NEEDLE WORK AND ITS HISTORY.
The first step in education ever made by the feminine mind was the art of Needlework. Before women began to read, and when they considered writing as a mystery only to be undertaken by men of nobler parts, Needlework became a sort of medium by which women attempted to express their ideas and embody those affectionate thoughts that must have some expression to keep the full heart from overflowing.
In olden times, when war and warlike fame was the great object of every brave man, woman first learned to write her love and all the mysterious faith which, with the educated or uneducated, is a portion of her being, in those war pennants and embroidered scarfs that were worn by the sterner sex as rewards of valor or expressions of love. Taking a hint from the flowers, God’s own handwriting of love upon the bosom of the earth, she began to symbol the deep feelings of her nature in imperfect imitations, and this was the first step made by woman in the progress of mind.
How rude and uncouth these first attempts were, matters little. They constituted the alphabet of all the bright creations, whether of the pencil or pen, which are the glory of the present century. During the dark ages Needlework was considered an aristocratic, nay, almost a regal accomplishment, and queens vied with each other in the gentle art as ardently as their husbands struggled in the battle-field.
The Lady of a castle in those times made it a portion of her duty to initiate the noble damsels of her household in the mysteries of cross and tent-stitch, just as her lord held noble youths in training for the battle-field.
The amount of Needlework done by the female sovereigns of England and France is really wonderful! The wife of William the Conqueror wrought whole suits of tapestry with her own hands, and poor Mary Stewart has left scores of mournful proofs how great a consolation this accomplishment is to the suffering and afflicted. Her solitude in the various prison castles of England was softened more by this gentle occupation of the hands, than by her literary or conversational talent put together. The most touching memento of this beautiful woman at Holyrood Palace is the basket in which she placed those pretty garments, enriched by her own skill, intended for the infancy of her only son—that son who allowed her to remain a prisoner during his entire youth, rather than endanger the friendship of her royal murderess. Indeed one of the most painful events of her life was connected with this art. After a year of prison life, spent in embroidering a robe for this pusillanimous son, after she had woven as it were her anguish and her tears in the rich fabric, she forwarded the garment to Scotland, accompanied by a letter full of maternal love. This letter was directed to James, Prince of Scotland, not to the King. Holding her own sovereign rights as sacred, how could she acknowledge those of another by her own hands. James sent the robe back because of this omission It is easy to fancy, after this outrage, that poor Mary Stewart might receive her death warrant with comparative composure.