texts & textiles

The merchants that came from all lands, bringing their wares at the bidding of the Queen, found the people eager and willing to buy.[...] 'But why,' asked the Queen, 'should we buy foreign wares? Why not weave these softer fairer stuffs ourselves?' 'The people know not the art of weaving such stuffs,' replied her courtiers. 'Then they shall learn,' replied the Queen. 'They have as good brains and as deft hands as any of these foreigners, why should they not weave as well as others ? I will see that my people are taught the art.' The Queen was as good as her word, and sent abroad for workers to teach her people at Dunfermline how to weave the fair white linen, giving them thus an industry which has lasted to this day.

I wish I had a needle and thread The finest I could sew Sew that pretty girl to my side And down the road I'd go Shady Grove, my little love Shady Grove, I know Shady Grove, my little love I'm bound for Shady Grove

stamen, n.    Etymology:  < Latin stāmen, neuter (plural stāmina ) ‘the warp in the upright loom of the ancients’ (Lewis & Short), a thread of the warp, a thread or fibre in general, also (Pliny) applied to the stamens of the lily; corresponding formally to Greek στήμων masculine warp, στῆμα neuter, some part of a plant (Hesychius), Gothic stōma weak masculine, Sanskrit sthāman station, place, also strength < Indogermanic *st(h)āmon- , -en- , < *st(h)ā- to stand v. Compare Italian stame, French étamine (1690 in Hatzfeld & Darmesteter; repr. Latin plural stamina), Spanish estambre, Portuguese estame.

After William Tyndale translated the Greek and Hebrew Bible into the English language understandable by the masses, he was exiled from his homeland. Living in Cologne, he used the trade routes of cloth merchants to get his books, smuggled in bales of cloth, into England. Thus, “clothmen” carried sheets of printed Bibles or whole Testaments as well as cloth from village to village in cloth-making counties. They also went into craft halls and wool marts where ideas as well as products were exchanged.

I wish, presumptuous wish! that I could see the mind of a woman grow as she sits spinning or weaving: it would reveal the process next highest to creation. But the only hope of ever understanding such things lies in growing oneself. There is the still growth of the moonlit night of reverie; cloudy, with wind, and a little rain, comes the morning of thought, when the mind grows faster and the heart more slowly; then wakes the storm in the forest of human relation, tempest and lightning abroad, the soul enlarging by great bursts of vision and leaps of understanding and resolve; then floats up the mystic twilight eagerness, not unmingled with the dismay of compelled progress, when, bidding farewell to that which is behind, the soul is driven toward that which is before, grasping at it with all the hunger of the new birth. The story of God's universe lies in the growth of the individual soul.

Founded upon a Belief Prevalent among the Pastoral Vales of Westmoreland" SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel! Night has brought the welcome hour, When the weary fingers feel Help, as if from faery power; Dewy night o’ershades the ground;        5  Turn the swift wheel round and round! Now, beneath the starry sky, Couch the widely-scattered sheep;— Ply the pleasant labor, ply! For the spindle, while they sleep,        10 Runs with speed more smooth and fine, Gathering up a trustier line. Short-lived likings may be bred By a glance from fickle eyes; But true love is like the thread        15 Which the kindly wool supplies, When the flocks are all at rest Sleeping on the mountain’s breast.

Law is the soil in which alone beauty will grow; beauty is the only stuff in which Truth can be clothed; and you may, if you will, call Imagination the tailor that cuts her garments to fit her, and Fancy his journeyman that puts the pieces of them together, or perhaps at most embroiders their button-holes. Obeying law, the maker works like his creator; not obeying law, he is such a fool as heaps a pile of stones and calls it a church.

'Take this proverb for your guide: "Get the distaff ready, and the Lord will send the flax",' answered Mrs Jo. 'We'd better all do that, if we are to be spinsters,' said the pretty one, adding gaily, 'I think I should like it, on the whole—they are so independent. My Aunt Jenny can do just what she likes, and ask no one's leave; but Ma has to consult Pa about everything. Yes, I'll give you my chance, Sally, and be a "superfluum", as Mr Plock says.' 'You'll be one of the first to go into bondage, see if you aren't. Much obliged, all the same.' 'Well, I'll get my distaff ready, and take whatever flax the Fates send—single, or double-twisted, as the powers please.' 'That is the right spirit, Nelly. Keep it up, and see how happy life will be with a brave heart, a willing hand, and plenty to do.'

Reading of the old-time tools makes one long to create a perfect workbox, exquisite within and without, equipped with choice implements drawn from the varied countries that have contributed charming or clever inventions to woman's indispensable housewife. It is indeed a worth-while undertaking so to equip oneself that one may be lured on to the daily task, and that one's stitchery, simple or elaborate, may be wrought midst the charm of far-flung suggestions, ranging up and down the whole wide world.

Aye, methinks that Heaven's gateway Must be webbed by the holy threads Plied by woman's hands.

Just as Phaeacian men excel the world at sailing, driving their swift ships on the open seas, so the women excel at all the arts of weaving. That is Athena’s gift to them beyond all others— a genius for lovely work, and a fine mind too

[...] the gifts Athena gave her-- a skilled hand for elegant work, a fine mind and subtle wiles too--we've never heard the like, not even in old stories sung of all Achaea's well--coifed queens who graced the years gone by [...]

‘Circle-wise sit they, with bound locks And bosoms coverèd; Into the fine cloth, white like flame, Weaving the golden thread, To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead.

While those bewitching hands combine, With matchless grace, the silken line, They also weave, with gentle art, Those stronger nets that bind the heart. But soon all earthly things decay: That net in time must wear away: E’en Beauty’s silken meshes gay No lasting hold can take: But Beauty, Virtue, Sense, combin’d, (And all these charms in thee are join’d) Can throw that net upon the mind, No human art can e’er unbind, No human pow’r can break.

Then Athena, child of Zeus whose shield is thunder, letting fall her supple robe at the Father’s threshold— rich brocade, stitched with her own hands’ labor – donned the battle-shirt of the lord of lightning…

Our thinking instrument behaves Like a loom: a thousand threads, At a step on the treadle, are set moving, Back and forth the shuttles fly, The strands flow too fast for the eye, A blow of the batten and there's cloth, woven!

To tell, he longs to see his son, were strong: But let him say so then, and let him go; But let him swear so, and he shall not stay, We'll thwack him hence with distaffs.