Church Needlework: A manual of practical instruction — A Closer Reading
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_D’or nué_ seems to have been the favourite method of doing the garments about the sixteenth century. Laid-work, kept down with either self-coloured silk or gold thread, lightly couched, is also to be seen; and later, a pretty use of short-stitch in floss, worked vertically over gold threads laid horizontally—something like _d’or nué_, but very much coarser and more practical for the larger figures, which were then becoming more frequently worked (see diagram).
Another way of treating drapery is to work it solidly in long-and-short-stitch (vertical), boldly shaded, and afterwards enriching it with fine gold threads laid horizontally over the whole garment a little distance apart, and sewn down singly with fine sewing silks or split floss of the same shades as those it passes over; or sprays or diapers may be effective worked over the plain shaded silks.
The background of figure-work is not very often composed entirely of stitching in these days, when so many beautiful woven fabrics are so easily procured and time seems shorter than it used to be. But still, where there is not a very large expanse to fill, a worked background is not a luxury unattainable; a very satisfactory and glorious one is gold thread laid in diaper-patterns. Laid-work and darning are quicker—the latter makes a beautifully broken colour for showing up large outline figure-work done on unbleached linen or worsted material for hangings.
I do not fancy any of my readers would undertake such a piece of work as the background of the Syon cope; but the way it was probably done has been suggested by Mr. Lewis Day thus:—
‘The stitch runs from point to point of the zigzag pattern, then it penetrates the stuff, is carried round a thread of flax laid at the back of the material, and is brought to the surface again through the hole made by the needle in passing down. That is to say, the silken thread only _dips_ through the linen at the points in the pattern, and is then caught down by a thread of flax on the under-surface of the linen … it is a kind of work on which two persons might be employed, one on either side of the stuff.’[6]
I venture to differ from his opinion on one point only, and that is that probably the silken or gold thread was not the one worked backwards and forwards through the stuff, since the flax thread from behind would do the work just as well. The gold or silk would thus be saved from friction, and would not need to be cut into needlefuls and threaded in a needle, but could be used from continuously, as I have before suggested for long lines of couching; it is, in fact, precisely the same thing, with the exception of taking the ‘working’ needle back through the hole it made, instead of at a little distance from it. This method is so often used in fine gold-work for turning at the end of a row when one does not want it to appear on the surface that I fancy it would be suggested by this.
ON LITURGICAL COLOURS, FRONTALS, ETC.
The question of liturgical colours need not be very fully discussed here, as this is pre-eminently a practical manual and not a treatise on ritual. Although the embroidress naturally studies the reason and uses of the things she makes, it does not properly rest with her whether the ‘Use of Sarum’ or that of any other special diocese be followed. There certainly seems to have been no very hard and fast rule observed in this matter in the early ages of the Church or even in medieval times. From the old inventories we gather that altar-frontals and vestments existed of almost every known colour and shade (and some indeed _unknown_ ones, to us at least!). This of course may be to some extent accounted for by the votive offerings so frequently made by kings and nobles of their own magnificent vestments and of spoils taken in war.[7] These would be accepted and used in the Church quite irrespective of colour and design.
Hinda M. Hands opens her manual with a dedication to “our dear mother, the Holy Church,” immediately establishing the devotional framework that governs her practical instructions. The preface, contributed by Anthony C. Deane, notes that the book originated as a series of articles in The Treasury and was revised for this volume. Deane’s introduction also makes a pointed distinction: work “fashioned by the hands of worshippers” carries a significance no ready-made article can possess. This tension between tradition and practicality recurs throughout the text.
Voice and Structure: From Theory to Needle
Hands writes in a direct, instructional tone, but her voice is not merely technical. She frequently invokes historical examples—the Syon cope, the cope of St. Sylvester—to ground her advice. Her prose shifts between declarative commands (“keep the orphreys narrow”) and reflective observations about medieval workmanship. The structure mirrors this duality: each chapter moves from general principles to specific stitch diagrams or measurements. For instance, the chapter on the cope begins with the garment’s liturgical history before offering a diagram “shewing proportions of well-shaped Cope” at a scale of ½ inch to the foot. This blend of reverence and precision gives the manual its distinctive character.
Gold-Work and the Weight of Tradition
The section on gold-work (Chapter IV) exemplifies Hands’ method. She does not simply list materials; she explains why certain techniques endure. Her description of orphreys—the decorative bands on copes—notes that wide orphreys became common in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries because they allowed for “magnificent embroidery of figures and tabernacle-work.” Yet she warns that such width can cause the cope to ride up ungainly at the neck. This practical caution is paired with a historical aside: later generations “hacked away at one part and joined on at another, quite regardless of the mutilation it involved.” The language is restrained but pointed, revealing a conservator’s sensibility.
Pace and the Shape of a Cope
Hands’ treatment of the cope’s construction shows how she modulates pace. She begins with the semicircular ideal, then introduces a modification: placing the centre “a few inches above the straight line” to compensate for the fabric taken up at the neck. The explanation unfolds slowly, with a diagram and a note about the morse (the clasp) settling lower on the shoulders. She then offers an alternative—shaping the cope to fit—but dismisses it as “quite exceptional” because it destroys the typical half-circle. This careful weighing of options, moving from theory to exception, gives the prose a measured, almost judicial rhythm. The reader is guided through each decision, never rushed.
Hands’ manual rewards a patient reading. The diagrams and stitch descriptions are best studied with needle and fabric in hand, but the historical asides—on the Syon cope’s mutilated orphreys, on the Roman toga picta—offer context that enriches the practical work. Readers interested in the interplay between liturgical function and material craft will find here a voice that respects both.
Reading Hinda Hands’ careful warnings about the mutilations medieval embroiderers suffered, I felt a quiet chill. Her reverence for what survives—thread by thread—reminded me of another kind of preservation, the stories we keep despite the violence woven into them. It’s odd how a needlework manual can echo a history like The massacre of St. Bartholomew — Story, Setting & Ideas, both concerned with what remains after the damage is done.
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