The sugar-scoop Bonnet

One of the most distinctive features of the “plainness of apparel” in my day was the bonnet worn by all respectable women Friends. Because of its shape, we young people irreverently called it a “sugar - scoop,” though it often seemed almost sacrilegious to apply so flippant a name to an object we regarded as sacred. No young Quaker of my time would have thought otherwise. A writer, speaking of a period a little later than mine, described it perfectly: “To one brought up within the fold, it is no light matter to approach so awful a subject as the Quaker bonnet. There was a solemnity about it born of terror. Whether it presided at the head of the women’s meeting, or ventured into winter storms protected by its satin or oilskin case under the Friendly umbrella, or even lay alone in splendid state upon the guest-room bed — anywhere, everywhere, it was a solemn thing.”

Why this bonnet — delicate in its light silk fabric, extremely expensive, difficult to make, and decidedly uncomfortable —should have been considered “plain,” while a simple , untrimmed straw bonnet costing a fraction as much and far more comfortable was deemed “gay,” is a mys tery. But so it was. To speak of a “plain bonnet” always meant a sugar -scoop.

The rest of a woman Friend’s plain dress consisted of a soft dove -coloured silk shawl folded over a plain-waisted, low-necked dress of dove-gray or brown, with thin white muslin filling the neckline and crossed over the bosom. A muslin cap, shaped like a bonnet and tied under the chin with soft white ribbons, was worn indoors and outdoors, beneath the sugar-scoop. In cold weather, women wore larger dove-coloured cashmere shawls or cashmere Mother Hubbard cloaks pleated onto a yoke with a silk-lined hood. The shawls were always folded with exact precision: a point down the back, three neat folds at the neck fastened by a stout pin, and additional hidden pins at the shoulders to hold the fullness in place, giving the appearance that the draping arranged itself.

Men’s plain clothes were a cutaway coat with a straight clergyman’s collar and a broad -brimmed hat. The entire costume was quaint, but the women especially looked charming, and I do not think I have ever seen sweeter, more serene faces than those framed by the old Quaker caps and bonnets. The world has lost something lovely with their disappearance.

Because all Quakers — young and old —were treated as though they were already “with in the fold,” and were never exhorted to undergo conversion, the only evidence of a change in a person’s religious experience that we recognized was what we called “becoming serious” or “becoming plain.” This was marked outwardly by adopting the Society’s plain dress.

Among us, putting on the plain dress was regarded as an inevitable fate awaiting every Quaker child, one we sought to postpone as long as possible. In Philadelphia, the change usually occurred at the spring Yearly Meeting in April, when everyone appeared in new seasonal clothing. That was when the dreaded transformation was most likely to occur. Young members who had “become serious” felt obliged to appear in sugar -scoop bonnets or straight-collared coats and broad-brimmed hats — outward signs of an inward change. We who were still unclaimed would arrive early and position ourselves where we could watch the entrances, anxious to discover which friend had been taken from our ranks by this solemn calling.

We knew only vaguely of the private struggles and spiritual wrestlings preceding this public declaration, but the event carried enough weight to make us feel that our friends, once changed, belonged to a different world. And if the adoption of plain garb was accompanied by the trembling utterance of a few words in meeting, the gulf between us felt absolute — one that could not be crossed until we too fell under the same fate.

To my young mind, no words can fully convey the dreadful solemnity of this prospect. “Putting on a plain bonnet” seemed almost e quivalent to the end of ordinary human life. After that, one could never again live as other people did. If one were young, there could be no more fun — no running races, no climbing trees, no scaling hay-mows — certainly none of these while wearing a dove-coloured sugar- scoop. If older, one’s heart must turn entirely toward Friends’ meetings, testimonies, and religious concerns. One must love the Book of Discipline, Barclay’s Apology, and Friends’ Religious Journals, and turn one’s back on everything pleasant, pretty, or worldly.

Since “becoming serious” meant, to my imagination, nothing less than donning this awe - inspiring bonnet, the prospect filled my fun-loving spirit with unspeakable dread. Somehow, I had gotten the idea that our dear mother intended, in obedience to the Query concerning “plainness of apparel,” to require each of her daughters to assume the plain bonnet at age fifteen.

As a child, she herself had been made to wear one from almost babyhood. Though her heart was dutifully trained, she too had once rebelled.

She used to tell us, as a solemn warning, that when she was nine or ten, the schoolgirls teased her mercilessly for her bonnet, and she grew desperate to escape it. Her parents, unwavering, refused. One morning, crossing the lonely bridge over Woodbury Creek on her way to school, her dislike flared so strongly that she angrily kicked the bonnet ahead of her. All day, her conscience tormented her. Returning at dusk, she saw a dark shadow on the creek bank. To her excited imagination, it became a fearsome figure advancing toward her. She believed it was the Devil himself, come to seize her for her wickedness. Terrified, she fled home, vowing never again to rebel against her plain bonnet.

We, children, were profoundly impressed by this story, and we always regarded that particular bridge with the most superstitious awe. I can remember many times racing across it at breathless speed, scarcely daring to breathe for fear I might somehow evoke the awful spectre. In light of our mother’s experience, I never for a moment imagined that I could escape the fate of the “plain bonnet,” and the horror with which, as a child, I watched my years creep steadily toward the fatal age of fifteen is beyond description. Fortunately, before I reached that age, the subtle change in ideas that had quietly influenced the whole Society affected our mother as well, and the dreaded “plain bonnets” never appeared.

Instead, we wore the simplest little straw cottage bonnets that could be found. Compared with the “plain bonnets” we had so dreaded, they seemed so gay and worldly to our Quaker imaginations that we felt quite like “fashionable ladies” when we walked out wearing them , although I am now convinced we must still have looked like the primmest little Quaker maidens possible.

When the fate, as I call it, of the “plain bonnet” fell upon some young Friend, it was generally welcomed by the older Friends with a loving tenderness that made “the cross” less hard to bear.

But sometimes it descended upon a member of a family to whom it was wholly unwelcome.

There were degrees of plainness among us: some were “strict” Friends— more often called “solid” Friends— while others, who indulged more in the vain fashions of the world, were known as “gay” Friends. In one such “gay” family I knew, there was a bright, lively daughter named Elizabeth, about my own age, who went through in her early girlhood what now seems to me a truly tragic experience.

One day, when the Query about “plainness of apparel” had been read and the usual pause had followed, a travelling Minister arose and said, in an impressive manner, that she believed the Lord had given her a message for some young heart present, one who was called to take up the cross and put on the “plain dress.” For some reason, young Elizabeth was deeply moved. An inward voice seemed to tell her that the message was meant for her. She burst into tears, and at the close of the meeting, an Elder, noticing her agitation, came to her side, placed a hand on her shoulder, and said solemnly, “Precious child, I believe the Lord has spoken to thee. Mayest thou be obedient to the heavenly vision.” This confirmed the impression on Elizabeth’s mind, and she went home bowed down with a dreadful sense of a Divine call she felt she dared not resist.

Then began a fearful conflict. She knew her family would utterly disapprove, and she felt certain they would not give her the money to purchase the necessary materials to make the change of dress she believed required of her. She was afraid and ashamed to tell anyone what she was enduring. At last, she decided she must try to make a “plain dress” for herself. She saved every penny of her small allowance, and little by little she gathered enough to buy the cheapest materials she could find. At night, alone in her room after everyone had gone to bed, she began, with infinite labour and tears, to fashion the required costume. She dared not ask for instructions or patterns, and night after night she worked at her unaccustomed task until finally, in a rough and imperfect fashion, the poor little costume was finished. The day came when she laid aside her “worldly” clothes and appeared before her family dressed in the cap, handkerchief, and drab shawl worn by elderly Friends.

What this cost her, she would never tell me, and even in middle age, she could not speak of her family’s horrified reception without tears of deep pity for her own youthful martyrdom. Yet she said that, whether she had been right or wrong, she had at least been faithful to what she believed to be her duty. This faithfulness brought her such profound peace, and the radical change in her life proved of such lasting benefit to her character that she never wished to abandon it, and until her death, she continued to wear the same style of costume she had adopted in such anguish of spirit as a girl.

Perhaps an extract from my diary, written shortly after my religious awakening at sixteen, may give some insight into how similar scruples worked upon the sensitive, conscientious heart of another young girl, a close friend and confidante in all spiritual matters. Under the date 11th month, 13th, 1849, I find the following: “A. has been spending a week with me, and I do not know when I have enjoyed myself more.

The spiritual communion between us was perfect. I do not think we concealed any of our feelings from each other. She told me of the mental suffering — suffering greater than she had believed possible to bear —which preceded the making known of God’s will in her soul, and of the anguish of spirit when that will was revealed. She believed it was required of her to give up immediately all her gay dress, to burn her breastpins and her gold thimble, and many articles of clothing, even her dresses. It was a great trial; it seemed to her such a waste, and human nature shrank. And there was a still greater trial. She had done a large monochromatic picture which her parents had had framed and hung in their parlour, and which they greatly admired. She felt she must take this picture and burn it also, frame and all. She knew how grieved her parents would be, and how foolish it would seem to her sister and brother, and the conflict was immense. But the reproofs of her Divine Guide were so heartrending that at last she could bear them no longer and submitted. Her father, mother, and sister were at Cape May at the time, or she said she could never have done it. When they returned, she told them, and then, she said, the holy, heavenly calm that followed was indescribable. She scarcely felt as though she were on earth. It seemed she should never sin again, and the reward was far greater than the suffering. How nobly she has acted! I fear I should have refused to obey and would have borne any suffering rather than make such great sacrifices. And now she has consented to put on a plain bonnet —a ‘sugar - scoop,’ as I call them. Though it is a great change and will be much talked about, she scarcely dreads it, for she finds it so true that God can make hard things easy and bitter things sweet. Could I take up the cross as she has done?”

That I had been more or less influenced by my friend’s experience is shown by another diary entry written shortly afterward: “Eleventh month, 17th, 1849. Sometimes today, as I have been thinking about it, it has seemed almost as if it would be right for me to put on a plain sugar-scoop bonnet; but I hardly dare believe that so great a favour would be granted me. It is strange, even to myself, that I should long so for the time when I might make this sacrifice, though in truth it would be no sacrifice.

People generally feel so averse to these bonnets, and I, too, did, perhaps a year ago; but now I long for it so earnestly that I fear I cannot judge calmly and clearly about it. Gladly as I would make this and any other sacrifice which God might require, I know how terrible it would be to run before I was sent, and to do what God had not required. Sometimes it seems I cannot wait any longer — that I must do something to gain the salvation of my soul; and if God requires nothing, I must offer something myself. And yet that I dare not do. Oh, I feel that I could love the cross and even the shame, if only God would lay them upon me; but patience and quiet waiting are my duties now.”

It is evident from this extract that the martyr spirit had been aroused in me, and that I longed to do something difficult for the sake of my religion. But these feelings soon passed, and the “sugar - scoop” bonnet I both dreaded and desired never adorned my head. I was a healthy young creature, full of animal spirits and absorbed in the joys of outward life. My conscience was always easily quieted, and for the most part, I passed my girlhood conscious only of the ordinary claims of everyday duty, which my training and the compelling Quaker atmosphere around me had made almost second nature.