When Color Was Made of Roots and Risk: The Art & Alchemy of Antique Thread Dyeing of the 1800s

Antique thread dyeing in the 1800s: beauty, chemistry, and a darker side

(The above cover image is a historical collection of over 10,000 dyes at Technical University Dresden, Germany)

If you’ve ever held an antique sampler up to the light and wondered why a once-bold pink now reads as soft peach or why a green looks oddly bruised and smoky, you’re seeing the long story of dye chemistry written right into the fibers. The 1800s were a turning point, centuries-old natural dye traditions were still very much alive, but the Industrial Revolution brought new pigments, new processes, and (sometimes) very real danger.

One of the most striking examples of color shift can be seen in my Fanny Johns Sampler, 1868. At first glance, the fully stitched background appears to be worked in broad areas of green. Had I never removed the sampler from its frame, I would have assumed these were intentional color choices. Only when the piece was opened did the story reveal itself: the reverse shows the entire background was originally stitched in black wool. Time and light transformed those blacks into softened greens. This suggests that Fanny likely did not purchase all of her black threads at once, as we often do today, but worked with wool that had been dyed at different times or by different methods, each aging in its own way. The sampler quietly records those differences, preserving not just her stitches, but the history of the thread itself.

Check out the difference from front to back of the sampler

(Fanny Johns Sampler 1868)

In the 1800s, iron was the key element that caused black wool dyes to shift to other colors (like brownish or greenish hues) because iron salts, often from rusty water or iron sulfate (copperas), reacted with tannins and other dye components, weakening fibers and causing blacks to fade, revealing underlying yellows or browns, while later synthetic dyes introduced new color possibilities from coal tar, but iron remained a common factor in traditional fading. 

 

Below is an overview of how dyeing worked in the 19th century, why some dyes were deadly, why so many colors shift or fade, what fibers were most commonly dyed, and how a modern stitcher can safely experiment with “dyes from Mother Earth” at home.

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(MET 1868, most likely died with Scheele's green dye)

A quick history of dyeing over the centuries

Long before synthetic chemistry, dyers built color from plants, insects, lichens, and minerals, plus a lot of skill.

Ancient world:

Indigo/woad blues, madder reds, tannin-rich browns, saffron and weld yellows, and complex multi-bath dyeing were already established. Mordants (fixatives) were known early and used to bind color to fiber.

Medieval to early modern Europe:

Guild dyers refined recipes and guarded trade secrets; vibrant reds (kermes, later cochineal) became status symbols.

16th–18th centuries:

Global trade transformed palettes, cochineal (a scale insect dye) flooded European markets with intense crimson; logwood became central to purples and blacks. 

19th century:

Natural dyes remained common, but synthetic dyes arrived fast after 1856 (mauveine / “Perkin’s mauve”), changing fashion and industry almost overnight. 

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What materials were used to dye thread in the 1800s?

1) The dye sources (color-makers)

Natural dyes were still widely used
Blues: indigo/woad
Reds/pinks: madder, cochineal
Yellows: weld (Weld dye comes from the plant Reseda luteola, also known as Dyer's Rocket or Dyer's Weed, a biennial wildflower native to Eurasia that produces a brilliant, colorfast yellow dye from its flowers, leaves, and seeds, rich in the flavonoid pigment luteolin), another is fustic ( primarily Maclura tinctoria - Dyer's Mulberry or Old Fustic, a member of the mulberry family, producing rich yellow and orange colors from the flavonoid pigment morin), 
various barks/leaves; also “quick but fugitive” yellows (some fade rapidly)
Purples/blacks/greys: logwood (often overdyed or modified with iron). Logwood dye comes from the heartwood of the Haematoxylum campechianum tree, a natural dye source prized for producing rich purples, blues, greys, and blacks.
Synthetic dyes (coal-tar/aniline dyes) spread from the mid-1800s onward, brighter, often cheaper, and mass-producible. 

2) Mordants and assistants (the “magic glue”)

Many natural dyes don’t strongly bond to fiber on their own. Dyers used mordants, usually metal salts to lock color in:

Alum (aluminum salts): the classic all-purpose mordant

Iron (ferrous sulfate / “copperas”): darkens (“saddens”) colors, helps blacks/greys

Historically also used (but more hazardous): tin, copper, chrome, lead mordants and modifiers. These chemicals mattered for antiques because they can also contribute to long-term fiber damage (“dye rot”), especially with harsher mordants. 

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What fibers were most often dyed?

In household and commercial thread/textile work of the 1800s, you most often see:

Wool and silk (protein fibers):

generally dye readily and richly, especially with many natural dyes.

Cotton and linen (cellulose fibers):

can be dyed beautifully, but often need more preparation/mordanting (and sometimes tannins) to get strong, lasting color.

That difference is one reason antique linens and cotton grounds can age very differently from the stitched silks or wools on top.

How flax was actually used in the 18th–19th centuries

Linen (flax) was prized for different reasons

Flax was valued for it's strength, durability smoothness and cleanliness. 

As a result, linen was very often left undyed or only lightly colored.

Common historical uses:

shirts, shifts, undergarments → white or off-white
household linens → bleached or lightly tinted
sampler grounds → natural, cream, or softly aged tones

This is why so many antique samplers sit on pale linen grounds with the color concentrated in the stitches themselves.

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When flax was dyed

Flax was dyed, just less frequently and differently:

Typical linen colors in history

Light blues (especially indigo)
Soft yellows and buffs
Tans, greys, and browns
Blue-greys and weathered greens (often from over-dyeing)

These were a lower-saturation, more “workaday” or utilitarian and sometimes intentionally subdued.

Deep reds, purples, or brilliant greens on linen were uncommon and usually less successful than on wool or silk.

Which makes Margarete Olsdatter's Sampler so much more intriguing as the original was stitched on bright red linen.

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Samplers: a perfect example of fiber roles

In most 18th–19th century samplers 
Linen = the canvas (stable, pale, long-lasting)
Silk or wool = the color (vivid, expressive, status-linked)
That division wasn’t accidental, it was practical, aesthetic, and economic.

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Was dyed linen ever fashionable?

Yes, but usually in muted palettes or for aprons, workwear, bed hangings or in regions with strong local dye traditions. (like the Olsdatter Sampler - the choice of a red base fabric should be entire separate blog)
Even then, the colors tend toward what we now call “antique tones”: softened, mineral, earth-derived.

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Why this matters today (for reproductions & hand dyeing)

If you’re aiming for historical accuracy bright linen grounds are more a modern aesthetic.
Soft, lightly dyed, or natural linen are more period-correct.
In other words linen was meant to whisper, not shout.

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When color turned dangerous: deadly dyes and toxic fashion

Not every “dye problem” was a gentle fade. Some 19th-century colors were hazardous, especially certain bright greens.

Arsenic greens (the infamous bright Victorian green)

Pigments/dyes associated with arsenic (such as “Scheele’s green” and later “emerald/Paris green”) were used across consumer goods in the 1800s wallpapers, artificial flowers, and, at times, textiles and fashion items. Contemporary reporting and later historical investigation connect these greens with illness risks, especially for workers who handled the materials regularly. 

The grim irony: the more vivid and “fashionable” the green, the higher the chance it came with a chemical price.

Why it hit workers hardest

Even when wearers were affected, the greatest exposure was often in manufacturing, dust, powders, repeated handling, and poorly ventilated workspaces. National Geographic’s overview of “killer clothing” emphasizes how occupational exposure could be far more dangerous than occasional contact. 

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Why antique colors fade or change into different colors

Light is one of the great editors of history. Many dyes are not lightfast, meaning they break down with exposure to daylight or display lighting. Museum conservation research notes that serious fading can occur on surprisingly short timescales in display conditions, and that preventing fading is difficult, only slowing it is realistic. 

Common antique color "stories” you might see

Purples from logwood can drift toward browns/greys or lose vibrancy because logwood is not especially lightfast unless modified (often with iron). 

Blues can lighten unevenly; some testing notes indigo can fade noticeably under strong exposure, and behavior varies by fiber type. 

Reds/pinks (including some natural reds) may bleach toward peach, tan, or a ghosted blush under prolonged light.

Mixed shades (like greens made by overdyeing yellow + blue) can “split” as one component fades faster, leaving unexpected undertones.

This is why two samplers stitched with “the same color” originally can look different today, light history, storage, washing, air pollutants, and fiber chemistry all leave fingerprints.

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Which dyes are still used today?

Quite a few natural dyes never truly disappeared; they simply moved from industrial default to specialist/traditional use:

Indigo remains important (including modern denim dyeing, though often synthetic indigo is used industrially).

Cochineal/carmine is still used as a colorant (notably in foods and cosmetics). 

Logwood is still used by traditional dyers and even as a laboratory stain, though dyers treat it as more light-sensitive. 

On the synthetic side, modern dye chemistry is vast and generally far more regulated than the “wild west” years of early coal-tar dyes.

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Home dyeing with “Mother Earth”: natural dyes a beginner can try safely

If you want to experiment at home (and get that softly complex, antique-adjacent look), the safest entry point is: plant dyes + alum mordant + good ventilation + dedicated pots.

Beginner-friendly natural dye sources used by hobby dyers:

Onion skins (golds, ambers)
Avocado pits/skins (soft pinks to salmon, depending on water and mordant)
Black walnut hulls (rich browns; can be quite strong)
Tea/coffee (tans; often more “stain-like” than washfast dye)
Madder (warm reds; more traditional “true dye” behavior)
Logwood (purples/greys/blacks; handle with extra care about light exposure) 

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Why this matters for antique needlework lovers

Understanding how thread was dyed and how those dyes have changed over time, deepens the way we look at antique needlework. The colors in an old sampler are not simply decorative choices; they are physical records of knowledge, trade, labor, and lived experience.

Every hue tells us something about what was available, what was affordable, and what was valued at the moment the thread was dyed. A soft, silvery blue may point to indigo that has gently weakened with time. A rose that now reads as peach or parchment may once have been brighter, its intensity slowly softened by decades of daylight. Even uneven or “incorrect” colors, greens that lean brown, purples that slip toward grey, often reveal deliberate historical processes such as over-dyeing, iron modification, or the natural instability of certain dyestuffs.

For those who study or reproduce samplers, these subtleties matter. They explain why two pieces stitched with the same materials can age very differently, and why perfect color matching is neither possible nor desirable. Antique needlework was never static; it was and still is in conversation with time.

This knowledge also invites greater empathy for the original makers. Many of the young girls who stitched these works had no control over the quality or safety of the dyes they used. Some threads were colored with substances that we now know were harmful, and many were expected to fade. (can you imagine licking the floss to thread the needle....) The sampler, then, becomes more than a lesson in stitches or alphabets it becomes a testament to resilience, adaptation, and care taken within the limits of what was known.

For collectors and caretakers, understanding dye behavior also informs preservation choices. Awareness of light sensitivity, iron-based degradation, and fiber-specific aging helps guide how pieces are displayed, stored, and handled. Choosing lower light levels, rotating displays, or favoring facsimiles for long-term exhibition becomes an act of stewardship rather than restriction.

For modern stitchers and designers working in reproduction or historically inspired styles, this history offers permission to embrace quiet color. The softened palettes seen in antiques, mushroom greys, faded blush, stormy blue, worn gold, are not flaws to be corrected, but authentic outcomes of traditional dye practices. Reproductions that incorporate gentle variation, muted tones, and subtle imbalance often feel more truthful than those that aim for modern uniformity. I almost always prefer the front color of a sampler, that tells the story, over the back color.

Perhaps most importantly, learning about antique dyeing reconnects needlework to the natural world that once sustained it. Before factory skeins and numbered charts, color came from roots, insects, bark, and leaves harvested, simmered, strained, and tested by hand. To study those colors today is to recognize needlework as part of a broader domestic ecology, shaped by seasons, soil, and circumstance.

When we understand the chemistry, danger, fragility, and beauty behind antique threads, we no longer see faded colors as loss. Instead, we see them as evidence of hands at work, of materials in motion, and of time itself completing the design.

Much to ponder on! I hope you enjoyed this post, 

Wishing you many quiet, earthy hours of stitching 🌿🧵

Birgit

(Walter Crane Wallpaper that could have had toxic dyes or it could be green book covers)