough's portrait of Lady Mary Howe, painted in about 1764, using replica garments based on those in the painting.  I'll also discuss the connection of Lady Mary's husband, Richard Howe, to Canadian history of the time.   

Although most aspects of women's middle to upper middle class dress of the 1760's remained as they had been a decade before, there were subtle changes, which will be demonstrated in my talk.  

The presentation is planned to be held in Market Square in Annapolis Royal beginning at 2:00 pm on Saturday, August 27th, but as always, weather will determine if it can go ahead.   The rain/alternate date will be Sunday, August 28th. ​

For an overview of the typical elements of female dress of the mid-18th century, with photos of extant museum pieces and paintings, download the PDF document below.  

If you're interested in details on my work making the replica of Lady Mary's ensemble, see the link below (the blog is in 4 parts): 

During August and early September this year (2022), as part of my historical interpretation work with the Town of Annapolis Royal, I'll be presenting a series of free talks on how women dressed in historical times.  See the copy of the flyer below for details of dates and times.  

Part I, which takes place on Saturday, August 20th beginning at 2:00 p.m. in Market Square in Annapolis Royal, will be a demonstration, using historically accurate reproduction garments (on a mannequin), of the typical fancy dress of a British middle to upper-middle class lady, around 1750 to 1755. 

The PDF document below provides descriptions and examples of the elements of dress of the period which I'll be displaying and discussing.  Download the PDF document for reference or -- if you have a mobile phone with you on which to download --  follow along if you are attending the talk.  

I hope to see you there!

Here is the flyer with the schedule for the entire series (some topics will be repeated later on). 

Well, today is already April 2nd, but did you play a practical joke on a friend yesterday, or become the victim of one yourself?  I know, I know – with so many deeply worrying things going on in the world today, it’s hard to be serious about being silly.

Yet April Fool’s Day has a very old, albeit obscure, history that few people know about.  There are various contested and contradictory theories of its origin, including disputed connections with Chaucer, the zodiacal shift marking the beginning of spring in temperate climates, the 16th century change to the modern (Gregorian) calendar, the opening of fishing season in certain regions, and the most obvious – the Catholic period of Lent (with its relationship to fish).  Most people today simply take it for granted that April 1st is the day for playing pranks, without wondering why that is.  But it has a fascinatingly mysterious and convoluted origin. 

There is documentation of such a day of pranks going back at least to the late 1600’s in England, but the English-speaking world isn’t alone in this tomfoolery, the day being marked by good-natured shenanigans in many countries.  However, French history provides intriguing clues to the origin of the tradition of April 1st. ​

In France, “Poisson d’avril” (literally “April fish”) still marks the first day of April.  Some French sources claim that this term can be traced to the mid-1400’s, a “poisson d’avril” being a young messenger boy or intermediary sent by his master with a letter to be delivered to his beloved, presumably in spring (April). 

The next evidence of the phrase “poisson d’avril” in France is said to be in the 17th century, described later (around 1718) in the dictionary of the Academie Française as sending someone on a futile errand in order to make fun of them.  This usage corresponds with the Scottish and Irish April 1st tradition of sending a person (the victim of the prank) with an ostensibly important letter to a recipient who is then directed by the letter to have the fool deliver it on to someone else, and so on, like a chain letter, until the fool finally discovers he’s been played.  

At some point in the French tradition, fish – in one form or another -- actually came into the picture for April 1st.  Some sources claim (perhaps more from reasonable theorizing than actual evidence) that this was because, after the Gregorian calendar was introduced in 1582, pranks were played on those who still clung to the old “new year” festivities connected with the Catholic time of Lent (and arrival of spring), which had traditionally taken place on or around April 1st. 

​When Pope Gregory XIII prescribed the new Gregorian calendar for all of Christendom in 1582, the “new year” was set at January 1st.  The theory goes that, in order to mock those following the old traditions, people would pin a fake fish to the “fool’s” back, at the end of the Lent period (about April 1st).  

Yet others say that evidence of the term “poisson d’avril” existed well prior to 1582, making the calendar-related origin an untenable explanation.  They maintain that the tradition goes back to the opening of fishing season in many regions, with pranksters pinning real fish to the backs of either very successful (or unsuccessful) fishermen until of course the joke was discovered by the “fool” himself through the smell of the rotting fish.  The trouble with this assumption is that historically, dates for opening the fishing season varied widely in Europe. 

Another hypothesis claims that the April 1st tradition of pranks may have its antecedents in pagan rites of passage into spring (from the zodiac sign of Pisces – the fish -- into that of Aries), mixed with later Catholic traditions of Lent around early April, during which fish is the only permitted meat.  
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Whichever theory may be the true explanation of this phenomenon, the fact remains that it has persisted up to the present day.  In France to this day, “Poisson d’avril” involves pinning a paper fish to another person’s back, or playing good-natured pranks or tricks on friends, associates, and relatives.  

However, to go back a little in time to the early 20th century in France, through some mysterious social alchemy, the tradition of “Poisson d’avril” became mingled with what might be seen as a sort of ‘Valentine’s Day’ concept.  Pretty, often hand-coloured cards, with a mixture of whimsy and gentle humour, sweetness and lover’s rhymes, were sent between sweethearts or good friends on April 1st. 

These were extremely popular in France from about 1900 through to WWI, so much so that they are still ubiquitous in antique shops in France today.  I’ve included some examples in this essay, taken from my own collection. 

​These Edwardian “Poissons d’avril” cards combined the original 15th century concept of the intermediary messenger carrying his master’s “billet doux” along with the tradition of the April 1st fish – a sign of Lent and perhaps of plenty – often including a little prank (such as not revealing the name of the sender), to create a whimsical wish on April 1st for love, happiness, and good fortune.  

For example, the card below, from ca.1900-05, sold at the time to be sent as a loving message from a French soldier to his sweetheart, might at first seem rather bizarre, even a bit ghoulish, without an understanding of the positive, sweetly jocular, and charming connotations of this tradition in France, including the religious meaning.  The soldier is sending his love and wishes for happiness at Lenten time, as in the tradition of the 15th century origin of the April messenger of love, by way of his emissaries, the fish (which are also not coincidentally, directly connected with the Christian religious symbol). 

The rhyme says (my translation) -- "Over the noise of the cannon my exiled heart/Sends you, along with my best wishes, some lovely April fish". 

​Colourful flowers and ribbons often figured with the proffered fish on such cards.  The fish itself was frequently the stand-in for the sender, as in this charming little card, the rhyme expressing a sentiment not unlike a Valentine’s Day card from a secret admirer: “Le nom du poisson, je dois le taire/ c’est un doux secret, c’est un mystère…” (“The name of the fish, I must not say/ ’tis a sweet secret, a mystery”).  

​As one typical example of these cards stated: “Poissons d’Avril portent Bonheur” (“April fish bring happiness”), the word « bonheur » meaning both happiness and good fortune (or good luck) in French, a little missive of love to a friend or sweetheart. 

​My special interest in these charming cards are the photographs (rather rare in themselves for the time period), mostly showing people in dressy but presumably typical garments and hairstyles of the day.  This is an unintended, and therefore probably candid, look at Edwardian and 1910's fashion as it was worn, which adds another layer to the historical understanding of costume of the era. 

​Beyond this, the cards themselves are certainly little windows into the social mores and expectations of life over a hundred years ago in France, as reflected in the April 1st card below, ca.1904, which hints at the "very sweet things" she has entrusted to the fish she sends along to her sweetheart. 

Today in much of the world of course, we send pranks, rather than sweet cards, on April 1st, with public entities, media, and corporations getting in on the practical jokes.  On this April 1st of 2022 the usual pranks seemed to be mostly absent, although understandably so, with both a pandemic and a brutal war constantly in the background.  Few are in the mood for practical jokes and silly levity right now. 

Yet with its history extending back centuries, this means of spreading laughter, fun, and mischievous friendship on one particular day of the year is surely worth perpetuating.

Whichever origin theory you may subscribe to, I hope April 1st brought you some smiles, happiness, and the hope of good fortune, with or without the pranks! 

As a fashion historian I always try to be aware of what I call “absolutism” when thinking about or discussing historical costume.  One of the easiest and most enticing traps to fall into where historical dress is concerned (particularly for time periods prior to the mid-19th century) is making unconditional statements or conclusions based on what is necessarily a limited supply of evidence. 

I've always believed that the further back in time one goes, the less justifiable it is to indulge in "fashion absolutism", i.e. rule-making.  This is often proven true with the sudden appearance on the open market of an historical garment in a style or construction that "should not exist". 

Avoiding such difficulties is essentially a matter of seeing beyond what might ordinarily seem to be settled borders of history.  Put another way, it means training the eye and mind to accept what is really there, sometimes without being able to fit an item neatly into a previous category.  
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This is especially the case where the 18th century is concerned, in fact for any time prior to about 1860, when photography and mass-market print publications became widely available, giving us a more direct window into what people wore.  

As I've mentioned in other articles I've posted on this site, I find that it's typically the privately listed historical garments that get the most thorough photographic attention, and as such are far more helpful to a costume historian than many museum photographs are (personal viewing of extant garments aside).   

​The photograph below (from a private online auction listing), which gives a rare view of the interior construction of the bodice of a ca. 1770-75 gown in a silk/cotton striped textile, is a good example.  In fact, often even the descriptions of privately sold garments are more detailed than those given by museums for similar garments.  From the photograph below it's possible to see and study quite a number of period construction techniques which can inform further study or the making of reproduction garments.  
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Privately owned or listed antique garments that come on the market can accordingly be very illuminating -- even surprising -- in their variety and detail, sometimes to the point of proving that what experts think was "likely not seen" in a particular era did indeed exist.  If nothing else, they frequently provide a glimpse into what sort of clothing was worn by people who were not in the upper class, in other words, the average person's dress.   These are quite often garments that come out of everyday middle-class estates, tucked away for decades in a dark trunk in someone's attic by an unrecorded ancestor before being brought up for auction.​

I would define “historical absolutism” generally (that is, not specifically where costume history is concerned) as a tendency to make definitive, final, or rather permanent statements or conclusions about some aspect of history based on what is necessarily a rather small sampling.   This is particularly a pitfall where 18th century fashion is concerned, since study is frequently limited perforce to just a handful or two of surviving examples or paintings.  

​I think it’s a natural human desire (or at least a natural modern one), to want to categorize, classify, label, and pigeon-hole new things once we’ve already seen a few that appear to conform to a type.  The file then gets closed and put away as case solved, with little inclination to revisit the matter.  The natural tendency is to ignore or dismiss as odd – if not impossible – any item or information that subsequently appears which doesn’t fit the established parameters.  This is indeed I think the definition of a mental trap. 

In fairness I must add that many reputable costume historians are careful to use qualifiers and circumscription when describing their findings, allowing them to revisit, modify and revise earlier conclusions when new evidence comes to light.  This is a more rational and even scientific method than closing the door permanently on a particular subject and stashing it away as complete and resolved. 

Put simply, where costume history in particular is concerned, one garment (or even a handful of garments) does not always a fashion rule make!

I so often see online comments stating: “this-or-that was not done or seen”, or “such-and-such wasn’t worn or didn’t exist”, sometimes even with “never” or “always” added, which only magnifies the problem.  Yet the truth is (and I believe most professional historians would agree), the further back in time we go, the less we can be certain of any definitive, final statement about history and historical dress. 

So what feeds into this compulsion to “close the case”, and how can it be avoided, particularly by amateur enthusiasts of the subject?

One important factor that I believe tends to encourage “historical absolutism” is a failure to recognize how narrow and uneven a slice of contemporary fashion we have in extant 18th century garments, particularly those held by world museums. 
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It’s not an exaggeration to say that our understanding of historical dress based on extant 18th century garments themselves can be skewed due to the limited number of surviving pieces (largely in museum collections) and the reasons for which they survived.  Both museum selection criteria and – long before items reach museums – personal motives for retaining and preserving particular garments, colour our view of 18th century fashion. 

Museums tend to purchase “important” pieces representing a time period and the height of design or embellishment.  These rare and beautiful pieces are often selected because they are in good (or excellent) condition for display and longevity purposes.  

These are certainly magnificent garments, often amazingly well preserved, and without a doubt worthy of attention and study.  Most originated with wealthy, prominent or aristocratic families, not generally representative of middling or lower class dress. ​

As a whole, such collections depict a small segment of 18th century society.  In this respect, such gowns are not unlike most of the beautiful garments captured in 18th century upper class portraiture.  From our viewpoint, it's like looking through a narrow slit at a large painting and trying to understand the entire picture.  Not only are such collections often weighted toward the higher class of dress, but museums do occasionally get the dating, or the mounting and display of a costume wrong, which can further add to erroneous conclusions by viewers. 
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It’s also important that every piece of historical clothing be situated in an understanding of its original geographical and social context, which means researching a broader field in order to judge how typical a garment was for its time and place. ​

Regional differences in dress (and other areas of life) were more pronounced in the 18th century than they are today in our era of mass-media and frequent travel.  A style worn in a portrait in ca.1750 southern France for example, might be quite out of place and even unknown (that is, not worn), in England at the same date. 

​It’s essential to be able to recognize when these factors apply to any historical garment.  One example follows, a ca.1703 painting entitled La Belle Strasbourgeoise byNicolas  de Largillière, although many more exist.  Before deducing anything from this portrait in relation to conventional European dress of 1703, a thorough investigation of the history and costume of the Strasbourg region would need to be done.  You would discover for example that this area passed from one European power to the other (mostly French and German) for centuries and was influenced by both.  Deeper research would no doubt reveal further information about the costume shown in this fascinating image: 

​Here is another example, a ca. 1745-50 painting entitled “Portrait of a Jacobite Lady” (byCosmo Alexander).  Any conclusions about this lady’s style of costume vis-à-vis typical English costume would need to involve research into the history of Scottish dress of the middle to upper classes of the period (few people of the lower classes could afford to commission a formal portrait).  A proper consideration of this costume would likely also require research into military dress of the period.  

​Further, the dress of ordinary folk (i.e. those above the poor, but below the wealthy) are generally not well represented in terms of their proportion to finer clothing in museum collections, or indeed in paintings.  Part of this is likely because “ordinary” costume was not as worthy of careful preservation, and was simply discarded or used for other purposes once worn out or hopelessly unfashionable, leaving fewer surviving examples.  For these types of clothing, we really only have the occasional glimpse provided by artists who depicted “everyday” life, or by the often tangential evidence of written documentation. 

Another factor compounding the issue of how to think about historical dress is what is sometimes called “preservation bias”.  I don’t particularly like this term because it suggests that the bias exists around what is preserved or why, in other words a bias at the origin point, rather than a bias in our thinking about and observing preserved garments. 
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Bias at the origin point may sometimes certainly be a factor (the owner liked blue better than green, long better than short), but it’s not the whole story.  Happenstance, fate, and whimsy can often play just as important a role in whether a particular garment is carefully saved by the original owner, and later by their descendants or others.  We should acknowledge that sometimes garments are put away and saved because they were unusual, or because they represented a particular moment in an owner’s life, or – more prosaically – because they were simply forgotten, not necessarily because they were a typical example of contemporary fashion. 

All of this is not to say that we can’t reach some broad, generalized conclusions about fashion and style in a given time period and place.  But these always need to be tempered by a recognition of the often limited number of pieces available for study, and qualified in terms of exceptions to what seem “typical” costume of the era.  In short, qualifying terms such as “more” or “less”, “generally”, “frequently” or “rarely”, “likely” or “unlikely”, “usually” or “unusually”, and so on, are more appropriate to any discussion of historical dress than words like “never”, “not”, or “always”. 

Lastly, avoiding historical absolutism means having a willingness to fit a new discovery into an established picture of 18th century clothing.  I’m always struck – and fascinated – by the occasional item from the 1700’s that surfaces in private sales or auctions.  These items frequently “break the mould” of what we may think we know about fashionable clothing in the 18th century.  They cause us to look with fresh eyes and should remind us to think twice about making “never” or “always” statements about historical dress. 

A few examples follow which illustrate the sort of items that might prompt a rethinking of some commonly held views of costume history, in these cases of the 18th century.  Whether such items were high fashion, made by professional tailors or gown makers, or else home-made garments, really matters very little.  Someone felt they were appropriate and/or fashionable to wear in their place and time. 

A recent example that interested me were these 18th century European velvet stays, listed on an online retail selling platform.  This garment is unusual in several ways, certainly not typical, yet there it is, forcing us to bend our view of fashion conventions of the 18th century just a little…

​Here is another instance of a surprising item in private hands, a man’s ca. 1770-75 suit (from the famous Tasha Tudor collection, most of which was sold at auction a few years ago).  The unusual aspect here is not the cut of the suit, but the textile from which it was made, described as printed velvet, a textile I had not noticed in men’s 18th century suits before.   (Following this full-length photo is a cropped version that gives a better view of the surface of the velvet itself.)  

​And another example: a spectacular, fully quilted sacque gown (robe à la française), ca.1750-60, from the collection of the Kyoto Costume Institute.  It might be hard to imagine that such a complex garment requiring such skill in execution, completely quilted, yet made closely along the lines of contemporary silk gowns, could exist had this extant not survived.  

​Another styling that appears to break the usual 18th century rules is shown in the lovely ca.1750 portrait of the Marquise de Caumont La Force below, by Drouais.  We’re accustomed to seeing fur trim on pelisses and cloaks, but surely fur trim on a gown, not to mention the addition of odd-looking lace sleeves, could not be right!  It looks to be a very odd costume.  And yet, the Marquise apparently wore it (and liked it well enough to have her portrait painted in it): 

​You might be tempted to say that the previous painting was surely a one-off oddity of personal taste (and therefore easily dismissed) but further research reveals that might not be the case.  This is where established “rules” of 18th century dress and a tendency to lean towards finality (i.e. absolutism) can become a hindrance to a broader understanding of period costume. 

​Once you find an aberration, it’s important to research around the edges, so to speak, to see if that particular feature of style can be found elsewhere or in a similar form.  In this case in fact, it seems this mode was not unique, for here is the Marquise de Pompadour herself, from about the same period in France, with fur trim on her gown (collection of the Musée du Louvre):

​The use of fur trim rather than ruching, furbelows or lace, also appears later, ca.1780-85, in a portrait of Marie-Antoinette (by Elisabeth Vigée Le Brun).  Interestingly, this is not the only portrait of Marie-Antoinette wearing a gown with fur trim:

​You might be inclined to conclude, based on the above portraits, that this fashion of using fur to trim gowns was only a French idea.  But it’s worthwhile to keep an open mind and a sharp eye to look further, for here is a portrait of Lady Holland, ca. 1765, by Allan Ramsay.  Notice that even the flounces are trimmed with fur. 

​Having seen the above images, it’s hard to be completely confident making statements about what and wasn’t usually employed as trim on 18th century gowns.  Whether the ca. 1770 portrait below (of the Maréchale de Bellisle, by Quentin de la Tour), depicts fur or feather trim on this sacque gown is hard to determine – it’s certainly one or the other. 

​Notice that the bodice also has the short sleeve tops and tiered lace sleeve flounces like those seen in the Drouais portrait above.  While these styles may not fit into our typical expectations of mid- to late 18th century dress, they clearly existed, and merit study of their historical context.  Doing so might result in a revision of our belief of what was fashionable or typical in 18th century upper class French dress.  For the time being however, these paintings can remind us to keep an open mind. 

I think that whenever one unusual garment is found, we should be willing to admit the possibility that there might have been others, rather than dismissing the unusual item off-hand as freakish, atypical or wrong. 

​Still, it’s true that placing such garments in a proper historical and social context can be a challenge.  For example, understanding whether the French gowns shown in these portraits were strictly gowns donned for formal portraits or court attendances, or whether they were worn for normal dressy events such as dinners, receptions, visits, etc., would take much more specific research.

​This ca.1750-70 completely feather-covered bergère-style hat, in the V&A (Victoria & Albert Museum) collection provides another example of teaching the mind to see beyond the usual conventions of costume history.  This may at first seem like an impossibly odd or unique variation on hats of the era.  Was it perhaps even someone’s unique and weirdly aberrant idea of personal style? 

​However in fact another amazingly similar chapeau from the era exists in the collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, which you might not know about without digging a little deeper on the subject:

A little further research turns up a depiction of what appears to be just such a feathered hat in this ca.1745 painting by Philip Mercier entitled “The School for Girls”.  So now we have at least three examples, and it’s impossible not to admit that there could have been others at the time.  Accordingly, we might need to revise our views on the materials and embellishments used on mid-18th century ladies’ hats. 

Conventional wisdom on 18th century hat styles is that straw “bergère” hats with pretty ribbons and sparse trimmings were the height of style, but it’s quite possible that these feathered hats were just as fashionable and typical.  Before concluding that they are bizarre anomalies, we need to consider the possibility that there simply weren’t enough of them that survived in proportion to straw hats. 
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The moral of this lesson?  Be careful about jumping to conclusions where historical costume, especially before the mid-19th century, is concerned. 

​I think by now you may see where I’m going with this: if we draw immutable, permanent lines around what we believe we know, we’re unlikely to be able to absorb and admit new information into our overall picture of historical fashion.  In other words, it’s important to keep an open mind and be willing to drop old concepts once new examples appear, even if they don’t fit the expected types of an era.
 
I also believe it’s useful to bear in mind that people may have applied their own personal interpretation to contemporary fashion, while still remaining within the boundaries of what was acceptable at the time.   I don’t think the 21st century has a monopoly on creative dressing. 

Next is a rather subtle example of personal taste combining styles of different periods (certainly not the only one I’ve encountered though!).  This is a robe à la française of ca.1755 (privately sold), with a very up-to-date compère (false vest) front of the type seen in other gowns and portraits of the period, yet with the older exaggerated “manches à la raquette” (racket-shaped cuffs).  The gown was listed as being unaltered from its original state. 
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It seems that the original owner decided she would like a slightly older style of cuff on her gown, along with the new compère style.  I’ve reproduced this gown myself (see details in my website Blog), mainly because I found this personal mix of newer and older so interesting.  The wide, “tennis-racket” shaped cuffs can clearly be seen in the photos from the original sale listing, and in my reproduction of the gown:

​Another horizon-expanding example of 18th century dress is the ca. 1730-1750 embroidered linen robe à l’anglaise shown below, in the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

​Conventional historical costume wisdom would suggest that mid-18th century floral-sprigged gowns could only be made of silk brocade, in which case this gown would represent an oddity, perhaps to be dismissed within the usual boundaries of 18th century fashion – someone’s home project perhaps?  The fact that extant gowns of this type may be very rare in collections today doesn’t prove that they weren’t both fashionable and possibly even more common than we might imagine – we simply may never really know.  To continue the earlier metaphor, this file should remain open.

A further example of an embroidered linen gown (from a later period), is shown below, from the LACMA (L.A. County Museum of Art) collection, dated ca.1760.  This time the embroidery is executed in wool (see close-up photo). 

Now we begin to wonder, given these two examples from completely different decades, how rare embroidered linen gowns really were.  Or, we can ponder, if they weren’t rare or bizarre at all, was it only an accident of fate that so few were preserved?  We can also leave open the possibility that these garments may have actually been made (i.e. re-purposed) from embroidered draperies, etc., rather than  originally embroidered as gowns.   

The example below seems even more unusual and interesting, a ca. 1770-80 robe à la française made in a cotton textile referred to as “Indienne” (from its origin in India), with striking conifer tree motifs embroidered in wool.  This was offered at private auction some years ago.  This gown certainly fits the description of a garment that “shouldn’t exist”, but we’re forced by its presence, to absorb it into our overall view of 18th century fashion.

One possible theory is that the textile used in this gown (perhaps like the previous two gowns) may have begun its life as decorative drapery, bed hangings, bed coverings, or other soft furnishing.  The gown is a wonderful example of the kind of surprising and unusual items that can pop up in private collections or sales.  They may or may not have been widespread or typical at the time, but we simply can’t conclude they were rare based only on the fact that few survive today. 

Once again, without further evidence (the likelihood of which is slim) it must remain an open-ended, unresolved case.  All that can be said is that embroidered linen and India cotton gowns existed, but to what extent they were commonly made and worn at the time may never be known. 

It’s also possible, if we’re thinking “outside the box”, that embroidered gowns such as these might have been too useful as sources of home decoration not to be turned back into draperies or other furnishings in much later eras, which would be one plausible explanation for the scarcity of surviving examples.  

Lastly, there is the question of drawing conclusions about historical dress from contemporary paintings and sketches.  Here I think the pitfalls are numerous.  It requires a knowledgeable eye to sort out what is reality, fantasy, or artistic licence in 18th century art. 

This is a subject worthy of deeper consideration which I plan to address in a separate essay as Part 2 in this series.  Suffice it to say that not everything depicted in 18th century paintings accurately represented 18th century fashion for the average middle-class or even upper middle-class person.  

​One case in point is the loosely arranged, classically inspired drapery in this ca.1772 portrait of Ann Verelst, by George Romney.  This has very little connection with contemporary dress of the period:

Still, there is one incontrovertible truth about costume history: If a surviving item is found, then obviously it existed in its time.  Provenance is important and fascinating, but mostly in the context of the particular garment.  What one surviving extant can’t tell us however, without at least a few other similar examples or contemporary documentation, is whether that garment was common and/or considered fashionable. 

Certainly there are general themes and lines of fashion seen across numerous examples of surviving garments that are reasonable to deduce or hard to dismiss.  Such things as the usual cut of gown sleeves along the horizontal pattern of a textile, the relative consistency of the shape and silhouette of the robe à la française through several decades, and the emergence of cotton textiles supplanting silk in the last quarter of the century, are examples of elements that are repeated widely enough in extant examples to provide some generally reliable outlines of 18th century fashion.

However, if we keep an open mind, then previously unseen examples of 18th century dress can help to crack open our fixed (and sometimes misguided) concepts regarding historical costume.  Such “anomalies” can also suggest that personal style preferences may have been more important than we will ever know. 

​Accordingly, I think it’s with a certain arrogance that we claim that a particular mode of fashion could (or could not) have been done.  That would presume that 18th century people (especially those with at least moderate economic status) were much less able to be creative in their dress than we are today.  I find this premise hard to accept, which is why I believe a certain amount of freedom in reproducing 18th century dress, i.e. painting outside some of the lines, is more reasonable than we usually like to admit.  

This is why first-hand historical accounts and observations on fashion, as rare as they are, can be so critical, filling in and adding to the picture of fashion of a particular era.  Such accounts frequently occur as mere incidental (even oblique) notes by an observer in a completely unrelated text, diary or journal, but are precious as an on-the-spot window onto a lost world. 

Some writers are better known for their skill and interest in observing such things, despite the likelihood that most had no awareness whatsoever of how incredibly valuable their few words on a contemporary fashion subject could be more than two centuries later! 
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I like to keep my eyes open for such little treasures when reading first-person accounts or works on history that describe a scene which may include comments about fashions.  If a person who actually lived at the time gives opinions on what was worn and considered acceptable fashion, we have to treat those opinions as some of the truest representations we have.  

I offer one further example of a garment that “breaks the mould” of conventional wisdom about 18th century fashion (at least at the beginning of the 3rd quarter of the century in France).  During the course of some recent research, I came across what at first seemed a typical illustration of 18th century fashion, from the “Galerie des Modes” of 1778.  This fashion sketch or trade illustration shows a tailor/costumier fitting stays on a young lady, apparently a rather ordinary subject depicting a tailor in the course of his usual work. 

At first I studied the illustration itself, which seemed to offer little beyond what I’d seen in other similar period sketches.  What made this image interesting however, and what caught my attention, is that the brief description underneath mentions the stays are “covered in yellow coloured batiste”.   

Although silk can be made in a batiste weave, it's more likely that "batiste" referred to a fine linen (or possibly cotton) at this era.  The word "batiste" is said to have originated in the 1400's, and is defined by my etymological French dictionary (Le Robert) as "toile de lin très fine", meaning a very fine (i.e. lightweight and finely woven) linen cloth.  
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Summer stays covered with (cotton) batiste are a familiar Edwardian mode, but rarely considered in the context of the 18th century, where we tend to think of substantial linens being most suitable for hard-wearing stays.  Batiste -- especially fine linen -- may have been a good choice for warm weather or summer wear. 

​Another explanation might be that linen or cotton batiste, still rather luxury fabrics at this time period, may have had a certain cachet for the most fashionable women whose stays would not expect to get frequent or heavy wear.  It's also plausible that the tailor who posed for this illustration was merely keen to show off his most fashionable novelty.  

​Unfortunately for us, the printer of this illustration makes no mention of why such a fine textile was used.  The textual description that accompanies the illustration in the "Galerie des Modes" sheds no helpful light on the particularities of the textiles used, aside from briefly describing the general construction of the stays.  

The illustration makes it clear (from our vantage point) that such a garment was not unheard of, and possibly not unusual.  It’s demonstrated in the sketch as in the normal course of a tailor’s usual work. 

Nothing is said about the fine batiste covering being odd, bizarre, or new.  Of course, the lack of commentary on this point doesn’t prove that linen batiste-covered stays were common, although the stays are shown on a fashionable-looking young lady with a very stylishly arranged coiffure.  Take into account as well the fact that the title describes the garment as “Cor à la mode” (fashionable stays).  Notable too is the fact that these are back-lacing stays with the addition of decorative front lacing, a fashionable touch.

The text focuses (unfortunately) on the tailor’s own costume, but provides a second interesting insight, mentioning that his waistcoat is made of “tricot”, i.e. apparently some type of knitted material.  Presumably a tailor would be a well-dressed fellow in the latest style, to properly represent his profession.  Note too that he is wearing velvet breeches and is shown with a fine lacy jabot at his neck.  

​Following is my translation of the text shown under the illustration (I am a former professional French/English translator, and the notations in square brackets are my own).  

*A “tailor-costumier” (tailleur costumier) during this period in France was, according to Garsault, a particular trade set out by statute, which involved not only stay-making for women, but also the making of gowns, riding habits, cloaks, etc. 
**The word “Cor” in French of this period was synonymous with “cors” or “corps”, meaning “body”, or in English of the time, “stays”.  However, the French recognized different categories of “cors”, depending on the construction method and materials used.  
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What this one little illustration demonstrates is how much a very careful analysis can reveal in important, maybe even essential details, and perhaps more interestingly, what questions it can raise, which in turn widen our view of historical dress.

As an experiment, try taking a look at the collection of the types and styles of garments held by any large museum intending to represent fairly recent fashion, for example, from the 1980’s to late 1990’s.  Scrolling through such a collection, I think it will be clear to anyone who was an adult during those years that these extant examples usually don’t provide a balanced or very accurate representation of the clothes worn by the average person, even the average fashionable person, at the time.  

Fortunately for historians of recent costume, there is a myriad of other sources to rely on, such as magazines, newspapers, television, films, personal photographs, and first-hand accounts about fashion.  

In the end, if we can keep an open, flexible mind, ready to incorporate new material into a more fluid view of historical costume, especially prior to the 19th century, it’s possible to avoid the mental trap that can shut out further, potentially important aspects of history.   

Such a trap (whether it’s called “absolutism” or “conventional wisdom”) can seal surviving examples of costume into a sort of petrified image, and keep us from properly acknowledging -- or even recognizing -- new discoveries and absorbing them into an understanding of historical costume. 

So the next time you find what seems to be a bizarre aberration of 18th century fashion that "shouldn't exist", don’t dismiss it out of hand.  Flag it for future reference, keep an open mind, and take the time to dig a little deeper! 

The subject of lacing in 18th century garments came up in a costume-related online discussion recently, and I thought it was a little corner of costume history interesting enough to delve into in a bit more detail, with a few examples.  In this particular discussion, lacing referred to either decorative (or sometimes functional) front lacing on garments, not the lacing closures in stays or other underclothing. 

There was a variety of lacing on bodices throughout the 18th century, as you might imagine, some of it quite cleverly executed (yes, "Varietie" in the title above is the archaic spelling, just for fun).   Generally, but not always, this lacing, if intended to be seen, was done in a criss-cross pattern, in contrast to the spiral lacing typical of stays.  I haven't yet found any definitive source(s) for exactly why this was the case, but in many extant garments (e.g. stomachers) where bodice front lacing can still be seen, the lacing is usually criss-crossed, sometimes with a little decorative loop in the middle.  

In terms of garment construction, I can think of four types of 18th century bodice front lacing -- at least as seen in the few surviving examples documented -- but there are probably more.  I'm deliberately leaving out fabric bands, fancy bows (échelles), buckled bands, clasps, and the like (seen in many paintings of the era) that were also used to cross or close the front of bodices, and will be focusing rather on narrower lacing only, i.e. cord-like or fine ribbon lacing.  I'm also ignoring jacket front closures, where lacing was likely more common. 

Here then are the four types that spring to mind fairly spontaneously from my own recall and experience in research.  This, I should point out, is not intended in any way as an exhaustive or conclusive treatment of the subject, but as a brief glimpse of this niche of historical fashion (click on "Read More" to continue): 
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1.  Lacing that formed part of, and was attached to, stomachers:  

​This first type of bodice arrangement (apparently particularly fashionable in England in the early/mid-18th century) usually had lacing run through tiny holes or else worked eyelets along each side of the stomacher, which holes would be hidden by the front edges of the gown when worn.   Often the lacing was of rich silver or gold cord, in keeping with the ornamentation of the stomacher. 

There are enough such stomachers surviving to suggest this must have been a common and fashionable item during the entire period of about 1700 to the late 1770's when stomachers went out of fashion (although front bodice lacing of one style or another certainly pre-dated this period -- see further on). 

The photo of the ca. 1740 sage green silk robe à la française above shows one example of a laced stomacher of the mid-18th century.  Below are just a few more (forgive me if I've misplaced some of the source citations, these are images I've quickly picked up from my laptop file as illustrations).  You'll find many examples of this sort of lacing on extant stomachers of the era.  

Below is a closer view of the stomacher shown in the photo of the sack gown at top.  I do not know whether this stomacher was original to the gown.  At top right in this photo the attachment point of the gold cord lacing to the gold trim on the stomacher can just be seen. 

​Following is another example of this type of laced decoration, on a stomacher finished with eyelets on both sides to take the laces (dated to ca. 1740, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston).  
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​Nancy Bradfield, in her infinitely useful work, Costume in Detail, describes a gown of ca. 1755-65 in yellow silk (sketches on pp 31-32), shown with a stomacher -- not original to the gown -- which she suggests is of a much earlier date than the dress (she speculates early 17th C.). 

I'm including photographs of the gown, currently in the Snowshill collection (U.K.), to show how -- assuming Bradfield is correct about the possible date -- a stomacher from the 1600's with integral front lacing may have been constructed, and as a demonstration of how long this style of construction persisted.  These photographs are not the best, but if you have Bradfield's book you can see all the details noted by her on page 32 (I've included an excerpt of that page below).  

Notice in Nancy Bradfield's sketch of the stomacher below that the eyelet holes are done in an even pattern on the side panels, meaning that the lacing was not intended for a spiral arrangement: 

2.  Gowns that laced visibly at front, over a stomacher or similar bodice filler: ​ 
There seem to be few surviving examples of these types of gowns (at least not that have been well photographed), but there are enough to suggest that this arrangement may not have been a rare construction method. 

As can be seen from the following, most of the useful photographs showing interior construction of these gowns have cropped up in private sales (for some reason museums tend to be less generous with photographs of historical garments -- or perhaps simply less thorough due to time and budget constraints).   

​In any case, in addition to the handful of photos I've found over the years, there is also clear documentation of three such bodices in modern costume research works (see below) .  

Janet Arnold's Patterns of Fashion I details just such a gown (described as a "wrapping gown") of ca. 1720-30, including this description of the bodice front:  "Inside the front of the bodice are two strips of linen doubled over with eyelet holes worked in them.  The gown fastens by lacing through these holes over the corset or stomacher."  

This gown is in the collection of The Laing Art Gallery and Museum (U.K.).  Details can be found at this link (although the photographs are not very useful):
https://collectionssearchtwmuseums.org.uk/#details=ecatalogue.267768

The gown is described as an open gown of ca. 1750, remodelled from an original mantua of about 1720, based upon both the textile design and visible stitching on the gown.   Hence the wide dating range. 

Here is an excerpt from Janet Arnold's book, Patterns of Fashion I (page 22), with her sketches of the exterior of the gown and the interior construction, showing the eyelet strip.  These drawings are more instructive than most of the photos on the museum's site, although the "Condition Report" included at the above link has some additional photographs of the unmounted gown (see one example further on):  

The photograph below (from the "Condition Report" prepared by the Laing Art Gallery and Museum) does plainly show the inner bodice panels with their eyelets for lacing over a stomacher (and incidentally provides a clear image of the  fabulous textile itself, not easily imagined from Janet Arnold's black and white sketch): 

The second, similarly styled  bodice documented by Bradfield: 

In the few gowns I can recall of this type, the stomacher has usually gone missing long ago.  We can never know for certain what the stomacher for such a gown might have looked like, although the fairly restrained decoration of gowns of this era (1720-50) might suggest a simple embroidered or smooth stomacher would be appropriate.  I have a couple of examples of extant gowns with front bodice lacing which apparently retained their original stomacher or front section -- see the photos of these further on. 

Visible, decorative front lacing on jackets of the era is well documented (there are a number of paintings and extant jackets in museum collections to testify to their construction), but there are few paintings of women wearing gowns with visible front lacing.  It is pure speculation of course, but the paucity of portraiture leads me to wonder whether this style was considered somewhat déshabillé or négligé, i.e. perhaps something to be worn in leisure hours or by the lower classes.  In other words, not grand enough for a fine lady's permanent memorial in oils. 

One portrait I can recall that displays a gown bodice laced over a stomacher is that of a Mrs. Nathaniel Allen (dated 1763), by the Anglo-American painter John Singleton Copley.  Narrow ribbon is shown here rather than cord per se, but I think it is fairly clear that the ribbon goes through the bodice edges, and is not part of the stomacher.  Perhaps this style was more acceptable as "full dress" for portraiture in America than in Europe.   Obviously the rest of her costume is rich and formal: 

Another example, this time on the bodice of a magnificent formal robe à la française dated to ca. 1760 (in the collection of the Nürnberger National Museum):  

The extant (European) piece shown below, while simply a "pair of bodies" or stays with sleeves rather than an entire gown, has front lacing that may have been fastened visibly over a stomacher.  

Below is an interesting example of a ca. 1770 robe à la française in richly brocaded silk that clearly has internal eyelets for lacing.  What isn't clear is whether the lacing was purely functional, i.e. intended to be used for fitting purposes, or decorative (to be laced over the stomacher).  There was no indication as to whether the lacing in the photo was actually original to the gown. 

If the lacing was intended only for fitting, and meant to be unseen, then it appears the stomacher would have to be wedged into the narrow space below the linen 'flaps' at the front edges of the bodice.  Unfortunately the picture of the gown as a whole, with its stomacher, is not terribly helpful in this regard, as the mannequin is either the wrong size or shape, or the stomacher is poorly positioned (see following photo).  These photos were taken some time ago from a gown that was being privately sold.   Unfortunately I have no further details. 

Below is a pale pink silk open gown, ca. 1770-90, with its rare surviving matching front piece (not strictly a stomacher).  This gown clearly has eyelets worked into the front edges of the bodice for cording or ribbon of some type to decoratively criss-cross the centre front panel, which itself appears to close down the centre.   This arrangement appears to me to be a transitional style to the later (1790's) front lacing bodices.  Again, this was a privately owned garment for sale a few years ago, so I am not able to provide further information on its origin.   

As one commentator has pointed out below, this pale pink silk gown may have been altered from an older style (something frequently seen in 18th century gowns), yet I would have expected that the eyelet holes left over from the earlier version would be masked or disguised somehow, perhaps with a ruched or plain band (or perhaps by turning the edges under to hide the eyelets).  The fact that they were left visible is a bit puzzling -- perhaps the owner wanted the newer, centre-front closing, but liked to retain the slightly older style of decorative lacing.  We'll unfortunately never know. 

Still, there are examples of surviving gowns of the ca.1775-80 era which have both centre front, edge-to-edge closing and visible lacing: Bradfield provides an example on pp. 63 to 64 of Costume in Detail​:  

As I mentioned earlier, I find that it's typically the privately listed historical garments that get the most thorough photographic attention, and as such are far more helpful to a costume historian (personal viewing of extant museum garments aside).   I also find that antique garments that come on the market are often very illuminating -- even surprising -- in their variety and detail, sometimes to the point of proving that what experts think was "likely not seen" in a particular era did indeed exist. ​

Another interesting example (not unlike those documented by Bradfield) is shown below, again a privately listed garment.  This is a silk robe à la française, ca. 1770-80.  It is without its stomacher, but has eyelets worked into the inside edges of the bodice to hold lacing which would have crossed the stomacher.  The gown also has the typical laced fitting panel at the inside centre back.  In the following photos an effort has been made by the seller to show the effect of the front bodice lacing, and there are very good pictures of the interior bodice construction.  

3.  Gowns with laced edge-to-edge centre front closure (both hidden and decorative): 

Straight centre front closure construction was a style typical of the last decade or two of the 18th century.  The waning of the fashion for open front bodices, and the increasing prevalence of bodices closing edge-to-edge at centre front, marked the end of stomachers and their visible, decorative lacing.  However, lacing as a fashion element (either visible as a decorative element, or hidden in bodice linings) continued to be used on some gowns after about 1770, and particularly toward the 1780's, as a form of closure, visible or not.  

There are a fair number of extant gowns from this period with edge-to-edge centre front closure, but few shown with visible or decorative front lacing (at least of which  I can recall seeing photographs).  Centre front closing gowns (especially the more dressy garments) were often fastened with hooks and eyes or an inner buttoned lining, and many are presumed to have been simply pinned together.  However, visible front lacing is reasonably well documented (see further on). 

There is also documentation of surviving centre front closing gowns with "hidden" lacing closure.  This latter may be more prevalent than we can tell from museum photos: unfortunately museums rarely seem to take clear photographs of the interior construction of historical gowns (for reasons I've never understood, but that's a story for another day!). 

Once again I'll turn to the ever-helpful Ms. Bradfield to provide at least one clear example of "hidden" centre front lacing closure of this period, and two of visible/decorative centre front lacing closures (see the three excerpts below).   For those who may have the book, Costume in Detail​, the full drawings and notations are on pp. 48, 63, and 69, respectively. 

One example of a hidden laced front bodice that has shown up recently (from an online antique garment dealer) includes clear photographs of the interior construction of this type of arrangement.  In this case the garment is a silk bodice only, ca. 1780, with edge-to-edge closure, but missing whatever skirt(s) might have originally been attached.  The inner laced-up construction is easy to see, and in this case appears to have been designed for spiral lacing, not criss-crossed as shown (the two close eyelets on the right are typical of spiral lacing configurations).  Likely pins were used to close the bodice at centre front over the laced panel (see second photo).  

A final example is the gown shown below, with a bodice intended to be visibly-laced edge-to-edge.  This gown, currently in a Scottish historical collection, dates from near the end of the 18thC. (probably about 1790).  It has features in common with the later "Directoire" and "Incroyable" gowns of this period, with its wide decorative collar, contrast edging, and tight-fitting, full length sleeves.  The bodice construction is the so-called "zone-front" type, a development from the style shown in the pale peach 1770-90 gown discussed earlier.  Unlike that gown, here the panels underneath are laced, and the outer, narrower sections appear to be designed to pin together at centre front. 
  
​As can be seen from the second photograph, eyelets are worked into the outer front edges of the bodice to provide a visible laced closure.   The first photo below gives an indication of the overall style of the gown, the second a close-up of the front bodice construction.  (Photos by kind permission of Rebecca Olds).   These construction aspects are also seen in a gown dated 1780-90 in Janet Arnold's Patterns of Fashion I ​(pp.40, 42-43). 

A similar type of construction (long, tight sleeves, a vandyked collar, and very tightly fitting bodice), can be seen in the ca. 1790 fashion sketch below.  However, this appears to be an open gown (in redingote style) and the centre closures are not visible.   

I think it's justifiable to conclude that laced front bodice closures, whether hidden or visible, were not uncommon in the 18th century, given Nancy Bradfield's documentation.  Unfortunately it's been difficult to locate good photographs of extant museum gowns of this type for the reasons mentioned earlier.  A thorough survey of antique garments in private sale catalogues might yield some photographs of the interior of late 18thC. gowns, as would further in-depth study of museum pieces in the manner of Bradfield's work, but both projects are beyond the scope and purpose of this article.
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4.  Stays or other types of "bodies" with their own decorative front lacing (some with integral stomachers):  
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This style of front display seems to have been worn throughout several decades of the 18th century: extant museum examples that I've found are dated anywhere from ca. 1700 to the 1780's.  It has been easy to find good museum photographs of surviving stays themselves, obviously because the lacing decoration has remained as part of the garment.  

However, locating paintings showing precisely how these decorative stays were worn proves more difficult.  In fact some stays of this sort are so decorative overall that it's difficult to imagine them not being worn as entirely visible clothing, perhaps simply over a dressy shift in the manner of germanic Trachten.  Some such stays even have matching sleeves, suggesting they must have been worn as jacket-like garments, with the visible lacing being the fashion point (see photo further on).  

Stays with visible or decorative front lacing are found in all sorts of variations. Obviously there was also functional front lacing on stays that was never meant to be seen, but here I wanted to focus on the decorative type.

One early example I've found of what appears to be the front of stays visible under the edges of a gown bodice is this portrait (by an unknown American artist) said to be of Mrs. Wynant Van Zandt of New York, dated to ca. 1720-1730.  Her gown appears to be the typical mantua of the Queen Anne period, worn with a diminutively-sized fontange.  I'm concluding that what is visible at centre front of her gown is in fact the front of her stays, since the close boning pattern typical of stays is clearly visible, and the gown appears to have soft edges (unlike the later mantuas and sacque gowns with their rather stiff robings.  

This painting seems to show precisely the type of stays displayed in the photo below, dated to ca. 1700-1720.  There are many similar examples to be found in museum collections.  A few of these follow, dated from 1700 to 1770, some of which have their own matching stomacher.  

It's hard to believe these beautiful creations were intended to be completely hidden from view.  Perhaps the reason so few portrait examples exist is because, again, these sorts of stays were intended as négligé or déshabillé wear, not something to be worn for a formal portrait.  If only photography had existed then! 

As the century carried on and stomachers began to disappear from fashion, stays of this type also disappeared (at least from view), replaced by visible -- or hidden --  lacing to close the centre front of later gowns, as described in Section 3.  

Then there are the occasional museum examples that truly appear to be Trachten-like garments, the elaborate fastenings and gorgeous silk textiles arguing against the mere functionality of an undergarment.  I've yet to locate a contemporary portrait of anyone actually wearing such stays, although these garments clearly existed!  I can only presume that they must have been worn on their own, openly visible, with decorative or colourful lacing, over a pretty shift, in the manner of folk costume, not unlike the use of jumps.  It's also possible that these styles were regional, not the high fashion of Paris or London. 

​In the first photograph below, it seems the little pads would have been intended to sit under a petticoat or skirt, but this still wouldn't preclude the sharply pointed front and back of the stays from being arranged in such a way as to be visible.  Otherwise, the large protruding hooks well below the waistline make little sense.  These hooks are also big enough to have been able to take a ribbon or lacing of some size!  They are also very elaborately and exquisitely made, with prancing deer, scrolling foliage, and a camel-like neck and head for the hooks (see second photo). 

In any event, following are a few examples of these types of stays.  This is one small niche of costume history that would be interesting to investigate further.  

The stays below (ca. 1750) present a similar question: the beautiful centre section (which doesn't appear to be a separate stomacher) and the wonderful metal clasps must have been intended to be seen, but whether under some sort of gown or open over a shift is impossible to know for certain.  The lacing itself and the two rose-coloured bows are likely modern additions for display purposes. 

The stays below (3rd quarter of 18thC.) present a similar question: were they worn partly over and partly under a petticoat/skirt, or entirely hidden?  Again, the gorgeous textile and the long front and centre back tabs would suggest the former usage.  Incidentally, I'd like to add here that many people are fond of dismissing representations of blousy roses as ever being historically appropriate for 18thC. impressions.  This textile seems to say otherwise, although granted these are not quite like the typical Victorian "cabbage roses" (which roses in any case didn't exist in the 18th century).  

Another surviving example of this type of garment is shown below (Italian stays, dated to about 1790).   These are beautifully made of a luxurious silk brocade, and have a little "tail" at the bottom of the back, suggesting they would be worn outside the outer petticoat/skirt.  

The rare illustration below, from about 1795, showing two women of the Strasbourg area, may shed some light on how such "outer stays" were worn.  These ladies, it should be pointed out, are not dressed in the (quite different) regional or "folk" costume of the Alsace-Lorraine region (where Strasbourg is situated), but in their ordinary pretty day ensembles.  Incidentally, the word "paysanne" in French of the era does not denote a "peasant" or signify a pauper; the meaning is closer to a "countrywoman", in contrast to a town-dweller.

The stays in this sketch appear to be quite plainly made, of solid-coloured textiles.  By contrast, given the rich silk brocades, beautiful trimmings and ornate metal loops seen in some museum examples of these types of outer stays, it's plausible this fashion might also have been adopted by stylish city-dwellers and the more wealthy as items for négligée or déshabillé wear at home.  

I hope this brief review of the subject of 18th century bodice lacing has been, if not exhaustive, at least an interesting glimpse into some of the variety of ways this device was used in fashions of the 1700's.  I feel that we tend to underestimate the creative diversity of costume in previous ages because we often can't see enough examples to form a true cross-section.  What remains of surviving garments after more than 250 years may not always be a reliably full picture of what was actually worn, mostly because of the vagaries of preservation (including the fact that some garment may have survived not  because they were typical, but actually atypical or unusual).   

I've always believed that the further back in time one goes, the less justifiable it is to indulge in what I call "fashion absolutism", that is rule-making of a particularly rigid kind.  What often proves this to be true is the sudden appearance on the open market of an historical garment in a style or construction that "should not exist"! 

I’m always glad to say farewell to January, my least favourite month, with its cold winter blasts and the long, dreary, colourless weeks that follow the holiday season, devoid of anything much to look forward to.
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However, the Edwardian era knew how to mitigate that ennui!  In the French fashion publications of the early 20th century that I work with in my research, the January issues always previewed fancy dress for the “Carnaval” or Mardi Gras season, and the anticipation of lively costume balls and dinners that were an integral part of it.  From the 1890’s to the onset of WWI, French fashion magazines featured examples of, and patterns for, fancy (and “fantasy”) dress or disguises appropriate for the occasion, based on all sorts of creative whimsies.  

This certainly wasn’t a new concept, although these magazine articles and patterns specifically for fancy dress only began appearing after about 1900.  The history of fancy dress balls or masquerades and the making of costumes for them of course goes back centuries.  In fact it still continues with patterns offered for modern fancy dress -- readers of the German fashion magazine Burda will recognize the tradition in sewing pattern designs for Carnival season usually offered in their January publications, as in this January, 2004 issue:  

Likely because these carnivals were connected with the Catholic religious calendar, there seems to have been little focus on them in Edwardian British and North American fashion publications, as compared to their French counterparts.  Nonetheless, judging from British and American reports and novels of the era (not to mention surviving costumes), the season of parties, dinners, and balls of the end of the 1890's and beginning of the 20th century was not without “fancy dress” or masquerade balls. ​

(Click on "Read More" at right to see the rest of this essay) 

​As a linguistic aside (and because linguistic history can often shed light on costume history), fancy dress or fantasy outfits were called in French at the time travestis (sometimes also travestissements).  The word “travesti” has an interesting history.  Its origin is the Italian “travestire”, from the root “trans” (across) and “vestire” (to dress), literally “cross-dressing”.  No doubt travestire had already been a common entertainment in places like Venice long before it became popular elsewhere.  It came down to English in the 19th century as “travesty”, meaning a false representation or distorted imitation, usually meant as a scathing ridicule or criticism of something (which itself says something about English mores of the 19th century).  In modern times, the word “transvestite” appeared, as if full circle, it's meaning being actually closer to the original Italian.  

In any case, these “travestis” ensembles ran the gamut from imaginative and luxurious reproductions of the dress of earlier centuries, to fantasies of ideas, animals, historical characters, or everyday things expressed in creative costume. 

​One French article of 1910 reports that dressing up in Japanese or Chinese costumes was now over-used and less in favour, whereas costumes “de style”, and especially those reflecting the period of Louis XIII, XV and XVI were now in fashion for fancy dress balls (why Louis XIV was omitted from this list is a mystery!).  The same article recommends using new (i.e. purchased new) satins and supple brocades for these gowns, pointing out that these fabrics can later be re-purposed to make dinner or evening gowns, or an elegant evening mantel. 
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Below is a rather rare photograph of a fancy dress ensemble from 1910, meant to depict a gown of the era of Louis XVI, described as being made of pink satin and white lace with a turban and neckerchief of silk chiffon.  

Also popular, according to the writer, were costumes depicting characters from novels, plays, types of "traditional" or “peasant” costumes, or various historical of antique time periods – such as the ones below, which according to the article portray: an 18thC. flower girl, a well-known character from French literature (“Manon”), a “Dutch costume”, an “Alsatian woman”, and two "ancient" costumes (presumably Greek or Roman) respectively: 

​A great deal of money – sometimes enormous sums -- could be spent on these outfits, as well as on the lavish balls that highlighted them, hosted by some of the most prominent members of the “beau monde” of the day. 

One of the highlights of this fad was the much-publicized fancy dress ball of 1911, organized by Paul Poiret, in which harem pants and other Turkish styles were featured (akin to the runway promotional extravaganzas organized by couturiers today).  Although this was a novel idea in 1911, it had sprung at least in part from the influence of orientalism through the Ballets Russes and Stravinksy’s groundbreaking works.  Clearly this sort of fancy dress ball was an entertainment reserved for the wealthier classes.  

Newfangled, modern inventions also captured the imagination of makers of fancy dress for these balls.  Below are examples: the first costume, from 1909, depicts "aeroplane" -- such as it was at the time -- (along with a child's "fern" costume), the second, from December 1912, the concept "electricity", and the last (a rare photo) from about 1910 of a remarkably creative merry-go-round costume.  

Still, the middle class wanted its fun too!  It seems, judging from one helpful French magazine article of January, 1910, that the expense for attendees in creating their costumes had got to such a level that thoughtful hosts and hostesses had to come up with ways of curtailing the financial burden.  The article reports that attendees at many balls were now being asked to make their fantastical costumes out of paper rather than costly fabrics (it’s mentioned that these were usually supported on percale or muslin foundations -- as hard as that is to picture!).   

These "paper costumes" were apparently just as widely varied as the more opulent and expensive garb of the wealthy.  The magazine article lists, amongst other such costumes reported at recent events: Pierrot, Red Riding Hood, Japanese, Chinese, a Merveilleuse of the French Directoire period, marquis(e), clown, laundress, village bride, dirigibles, bi-planes, and various flowers, including a wonderful rose accompanied by a butterfly.  
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Another novel idea to reduce expense was the “dîner à têtes”, or “dinner of heads” (admittedly not as elegant-sounding in English as in French).  The idea was to costume yourself from the head up only, representing whatever historical era, person, or creative thing you wished, and otherwise wear normal evening dress, thus saving the cost of paying a dressmaker or tailor a fortune to create your costume vision.  

Here are some examples, from 1910.  They are described as (1) Greek coiffure; (2) Louis XV bonnet; (3) Greek coiffure; (4) & (5) 'Directoire' caps (i.e. ca. 1790); (6) Louis XV coiffure; (7) Spanish headdress; (8) Greek coiffure.  The extent to which these designs reflect historical costume, as opposed to Edwardian, is debatable.   

And some truly incredible "hats" or headdresses were intended to evoke various concepts: 

In an age before any radio or electronic entertainment, when people had to make their own fun, the 1910 magazine reports that hosts and hostesses tried to outdo their guests in creativity with "dîners surprises" (surprise dinners), where the table was set with large bowls of imitation fruits, vegetables, pastries, etc., all made in paper, meant to be donned by the guests as headdresses (see the two examples at top in the sketch above). 

Some of these dinners must have been lively affairs!  The magazine mentions a "nose lit by a pocket battery" (who would have expected that such things existed in 1910!), as well as electric tie-clips.  One supply house was reported as specializing in "exploding balls" and "surprise bombs", which were apparently designed to be thrown, and which, at the moment they exploded, released a rain of balloons, candy, and other party favours.  Whether these were actual incendiary devices (like firecrackers), or whether they just broke open on impact isn't clear from the 1910 text. 

With the coming of WWI, feature articles covering these extravagant dress-up balls and their costumes disappeared from fashion journals, especially those published in France (it was hard to justify such frivolous and wasteful activities during wartime).  But there are of course many stories of the costume ball being revived in the 1920’s – and with a passion!  Although fancy dress balls and masquerades are still occasionally held today, it seems that fantasy costuming has moved to a different type of venue, the “this-and-that Con”, a conference (or is it conglomeration?) of people dressed as their favourite movie or fantasy characters, or else to Hallowe’en parties, where the dress-up sky is the limit. 

From a costume historian’s point of view, the question arises:  should these garments of the Edwardian era be considered part of a study of costume history, or do they more appropriately belong to the area of theatrical costuming?  My own view is that “fancy dress” or “fantasy dress”, as worn at gatherings in everyday life (i.e. not on the stage) is indeed part of costume history, albeit occupying a quirky corner, and is worthy of attention. 

What we can glean from these ensembles is how previous fashions were imagined and interpreted by makers of the particular time period, which can be interesting as a reflection of contemporary fashion trends.  Additionally, some of the historical costumes intended for these balls were such elaborate and imaginative works of textile design in themselves, made in rich fabrics and highly ornamented, no less costly than fine evening gowns, and often made by the same designers.  Their embellishment typified motifs and colours of contemporary design.  I have to admit that I’m fascinated by these clever, creative confections – especially those of the Edwardian era.

​Few examples of these glorious costumes survive, although the MET (Metropolitan Museum of Art) does have a sampling from the late 1880’s to 1910’s, two of which are shown below.  I’ve also seen the occasional “fancy dress” costume offered in private sales over the years, but it might be hard to claim that these weren’t actually theatrical costumes.  Without specific provenance it’s difficult to be certain.  

Some fancy dress costumes of the late Victorian and the Edwardian period were made by the leading couturiers/couturières of the era for prominent socialites, and must have cost a small fortune to have custom-made.  Yet even in these, it's possible to see the fashion "prejudices" of their day.  Here for example, is a Worth gown in the MET collection, dated ca. 1893 that reflects elements of cut, structure, colour, and accessories that are contemporary to the late 1890's, but executed through an interpretation of an 18th century aesthetic: 

​One example that I recently happened to come across (shown below) was sold by a private auction house some time ago.  It is from 1911-12, made by Worth (as evidenced by a photo of the interior bodice petersham).  It seems to me this was clearly a dress for a high society costume ball, evoking a beautiful butterfly.  It is extravagantly custom-made, with extensive artistic embroidery on a couture level.  It’s hard to imagine that so much fine embellishment work would have been lavished on a mere stage costume.  What is interesting, at least from the standpoint of costume history, is that the gown itself, aside from all the creative embellishment, follows the typical, fashionable cut, structure, and silhouette of an evening gown of 1912.    

Ultimately, such flights of sartorial whimsy had little effect on contemporary fashion of the Edwardian period (if anything, the influence was in the reverse direction), yet from the perspective of costume history it is intriguing to study how such garments mirrored or followed the fashion modes and conventions of their day. 

​In this sense, these travestis were much like the majority of movie costumes of the modern era, which often say more about the fashion conventions of the time in which the movie was made than the fashion realities of a past era.  Even movies made just 30 or 40 years after the subject date of a story rarely escape their own contemporary aesthetic.   The next time you watch a 1940's movie intended to be set in an earlier age, see if you can identify the elements of contemporary style that make for historical fashion faux pas in the costumes -- they're almost always there. 

As for Edwardian fancy dress, aside from being a captivating study in fashion history, these wonderfully creative frivolities and the balls and dinners to which they were worn also say a great deal about social norms just before the world broke apart in 1914.   For that reason alone, surviving examples are worth preservation and study.  

Later on, I happened across an 18th century colour version of a very similar sketch to the sketch that had been used in the Edwardian article (shown above) to illustrate one of the steps in this dance (it's possible it may have come from the same 18th century publication).  I've posted the colour sketch at top.  (Funny how you often find just what you need by coincidence once your mind is focused on it!).  

I like to imagine that whoever it was that wrote this article ca. 1905 had access to technical information that is more direct than what we have today, perhaps through one of the last of the old dance-masters of the 19th century still practising in the early 20th (maybe the Professor mentioned in the article?), who had the skills and knowledge handed down from the courts of the last French kings.  By 1905 it had long disappeared from formal ballrooms. ​

What do well-fed cows, swords in their scabbards, fur-lined medieval gowns, hands stuffed into pockets, and nosy Parkers all have to do with certain 18th century garment names?  No idea?  Please read on!

At the risk of adding more verbiage to the discussion on the obscure subject of the 18th century word ‘fourreau’, I’m piling on my own thoughts – but from a completely new perspective, and to an extent not dealt with previously.  I hope my research will help to illuminate this small corner of 18th century costume history. 

As a trained linguist and historian, and former professional translator (French/English), I had noticed some misunderstandings in publications and online discussions around the 18th century fashion term ‘fourreau’.  I felt it might be useful to study the question in depth from the standpoint of linguistics, and to look at the entire history of the word in the context of costume history.  Linguistics can be an illuminating resource in comprehending otherwise puzzling fashion nomenclature of earlier centuries in general, but in this case I believed it was an essential tool in untangling the confusion around the 18th century use of the intriguing fashion term ‘fourreau’.  Considered along with careful scrutiny of contemporary 18th century fashion illustrations and texts, I felt linguistics could make the whole subject less mysterious. ​