New challenge

I really don't need another vintage sewing machine. But then, I don't 'need' more fabric (or a pattern for making a squirrel) either, and look where that got me.

I shouldn't have. But I did

I spotted this at the local auction last week, and fell in love with the colourful decals. Plus, I was intrigued by the unusual squared off shape of arm, and the layout around the feed dogs. But mostly, the decals.

Ooh, pretty!

Even the faceplate has decals

It took me a while to spot the serial number, as it is hidden round the back. Once I'd found it (R 887019), this site informed me that it was made in the first half of 1903, probably June. No wonder it looks a bit worn in places! I also discovered that it was a model 48K, which gave me access to lots more information, including the manual. It's a shuttle machine (unlike my 1917 Singer 99K, which takes the familiar round bobbins) and, unusually, the shuttle goes from side to side rather than front to back - see the picture above.

According to this site, the 48K was produced as a cheap machine, using technology which was even then out of date. Clydebank appears to be the sole Singer factory which made it, and then only in limited numbers. It was not heavily promoted by Singer, and didn't even appear in sales brochures. It cost four pounds (£498 today), or four pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence with the bentwood cover (£576). By comparison the 28K, which was the cheapest machine which Singer actually advertised, was five pounds and fifteen shillings (£716).

My machine has a bentwood case - clearly the original owner decided to splash out the extra twelve and six!

It needs some attention

The case fastens with a latch which drops over a knob on the base, which is then turned to secure it in place. There is even a key which locks the knob in the horizontal position. It seems a lot more secure than the little internal latch on the 99K, but I'm still not sure I would trust it for carrying long distances.

Locking mechanism and key

I must admit, my original intention was just to clean it up a bit, and have it as an ornament. I'm in the (long) process of reorganising my house, and have an empty shelf on which it would fit nicely. But . . . The shuttle mechanism contains a threaded spool (which I'm leaving in place until I'm confident I know how to replace it!), the handwheel turns smoothly, and the feed dogs work. Oh, and despite being 118 years old, it uses 'modern' machine needles. There seemed no harm in threading the machine up and seeing if it worked. You can see where all this is going, can't you?!

Not going to lie - this bit is scary!

The first thing I noticed is that the base is much lower than that of my bobbin machines - 45mm/1¾" instead of 75mm/3". I’m short-waisted, so I have to sit on a princess-and-the-pea style arrangement of cushions to feel that I'm at a reasonable position relative to the 99K. That 30mm difference makes it a far more comfortable height. And, it does work. The tension needs some attention, but that's hardly surprising. Even the spool winder works with a bit of coaxing - which is just as well really. I can fill round bobbins on my modern electric machine, but winding spools is another matter.

The winder, with an empty spool in place

So now, it's gone from being an ornament which just needed dusting and a wipe down to a something which I want to restore to fully usable order. I've seen some beautifully shiny 48Ks online, but even if I had the skills for that level of restoration, it's not for me. This is a working machine, and I want its appearance to reflect its long, useful, life. For example I love the way that thread has worn a tiny groove in the lacquer at the bottom of the faceplate.

Worn away by years of slight pressure

It does need a very good clean, though. There is a pungent whiff of years of caked-on oil, and the metal parts are all very brown. Initially I assumed that it was rust, but following a suggestion I found online (and there is a wealth of information out there on restoring old machines), I wondered if it might just be dirt and tarnish.

And it was. To illustrate just how much dirt and tarnish is involved, here is a cotton bud after I'd wiped off the seventh application of cleaner/polish.

Ewwww!

Cleaning this one piece took me all morning, and a lot of elbow grease, but you can see the difference.

Guess which side I'd cleaned

It's going to be a long job, and it's something far more mechanical than I'd usually do, and out of my comfort zone. But, I was looking for a winter project other than sewing, and this also works as a tribute to my dad. He was handy at DIY and also an accomplished model-maker, and would have had this fixed in no time. I shall be feeling my way far more than he would have been, but hopefully I have picked up a few of his skills along the way.

Tucks and Pleating

Eek! It's the end of February, time to get another Historical Sew Monthly submission done. The challenge is Tucks and Pleating; "Make a garment that features tucks and pleating for the shape or decoration", and you can see the other entries here.

Because I was so late finishing January's Procrastination challenge, there was no way I could complete my planned project for February in time. Fortunately it fits into a later challenge, so won't get lost altogether. I needed something quick and easy for this month however, and inspiration came from last month's entry.

I decided to try on my new 1909 princess line slip with the Edwardian chemise I made last year but when I did so, I didn't like the end result one bit. When I made the chemise I'd had to take it up at the shoulder seams to get the bottom of the yoke in the right place. However it was only when I wore the chemise and slip together that I realized how ludicrously high this had made the top of the yoke.

The original, woefully high, yoke

Then I had a brainwave. When I was researching different styles of Edwardian petticoat, I'd read somewhere that tucks around the hem were an easy way of altering length for different wearers. I could do the same with the yoke!

I carefully unpicked the side seams.

Ready to start pintucking

Then I worked out what size I wanted the altered yoke to be, and how many tucks this would need. Experiments with machine-sewn tucks on some leftover cotton weren't a success, so I hand sewed then instead. Then I sewed the shortened yoke back in place.

Much better (dimensions-wise, at least)

This made the overall shape of the chemise much better, but I must admit that I'm not entirely happy with it. Quite simply, I learned so much making the slip, that this now feels really clunky. Plus, it's just Far Too White; it's so obviously modern bleached cotton. Still, one of the goals of the Historical Sew Monthly is, "to improve our standards of historical accuracy, and to expand our historical sewing skills", and comparing my January 2015 project to my January 2016 project, I'm definitely achieving that!

The small print:
The Challenge: Tucks and Pleating
Fabric: Cotton
Pattern: None, just altering an existing garment
Notions: None
How historically accurate is it? Using a period-appropriate technique, so I'd say 100% for this one
Hours to complete: About 3, mainly because when I sew something, it takes a lot of unpicking!
First worn: Not yet
Total cost: None

Procrastination - part 2, making up

I’ve really taken this theme to heart, in as much as it’s almost the end of February, and I’ve only just finished January’s challenge!

Four weeks ago, I had finished drafting the pattern for a 1909 princess line slip from Frances Grimble’s Edwardian Modiste. You can read about the drafting process here. One thing which confused me was that the pattern pieces came out as full length, but the slip has a 36” / 91.5cm deep frill around the bottom. Should the frill be sewn on top of the slip, rather than joined on at the bottom, as a frill would be nowadays?

The ensuing Google search turned up this similar slip, which clearly has something white behind the lace on the frill.

c1910 cotton and lace princess petticoat, found on Antique Dress

Even better, those lovely people at Antique Dress had added detailed close-ups. This one clearly shows the edge of the main petticoat beneath the bottom lace of the frill, and that the fabric above the ribbon is more sheer because it's only a single layer.

Close-up of the frill

So that was one problem solved, but there was another. The frill on the slip is a whopping 6 yards / 5.5 metres long, but I’m making it to go under slightly later clothing, which would have a narrower skirt. I fetched some of my costuming books and pored over patterns. By my calculations the Laurel Dress in Janet Arnold’s 'Patterns of Fashion' has a skirt width of about 72” / 1.82m, while the c1910 tub dress in Norah Waugh’s 'Cut of Women’s Clothes' (actually given as 1912 on the V&A website) is 65” / 1.65m wide at the hem. Clearly I needed a straighter slip, and these two examples from the Met suggested that in the next few years frills on petticoats became either less generous, or vanished altogether.

French petticoats, 1909-11 (l) and 1910-16 (r), images © the Met

I had found this lovely embroidered cotton/linen blend in my local fabric shop. It's less glaringly white that the flash on my camera has made out. The embroidery is only along one side, the rest of the width is plain. While the material is wide, it’s not wide enough to cut the pattern pieces across the grain. So I decided to shorten the pattern, cut it out along the grain on the plain fabric, and leave decisions about the frill until the rest of the slip was made up.

The embroidered edge of the fabric

I fitted the tissue pattern onto Nancy, and was happy with most of the fit apart from the back princess seam. There seemed to be too much fabric, so I redrafted the side back piece from the waist up. Then I sewed all the slip up, wrong sides together as I was doing felled seams.

When I tried it on the fit was fine apart from, guess what, the back. It was perfectly acceptable, so long as I didn’t want to move my arms (which was why it fitted the armless Nancy perfectly well). I’m actually quite fond of being able to move my arms, and fortunately I’d taken Frances Grimble’s advice of adding a generous seam allowance to the pieces, so was able to let the back out again. Lesson learned – a dressform is a valuable tool, but not the be-all and end-all of fitting!

The completed back, showing the seams in question

Then it was time to fell the seams. I have a deep-seated and fervent dislike of doing felled seams. Irrational too, as they’re hardly complex. This added greatly to the overall procrastination, as I found any excuse possible to put the job off.

Frances Grimble does mention in her notes that the hip measurements tend to err on the generous side, and so it proved. I know my hips are wide relative to my waist, but not this wide!

That's a big hip curve

Eventually I decided that there was just too much fabric, in the wrong places, and that the side seams needed to be unpicked and smoothed out a little. Naturally I didn't decide this until after I'd finished the seams, so I got some extra felling practice. Thrills.

The next job was to add facings to the centre front, and add the buttons and buttonholes. I discovered that my buttonhole sewing has somehow improved immensely since my Armistice blouse attempts, which cheered me up no end.

Just showing off my buttonholes!

I used The Dreamstress’s method of attaching the trim around the armholes and neck, and it worked a treat. I put a few small pleats in the neckline first, so that the ribbon doesn’t have to do too much gathering work.

Front neckline

Then it was time to make and add the frill. The bottom edge of the slip was 2.4m / 94 ½”, so I made the frill 3m / 118”, which allowed for a small gather. Again I sewed the wrong sides together and covered the seam allowance with more trim, so the inside of the slip is perfectly smooth.

And here, at last, is the finished article.

Front view

Side

Back

Seam felling aside, I'm really pleased with the end result. Plus having cut my teeth on this, I'm tempted to have a go at some of the other patterns in The Edwardian Modiste. So all in all, well worth the wait!

The small print:
The Challenge: Procrastination
Fabric: embroidered cotton/linen blend
Pattern: Princess Slip from The Edwardian Modiste by Frances Grimble
Year: 1909, but my alterations make it slightly later
Notions: Beading lace, ribbon, buttons
How historically accurate is it? I’m not sure if machine-emboidered broderie anglais existed by 1909, but apart from that I think it’s pretty accurate, so 95%
Hours to complete: Not that much actual sewing time, but lots of procrastination time, mostly trying to ignore the seam felling!
First worn: Not yet
Total cost: Fabric £17.28 (yay for the 50% off sale preview evening!), trim £6.06, buttons from stash, so £23.34

Procrastination - part 1, the pattern

The first Historical Sew Monthly challenge of 2016 is Procrastination,
"Finish a garment you have been putting off finishing (a UFO or PHD) or make something you have been avoiding starting."

You can find the Facebook album for the challenge here.

It didn't take long to come up with a plan for this challenge, as I'd been sitting on the idea for seven months! Way back in June 2015, for the Out of Your Comfort Zone challenge, I'd planned to make the 1909 Princess Slip from Frances Grimble's The Edwardian Modiste. However every time I looked at the instructions, it all seemed far too complicated. In my head, it involved something like this!

Pollock's Garment Fitting Frame, from Macclesfield Museum

For the Procrastination challenge, I decided to stop being such a wimp, and just get on with it. And guess what? Drafting the pattern wasn't nearly that bad after all.

The patterns in the book are all from the quarterly magazine The American Modiste, and use the American System of Cutting. This is an ingenious proportional system which uses special rulers (reproduced in the book) to draft out patterns. You use the appropriate rulers for your measurements, and the same pattern diagram will work for all of them.

First, you need to take basic measurements, as described in the instructions. You then use these to select your rulers. For the slip I needed the length of waist (upper body), bust and length of skirt scales, but the last two were the same measurement, so I only needed two rulers. I traced the rulers onto heavy tracing paper, and found that these were robust enough to use without attaching them to card.

On a large sheet of paper, you draw a long vertical line. Then you draw a horizontal line at the top. Frances Grimble recommends pattern paper printed with marks at 1" intervals, but I found that working with ordinary tissue paper and my big quiltmaker's rule (pictured below) was fine.

Using the length of waist ruler, mark out the measurements given in the diagram, as far down as the waist.

First set of measurements marked out

Then, being careful to stay exactly at right angles to the vertical line, draw horizontal lines from these marked points. This time use the bust ruler to mark out the measurements given in the diagram (click on the image below to see it more clearly).

Horizontal measurements marked

I labelled all of my points as I went along, for ease of understanding later. In the image below I've also erased the horizontal lines where they extend beyond the marked point, to make the picture clearer. What you should end up with is a sort of join-the-dots.

Horizontal measurements added

And that's exactly what you do. You can use French curves or a pattern-drafting tool to do this, but I found that the easiest thing to use was a flexi-curve. These are quite easy to find; I got mine from W H Smith.

Marking out the curve

For the section below the waist, you use the length of skirt ruler. In theory using different scales for the upper and lower body should take care of my short-waistedness without the need for me to make any further alterations.

This particular pattern has ½" seam allowances added, but Frances Grimble suggests adding a 1-2" seam allowance onto any piece you're not sure about. As the slip has eight pieces, I added a 1" seam allowance all round; hopefully eight inches will be ample for any alterations.

With seam allowance added

And there you have it; one pattern piece. I've only shown the top part, because otherwise it would be an image of an awful lot of table!

Finished pattern piece

There was one moment of confusion. The width of the side front piece at the bottom is given as 22, which would result in an enormously flared skirt. Looking at the dimensions of the other three pieces, and the shape of the pattern piece in the diagram, I decided that 12 seemed more likely.

Next step - making the slip.

Stashbusting

The Historical Sew Monthly challenge for March is Stashbusting, and you can see the other entries here.

I felt spoiled for choice on this challenge, but as I have a whole sub-stash of white and off-white cotton and linen I decided to work with that, and carry on with making the undergarments for an early twentieth century outfit. I had a reasonable amount of fabric left over from my chemise, and quite a lot of the broderie anglais and ribbon trim as well, so settled on making some drawers/knickers.

Some time ago I posted about the change in underwear from open-leg drawers to closed-leg knickers that seems to have taken place in the first decade of the twentieth century, as part of the move to a smooth, long-line silhouette. As I want to make a circa 1911 outfit at some point, I need the underwear to match.

In Costume in Detail by Nancy Bradfield I'd found a pair of knickers which seemed a good starting point; closed leg, fastening at the side, and not too full.

White cambric knickers, circa 1907-08

I drafted a pattern based very loosely on the drawers in Truly Victorian Edwardian Underwear pattern TVE02, but with a lot of the fullness taken out.

Full, open-leg drawers

For the side openings I cut slits and finished them with a placket, but with hindsight I don't think that I should have done so; a very narrow hem would have been better.

I used the measurements in Costume in Detail as a guide, and made the front wider than the back, so the openings are actually towards the back of the knickers. The centre section of the back is gathered, and there are small darts in the front. Unlike the example, I put waistbands on both the front and back.

Back view, showing the front waistband carried round to the back

My original plan was to have a plain cotton frill at the bottom of the leg, and put the broderie anglais and the ribbon on the band between the knicker leg and the frill. However I had a change of heart and decided to keep the legs plain and ungathered, and trim the hems instead, like this illustration from The History of Underclothes by C Willet and Phillis Cunnington.

Chemise and drawers, 1911

As you can't see the waistband in this illustration, I suspect that what I've made is a mish-mash of styles which may never have existed in real life. Also, it can't have been easy to undo and redo those side fastens under layers of straight petticoats and skirts. I wonder how many women actually wore the new style, and how many stuck to open-leg drawers (or, as they were known at the time according to my Granny T, "Free Traders") until fuller skirts came in?

The almost completed (missing buttons and buttonholes) knickers

The small print:
The Challenge: Stashbusting
Fabric: Cotton, possibly lawn
Stashed for how long? Unknown, as it was in the 'white and off-white natural fabrics' sub-stash, which has existed forever. The trim has only been stashed since January
Pattern: Somewhere between self-drafted from an illustration in Costume in Detail and Truly Victorian Edwardian Underwear pattern TVE02
Year: 1907 - 1909
Notions: Broderie anglais and ribbon for trim, two shell buttons
How historically accurate is it? Probably not very, as it is a mish-mash of two different styles of closed drawers. 50% at best?
Hours to complete: About 8 hours (I haven’t got any quicker at hand-sewing the trim!)
First worn: Not yet
Total cost: All from the stash, so £0. Yay!

Foundations

A slightly early post this week; I must admit that the sole reason for this is to get my January entry for the Historical Sew Monthly out into the world in the correct month! I did think that this one was going to be easy, and that I could run it up in next to no time (you would think that I might have learned the folly of making this assumption by now, but no). Naturally it didn’t turn out that way, and I finished it with very little time to spare.

This month’s challenge is Foundations: very simply, “make something that is the foundation of a period outfit.” I chose to make an Edwardian chemise, to go with my 1911 corset.

Completed chemise

Although corsets are described as ‘foundation garments’, for me a chemise (or shift for earlier periods) is truly the foundation of any period outfit, as it is the first garment put on. A simply-shaped and easy-to-wash piece of clothing worn next to the skin appears in a great many cultures, for example the qamisa of my Tunisian costume.

I used the Truly Victorian Edwardian Underwear pattern TVE02 (available in the UK from Vena Cava Design) for my chemise.

I shortened the pattern slightly to create a knee-length chemise, similar to this one.

From The History of Underclothes by C Willet and Phillis Cunnington

Despite being entirely hidden from view, chemises seemed to often be lavishly decorated with lace, embroidery and pin tucks. As it was my first attempt at anything like this, I decided to keep it plain.

Chemises from the 1909 National Suit and Cloak Company catalogue

The chemise is very easy to construct; the side and shoulder seams are simple French seams and the yoke insertion, while slightly trickier, is not difficult. The end result is surprisingly full for something which is to go under a corset creating such a narrow silhouette. I assumed that my short waist wouldn't be an issue under all that fullness, and that I didn’t need to make any height adjustments. This assumption turned out to be wrong, as the yoke was far too low on me. I took the shoulder seams up by 2.5cm / 1”, and used this as an opportunity to replace the French seams with flat felled seams. I then recut the armscye, and the end result was a much better fit.

The pattern instructs you to cover the yoke seams and the raw edges of the armholes with lace. I decided to use broderie anglais with ribbon threaded through. Judging from this illustration (for which I stupidly forgot to note the source, apologies to whoever posted it online, if it's yours please contact me and I'll add a link), this is a perfectly acceptable technique for the period.

Late Edwardian chemises with ribbon and broderie anglais trim

I ended up overcast stitching along both edges of the ribbon where it was beneath the broderie anglais, and this completely encased the raw edges of the chemise. On both the armholes and the neckline I was able to get the broderie anglais to match at the join, plus I was able to mitre the corners perfectly around the neckline. All of this made me absurdly pleased with the end result.

Yoke and armholes with matched and mitred trim

The small print:
The Challenge: Foundations
Fabric: cotton, possibly lawn
Pattern: Truly Victorian Edwardian Underwear pattern TVE02
Year: 1901 - 1909
Notions: Broderie anglais and ribbon for trim
How historically accurate is it? Pattern, fabric and construction techniques are all accurate, so I'd say 95%
Hours to complete: There was a lot of hand sewing to apply the trim, so about 10 hours
First worn: Not yet
Total cost: Fabric £4.60, broderie anglais £2.80, ribbon £1.35, total £8.75

Dressing on £1,000 a year

When we went to Hay on Wye back in January, it wasn’t just books that I bought. In a shop which sold only maps and prints I found a large filing cabinet, with drawers labelled “cars”, “Europe” etc. Inside were loose pages from old periodicals, which had been kept for their illustrations.

Naturally I looked through “costume”, and found a couple of sheets featuring women in Edwardian dress. When I realized that they were from the same piece, I hunted through the drawer again, and managed to find the entire article. It had no author, and this was its title.

Unfortunately, because it was just loose pages rather than the entire magazine, I had no idea of the date of publication. So, I picked the collective brains of the wonderful Historical Sew Fortnightly community on Facebook, who placed the two images I’d posted firmly at the very start of the twentieth century.

The only other information I had was the magazine’s title, which appeared at the top of every other page; “The Harmsworth London Magazine”. This turned out to be exactly the clue that I needed.

Originally launched in July 1898 as, “The Harmsworth Magazine”, it appears to have been renamed “The Harmsworth London Magazine” in August 1901, and then just “The London Magazine” from August 1903. So top marks to The Dreamstress, who suggested precisely the 1901-03 timeframe!

The magazine was marketed as “A sixpenny magazine for threepence”, with the launch editorial claiming that the low price could be achieved by means of a “gigantic circulation”. Therefore it’s safe to assume that article, with its subtitle, Being some of the trials of a society “splendid pauper”, was written with the author’s tongue wedged firmly in his or her cheek. I’m guessing that the piece was meant as a, ‘How The Other Half Lives’ (or more accurately, ‘How The Other Very-Small-Percentage-Of-The-Population Lives’) story, and that the sums quoted are reasonably accurate, and intended to provoke a response of “How much?!” from the reader.

Note: in converting the sums quoted to today’s money, I have used this conversion tool, and a date of 1902. On this basis, the society lady featured in the article has a mere £107,320 / $178,150 US per year to play with!

The article begins by detailing, “the annual campaign of smart society”. This starts with the London Season in May, June and July; a social whirl of Court functions, parties, dinners, balls, concerts, plays, race meetings, garden parties, luncheons, morning walks, afternoon drives, teas, bazaars, outings and the Chelsea Flower Show. Phew.

August brings yachting and the regatta at Cowes, followed by a (no doubt much needed) holiday in Europe. Then in September it is back to Britain for Doncaster races, followed by shooting in Scotland, before heading south again for Newmarket races in October. In November a quick trip to Paris to buy winter frocks and hats is squeezed in before the round of country house visits, shoots and more race meetings. London’s winter season follows, and then after Christmas another holiday is needed, this time to Egypt, Sicily or southern France, in search of sun. All of these events require suitable clothing, none of which comes cheap.

A ball or dinner gown costs on average £40 (£4,293 / $7,126), more if rich embroidery or hand-painted chiffon is involved, while "old lace" is too costly to even consider.

A simpler style of evening dress, known as a “little gown” costs £30-£35 (£3,220-£3,756 / $5,345-$6,235). To successfully negotiate the London season, our splendid pauper needs at least six evening gowns, plus a couple of “little gowns”.

On top of this a velvet gown is needed as the nights grow colder, and this will cost £40 from a dressmaker, or £50-£60 (£5,366-£6,439 / $8,908-$10,689) from the salons of London or Paris. A “drawing-room gown and train”, if required, is reckoned to cost at least £100 (£10,732 / $17,815).

For less formal occasions there are tea-gowns, tea-blouses and tea-coats. A tea-gown costs an average of £30 (£3,220 / $5,345), while a tea-coat costs a mere £25 (£2,683 / $4,454). However should the lady want to play billiards while wearing a tea-dress (I have absolutely no idea how likely this scenario was), she would need to splash out a further £20 (£2,146 / $3,563) for a short-sleeved dress, known as a billiard-coat.

Dresses for Ascot and garden parties cost £35-£40 for a crêpe de chine gown trimmed with “good lace”, £30 for taffeta, and £20-£25 for a “smart foulard”. Two winter and two summer frocks are the minimum which are required.

The article advises that country pursuits require their own clothing, but does not give any prices. A yachting gown for Cowes however will cost £20, and at least two are needed.

With gowns out of the way, the writer moves on to hats. These cost at least £4 (£429 / $713), and can cost up to £10 (£1,073 / $1,782).

These are piffling sums however, compared to cloaks and wraps. The author’s splendid pauper cannot possibly afford £500 (£53,660 / $89,076) for a sable jacket or chinchilla cape, her “fur fund” for one year only runs to £100 (£10,732 / $17,815). She will also want a winter wrap, for which no price is given, a dust cloak for £10, and at least two evening cloaks at a cost of £35-£40 each - or £50 if she decides to splurge on hand-painted chiffon.

Lingerie does not come cheap, either. A “modest” silk petticoat costs £4, but less modest ones can cost up to £15. Embroidered and pin-tucked handkerchiefs cost at least £5 (£537 / $891) per dozen, and even the most frugal lady needs to allow at least £100 for lingerie.

“Smart shoes” cost £2 (£215 / $356) per pair, plus ¾ as much again for ornamental buckles. Evening shoes cost £2-£3, and if each dress (that’s six evening gowns, two “little gowns” and one velvet gown, remember) requires matching shoes, that’s up to £2,898 / $4,810.

Further expenses listed include parasols (in colours to match each costume) at £7-£10 each, gloves at £20-£30 for the year, and £100 for “toilette” requirements such as make-up and hair colouring. Thus, explains the writer, an allowance of £1,000 a year “spells poverty instead of riches”. Whether the house-parlour maid earning £20 per year in 1902 would have seen it this way is another matter altogether!