"In Being's floods, in Action's storm,
I walk and work, above, beneath,
Work and weave in endless motion!
Birth and Death,
An infinite ocean;
A seizing and giving
The fire of living:
'Tis thus at the roaring Loom of Time I ply,
And weave for God the Garment thou seest Him by."
--"Faust," Goethe.
"Thee is troubled, mother," observed Peggy as she and Mrs. Owen left the
yard of Christ Church where they had been attending morning service.
The meeting-house which was built for the use of those Quakers who had
so far departed from the tenets of the Society of Friends as to array
themselves on the side of their country had not yet been erected, and
the Free Quakers, as they were called, were therefore compelled to
attend worship of other churches, or content themselves with "religious
retirement," as family service was called.
"I am, Peggy," answered the lady a look of anxiety overcasting her face.
"Let us walk for a little before returning home. It may be that the air
will soothe my feelings."
Seeing that her mother wished to be left in quiet the girl walked
sedately by her side, ever and anon stealing a glance of apprehension at
the lady's face. Presently Mrs. Owen spoke:
"Tis naught to make thee look so uneasy, child. I am concerned over the
city, and the extravagance that abounds on every side. See the ferment
that it is in! Formerly on First Day the streets were orderly and quiet.
Now observe what a noisy throng fills the thoroughfares. Let us walk on.
Perchance at Wicaco we may find the peace and quiet we seek."
The quiet, sedate city of Penn had in truth lost its air of demure
respectability. As the metropolis of the colonies it attracted all those
adventurers of the older countries who sought to mend their fortunes at
the expense of the new United States. Many also who were sincere in
their admiration of the struggle for liberty had come to offer Congress
their services, and taverns and inns were filled to overflowing with
strangers of distinction and otherwise. Militia drilled; troops marched
and countermarched; while many British officers, prisoners on parole,
paraded the streets, adding a bright bit of color with their scarlet
coats.
Mother and daughter passed slowly below High Street and continued down
Second. Past shops they went, and the City Tavern, crowded about with
sedan chairs and chaises; past the Loxley House, in which lived that
Lydia Darrach who had stolen out of the city the winter before to warn
the patriots of a contemplated attack by the British; past the dwelling
of the Cadwaladers; past also the great house built and formerly owned
by the Shippens; and on past other mansions with their gardens until
finally they paused involuntarily as the sound of singing came to them.
The sounds were wafted from the old Swedish church of Gloria Dei, and
the two stood in silence until the singing ceased.
"Friends believe not in hymns or singing," remarked Mrs. Owen as they
turned to retrace their steps. "But there is something about the
intoning of the psalms that calms the mind. It has ever brought comfort
to me."
"Mother," spoke Peggy shyly.
"Yes, my daughter."
"The one thing that I have always minded about the Friends is that very
lack of music. When I see other girls play the spinet I too would like
dearly to play upon it. I have always loved music, mother."
"I know thee has, Peggy. That is the reason that I have not chided thee
when I heard thee singing the ballads and songs of the world's people.
Perhaps some time we may see our way to thy learning the spinet. If it
is right thee will be led to it."
"I know," answered Peggy. And then, after a moment--"What troubled thee,
mother?"
"Vanities, child. 'Twas the dressing, and the pomade, and the powder
discovered in the meeting. I have never seen so much before. And also, I
shame to confess it, Peggy, thy garb troubled me."
"Mine, mother?" Peggy looked up in amazement, and then glanced down at
her girlish frock of chintz. "Why, mother?"
"In the first enthusiasm of the war," said Mrs. Owen, "thee remembers
how we, thou and I, together with many patriotic women and girls, banded
together in an association formed against the use of foreign goods. We
pledged ourselves to wear homespun rather than buy any of the foreign
calicoes and silks. Before the Declaration every patriotic woman was
known by her clothes, and it so continued until we left the city at the
coming of the British. Of course, now that the line of separation hath
been drawn between Britain and her colonies, there no longer exists the
same patriotic reason for such abstinence; but we seem to be the last to
come to such knowledge."
"Mother, I never knew thee to be concerned anent such things before,"
said the girl quickly.
"Perchance it hath been because we have not been dressed with
singularity before," observed the lady. "I hold that every gentlewoman
should be arrayed becomingly and with such due regard to the mode that
her attire will not excite comment. Not that I wish thy thoughts
altogether concerned about such matters. Thee knows how we have received
warnings from good and wise men on the subject in our own meetings, but
we must do credit to David. And," she added with a slight smile, "while
we are still ready to sacrifice our lives even for the cause of liberty,
we cannot steer clear of the whirlpool of fashion if we are to remain in
the city. Was thee not sensible of the difference between thy garb and
that of thy friends?"
"Yes," admitted the maiden candidly. "But I tried not to think about it.
I have been longing for some new frocks, but since Star hath been taken
I have not cared so much."
"The city seems caught in a very vortex of luxury and extravagance,"
went on the matron. "I do not mean that we should be of those who care
for naught but self-adornment and useless waste. Were it not for thee----"
She paused a moment and then continued: "Thou hast been very
self-denying, my daughter, concerning this matter, and hast borne the
filching of thy pony bravely. So then thou shalt have not only a frock
for the general's tea, but another also. And a cloak, and a hat,
together with a quilted petticoat."
"Mother, mother!" almost screamed Peggy. "Thee overwhelms me. Where will
the money come from?"
"We have made a little from the harvests of the past summer, Peggy. Then
the farm pays in other ways. Some of David's ventures have turned out
well, despite the war and the fact that he is in the army. We shall have
to be careful, my daughter, and not run into extravagance, but there is
enough to furnish thee with a simple wardrobe."
"And thou?" questioned the girl.
"I shall do well as I am, dear child. And now let us turn our thoughts
from this too worldly subject to others more befitting First Day.
To-morrow we will go to the mercer's for the things."
And so, despite the fact that nothing had as yet been heard of the
stolen pony, it was a very happy maiden that set forth with her mother
the next day for the shops in Second Street.
"Friend," said the lady to a mercer who came forward to wait upon them,
"let us look at thy petticoats, calimanico; for," she said in an aside
to Peggy, "'twill be the part of wisdom to purchase the homely articles
first, lest we be carried beyond our intention for the frocks. We shall
have to be careful, as the prices, no doubt, have become higher. How
much is this, friend?"
"Fifteen pounds, fifteen shillings," answered he.
Mrs. Owen looked up in amazement, while Peggy, with less control, cried
out:
"Such a price, and without quilting! Once it could have been bought for
fifteen shillings."
"'Tis very likely," smiled the shopkeeper. "That must have been before
the war. Prices are soaring on everything, and are like to go higher
before falling."
Mrs. Owen laid down the garment gravely.
"A coat and a hat," she said. "What will be the cost of a very ordinary
one of each?"
"They cannot be procured under two hundred pounds, madam."
"And gauze for caps?"
"The common grade is twenty-four dollars a yard. The better quality
fifty dollars."
"Mother," whispered Peggy, "why need thee buy the petticoat? We can
weave cloth for it, and I can quilt it myself."
"True, Peggy," assented her mother. "I think we can manage about the
petticoat, but a frock thou must have. A frock and some gloves."
"Cloth for a frock, madam?" questioned the merchant eagerly. "Shall it
be lutestring, poplin, brocade, or broadcloth? I have the best of
England, madam."
But Mrs. Owen's face grew grave indeed as he mentioned prices. Peggy's
eyes filled with tears. She saw her new frock vanishing into thin air as
fabric after fabric was brought forth only to be rejected when the cost
was named. She knew that she had nothing to wear to the tea at
headquarters unless a new gown was purchased, and she choked in her
disappointment. Her mother saw her tears and turned to the merchant with
determination.
"I will----" she opened her lips to say, when some one tapped her lightly
on the shoulder, and a clear voice called:
"Why, Madam Owen, are you buying gowns? What extravagance! If farm life
pays well enough to buy cloth these times I shall get me to a farmery at
once. Mr. Bache wishes to go."
"Sally Franklin, how does thee do?" exclaimed Mrs. Owen, greeting the
young matron warmly. "I came down intending to buy a great deal, but----"
"The prices! The prices!" cried Franklin's daughter, waving her hands.
"It takes a fortune to keep a family in a very plain way. And there
never was so much dressing and pleasure going on! I wrote to father to
send me a number of things from France, among them some long black pins,
lace, and some feathers, thinking he could get such things much cheaper
there."
"And did he?" eagerly questioned Peggy, who had now recovered herself.
"No; and I got well scolded for my extravagance," laughed Mrs. Bache.
"He sent the things he thought necessary, omitting the others. He
advised me to wear cambric ruffles instead of lace, and to take care not
to mend them. In time they would come to lace, he said. As for feathers,
why send that which could be had from every cock's tail in America."
"How like Dr. Franklin that is," remarked Mrs. Owen much amused. "What
did thee answer?"
"That I had to be content with muslin caps in winter, and in summer I
went without. As for cambric I had none to make lace of. Oh, we shall
all come to linsey-woolsey, I fear. Dr. Shippen talks of moving his
family from the city, and the rest of us will have to do the same."
She moved away. The shopkeeper turned to bring on more goods, hoping to
tempt his customers, and Peggy took hold of her mother's hand gently.
"It will cut into thy resources greatly to get these things, won't it,
mother?"
"Yes," assented the lady soberly. "For the frock alone I would have to
pay as much as I had intended for thy entire outfit."
"Then thee must not do it," said Peggy gravely.
"There is one way that it can be done, my daughter," said her mother not
looking at her. "If thou wilt consent to forego all charitable gifts
this winter; if thou wilt let the soldiers or any other needy ones go
without benefit from thee; then thou canst take the money for all thy
things: the hat, the coat, the two frocks, the gloves, and all the other
necessaries of which we spoke. Now, Peggy, I will not blame thee if thou
dost choose according to thy wishes, for thou hast already given up
much. It rests with thee."
Peggy looked at the dazzling array of fabrics spread temptingly upon the
counter. She did want a new gown so badly. She needed it, she told
herself quickly. She had given up a great deal. Must she give up in this
too? For an instant she wavered, and then a vision of some of the
soldiers that she had seen flashed across her mind, and she turned from
the glittering array with a little sob.
"I could not, I could not," she cried. "And have nothing for the poor
soldiers! It would be a sin! But oh, mother! do let us hurry away from
here. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is so weak."
Pausing only for a word of courteous explanation to the mercer the lady
followed the maiden from the store.