Sewing Marks the Place

by

Lauren Roberts

Imagine yourself in prehistoric times. You’re heading out on your daily excursion to hunt oversized and ill-tempered food. In one hand you carry a cumbersome spear. The other is occupied in trying to keep the various pieces of animal skin clothing in place. And that before the chase even begins.

With the need for garment stability obvious, it’s little wonder that archaeologists have discovered primitive sewing needles dating back 20,000 years. Yet, despite the presumed difficulty in sewing rough skins together with bone needles and sinew thread, it took quite a while before the earliest known manmade needles (made of iron) showed up in the third century B.C.

It wasn’t until 1755 when German-born Karl Weisenthal, working in England, took out a patent for the first sewing machine needle, though he did not produce a complete machine. Thirty-five years later, in 1790, British inventor, Thomas Saint filed a patent for what is considered to be the first real sewing machine. In “Stitches in Time: 100 Years of Machines and Sewing,” an article by the Museum of American Heritage, they noted: “Saint’s machine, which was designed to sew leather and canvas, mainly on boots, used only a single thread and formed a chain stitch. Instead of a needle, an awl was employed to pierce a hole through the material being sewed. Another mechanism placed the thread over the hole, and then a needlelike rod with a forked point carried the thread through to the underside of the work, where a hook caught the thread and moved it forward for the next stitch. When the cycle was repeated, a second loop was formed on the underside of the cloth with the first loop, thus forming a chain and locking the stitch. Saint’s machine, however, never progressed beyond the patent model stage. And it overlooked the Weisenthal needle design.”

It did, however, have several features that would continue to be a part of sewing machines to this day including a horizontal cloth plate, an overhanging arm and a continuous supply of thread from a spool. Yet, Saint apparently never made a machine of his own.

In 1804, a French patent was granted to Thomas Stone and James Henderson for “a machine that emulated hand sewing.” That same year another patent was granted to Scott John Duncan for an “embroidery machine with multiple needles.” Both inventions failed to catch the public’s interest. In 1810, Balthasar Krems invented an automatic machine for sewing caps in Germany, but he failed to  patent his invention which was probably just as well; it never really worked. Austrian tailor Josef Madersperger’s several attempts were unsuccessful despite being issued a patent in 1814. And in 1818, the first American sewing machine was invented by John Adams Doge and John Knowles, but it was beset by its inability to handle any useful amount of fabric before malfunctioning.

In 1830, French tailor Barthelemy Thimonnier patented the first practical sewing machine. It employed only one thread and a hook-tipped needle (much like an embroidery needle) that was moved downward by a foot treadle and returned by a spring, thus producing a chain stitch. By 1841, eighty of these machines were installed in a factory in Paris to stitch soldiers’ clothing. Unfortunately, those concerned for their livelihood, in this case, tailors, invaded the factory and smashed the machines, a fate common to many inventions related to the textile industry. Thimonnier was forced to flee for his life and died penniless in England.

“Be it known that I, Elias Howe, Jr., of Cambridge in the county of Middlesex and the State of Massachusetts, have invented a new and useful machine for sewing seams in cloth or other articles requiring to be sewed” begins the application that was granted patent number 4750 on September 10, 1846. It continues: “In sewing a seam with my machine two threads are employed, one of which threads is carried through the cloth by means of a curved needle, the pointed end of which is to pass through said cloth.”

Though Howe patented the first sewing machine, it was actually Walter Hunt who, in 1834, invented the first American sewing machine. But because Hunt did not bother to patent it, fearing it would cause unemployment, he opened the way to Howe—and patent history.

Elias Howe was born in 1819, the son of an unsuccessful farmer. Until the age of 16, he led the ordinary life of a New England country boy, going to school in winter and working about the farm. When the panic of 1837 came on, he went to work in a machine shop in Cambridge.

Sewing machines obsessed Howe. He found a backer, an old schoolmate named George Fisher, who agreed to support his family and furnish him with five hundred dollars for materials and tools. At 250 stitches a minute, Howe's machine could outsew the fastest of hand sewers, but it was nevertheless a crude design. His second model—a lock stitch machine which could sew only straight seams—was an improvement, and a patent was issued in September 1846. However, buyers were difficult to find. Fisher gave up, and Howe returned to his father’s farm.

Howe next made a hopeful trip to England where a corset maker had expressed interest. But it came to naught. Upon his return to the United States, penniless, he found that sewing machines using the principles found in his 1846 patent were being sold by many manufacturers. The most successful of them was Isaac Merritt Singer who combined mechanical talent and a flair for marketing. His machine combined elements of Thimonnier’s, Hunt’s and Howe’s machines, and he was granted an American patent in 1851. Though Singer’s machine differed from Howe’s in the movement of its needle (up and down rather than sideways) and its source of power (a treadle rather than a hand crank), it did use the same lock stitch process and a similar needle.

Funded by a mortgage on his father’s farm, Howe sued the infringers. It took years of legal battles, but in 1854 his patent was declared basic and Singer was ordered to pay $15,000 in back royalties.

Two years later he and Singer, Orlando B. Potts, president of the Grover and Baker Company, and Wheeler & Wilson pooled their patents and created the Sewing-Machine Combination. All the other manufacturers had to obtain a license and pay the Combination fifteen dollars per machine sold—an arrangement that lasted until 1877 when the last patent expired.

By 1860, Singer’s company had become the world’s largest manufacturer of sewing machines. Much of this was due to marketing innovation including advertising, service with sales and most of all, the installment plan which allowed families who could not otherwise afford this expensive machine to buy one. 

Dubbed “The Queen of Inventions” by Godey's magazine in 1860, the sewing machine offered women relief from the tedium of hand sewing, and transformed the nature of work over the course of the nineteenth century. By 1900, most Americans employed in manufacturing no longer worked at home but in centralized factories with powered machinery. As the nineteenth century progressed, a growing number of women and children joined men in these factories. Until the late nineteenth century, nearly all clothing was made in the home. But with the development of the sewing machine for factory use in the 1850s and the growing market for ready-made clothing, production moved into large, machine-controlled environments dominated by impersonal managements and sweatshop conditions. In America, the eventual social upheaval did contribute to large-scale unrest, the development of unions, and eventually to the establishment of government standards for the workplace. But the reality, though, is that sweatshops continued to exist—and still do—especially in the fashion underground arenas of Los Angeles and New York where undocumented aliens endure hours at sewing machines for a few dollars. In third world countries, it is even worse. Ironically, the machine that liberated also imprisoned.

As for White Sewing Machine Company, the producer of the bookmark, it began in a small machine shop in Massachusetts in 1858. Thomas H. White wanted to manufacture and sell small, hand-operated, single-thread sewing machines, and by 1866, he was successful enough to move the company to Cleveland, Ohio, where he could be closer to his suppliers and markets.

By 1900, the full rotary mechanism and the first furniture-style cabinets for sewing machines were being offered. Shortly afterward, the White Steam Car was developed (eventually becoming successful enough to branch off and become the White Motor Company); the company also sold bicycles, roller skates, phonographs, kerosene lamps, automatic lathes and screw machines.

But sewing machines were its primary product, and in the second decade of the twentieth century, their machines began to be equipped with an electric motor, a non-glare crinkle finish and a numbered tension dial. White also eliminated its other products, choosing to concentrate on sewing machines and accessories. They acquired a furniture factory which enabled them to make their complete units in-house; acquired a competitor; contracted with Sears to supply a percentage of their machines; pioneered the process of marketing through wholesale distributors and independent dealers; and even started marketing to schools, an ongoing practice.

During the decade when the Great Depression hovered over America, White emphasized the benefits of home sewing, even using traveling home economists to teach a course entitled “The Art of Sewing and Dress Creation.” The first half of the fourth decade was devoted to the production of war goods, but once the war ended consumer demand returned.

The 1950s saw the introduction of the zigzag feature, which seals the edges of a seam, making a garment sturdier. Though new to White, it was not a new invention. But it is a sadly neglected one because, I believe, it was by a woman.

The fact is that the first zigzag machine was patented by Helen Augusta Blanchard (often referred to “Lady Edison”) in 1873. Born in 1840 into a wealthy Maine family, Blanchard found her mechanical ability early, though she was given no formal training in it. After the family lost its fortune in the panic of 1866, she utilized her skills and invented the machine for which others are sometimes given credit. In 1881 she established the Blanchard Over-seam Company of Philadelphia. Profits from this company and her other patents provided her with enough money to buy back the family homestead they forfeited earlier. She received 28 patents between 1873 and 1915, 22 of which had to do with sewing machines.

In the latter half of the twentieth century, White introduced more innovations: an electronic system to provide full needle power at reduced speeds; a Spin-A-Dial stitch selector; a computer sewing machine; an overlock design (combining seaming, trimming and overcastting in one step). But even as it has moved forward, White appears never to have forgotten its founder’s belief in its machines. A White poem found on the ISMACS (International Sewing Machine Collector’s Society) website  appears to sum up their philosophy quite well: 

Our hero was an artisan
Who toiled from morn till e’en
Until, one day, he met a man
Who sold the White Machine.

This man the best of clothes he wore,
And held a lofty mien;
Ten thousand he had sold, and more,
Light-running White machines.

Then straightway went this artisan
To all his friends of means,
But found, as soon as he’d began,
They all had White Machines.

Undaunted still, he boldly planned—
His eyes bore darksome gleams.
He said, “I’ll seek some foreign land,
That ain’t got White Machines."

“’Tis a most visionary plan,"
 Said all— “tho’ well he means—
 To be a missionary man
 And sell the White Machines.”

But steadfast was this artisan,
And wiry, spry, and lean;
So off he went, his only plan
To sell the White Machine.

He travelled long and very far,
He braved the widest scenes,
From Labrador to Zanzibar
He took his White Machines.

He never flinched, tho’ oft assailed,
Nor sought his life to screen
When savage men attacked, nor failed
To sell a White Machine.

In many lanes he showed his wares,
In towns and valleys green,
And taught folks how to “sow their tares”
By using White’s Machine.

He went among the Esquimaux,
And rode with puppy teams;
They wanted him for King, because
Of his wondrous White Machines.

He trod the storied land of Greece,
And ‘mongst Egypt’s fallahin;
He once “patched up a little peace”
By using White’s Machine.

In India and Afghanistan
The Republic Argentine,
Australia, Java and Hindostan
He sold the White Machine.

Among them all a wondrous change
This artisan has wrought,
And yet it is not very strange,
For White Machines they bought.

The Hottentot now sports a hat,
The Indian Brave is seen
In pantaloons and red cravat
Made on a White Machine.

The Turk now wears a coat and vest;
In gorgeous garbs are seen
The heathen “John,” and all the rest
Who bought the White Machine.

The artisan still wanders wide
(Ten years here intervene)’
The people run from every side
To buy his White Machine.

It’s enough to make one wonder if our ancestors’ hunting success would have been much improved had the “White Machine” been around to make those animal skins fit better. I can see the slogan now: “The Great White Hunt!”

Bookmark specifications: The White is King
Dimensions: 5 1/4" x 2 1/2" 
Material: Heavyweight paper
Manufacturer: White Sewing Machine Company
Date: Circa late 19th century
Acquired: eBay

Almost since her childhood days of Mother Goose, Lauren has been giving her opinion on books to anyone who will listen. That “talent” eventually took her out of magazine writing and into book reviewing in 2000 for an online review site where she cut her teeth (as well as a few authors). Stints as book editor for her local newspaper and contributing editor to Booklist and Bookmarks magazines has reinforced her belief that she has interesting things to say about books. Lauren shares her home with several significant others including three cats, nearly 1,300 bookmarks and approximately the same number of books that, whether previously read or not, constitute her to-be-read stack. She is a member of the National Books Critics Circle (NBCC) as well as a longtime book design judge for Publishers Marketing Association’s Benjamin Franklin Awards. Contact Lauren.