Tag: Revolution

By Phillippa Pitts

In museums today, we usually encounter eighteenth-century prints neatly framed, hung on the walls of quiet galleries, with low light to protect the sensitive papers and pigments. Such care preserves these works of art for future generations. But it also distorts our perception of early American print culture. We know that only a small fraction of the thousands of prints produced during the American Revolution survive. Included among these losses are the extraordinary ephemeral objects produced for protests and public celebrations.

To bring this lost aspect of print culture into our new exhibition, Picturing the Revolution, we created a reproduction of one such spectacle: the theatrical obelisk created in 1766 by the Sons of Liberty to celebrate the repeal of the deeply unpopular Stamp Act. According to the description published in a local paper, it was a “magnificent Pyramid, illuminated with 280 lamps.” [1] Its sides were decorated with sixteen portraits, an extensive poem, and four illustrated scenes, all celebrating the triumph of Liberty over oppression and tyranny. This paper-and-wood structure was then crowned by a horizontal spinning wheel from which 16 fireworks were launched as the grand finale of a city-wide day of rejoicing, animated by music, tolling church bells, cannon salutes and a “Pipe of Madeira Wine” provided by John Hancock. Surprisingly, the original obelisk survived not only its own pyrotechnics, but hours of what the Massachusetts Gazette described as an “endless” display in which “the Air was fill’d with Rockets—the Ground with Bee hives and Serpents—and the two Stages with Wheels of Fireworks of various sorts.” [2] Unfortunately, the structure caught fire (or was intentionally set alight) in the early hours of the following morning. [3]

Although the original obelisk was short-lived, the details of its design survive in an engraving by Paul Revere (who almost certainly participated in its creation). The print was likely intended for sale as a souvenir. For us, it served as the basis for our reconstruction. The American Antiquarian Society generously provided us with high-resolution photography of their copy of the engraving, and New York Historical shared preliminary plans from their recreation of the obelisk in 2020. Our preparator, Chris Nelson, brought the project to life, working veritable magic to make our obelisk glow in the darkened gallery.

This illumination is more than just aesthetically pleasing; it’s a challenge to our preconceptions about paper. The obelisk’s makers did not simply paste their designs onto a solid structure. They stretched the paper across a hollow scaffold, lighting it from within so that the obelisk would shine dramatically in the dark of Boston Common. They even rubbed oil into the paper to increase its transparency. Five years later, Revere used the same approach to turn the front of his house into an illuminated stage to memorialize the first anniversary of the Boston Massacre. He covered each of his front windows with a different illustration, rendered on oiled paper and lit with a candle on the interior sill. Unfortunately, this dramatic spectacle survives only in the form of a lengthy description in another local paper. [4]

Across the archive, we find tantalizing glimpses of the sheer variety of inventive theatrical objects created (and destroyed) in early American parades and protests. In just this exhibition, you will also find images of giant papier-mâché heads fabricated by protesting school children, as well as effigies (or life-size dolls) of local customs enforcers.

By bringing together a broad range of materials—from maps to broadsides, carved powder horns to shellwork shadowboxes— Picturing the Revolution showcases images and makers that rarely find their way into our history books. With the inclusion of the obelisk, we are even able to include materials that, although never meant to survive, nonetheless played a vital role in setting the stage for the War for Independence.

Phillippa Pitts is Historic Deerfield’s Luce-Americana Curatorial Fellow for American Art.

[1] Massachusetts Gazette and Boston News-Letter, Boston, no. 3268 (May 22, 1766): 2.

[2] Ibid.

[3] For the most complete analysis of the obelisk, see Nancy Siegel, “The Work of Art and the Art of Work: Prints and Ephemera by Paul Revere,” in Beyond Midnight: Paul Revere, ed. Lauren Hewes and Nan Wolverton (Worcester, MA: American Antiquarian Society, 2019), 43–49.

[4] The Boston-Gazette and Country Journal, 11 March 1771.

Picturing the Revolution is available to view at the Flynt Center through January 3, 2027. Read more about the exhibition here.

Picturing the Revolution was made possible in part by a major grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities: Democracy demands wisdom. It was also generously supported by the Massachusetts Office of Travel and Tourism.

By Lauren D. Whitley

Two stockings sit side by side in a case. One is simple and hand-knitted, the other is one of a pair made with fine silk. In production and quality, they tell us two very different stories of knitting—and style—in the 18^th century.

Knitting was so intrinsic to the daily life of women in the American colonies that references are scant in journals, diaries, and letters. The woman who knitted the lone stocking on the left of Figure 1 250 years ago remains anonymous. She probably hand-spun her linen yarn. She did not use the finest of steel knitting needles, or “pins” as they were called, which could be as small as one millimeter in diameter. Still, she produced a smooth stocking, working into the heel a squared box typical of the period. She even added a bit of decorative ribbing at the top.

This was a stocking made for everyday wear. At some time during the years that ensued, the stocking lost its mate, as often happens. Yet, it remains a testimony to this ubiquitous and continuous activity plied by women in New England. As part of their daily chores, women knitted linen, wool, cotton, and silk in plain, ribbed, and fancy styles with purled motifs for Sunday best. And when the stockings wore thin, women darned and “footed” them, replacing the heels to make them new again.

In the years just prior to and during the Revolutionary War, knitting acquired political overtones. The adoption of non-importation and non-consumption strategies by colonists in response to British tariffs effectively conscripted women to perform much of the labor of home production. “Knitting for liberty” became a call to duty as women gathered in highly publicized “bees” to spin fibers not only for weaving cloth, but also for knitting. In February of 1769, seven “Ladies of Fashion” in Newport met to support “the Cause of Liberty” by joining in “the laudable Business of KNITTING.”

Knitting was a task not just for women of middling and working classes, but was also taken up by patriotic, well-to-do women. Sarah Morris Mifflin, a Philadelphia Quaker married to Major General Thomas Mifflin, wrote to a friend in Boston, “I have learnt to knit, and am now making stockings of American wool for my servants and this way do I throw my mite to the public good.” [i]

Harsh winter conditions and continuous campaigns during the war took a toll on soldiers’ clothing. Stockings were especially vital as without them soldiers were vulnerable to frostbite. During the winter at Valley Forge—the lowest ebb of the war—George Washington relayed to the Continental Congress the crisis of clothing among his soldiers, many of whom he called “almost naked.” Women in the colonies worked hard to alleviate shortages by spinning wool and linen and knitting as many stockings as possible for their husbands, brothers, and sons. Some women responded by unraveling old stockings to get enough fibers to re-spin and knit new socks and gloves. A few brave women rode to the front lines to deliver shirts, breeches, and woolen stockings.

Harsh winter conditions and continuous campaigns during the war took a toll on soldiers’ clothing. Stockings were especially vital as without them soldiers were vulnerable to frostbite. During the winter at Valley Forge—the lowest ebb of the war—George Washington relayed to the Continental Congress the crisis of clothing among his soldiers, many of whom he called “almost naked.” Women in the colonies worked hard to alleviate shortages by spinning wool and linen and knitting as many stockings as possible for their husbands, brothers, and sons. Some women responded by unraveling old stockings to get enough fibers to re-spin and knit new socks and gloves. A few brave women rode to the front lines to deliver shirts, breeches, and woolen stockings.

While residing at Valley Forge Headquarters, Mary Washington was frequently seen with needles, hand-knitting wool socks for soldiers. While her husband labored to provision his soldiers with warm wool stockings, he was also known to have ordered his own from London hosiers. Numerous merchant advertisements include references to imported stockings, or “hose.”

Imported stockings were produced on mechanized knitting looms, or “stocking frames,” an invention credited to William Lee of Cambridge, England in 1589. Improvements to the device in the 18^th century increased not only the speed with which stockings were knitted, but also the fineness, especially when employing silk threads.

The technical achievements of the British stocking frame industry are illustrated in the elegant silk stockings that sit to the right of the homespun sock in Figure 1. The stitches are fine gauge and feature fancy patterning, called “clocking,” at the ankles.

Interestingly, these stockings were never worn. They were taken from the British merchant ship, Hannah, when it was captured south of Long Island in 1781 by the American privateer, Minerva, under the command of American Captain Dudley Saltonstall. The Hannah had been heading to British-controlled New York with a cargo of West Indian goods and gunpowder, valued at 80,000 pounds sterling. It became the largest maritime prize taken during the entire Revolutionary War. Particularly galling, the Hannah was also transporting personal supplies for the British officers stationed in New York City; among them was this pair of silk stockings. The loss of the Hannah spurred the British to retaliate at the Battle of Groton Heights and New London, Connecticut was almost leveled under the attacks of the newly traitorous General Benedict Arnold.

Lauren D. Whitley is the Curator of Historic Textiles and Clothing at Historic Deerfield.

[i] As quoted in Anne L. Macdonald, No Idle Hands: The Social History of American Knitting (New York: Ballentine Books, 1988), 33.