An interesting modern development in glove making, and one which undoubtedly has come to stay, is the vogue of the silk glove whose popularity has grown to surprising proportions. Oddly enough, the first gloves to be introduced into Europe for women in the thirteenth century were made of linen, and were of very simple design. These may be regarded as the ancestor of the chamoisette and cotton doeskins of our day; while the knitted silk, or “purled” hand coverings, worn by the early clergy, suggested perhaps the gloves of silk fabric so widely in favor for the last half century. Quaint lace “mitts” and gloves of spider-webby texture imparted to the costumes of our grandmothers a charming femininity. But the practical silk glove as a substitution for kid is a comparatively recent achievement of manufacturers who are trying their best to meet the constantly multiplying new demands of modern men and women.

The most hasty comparison of the earliest fabric gloves with those produced in our own times cannot fail to impress one with the tremendous strides the glove art has taken since it became a really modern industry. The silk and linen gloves of mediÆval days were loose and almost shapeless; they possessed neither fit nor individuality. Roughly measured to clothe the hands of a king, they might have been worn almost equally well by the lowliest of his subjects. They were bulky and awkward, concealing, rather than delineating, the character of the hands beneath.

Gloves of leather and kid were first to acquire those traits of individuality which were made possible by Xavier Jouvin’s invention of an exact system of measurements, adapted to virtually every size and type of human hand. The perfection of fabric gloves, however, lagged behind. Even silk gloves were indifferently made, and could be had in only a very limited range of styles and sizes. As for cotton gloves, these were conspicuous for their ugliness and cheapness, up to within a very few years ago. And yet, to-day, we have velvety chamoisette and imitation doeskins which, upon the hand of the wearer, are so deceptive that they readily are mistaken for the soft-finished leathers from which they have been named. These fabric gloves, made of white, yellow and many other colored textiles, woven especially for this purpose, are supple, snug fitting, and possess a style of their own. They retain their shape even with repeated washing, and they wear amazingly well. It cannot be disputed that they fill a long felt need in both the masculine and the feminine wardrobes.

Particularly in warm weather the fabric glove, or the silk glove, almost puts out of business the leather glove, which seems heavy, overheating, unsanitary, and entirely out of keeping both with the light costume and the altered mood of the wearer. As summer approaches, we naturally long to have everything about our persons fresh, easily renewable, dainty, light and cool to the touch. Leather and kid repell us for ordinary wear. Only the finest and thinnest of kid dress gloves find a favored place in the summer wardrobe; while the fabric glove, in countless new guises, becomes increasingly popular with every successive season. Through June, July and August, fabric and silk are worn almost exclusively—and if the period be short, during these weeks at least the washable glove is without a rival.

Just as the chamoisette, or cotton doeskin, provides an acceptable substitute for cape and lambskins for general wear, so the silk glove—the Italian or Milanaise—becomes the dress glove for summer and is appropriate for all except the most formal occasions. The silk glove, indeed, has recently been brought to a very high state of perfection through the growing skill of textile experts and inventors, and by the application of the best glove-cutting and sewing methods; the latter, which have worked such changes in the style and fit of kid gloves, have done no less, proportionately, for the elevating of the silk glove. The soft, delicate, yet firm Milanaise silk fabric now clothes the hands as smoothly, and renders their shape as comely and as full of character, as the kid glove long has been wont to do. Indeed, it disguises the hand even less, and is a real test of shapely knuckles and tapering finger tips. Also, the glistening silk itself is peculiarly seductive, at the same time that it delights the wearer with its luxurious and cleanly contact.

While kid gloves must be regarded as an art whose secrets are best known to the French, fabric, and particularly silk, gloves are manufactured with enviable success in our own country. Doubtless one of the most interesting glove mills to visit is a well-known factory located in the Alleghany industrial district of Pennsylvania, which, though occupying a comparatively small area, is wonderfully complete and efficient, and turns out by the latest approved methods a large output of high class Milanaise gloves. The president of this company, who is hands, feet and brains to his mill—also a practical inventor and a lover of machines—has made it possible, by courteous attention to every requirement of the trade, to place upon the market a superior product, and to win and hold the confidence of his business associates.

A visit to this particular mill is doubly affording to the student of glove-making because here they weave and dye their own silk fabric. We are able to follow the process from a skein of raw silk to the finished glove in all its accuracy and beauty. Every step in its evolution is attended with admirable carefulness and despatch—the glove emerging almost miraculously from the crude material as it is passed swiftly from one operator to another, each worker contributing one factor more to its final perfection.

The silk strand arrives “in the raw” from Japan, packed in straw bales, and might easily be mistaken for a shipment of tea. In this state the silk resembles fine white hair or, even more closely, spun sugar. It is sent in quantities, as needed, to the spinners, and on its return is put through a boiling process to remove a gummy substance inherent in the crude product.

The strand is now ready to make the acquaintance of the machines. First of all, it must be wound by machinery upon spools. This process is known, simply, as the winding process. The neatly, evenly wound silk is then conveniently fed from the spools onto other machines which transform it into the warp or foundation for the silk fabric. These warps vary greatly in width—some being like ribbons, measuring about six inches across, others measuring 144 and even 168 inches. They are delicate webs of shining silk with the threads running in a single direction—vertically, to be exact.

Weaving machines next receive the warped silk. Each of these machines is equipped with four thousand needles, or twenty-eight needles to every inch, which knit up the silken web into cloth. As fast as woven, it is dropped and rolled upon a long cylinder; it is very soft and satiny and astonishingly resembles a mass of molasses candy which has been “pulled” until it is snowy white and of glistening smoothness. It is now ready to be dyed. The dyeing is one of the few primitive steps retained in the entire process. This operation is performed by hand, and the material is lifted and worked on long sticks to ensure evenness of color. No machine is capable of giving such satisfactory results.

The final step in preparing the fabric, however—the dressing or finishing—is done by means of an elaborate machine, consisting of sets of copper cylinders or rollers. The wet, freshly dyed silk cloth is brought to the dressing machine a hopeless looking mass of soppiness and wrinkles. It is rolled upon a large cylinder which passes it on to one smaller in diameter, which, in turn, feeds it off onto a rectangular frame provided with rows of sharp points, like pin points, on both edges. Between these points the silk is stretched as tight as the inflated skin of a balloon. The frame bearing the taut silk is then carried through a long, narrow, heated tent, some twelve feet in extent. It emerges at the opposite end, thoroughly pressed, smooth and finished, and is again rolled on cylinders with layers of paper between the breadths of the silk, in case the fabric may still be a trifle damp, in order to ensure the perfection of the silk.

The Milanaise or Italian silk is now ready for the glove makers. First it passes into the hands of the cutters, who block out and cut by means of dies pieces of silk of the right size for each glove. These dies vary according to the many different sizes of gloves. Another set of cutters takes these pieces and places them in punches which mechanically cut out the shapes of the fingers and the reinforcements for the tips of the first three fingers. These reinforcements hang onto the ends of the fingers. Still other cutters cut out gussets, fourchettes and thumbs from scraps of the silk cloth, to be fitted into the glove when it is sewn together later. In this way every morsel of the silk is utilized.

Before the gloves at this stage are handed over to the sewers they are stamped in a press with the name of the company which has ordered them for its trade. Aluminum leaf is used in this process, and silver lettering is the result.

Women seated at sewing machines now receive the cut, marked gloves, and the first step toward joining their many parts consists in stitching the reinforcements onto the ends of the fingers. This, of course, gives the double finger tip and is a protection against wear. The backs of the gloves next are finished with fancy embroidery stitchery. In the simplest and cheapest gloves this is accomplished by a single operation. But as gloves rise in quality and price, the embroidered backs become more elaborate.

The thumbs now are stitched together individually and then are put into the glove itself. The next set of sewers stitch in the fourchettes—or sections forming the sides of the fingers—seam up all the fingers, and close up the long seam running from end to end of the glove. Passing into other hands, the openings at the wrists are skilfully bound and stiffened, or faced. Trimmers clip off all superfluous silk in the seams and turn the gloves right side out on wooden sticks. The wrists are then neatly hemmed. Clasps of metal, pearl, or covered with the silk, are stamped into the wrist facings by machinery—and the glove is ready for the examiner.

This is one of the most important steps in the whole process. It guarantees the perfect condition of every pair of gloves which leaves this factory, and ensures the merchant and his customer against any possibility of fraud in handling or buying the output of this company. The finished glove is turned on a stick resembling the glove stretcher commonly used at the counter; every seam and crevice is carefully tested and scrutinized. If no flaw is discovered the glove is pronounced ready for the packing room.

In order that the goods may present the finest appearance possible and that it may be restored to perfect freshness and shapeliness after passing through so many hands in the making, the gloves are placed on wooden forms in the packing room and enclosed in a heated box for from six to seven minutes. They are then taken out, slipped off the forms, and given to operators who stitch them together in pairs, label and tie them, and pack them in pasteboard boxes according to size and color. The finished glove is now ready to be placed on sale, and is fit to tempt the most discriminating customer of either sex.

But while the silk glove of recent years has become a truly progressive industry, let it not be imagined that the kid glove to-day is resting upon its laurels—great as its historical prestige certainly is! The methods of kid glove manufacture are being tirelessly improved upon; the product itself is of finer grade than ever before, it presents greater variety, it is all the time more cleverly adapted to modern uses. But only the designer of new styles in this important phase of apparel can fully appreciate the possibilities of the glove art as they open before him at the present hour.

The designer of French kid gloves, it goes without saying, is an artist. He may not be a Frenchman, however. It is a mistake to suppose that all the originality and all the inspiration to create a beautiful article of dress, acceptable to the fastidious of every land, must be of French origin. French influence, to be sure, plays an invaluable part in the education of such artists; but an American, with long training in the glove business, may have both the taste and the talent to invent glove masterpieces which will be eagerly adopted, not only in New York, but also in Paris. A few American experts actually have accomplished this thing, and their work is not to be lightly mentioned and passed over. It deserves our very special attention.

An artist who designs kid gloves, first of all has the feeling for gloves as gloves. His object is to originate something beautiful in glove form. Next, he knows the technique of glove-making from A to Z, just as the painter knows his pigments, the laws of color and of drawing. The glove designer realizes the physical limitations of his art, and equally he divines the developments of which that art is susceptible. He is thoroughly familiar with the materials at his disposal, with the machines and the skilled workers he must employ to execute his ideas.

At the same time, he has to be something of a journalist; he must keep his finger on the public pulse, and be able to prophesy what styles men, and especially women, will take kindly to wearing a season hence. Gloves, like everything else in dress, must satisfy the demands of fashion. They must change because life itself is change. They must adapt themselves to the costumes the shops are showing, to the mode of the hour, the latest conception of smartness and good taste.

In the hands of the designer of practical experience, who is also an artist, this becomes possible. Yet, to most people, gloves would appear a very limited field for the expression of originality! Examine, then, some of the new designs for this year and season. They will answer the question whether so simple and necessarily uniform an article as the modern glove is capable of much artistic variation, and from them also we can learn how such novelties are evolved.

Every large glove company has its own classical models—that is, there are certain standard styles of kid gloves of the best manufacture which virtually do not change from season to season. These have names, which are as well known in the glove trade as the names of real laces, of old, established design, to exporters and importers of that delightful commodity. For instance, in a famous glove shop on Fifth Avenue, New York, we are introduced to three classical styles—the Florine, the Seville and the IsÈre. These are all fine French gloves, of a cut and finish familiar to many of us. They are the foundation of all the other styles, which are simply clever variations of these three.

For example, the Florine, a simple, overseam glove, acquires a one-inch cuff of a contrasting color—and with it the romantic title of Bandallette. Many beautiful color combinations may be seen in the new Bandallette—alabaster with a brown cuff, canary with white, gunmetal with pale grey.

The Seville is distinguished by its crochet-embroidered backs, affording a much heavier finish than the stitching which decorates the Florine and the IsÈre. A deeply fringed cuff of kid is added—and lo, the Spanish cavalier becomes a knight of quite another cycle! Hiawatha, this picturesquely slashed glove of purely American inspiration is called—most reminiscent of the fringed decorations of aboriginal chieftains is the odd device which gives it its new-world bizarrerie and flavor. It is especially striking in pure white and black.

On the other hand, a two-inch cuff sporting large diamonds of white kid set in a black border—or the colors may be reversed—is known as the Van Dyck, and doubtless has caught something of the character of early Flemish design. The Van Metor may be mentioned as similar. This is a particularly beautiful glove when made in white kid, stitched with black, and adorned with white cuffs, scalloped or pinked, and appliquÉd with black kid cut in deep, sharp points which taper upward.

The IsÈre is especially adapted for variations of a dainty, delicate character. While the Seville lends itself best to two-toned embroidery in handsome, heavy effects, on the backs, the IsÈre is displaying just now on a white kid model rows of fine, black feather stitching between slender lines of plain stitching.

Another distinguished glove, the work of the same expert designer, is the Fielder, vaguely reminiscent of an old English hunting glove. In black, with a very long wrist, the striking feature of the Fielder is the deep, fan-shaped piece of white set into the wrist on the under side; it also fastens with a cleverly adjusted strap, clasped with a white pearl fastener. This is a very dashing glove.

A black glacÉ with white stitching has a fancy embroidered design on the back which gives to it its title of Dagger. The dagger is delightfully managed in conventionalized form, and reminds one of the adornments on crested gloves of ancient days.

Nothing could be more exquisite than the new gloves embroidered with bow-knots. If they are black, the bow-knots are in white; if white, the graceful design is embroidered in black. Either effect is charming; but the white gloves seem redolent of old valentine customs, when the true lovers’ knot might well have appeared upon a perfumed pair of dainty gift gloves such as these. The wrists also are parti-colored, gaily striped in white and black, like Pierrette.

A very long-wristed, modish glove is the Garnett, in white kid, with four black straps confining the fulness of the flaring cuff which is lined with black, and all the stitching black. Indeed, while delicate tints are seen in many of the novelties, the effectiveness of the new designs is best grasped in the black and white combinations. In any case, mere description gives little or no notion of the many interesting, beautiful styles which are appearing—nor of how much imagination and invention goes into the devising of these styles from season to season.

There is a world of comfort, too, in the thought that while such artists as these continue to concern themselves with gloves as a thing of beauty—gloves for gloves’ sake—we may rest assured that commercialism will not devour the more subtle distinctions of life. If such a trifle, let us say, as our gloves is being zealously guarded and saved to the canons of good taste, certainly we may hope to retain a true sense of elegance, and our requirements in respect to the little niceties which make up the general deportment of a people shall be continually elevated.

If the foregoing description of the gloves of the hour may have seemed redundant, or of too ephemeral interest, to the reader, let him pause and reflect that, after all, we are ourselves makers of glove history; and it may be that glove lovers of the future will be as grateful to find on record the gloves of our times, as we have been gratified to rediscover the glove annals of remote periods of human history.