• Sugar-Scoop Bonnet
The Sugar-Scoop Bonnet On a wintery day late in 1848, the congregation of the 12th Street Quaker Meetinghouse in Philadelphia was gathered to pay its respects to God. The meetinghouse was a plain, bare room with wooden, uncushioned benches.
Outside the tall uncurtained windows, a gray sky looked as dull as the meeting's interior and the colorless clothes of the faithful.
A complete stillness pervaded the whole meeting. Not even a child would dare to disturb the stillness, for every boy and girl had been rigorously taught not to swing their legs, fidget, or make a sound while the faithful were meditating. At the front of the room were plain benches on a raised platform. Along these benches sat the "ministers," men and women with no formal theological training who had been singled out as possessing special gifts of discernment and prophecy. In the silence, they listened for a message from God.
Down among the congregation, the men and boys sat on one side, their quiet Quaker garb blending in with the whitewashed walls and the unfinished woodwork of the rough benches. On the other side of the chilly room the women and girls remained absolutely still, heads bowed.
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Their plain dresses, like their husbands' cutaway coats, breeches, and broad-brimmed hats, were all in neutral shades. No trace of color could be seen, except in the pale flesh tones of the faces of the worshipers.
After a good forty-five minutes of silence, a man in a charcoal-gray long coat, one of the "ministers," suddenly stood up. Rows of pale faces turned up expectantly at the leader as he began to speak. His harsh, resonating voice spilled out over the room, reverberating from the bare walls.
"God has given me a message," the minister began. "I have noticed among the young ladies of our meeting that too few have put on a plain bonnet. I see among our younger women examples of the frivolities of worldly people." He paused. "I have even seen gold watches and neck pins, jewelry with which the plain people of God should not adorn themselves."
Pointing a finger toward the ladies' side of the meeting, his eyes blazed like that of an Old Testament prophet.
"I believe that the Lord has given me a message for some young heart present," he continued. "God has called her to take up her cross, to put on plain dress, to burn her gold breast pins and any other adornments that she may possess, to give up immediately any beloved possessions that she may cherish too greatly."
The air of conviction could be felt around the room, for Quakers believed that the Holy Spirit spoke directly from the mouth of their ministers; the congregation regarded the speaker as the very oracle of God. His words brought color to the cheeks of at least two of the girls sitting sedately with their female relations. One was a young woman with a vivid face and luxuriant blonde hair that was only partly covered by her straw cottage bonnet. She stared at the preacher with unmistakable horror. Lowering her head, she secretly reached for her shirt front, where a small and beautifully crafted gold watch hung on a chain around her neck.
With two fingers she felt the disk of metal, then slipped it
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inside her dress where it could not be seen. Silently she prayed, Dear God, my father gave me this gold watch only last week. Please—let the message not be for me.
The girl was Hannah Whitall.* She was an intelligent, even brilliant young woman of 16, with a zestful approach toward life—which only partially concealed a rebellious attitude toward the restrictions of her Quaker family. But Hannah was an uncomfortable rebel, and beneath her outward resistance lay a deep sensitivity and a curiosity about things of the Spirit.
Another young woman was stricken by the Quaker preacher that morning, too. A few rows in front of Hannah, stiff and straight, sat one of her friends, Abby Blackwood.
The minister's fiery words had done their job, so penetrating Abby's heart that she began to sob uncontrollably.
Even when the meeting closed and the faithful began to disband, Abby remained in her seat. She could not stop the tears. One of the elders, noticing her emotion, made her way to Abby's side. "Precious child, I believe the Lord has spoken to thee. Mayest thou be obedient to the heavenly vision."t Both Hannah and Abby would return home that day with the heavy words of their pastor weighing on their spirits.
Since Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood were away on a trip, Abby plodded the sidewalks of Philadelphia back to the house that was quiet but for the unobtrusive presence of a few servants. The conviction would not leave: The Lord had spoken to her through the preacher, and she was to destroy all her cherished possessions. Abby cried on her bed for a while, then with sudden determination she rose. Heavyhearted, she pulled out of her wardrobe several dressestwo in silk with ribbon and ruffles, a summery muslin with * Pronounced White-all. tAuthor's note:
I have retained the old Quaker "thee" and "thou" in much of the conversation throughout this book in deference to Hannah Smith's strong convictions that the pure Quaker speech be preserved.
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a pink flowered print—also her lace-edged drawers and a blue velvet bonnet trimmed with matching feathers. Like a sleepwalker, she reached for her jewelry box and took out her pearl and ruby-studded gold pins and her gold thimble.
Gathering up her bundle, she carried it downstairs. Gritting her teeth in pain, she lifted down from the wall her most prized possession, a painting she had done in water colors, a beautiful scene that her parents so loved they had it framed.
Placing her clothes and her jewelry on top of the picture, she built up the fire in the big living room fireplace until it was a roaring blaze. One by one she fed her small mound of treasures to the flames. "Oh, God help me," she said over and over, as she watched her beloved belongings turn to charred ruins.
"Oh, God, I have done it," she whispered. "I have been faithful to thy will."
Abby returned to her empty house, alone. But there was no joy or freedom in her offering, only the weighty sense of 1 From a spiritual "duty completed." Her spirit felt broken. then on, Abby decided she would accept the plain clothes and that dreaded emblem of Quaker sanctity, the ugly sugar-scoop bonnet.
Only a few blocks away, the Whitall family had returned to their residence after the meeting: parents, Mary and John Whitall; Hannah, 16; her sister Sarah (called Sally),
15; James, 14; and Mary, 12. The hush and awe of the Quaker Meeting had weighed down their spirits, too.
Their home, on quiet Filbert Street, was spacious and simple. No paintings decorated the walls. No mirrors were to be seen. The furniture was simple and functional. The plainest of white curtains hung at the windows. No ornaments or knickknacks were in evidence, nor were there any novels, works of art, or musical instruments. These were all considered worldly distractions, and the Whitalls were noted at the meeting for having a proper Quaker home.
Though John Whi tail's flourishing glass factory was quite
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prosperous, there was not a sign of opulence in this stark bare and painfully clean house, presided over by Mary Whitall.
Like her friend Abby, Hannah Whitall had also quailed inwardly at the message that morning. Part of her felt drawn to the sacrificial element in it, but a strong love of life in her rebelled. She hated the large, obscuring bonnet the "sugar-scoop"—that became part of the uniform of every Quaker woman who denied herself. Hannah loved beauty. She was drawn to the elegant clothes displayed in Philadelphia's finer women's shops. And her boundless curiosity about the world made her resist the constricting thought of giving up all fun things in order to be "good."
The following May, when Hannah was seventeen, she did a daring and forbidden thing. She stole away one morning and slipped inside the cool marbled halls of the Philadelphia Academy of the Fine Arts.
Later, she burst into her home like a mini-hurricane in long dove-colored skirts, and kissed her sweet-faced mother on the cheek. Then she whirled and danced about the living room.
"Thee must learn to show some ladylike restraint," said Mary Whitall quietly. Would her daughter never calm down?
Hannah could not repress her enthusiasm. "Mother, I cannot help it. The grass is so green, the trees are just putting forth their leaves. And I'm aware of how numberless are my blessings!" She began to chuckle. "And besides, the laugh is in me and must come out."
With this, Hannah ran lightly up the stairs. 2
Upstairs she barged into the bedroom of her sister Sally.
"Thee must hear what I did today, Sally—a dreadful, forbidden thing. Can thee keep a secret?"
"We have always shared things,"
Sally replied from where she was seated on her bed. She was more quiet and 2]
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serious than her ebullient older sister, and deeply devoted to her.
Hannah shut the door stealthily and sat down on the quilt, next to Sally. She began in a whisper. "Thee knows,
Sally, that I have always had a great desire to visit the Philadelphia Academy of the Fine Arts."
"But, Sister," Sally interrupted, "we Friends avoid such snares of the devil—music and dancing and pictures."
"Yes, I know," Hannah went on hastily, "but I had to go just once. So today I went inside. My heart was beating so hard and my mouth was so dry. I know it was perilously wicked, but I had to see. I went by the pictures so quickly that everything was a blur. Then I saw the statue—would thee believe, a marble group with Hero and Leander. And Sally, Leander had no clothes on! My heart was in my mouth and I was thinking, / suppose I shall go straight to hell, but I will look at this statue. And I knew what a daring sinner I was and I gathered up my skirts and flew outside."
Hannah lay back on her sister's bed and stared wideeyed at the ceiling. Sally's eyes were fixed grimly on her errant sister. "Once I was in the open air," Hannah went on.
"I stopped and leaned against a pillar until I caught my breath. I was just sure that God would send a lightning bolt out of heaven and strike me dead. 3 But nothing happened and I walked home. The birds were singing and the trees were budding. It was such a lovely day; the sun was shining and everything was bursting forth in new life. By the time
I got home, I wasn't fearful anymore."
"Oh, Hannah," Sally remonstrated, shaking her head sorrowfully, "will thee tell Mother?"
"No, I shall not tell Mother," said Hannah resolutely. "It would only worry her. And remember—thee promised to keep this a secret."
And with this, Hannah charged off to her own bedroom to tidy herself for the evening meal.
Later that night, Hannah dressed in her nightgown and prepared for bed. Then she lit the stubs of three candles
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and pulled a small leather-covered book from her desk drawer. It was Volume II of a journal that Hannah had been keeping for a year now. Its pages held evidence that the nighttime Hannah could be much different from the adventurous daytime Hannah. Bleak thoughts came to her about the state of her soul, thoughts that would never have intruded in the sunlight. This night, as was her habit, Hannah sat down at her desk. Hannah was unaware of Abby's actions after the meeting. She dipped her quill in the inkwell and wrote:
/ have been so rebellious. I have so entirely neglected prayer and felt so little sorrow ofheart on account of it that I cannot but believe that God has left me to myself I know well my utter desolation without a Savior.
Tears had come to her eyes. She rubbed at them with the sleeve of her nightgown. Then she went: My mind entirely acknowledges my own worthlessness and my need of a redeemer. Oh, if my heavenly Father does not help me I shall indeed be lost. 4 In this manner, she poured out other morose and despairing thoughts until drowsiness made her head swim.
The 1 840s passed into the 1 850s as life went on smoothly in the Whitall household. John Whitall's business at the glass factory continued to prosper, while Mary provided a comfortable haven for the four children.
The conflict was far from over in Hannah's high-strung young spirit. This world's life had such an allure. She adored the new fashions. And she all but lived to gallop freely over open farmlands on her horse, Rollo. With the sun and wind on her face—what a beautiful world it was!
But wasn't a true Christian supposed to be solemn, pious at all times? Deep within, Hannah wanted to be a true
Christian—someday.
On February 17, 1850, Hannah, just turned eighteen, was sitting sedately in the Friends' meeting, her face a
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mask of dutiful piety. Inside, as usual, thoughts were churning. Wouldn't it be wonderful if in some unaccountable manner I should become perfectly good? I should dress like Mother in a cap and handkerchief, with a sugar-scoop bonnet and hooded cloak and should preach at the very next meeting I attended. I would be so magnificently eloquent, so grandly sublime. And then I would go on a religious visit to England, where the whole nation, even the queen herself, would crowd to hear the young, eloquent Quaker girl.
Hannah sighed, imagining a further preaching tour to France. But her grandiose vision was cut short by the closing of the meeting—and there she was again, plain Hannah
Whitall, who had never received any signs of heavenly favor and who could not bring herself to give up her gold watch or her new silk dress.
Since her mid-teens, Hannah had been seesawing back and forth between the demands of piety and the desires of her fun-loving nature. There seemed to be some invisible wall preventing her from the act that her expansive and impulsive nature would have her do—to throw herself passionately and headlong into a life of serving God. But God seemed so stern-faced and unhappy, so harshly demanding.
Why had He created so beautiful and bright a world; and why fill a young woman with such unbridled joy in living if He thought this world was so thoroughly dark and life so soured by sin, as the ministers claimed? In the simple goodness of life, and in the sweet loveliness of the world,
Hannah's soul found comfort and light. She could not pretend she found these things distasteful. It would be a lie.
Was there something her spiritual elders were missing? Or was it that she herself would never be able—as she sometimes thought in her more dour moments alone—to come to God?
In November 1850, a life-changing event took place, something ordinary in the life of a young woman. Who
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could know it would soon alter her course forever? Robert Pearsall Smith came a-courting. Robert was in every way a desirable suitor: age 24, handsome and gifted and, like herself, a birthright Quaker. Throughout the spring of 1851 the fervent Robert sent Hannah notes—and a special bouquet of flowers picked from the garden of the little cottage in Germantown, Pennsylvania, that he had rented as their future home. Attached to the bouquet was a passionate little note: Mayest thou live to enjoy many beautiful flowers and happy hours there as my bride, my friend, my congenial companion and ardently loved (may I say it?) wife.
6 Being courted by Robert was like being swept into the middle of a romantic novel, full of poetry, moonlight, and roses.
Hannah was also charmed by her fiance's high-minded attitudes. He told her that he never passed five minutes without considering what was right. Robert was a sensitive, devout young man, full of idealistic visions about their married life together. They spent much time in solemn discussion about their religious duties and their mutual longing for spiritual growth. Robert wrote to her, Having come thus far on our way, do not let us, my dearest friend, be discouraged but press on for the mark of the prize of our high calling in Christ. Enable me, oh my Savior, to live today as in thy sight. 1
Robert's extreme piety and rhetoric exerted a sobering effect on his beloved. Hannah became more serious, quieter, and tried to be docile. Her frivolity was toned down by his insistence on strict Quaker observances all throughout their formal and carefully supervised courtship. And as for Hannah's parents, little was said to her about sexual love or about conflict in marriage: All instruction was focused on her Christian duties as a suitable "helpmeet" for her husband. Robert was so devout, and Hannah felt blessed to have been chosen by such a man. Could she ever begin to match his seeming faith and devotion?
Robert and Hannah were married on November 5, 1851 A honeymoon radiance pervaded Hannah's spirit as this
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19-year-old bride moved quite happily into the little home in Germantown and began married life as the proud wife of Robert Pearsall Smith.
There was no way anyone could have prophesied that this high-spirited, carefree girl would become one of the most widely read and significant Christian writers of her time. Or that her bouyant spirit would go through a long and excruciating period of testing. Or that the triumphant faith she was to write about would be challenged in a Joblike series of personal tragedies.
A Blaze of Inner light The early years of Robert and Hannah's marriage were fairly normal, but difficult ones. Hannah became pregnant soon after the ceremony.
Since the mortality rate for women in childbirth was very high in the mid-nineteenth century, most expectant mothers struggled with morbid thoughts of death.
On July 22, 1852, Hannah wrote in her journal: Oh, my precious Savior, who died that I might live in thee. This may be the last entry I shall make in this book.
By August 10, she safely delivered a baby girl. Formally, the child was named Eleanor, but she would always be called Nellie or Ella. By 1854, Hannah was pregnant again and quite upset about it, since she and Robert had agreed that there were to be no more children for a while. Little
Frank was born in the summer of 1854.
The years 1854-1858 were times of intense inner struggle for the young mother. The needs of her two children took much of her time. Robert's publishing business kept him away a great deal. He commuted to and from Philadelphia each day on horse-drawn tram cars. The marriage was solid, although Hannah's sexually repressed upbringing may have contributed to the periods of moody depres-
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sion Robert experienced. Or was something deeper troubling him, something overlooked in the thrill of courtship?
Hannah's journal became even more important to her as an emotional outlet. On its pages she poured out all her religious doubts. One afternoon in early November 1856,
Hannah was sitting at a table by the window of the little parlor in the Germantown house. Both children were napping. She tried to set aside this hour each day to review her spiritual progress or setbacks.
Much of her confusion was over the nature of God, which she had struggled with most of her early life. The sense of separation from God and an inability to relate to Him became a torment. / [feel] myself cut offfrom God entirely, she confided to the stark pages. / [feel] like a sinking boat, tossed about by a mighty tempest on the godless deep of life, listening with anguished ears to the falling away of its ever breaking shore. I no longer trust God. If God was good, why did He make human beings who are so naturally inclined to evil and so averse to good? I .
. wonder if God could be all-powerful, since the creatures He created seem to have so little power to resist evil.
At least I am not now in such a totally hopeless spiritual state as I was last year. There must be a good and merciful and loving spirit somewhere in the universe. This spirit could not look upon man, fallen and miserable as he is, without yearning to save him from the awful fate toward which his own nature, or some powerful fiend, constantly and almost irresistibly urges him. Consequently, there must be a Savior. 2
During this time, Hannah not only questioned God's permissiveness toward evil, but also the reality of her own beliefs. She wondered if she could get closer to God by giving up her jewelry, dressing in plain clothing, and adopting the sugar-scoop bonnet. But when she prayed to God about this, no answer came.
She was coming to one conclusion, however, that would have serious consequences. The Quaker meetings did not meet her spiritual needs or answer her questions. What she dreaded was the suffering emotions and the persecution
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that would come upon her if she were to resign from Quaker Meeting. Since almost all her family, relatives, and friends were Quakers, her resignation would grieve them beyond belief. Still she was determined to seek the truth and to pray that she might abide by it.
In March of 1857, Robert and Hannah were sitting close to the big fireplace in their front parlor on a sleety latewinter evening. On the table between them an oil lamp flickered. Hannah presented to her husband another subject that was beginning to lie heavily on her mind.
"Robert," she began intensely, "I am dismayed at what downright simpletons most women are! When I walk along the street, I feel I would like to give every woman I meet a good shaking! Dress—fudge! Gossip—worse still. And that is really the extent of their conversation. Most women and men today feel that women are incapable of developing our minds. We are kept in a state of perpetual childhood." 3 She looked anxiously over at Robert to see how he was reacting to these revolutionary thoughts.
"Thee is right," he said surprisingly as he got up to heave another log onto the already blazing flame. "But do wives and mothers have the time to pursue further education?"
"Yes, they do," replied Hannah. And she launched into a vigorous description of how she and her close friends felt about the state of affairs between men and women. Because women were expected to be a sort of extension of their husbands, they often considered themselves inferior human beings. Robert listened patiently, surprising Hannah with his understanding.
After a long discussion, Robert agreed to hire a tutor to help prepare Hannah for entrance into the junior class at Haverford College. A governess could help superintend the children. He said they might even move to Haverford so that Hannah could live at home until graduation. Hannah was ecstatic.
A month later, however, she reluctantly abandoned her ambitious plans to be a college student primarily because she feared she would have to neglect her children. Instead,
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a tutor began coming regularly to Hannah's home to advance her education.
Then came a blow that would send the family reeling.
By December 1857, the family had moved from Germantown to Philadelphia to be closer to Robert's publishing work. They had only just settled into their new house on 220 North 10th Street when five-year-old Nellie took sick with a bronchial infection.
Christmas was only a few days away, but there was no gaiety in the Smith household. Hannah and Robert took turns sitting beside the fevered body of their little daughter.
There was little they could do except sponge the small flushed face with cool water. Nellie lay so still, she seemed almost like a small waxen doll.
The night of December 22 was bitterly cold and cloudcovered. Silent tears ran unchecked down the young mother's face. A flood of memories engulfed her: Nellie's sweet voice singing the Jesus songs Hannah had taught her; Nellie's soft hands stroking her face; Nellie's clear, sweet voice saying her prayers.
The hours passed on through that bleak night. Robert appeared several times to spell his wife. Then toward dawn the tiny spark of life in Nellie slowly flickered out.
Five days later Nellie Smith was buried in the family cemetery at Laurel Hill. A pale winter sun shone down as the small procession made its way to the graveside. The horses that had drawn the funeral carriage paced nervously in the background, chomping in the frosty air. The pallbearers carried the small casket to where a shallow hole had been hacked in the frozen ground. Snow covered the grass lightly and fringed all the branches of the trees. Hannah and Robert, soberly clad in Quaker-dark, stood with wooden faces and watched as the casket was lowered into its shallow depression. The still air bore the soft sounds of weeping. And all the time the small group of mourners stood beside the child's grave, a small bird on a branch, right over Hannah's head, sang a quiet little song.4
Hannah held up fairly well through the burial service.
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The next day, grief overwhelmed her.
Pacing her little parlor in anguish, she cried out to her husband, "Nellie looked so beautiful in death that I felt almost comforted. But now—oh, the bitterness and loneliness I feel. My daughter, my daughter!" 5
Death was a fact of life in the 1850s. Hardly a single family escaped without the loss of a budding young life.
Childhood diseases carried off the young and fragile: scarlet fever, typhoid, lung disease. Medicine in the midnineteenth century had no defense against these cruel killers of the young. A mother in 1857 could not expect all of her children to grow up to be adults.
Nevertheless, Nellie's death left Hannah nearly inconsolable. Her journal on February 2 recorded: My heart is ready to burst at the thought ofmy sweet, gentle, loving daughter; the arch look out of her bright eyes when she was meditating a piece of fun; the matronly expression of her childish face as she stood washing her little dresses or putting her sick dolly to bed. 6
Strange to say, but it was through the cloud of darkness surrounding Hannah that a small bright ray of spiritual light began to shine. For the first time in the two years since
Hannah had openly questioned her beliefs, she felt a sense of God's presence. The memory of Nellie's innocent faith encouraged her to strive earnestly after holiness. From deep inside, she called out to her daughter, "My precious child, my angel child, thou shalt indeed be, I trust, a link to draw me up to heaven." 7
And so the winter would pass, and the faint promise of spring pressed from the tips of bare branches.
When the Pearsall Smith family vacationed at the seashore in Atlantic City during the summer of 1858, Hannah decided to take along no book but the Bible. She was determined to deal with her lingering resentment toward God.
Day after day she sat in her chair on the beach, poring over Scripture texts. One warm, cloudless day in early September
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she was reading on the beach, the only sounds being the distant laughter of little children building a sand castle and the sea gulls whirling and cawing above her. Then it happened.
She had turned to chapter five of the book of Romans and her weeks of search for God's truth were suddenly rewarded. Verse eight blazed forth at her: "While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." She closed her Bible and, lying back in her chair, shut her eyes. The wonder of the salvation that comes through Jesus suffused her whole being. A healing, comforting peace warmed her whole being—something she had never felt the like of before.
After all my years of rebellion and unbelief, my Savior still had compassion on me and has revealed himself to me. Oh, the fullness and the freshness ofHis grace. I can say in truth that I would not exchange the salvation which is freely given by Christ for all the righteousness which years ofperfect obedience to the law could win for me. I know now that I don't have to wear a sugar-scoop bonnet to please God. Christ has done it all for me on the cross. His sacrifice is all I need to be restored to right relationship with God. I don't have to keep trying to win God's favor with fruitless efforts to be "good."
While I was yet a sinner, Christ died for me. Could anything be more liberating than that?8
It was as if her image of the demanding and punitive God had cracked. If He could feel the hurt of a mother in her loss, if He would somehow touch her pain with His invisible and comforting hand, then He must not be the cold and aloof being others had made Him out to be.
These thoughts she later recorded. But that day, as Hannah rose from her beach chair still clutching her Bible, something in her whole being was transformed.
Raising her face to the warmth of the sun, she said exultantly, out loud: "I believe, oh, Lord,
I believe!" Feeling as if she were walking on air, she picked up her beach chair and floated back to their rented lodging, anxious to share her newfound revelation with her family.