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Terminology: What is botany wool?

Botany wool, often known simply as botany (though I find the ‘wool’ part helpful in differentiating it from the general ‘flowers and trees’ type of botany) is an early name for merino wool produced in the Antipodes.

Walking Suit, J. Hartjen, ca. 1905, American, wool, silk, fur, Met

(OK, so I’m not 100% sure that suit is made of Botany wool.  But it might very well be.  And it’s spectacular.  And there are only so many images of socks I can show you).

In the 19th century it was spun into cloth and used in outer wear, and so the term ‘botany wool’ could mean the fabric, not the raw materials.  In the 20th century it has mainly been used in knit sweaters and hosiery, though as late as 1922 you could still buy ‘Botany wool’ serge.

Socks of botany wool, Evening Post, 14 July 1938, Page 30

According to most dictionaries, the term arose in the 1880s, when the Australian wool industry was established enough to export in reasonable quantities.  However, there are advertisements describing cloth as ‘botany’ in New Zealand at the end of the 1870s, so it may be a bit older. It was the main term used for merino wool in the Southern Hemisphere at least until WWII, after which it was gradually replaced by the term ‘merino’ (which had previously only referred to Spanish wool), though some manufacturers still describe items as being made from merino/botany wool to this day.

Stockings labelled ‘merino’ rather than ‘Botany wool’, Harrod’s, ca. 1960, British, merino wool, nylon, Met

Botany wool advertisements begin appearing in New Zealand newspapers (and one assumes that New Zealand would have been an obvious market) with regularity in the early 1890s.

The name comes from Botany Bay in New South Wales (so named because Captain Cook’s on-board botanist was so charmed by the plethora of flowers and trees in the area), which, like a number of locations in the Southern Hemisphere (*cough, cough, New Zealand*) produces superb merino wool.  An 1886 article on the frozen mutton trade describes the origins of the term:

Good merino wool, it does not matter from whence it comes, is known as ‘Botany’ simply because the New South Wales people were the first to send Home [to England] wool of that particular description.

Sheep that produce fine, soft, merino-type wool were introduced into Australia and New Zealand at the end of the 18th century and in the first half of the 19th century, with the most notable groups being the flocks brought by the seriously awesome Eliza Furlong.  At least one story claims that George III had a suit made from the first lot of Australian merino to be turned into cloth.

While the term was not indicative of where the wool came from, wool itself probably came from all over Australia (and probably, at various points, New Zealand) there actually were wool works in Botany Bay Sydney in the 19th century, and into the early 20th century.  A fire destroyed the works in the 1890s, but they were rebuilt.  The striking and industrial action that plagued the industrialised world in the early 20th century shut down the works on a number of occasions – in 1911, and again after WWI in 1919.  The wool industry saw a slump after WWI, as prices were kept artificially high during the war, helping the industry in the short-term, but hurting it in the long-term, as the high prices encouraged people to invest in alternatives such as artificial silk (rayon).

Note the emphasis on ‘British’ during WWII, Evening Post, 20 November 1944, Page 7

While wool stockings don’t sound that fun, compared to other alternatives, knit merino must have been very comfortable to wear.  Have you ever worn merino wool?  It’s fabulous.  Lovely and scrummy and soft and warm and not at all itchy.  Those of you in the Northern Hemisphere where it is hard to find don’t know what you are missing!

Stockings stamped ‘botany’, 1920s, American, merino wool, Met

Some Botany wool is described as “Cashmere finished”.  I’m not entirely sure what this meant.  Was there cashmere added?  Or was it simply a brushed effect that made it feel softer?  Botany wool was also blended with other fibres.  In the 1890s you could buy ‘Cammelaine‘ a yarn for socks, of blended botany wool and camel hair.  In the 1920s you could buy “pure botany wool llama socks” – leaving one to wonder exactly what those were made of!

Cashmere finished hose, Ellesmere Guardian, 7 August 1931, Page 7

Botany wool appears to have been highly regarded worldwide as a high-quality, luxury fabric, but the British governments still took steps to promote it.  In 1934 Queen Elizabeth (the Queen Mother) bought “a child’s jersey and skirt suit in Botany wool, decorated with Mickey Mouse pictures” at a display of British manufactured textiles.  Was it just a publicity stunt (in the best possible sense) or did Princess Elizabeth or Princess Margaret have a Disney themed frock as a child?  Hard to imagine!

A cheap suit with good fabric – The Press, 12 March 1908, Page 5

Update:  Here is a 1960s jacket of

1960s jacket of botany worsted wool thedreamstress.com

1960s jacket of botany worsted wool

1960s jacket of botany worsted wool thedreamstress.com

The label of the 1960s jacket of botany worsted wool

Sources:

O’Hara, Georgina, The Encyclopedia of Fashion: From 1840 to the 1980s.  London: Thames and Hudson Ltd.  1986

Dictionary.Com “Botany Wool”.

Fabulous hats of Spring 1940

I just love this ad for hats that appeared in the Evening Post in September 1940.  Isn’t the little bowler with cherries just delicious?

 

Sadly, C Smiths has long since closed, and though the building still stands it now holds a prosaic collection of shoe stores and pharmacies and a gym, and renovators are gleefully stripping all its Art Deco charm from the interior and replacing it with the corporate colours of whatever the latest chain store to occupy the space are.  The romance of an old department store that once sold fabulous hats is long gone.

Rate the Dress: Elizabeth of Bohemia pre-bohemia

Last week there was no Rate the Dress, as I rated the Oscars instead.  I hope you enjoyed that, and thank you for your patience.

The week before last I presented a very deco 1920s frock, and quite a few of you were vocally NOT IN FAVOUR of it.  The poor thing got compared to a kindergarten uniform, a girl scout uniform, maternity dress, Nancy Drew (and you didn’t think that was a good thing), air hostess on a 1970s children’s show, or just the airplane the air hostess would be in.  Maybe overwhelmed by the dislike, many of you quietly gave it rather high ratings, but it wasn’t enough to keep the much-maligned frock from a sad 4.8 out of 10.

This week, let’s go back a few centuries, and look at an always contentious ‘child in an adult frock’ Rate the Dress.

For a 17th century royal, Princess Elizabeth, daughter of Anne of Denmark and James I of Scotland and England, had a lucky life.  She had a idyllic childhood.  She wasn’t married until she was 16 (hey, that was late for the 17th century!) despite numerous suitors vying for the political advantage of her hand.  By most accounts her marriage to Frederick V, Elecor Palatine, (over her mothers objections) was very happy despite the numerous setbacks and tragedies they suffered as rulers and parents.

Her early life  wasn’t all fun and games though, unless you count dress ups.  I’m pretty sure not a lot of frolicking went on in this sumptuous frock.  It may reveal something of Elizabeth’s personality though.  She seems to have had an affinity for plants and gardens: her gown is embroidered or brocaded with elaborate botanical examples, and she famously created the Garden of Palatinate, the ‘8th Wonder’ of the late Renaissance world, at her new home of Heidelberg.

Elizabeth Stuart, later Queen of Bohemia, 1606, Robert Peale the Elder, Metropolitan Museum of Art

So what do you think?  Does your cynical side remind you that Peale’s portrait was basically an advertisement for the eligibility of the then 10 year old princess, and ruin any aesthetic appreciation of the dress?  Or does the glimpse into the princesses’ personality make an adult frock acceptable on a child?  Or is it just so fabulously beautiful that it doesn’t matter?

Rate the Dress on a Scale of 1 to 10