13th century: peliçon and Persian coat

The basic notion of what it means to clothe oneself is far more conservative than fashions that come and go. Take the extreme example of how little has changed in the notion of a man getting dressed to go work in a bank in the last two centuries. A man expects to put on a pair of pants that go to his ankles and are in one solid dark color, a white t-shirt, a lightweight neutral colored long-sleeve shirt and a long, restrictive coat that can’t shed rain and isn’t warm enough to be an overcoat on its own. He even expects to put a colorful, useless thing around his neck. There’s no real reason why this is garb for banks and business. And yet the notion has proven nearly impossible to change, at least until Steve Jobs’ all-black style set a new royal precedent.

In the same way, getting dressed in the 12th and 13th centuries meant putting a surcote over a linen tunic. Fashions only changed in the style of surcote, for both men and women. Nobody was dressed for indoors without an under- and an over-robe; but nobody got dressed for a cold day by adding something else with sleeves.

Women’s clothing took a fairly radical step in the Crusades-era innovation of the Persian coat. It was a surcote but it opened completely at the front like a modern jacket. It fastened with one tie or hook at the front waist, and otherwise hung open. Made of richly decorated silk, it had wide hanging sleeves. It didn’t look anything like past European cold-weather fashions; it spoke strongly of the alien East. It was also the first “coat” for women that could be added if the room was chilly: a very new idea.

At the same time, during the era of Richard the Lion-Hearted there are effigies and references that point to a much warmer, more practical Northern European ladies’ surcote. It was called the “peliçon,” later shortened in French to “pelisse.” “Pelice” meant fur in Norman French. The peliçon was an over-dress lined inside with fur, usually with fur edges at sleeves and dress hem. While the under-dress had long sleeves and reached to the floor, the peliçon’s sleeves were 3/4 and it reached to the knees. It was for indoor wear, but obviously its goal was to keep the lady warm during winter.

The two garments gradually blended in time. First, when summer came and ladies still wanted to look fashionable, they needed fur-free pelisses. The summer pelisse had 3/4 sleeves and came only to the knees, but it was made of silk and no longer fur-lined. Second, the Persian coat was intended to be just an Oriental fad, but it gradually turned into an actual coat.

By Jane Austen’s time, “pelisse” meant a light outdoor coat used only for warmth. Captain Wentworth, in Persuasion, compares the known poor condition of his first ship with something that his female hearers were much more likely to understand:

“I had no more discoveries to make than you would have as to the fashion and strength of any old pelisse, which you had seen lent about among half your acquaintance, ever since you could remember, and which at last, on a very wet day, is lent to yourself.”

Very slowly, a new idea crept into the conservative notion of dress: a thing with sleeves to put on when you’re cold.

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Fitting clothes to the body; 12th-13th cent.

In the second half of the 12th century and moving into the 13th, there were some major steps forward in fitting cloth to the shape of the human body. At the start of the 12th century, around when the Crusades were launched, clothing shapes were very simple: T-shaped tunic with a neck slit; blocky breeches with a drawstring; tubes of cloth that only stayed on the legs because they were tied; round or cone-shaped hat; simple mittens with a drawstring for harsh winters.

First, the cone-shaped hood began to shift into a form that didn’t begin with a semi-circle of fabric. Instead, tailors cut out a shape that is more like a modern coat hood. Where a modern snow hood is round at the back of the head, the tailors cut a long trailing decorative piece that resembled the way the point of the original cone had flopped in back. It could be cut in a deliberate shape this way. Instead of tapering like a real cone, it tended to stick out of the back of the hood in a long tube, often very long. Although it still looked a lot like the original hood, it was fitted better to the human head. The neck could be cut closer to the skin, since the tailor could create lacing or a pin at the front.

Next, wealthy people began to have a different kind of hose cut to go under their robes, which were still at least knee-length. Woven cloth can be cut at right angles to the threads or at a diagonal, called in sewing, “on the bias.” When woven cloth is cut on a bias, the cloth is more flexible. When some tailor turned his hose pattern 45 degrees and cut out the shape of a leg on a bias line, he created a tube that could bend at the knee. Since it could flex and bend with the leg, the hose could be styled closer to the leg. Instead of baggy breeches and saggy “hose” tied on with laces, a gentleman could wear one close-cut set of wool hose.

Throughout the 13th century, the new style of hose caught on. For a long time, its use was restricted to the very wealthy because it was wasteful of fabric. A square yard of fabric could make several vertical-cut tubes of hose, but perhaps only one leg of one pair of bias-cut hose. There were awkward triangle-shaped scraps left over. Tailors learned how to cut smaller irregular patterns out to make sewn-in feet, and these pieces were surely pieced out of the scraps. But bias cutting is always more wasteful than straight cutting. When cloth was so expensive, poor people could not afford flexible bias hose.

The third innovation was in gloves. Gloves were the ultimate sign of wealth for a long time. Poor men’s hands got chapped, or maybe their wives knitted a pair of mittens—or patched together a pair from scraps of woven blanket. Civil rulers and “princes of the church” wore gloves with fingers. Gloves require careful tailoring to wrap fabric around the odd shape of the hand. They must also be made of very thin material. Oxhide worked for shoes, but for gloves, they needed the leather from does, rabbits, or even chickens.

Gloves made of tougher material along the wrist were used for hawking, the ultimate aristocratic sport. Gloves and hawks were associated as closely as polo and the British royal family. Finer gloves were for indoor use; bishops wore them when they officiated at Mass in the cathedral. When people like bishops needed to wear rings, they put them over the gloves, not under them. The gloves were not for cover as much as for display. Fine indoor gloves were heavily embroidered or even jeweled.

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12th century fashion trends

In the late 12th century, we start to see evidence of two fashion quirks that later became very prominent. Both seemed to come to England from Germany when an English princess had to return home after she became a widow. She had been the wife of the German Emperor (Germans continued to claim the “Holy Roman Emperor” title for many generations after the Pope gave it to Charlemagne). It seems likely that the fashion had been knocking around Italy already for most of the 12th century.

One of the trends was to cut the lower hem of a garment into strips, each several inches wide. The edges were secured and outlined with embroidery. The early word for this trend seems to be “dagges.” In the 12th century, just having the wealth to pay someone to overcast all of those edges in silk thread was a big deal. Later, the dagges themselves became very elaborate; for now, they were a novelty even in simple form.

By the end of the 12th century, commoners were wearing dagges on their tunics. Sumptuary laws forbade people below a certain rank, so as to preserve the decoration as a marker for the ruling class. As with all sumptuary laws, they existed mostly to permit officials to fine townsfolk when they wanted to; they were never more than partly obeyed.

(Later in the Middle Ages, some town officials, I think especially in Italy, tried hard to enforce the sumptuary laws. It meant hiring some men to sit at a booth in the city and grab women off the street to ask them, “is that fur you’re wearing?” The average medieval commoner could come up with some kind of “Gosh no, officer, it’s just brown moss” line, and at length they realized how futile it was to attempt real enforcement.)

The other trend was to make a tunic out of two colors. One half might be dark blue or black, the other half white or red and decorated with embroidery. In the 12th century, use of particolor was not as elaborate as it later became.

There’s another interesting note for the 12th century. People wonder what their ancestors wore to bed, and the only clues we have are in art, where kings or Biblical figures are shown in bed. As far as we can tell, in the 11th and 12th centuries, men and women wore their linen undershirt to bed. The men’s was called a sherte (spelling in early English was always wobbly) and the women’s, something like a camise. But once we get into the 1200’s, art shows people in bed naked. Stories that involved someone being surprised in the night, like attacked while in bed, also suggest that they leaped up naked and grabbed some nearby item to cover up. Night clothes didn’t become customary again until the early modern period, when once again, the basic shirt with a long tail became nightshirt, day shirt and drawers all at once.

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12th century hoods

During the early 12th century, working men began wearing a type of hat that was a dominant fashion for several centuries. It was worn in different ways, sort of like the baseball cap.

It was made of either linen or wool, and it began with a semi-circle of fabric sewn into a cone. Near the point of the cone, they cut a face-size oval. They weren’t trying to hide identity like caped crusaders, they were just trying to keep warm and not let midges get in their ears, so the full face showed. The flaring end of the cone draped over the shoulders, often slit in the front to allow it a bit more room. Some hoods flared out into broad capes that extended beyond the shoulders.

It’s a very familiar look from Robin Hood cartoons. We’re used to seeing the hood’s pointy end drooping down at the back, and we expect the wide end of the cone to have some decorative shape, like zigzag. When we see the hood worn like this, it’s not clear that it’s really a cone. Of course, tailors may have modified the cone over time to fit the human body better. The decorative touches we see in cartoons generally came about in the 13th century; working hoods were still plain at first.

Hoods were all-weather, all-purpose menswear. Made of fulled wool, they shed water. Made of linen, they kept the sun off while not overcooking the head. During the 12th century, they were worn straight-up the way God intended. Creativity would wait about 200 years to take notice of such a boring hat. (We’ll get there.)

Nobles did not wear hoods. They had full mantles to cover the whole body, and from pictures, it seems that at this time they wore uncovered heads of usually-long hair to copy Byzantine styles. Beards came and went; old men tended to wear beards more often than young men. Clean-shaved faces were more often the style than not.

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12th century fashion changes

At the end of the 11th century, Europe came in contact with Byzantium and the Saracen Middle East in a big way. Prior to this, contact had been limited to ambassadors and rare travelers. Charlemagne’s successors had been imitating Byzantine robes at court, but few of them had actually been abroad. Now, with the First Crusade, a wide swathe of Europe’s nobles and commoners actually went there and came back.

The first Crusade-related fad was called, in French, the “bliaut.” (Probably the T was still pronounced at that time.) The two defining bliaut traits were that it was made of very lightweight silk and that it was heavily pleated. There were versions for men and for women.

The bliaut for men had a close-fitting top that laced in back. It had long sleeves and a heavily embroidered collar. Hanging below, front and back, was a very wide silk shaped like two semi-circles. Each had been pleated along the straight side until, together, they were shortened enough to fit neatly around the man’s waist. The bliaut skirt just hung there to be decorative; the garment was worn over a cotte (tunic) that took care of actual coverage/warmth issues. The bottom edge was embroidered to help weight down the light silk in its pleats.

Women began wearing corsets in the 12th century. These garments were made of leather, tightly laced at the front and sometimes stiffened more with wood or metal ribs. Later, even men began to wear the “corse” (from med. French, related to “corpse”).

The women’s bliaut began with the wives of Crusader Kingdom officials. For them, the Crusades were all about the bazaar shopping. They bought up silk in unheard-of quantities and brought or shipped it home. Their bliaut was not necessarily modeled on anything the Byzantine women were wearing; it may have been a 12th century dressmaker’s best guess at what to do with all this tissue-paper fabric.

Both the gown and its sleeves were cut of very wide pieces of silk that was gathered, pleated and crimped down to the proper size. The bliaut appears to be the first gown to have a real tailored armhole. A few inches down from the shoulder, the fabric was released into a wide, pleated sleeve hanging almost to the floor. Across the chest, the gathers were released just above the breasts so that the gown flowed in pleats around the body.

The Hollywood negligee look was not what they were after, though, so a “corsage” went over the gown. It was sleeveless, like a V-neck vest, and always close-fitting (laced at back). It was probably made of silk as well, possibly of several lightweight layers. Some corsages were quilted in gold thread along diagonal lines, while others wrapped the lady in a wide hip belt like a cummerbund.

Even before the bliaut was imported, ladies had been working on two trends: defining the waist while draping themselves in ever more fabric. The older way was to have a laced-up waist gown with such excessively voluminous sleeves that they had to get tied in loose knots just to take up fabric and make them manageable. The other way to manage super-long sleeves was to cut a slit halfway up, where the hands actually were, so that fingers could emerge to do needlework. Unlike the lightweight bliaut’s pleated sleeves, these impractical sleeves were often on wool gowns and could serve a second purpose: built-in hand muff.

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11th century fashion

“The centuries that established England’s Norman kingdom and launched the Crusades were the beginning of fashion in Europe. Clothing had been traditional and practical before this, and fashions changed very slowly: clothing a century old did not appear odd. But during the 12th century, fashion began to change every decade or so among the upper classes.”

The 11th century, of course, begins at 1000 AD. Iceland had just accepted Christianity; the Danes had settled in England as farmers. Charlemagne’s empire was divided mainly into West Francia and East Francia. Spain’s Caliphate of Cordoba was broken into about a dozen smaller kingdoms. In 1066, the Danish-French Normans took over ruling England. Italy was stable; in 1088, Bologna began the school that became its university. Pope Urban II called for the first Crusade in 1095.

As these bits of history suggest, the 11th century was a time of increasing peace and prosperity, but not of rapid social change (except for Anglo-Saxons now ruled by Normans). The “Dark Ages” had ended. This stigma-loaded term tends to refer to the period when barbarians (Vikings and Huns) were routinely burning and blackmailing cities. When they stopped, the cities developed rapidly from the more primitive “Dark Ages” society into the high medieval.

Prosperity was the key word in 11th century court fashion. Practicality was out, decoration was in: tassels, feathers, and pearls. Clothing was cut simply but layered on heavily.

Cloaks were lined with fur. Kings wore ermine: that white and black fur we see on their stereotypical robes was made up of many cute eensy-wittle white and black ermines, all sewn together. Every black spot represents another ermine. Tradesmen wore whatever fur they could get: hare, fox, or even wolf (well-washed).

Men wore cottes (tunics) that came to the knees in the 11th century, belted with a leather girdle. The surcote went over the tunic according to changing fashion. Only royalty were permitted to wear mantles, the large cloaks that covered everything. Kings sometimes rewarded messengers for extremely good news by giving them the mantles off their backs; but the messengers sold them (to middlemen, who sold them back to minor royalty?) instead of wearing them. Europeans always took for granted that social classes needed permission for some things beyond simply being able to afford them.

Men’s legs were covered with primitive socks. The next century saw the invention of full-leg hose; at this time they were wearing tubes of cloth held at mid-leg by garters. We can’t tell in pictures if these tubes were knitted or made of woven cloth. They didn’t have foot-shaped ends. They may not have been much better than wrapping the leg in a long band, which at least flexed with motion.

Women wore simple linen gowns underneath generous, heavy colored wool or linen gowns. 11th century gowns were longer than the floor and needed to be lifted, to walk. They were often laced at the back to show the lady’s figure. The 11th century lady showed off her wealth in her girdle, which was tablet-woven, embroidered, or jeweled. For most of the century, the belt was worn snug around the waist, but toward the late 1000’s, it sometimes hung slack, forming a V. We see this style copied in many romantic depictions of medieval ladies.

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Cutting the coat to fit the cloth

Medieval cloth was clearly very expensive. It required the labor of many hours and many hands in order to go from flax or sheep to bolts of cloth. Even with low wages, the final cost made clothing a real investment.

In a time when fabric is so inexpensive, woven offshore by tired, exploited foreigners, we don’t consider the cost of cloth when we design fashions. But it wasn’t so long ago that cloth was directly part of fashion design. During World War II, cloth was rationed like everything else. Weaving mills were sending most of their products to uniforms, bandages and parachutes; little was left for dresses. Fashion during the war tended to shorter, tighter skirts. After rationing ended, fashion designers let out their breath and began designing big, flouncy skirts. The 1950s are known for wide, full, long skirted dresses. (Even so, the attendants at Queen Elizabeth’s coronation found their long, full dresses made of scratchy, cheap fabric that hasn’t held up over time.)

Medieval fabric was always “rationed,” in effect. The poor had to “cut their coats to fit their cloth,” literally. Their tunics and dresses were shorter; their sleeves were 3/4 length. Their cloaks were not as long, and their hoods were not as generous. Their feet were wrapped in the leftover rags of decades-old cloth originally cut for other purposes. They tended to wear everything they owned when the weather got cold; there was no such thing as a change of clothing.

At the top scale, dukes and princes wore long robes with full, gathered skirts that dragged on the floor. Depending on the century’s fashion trends, their sleeves were often longer than their wrists and full enough to get in the way. In one later fashion trend, sleeves were so showy, heavy and impractical that they needed a slit part way up so that hands could come out and actually do something without obstruction.

Women’s gowns over the centuries often had under-chemises with highly decorated tunics and overdresses. These, too, dragged on the floor. In some centuries, gowns had trains that had to be lifted in order to walk.

Household linens had the same proportionate differences. The poor man’s towel was the rag left from the old tunic that finally fell apart two years ago. In the prince’s house, there were two white-bleached linen cloths for every table, and these tablecloths draped right to the floor. Guests at table could use the tablecloth’s edge to wipe their fingers, but sometimes they were given smaller cloths just for hands. Additionally, servants circulated with water and towels. Beds had sheets, blankets and quilts. The wooden bathtub had a linen liner, and its attendants held clean white towels.

Because cloth was such an investment, people cared for it gently and passed it down in their wills. The dead were buried in coarse linen shrouds, but their clothing was passed to relatives. Sheets and towels formed important dowry contributions. When buttons came into use in the 14th century, their main use was for detachable sleeves that could be washed separately from the main shirt. One shirt with two sets of sleeves cost less than two shirts, and sleeves wear out faster. For the same reasons, we don’t have any extant medieval clothes. Everything was recycled. By the time a later age began to value the rapidly-vanishing past, medieval clothing was long since cut up, cut down, and turned to patches.

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Tablet weaving

There was another kind of weaving that was generally done as a home craft. It didn’t produce swathes or bolts of fabric, but its importance can’t be downplayed. In tablet weaving, also called card weaving, the weaver’s quick hands produced dense, colorful straps and belts.

Tablet weaving didn’t need a loom; it could be done anywhere as long as the weaver could tie one end to her waist and the other to a table, post or even tree. A few inches’ wide warp of colored yarns stretched from waist to post. At arm’s length, a set of thin wooden cards clustered along the warp. These tablets had four or more holes in them, and each warp thread ran through a hole. By turning the tablets in groups, rotating them forward or back, the weaver could raise one corner’s holes and threads to the top, then to the underside, then to the top again. It was a very simple way of raising and lowering warp threads in a repetitive pattern.

The tablet weaver kept several balls of colored yarn nearby or wound onto small wooden shuttles. Usually, she had several colors going at once, requiring three or four shuttles to take turns ducking between warp threads. The work moved quickly, since the strap was never more than a few inches wide, and often less. There wasn’t much thought involved, since the tablets turned by rote patterns, backward and forward, and then a different set backward and forward. Weaving in red, blue, yellow, white and black, the weaver made diamonds, stripes, starbursts and checkerboards.

Tablet-woven straps were the decorative touches on most clothing. They were stitched around the hem, sleeves and neck of ladies’ gowns. It was faster to weave a decorative strap than to embroider a solid border of the same size, and the woven strap was stronger and helped the hem hold up better. Tablet-woven belts were good for light use, though leather was needed for storing tools and weapons. Ladies could wear tablet-woven belts, called girdles, to hang their small purses, keys or even small prayer books.

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Weaving with wool

Home and commercial weavers in medieval Europe were mostly working with linen and wool. Cotton and silk weren’t woven in Europe until the late Middle Ages, so we’ll talk about them later.

When linen was woven, it was pretty much finished. It was used for sheets, towels, shirts, and chemises, so it was not usually dyed or finished in other ways. It just had to be stout, soft and white.

Wool, on the other hand, went through many finishing steps. Of course, like linen, it took some processing to become thread. It didn’t need to be retted and broken; it only had to be cleaned (for dirt, dead bugs and burrs) and carded. Carding required two combing tools; one was usually fixed to a table or stand. After the wool had been raked between the two combs a number of times, its fibers were all aligned in the same direction.

Like linen, wool then went onto a distaff and was spun by hand. Wool was easier to spin, due to the nature of the material. Unlike the slick, dry plant fibers of flax, wool’s fibers were naturally oily and covered with microscopic barbs. An experienced spinner could make fine, smooth wool thread because it naturally stuck and twisted together.

Wool was usually dyed after it was spun. Dyeing could be done as a home craft, but by the 11th and 12th centuries, it was also a commercial guild trade. Dyers bought skeins of thread from home spinners and then lowered them into large, boiling vats. Each vat had a mixture of plant colors and a mordant, usually alum, that fixed the dye so it wouldn’t all bleed away. There were three main dye plants: woad blue, madder red, weld yellow.

Weavers bought colored skeins from dyers, strung their large looms with as much warp as they could hold, and wove long, wide sheets of fabric. Most everyday cloth was one plain color, but of course, Scotland’s home weavers were already making tartan plaids. As horizontal counter-balance looms improved, weavers could create patterns such as overshot. In this technique, plain white thread forms a basic repeating over-under-over-under cloth, while bright colors of thicker yarn cross its surface in diamonds and stripes. More harnesses of heddles allowed weavers to make more intricate patterns of goose-eye, twill and eventually damask. (White linens especially permitted the weaver to play with patterns, as we still see in fine white tablecloths today.)

Some cloth went straight to market after it was woven. But a large percent of wool cloth had one last step of preparation. In a time before the discovery of rubber, wool was the closest thing to a waterproof coat. To make it shed water, it had to be felted a little bit. Soaked in stale urine and agitated to make the microscopic hooks bind tightly, woven cloth *filled in* the holes between threads. After it was rinsed and dried, it was brushed; you see the same flannel effect on today’s “camel” wool. The tradesman doing this work was a “fuller.” Fulled cloth was used for outerwear: curtains, cloaks, and blankets.

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Medieval weaving

In the early Middle Ages, most weaving was done at home for the family’s own use. By the late period, most weaving was commercial, carried out as a full-time craft by professionals. The key shift was in equipment cost, and this took place when the horizontal loom’s greater efficiency made it a mandatory investment.

The loom used all across Europe, until the 12th century, was the vertical frame loom. It could weave a piece of cloth as large as the frame, and no larger. In Scandinavia, where vertical looms were still used long after they’d been abandoned in the south, the warp threads hung down straight from the top beam, held tight in clusters by metal doughnut weights. The weaver began at the top and worked downward. Outside Scandinavia, the warp threads were tied to the bottom of the frame and looped over the top beam—and then hung down, held tight in clusters by metal doughnut weights. These looms were worked by starting at the bottom and moving up.

I have to admit here that I’m not super clear on how the vertical loom was managed, but this is the best I was able to figure out: the warp threads looped around a beam so that the threads did not lie flat with each other, but were at first separated by the width of the beam. It was easy enough to pass a shuttle between them. The trick was to reverse the order, so that the behind-lying one came forward. This was accomplished with a long heddle stick; it had short strings tied to these back-lying warp threads. When the weaver pulled it forward, the warp threads crossed and now the weft shuttle’s pass locked the previous weft in place. Without forward tension on the heddle stick, those threads again hung back. Every other shuttle pass required the heddle stick to be pulled forward. Another method just used two heddle sticks, with each one attached to a different set of alternating warp threads.

There were some real drawbacks to this loom. It required three hands: one to pull on the heddle stick, and two to pass the shuttle through. It made the weaver stand up all day, and eventually the weaver was bending in an uncomfortable position and then squatting. Chiefly, never mind these discomforts, it could only make a piece of cloth as big as the frame. Some late improvements allowed the top or bottom beam to wind up finished cloth and expose more warp, but most of the time, this wasn’t so. Ship sails were pieced together out of squares. Ever notice that cartoon viking ships had striped sails? Each stripe would be as wide as the frame loom.

The horizontal counter-balance loom is familiar to us because its technology has changed little since the 12th century. Back and front beams wind up the warp, slowly rolling up finished cloth at the back and unrolling more thread at the front. In the center, a vertical “castle” has free-moving racks that can lift (via foot pedals) every other thread or any other pattern you want. Once these looms had two heddle frames, it wasn’t long until weavers noticed that four or six made the loom no harder to manufacture or operate but allowed for twills, diaper weaves, and even weaving a tube. Not only that, but the looms could be made double-wide with a bench for two men to sit, each one throwing or catching the shuttle that now moved slickly along a floor of warp threads.

The problem was that these looms were very expensive. Home weavers couldn’t build them out of a few sanded tree trunks, and they needed special metal parts beyond lead doughnuts. So weaving became a professional craft. Weaving workshops tended to be staffed by men who did not own the equipment, so they were the first step toward factories with hourly laborers, in an economy otherwise filled with tool-owning self-employed craftsmen.

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