Our Schools and Teachers.—The South Boston Omnibus.—A Grand School Sleigh-ride.—Memories of the Adams Family.—A Picnic on the State House Steps.

OUR earliest school-days have been already described. I can first remember the dignity of traveling as dames seules in an omnibus, in connection with the Stevenson School. In those primitive days Boston was a small city and the foreign population was not large. It was therefore considered quite safe for us to go from South Boston to our school in Hancock Street in the omnibus. This vehicle was a patriarchal affair, going on wheels the greater part of the year. They were changed for runners when snow lay on the ground. In my childhood this was never cleared away from the streets of Boston, the use of sleighs being universal. Unfortunately, the heavy teams soon made the surface of the snow extremely uneven so that you rose on a hillock at one moment and descended at the next into a valley called a “cradle-hole.” This was bad enough in an open vehicle—but in the closed sleighs of the period, booby-hacks or booby-huts as they were called, the motion was so violent as to make people seasick.

The snow-storms were terrific. Mountains of snow lined the thoroughfares and hid the sidewalks from our infant view. The omnibus seemed to be progressing to its destiny between lofty Alps. Fortunately, the designers of these vehicles realized that amusement would be necessary, to beguile the way. Above each window was a picture (?) to be studied and admired. The glass in the door bore the legend, “htuos notsob,” the meaning of which was for some time a mystery to us. Then there was the funny little lamp which used camphene, I suspect—a dangerous fluid eschewed by careful people.

As the omnibus went at infrequent intervals, we often made the trip in company with the same persons. We maintained, however, a proper maidenly reserve, entering into no conversation with our fellow-travelers. On one point their views differed from ours. Having paid three cents apiece (half-fare) for our seats, we felt it in accordance with our dignity to retain them under all circumstances. When the omnibus was full we would be invited to sit on some gentleman’s knee, thus making room for another lady. My firm refusal to do this led to my being called “Young America” by unappreciative fellow-passengers.

The seat next to the door was very pleasant, as it commanded a fine view to the rear. While occupying this agreeable post of vantage one day I incautiously put my forefinger in the crack of the door. The driver pulled the latter to with a bang, causing me sharp pain. Julia and I were alone in the omnibus, except for one stolid young woman who did nothing to comfort the weeping and frightened children. Fortunately we were near home. Alas! Papa, the good surgeon, was out. Mamma, who could not bear the sight of blood, would not look at the crushed finger, but instantly ordered the carriage and took me to see Dr. William Bigelow. He pronounced, to our great relief, that no bones were broken. The finger has never quite recovered its original shape. My mother was much worried at the moment, but made merry over the accident a little later in The Listener.^[7]

The school of the Misses Stevenson was just opposite the reservoir and a stone’s throw from the State House. The last named had not then received the additions which have doubtless increased its usefulness, but detracted from its beauty. It stood simple and majestic, a fitting crown to dear old Beacon Hill. No odious apartment-house then lifted a commercial head above it, dwarfing the height of the beautiful dome. The old Hancock house still stood near by. It had not yet made way for the mansion of the gentleman whose ambition was to have the handsomest house in Boston and the finest tomb in Mount Auburn. Alas for human ambition! I fancy that few people now remember either this man, his dwelling, or his tomb.

We children loved to play on the granite steps and balustrades of the State House, also to climb to the dome when permitted. A selfish and obstructionist legislature allowed no one to go there while the General Court was in session, asserting that the noise disturbed them.

In The Listener we find many mentions of the Stevenson School. Prominent among our diversions was the holding of fairs.

I regret to say that these would seem to have been purely commercial transactions, if we may judge by the “advertisement” in The Listener. As it appeared after the fair, it was a little different from an ordinary modern advertisement.

Every lady who helped to sell things, got 43 cents, and if the fair should be held next year, we advise all who do not wish to trouble their papas for pocket money to take a table at the fair.

We note, however, that the young ladies are advised to remember the poor and forget the candy-shop, “as there are a great many little girls who want bread this hard winter.”

The articles sold were, to a great extent, contributed by our long-suffering elders. “The head of John the Baptist on a charger” was furnished, however, by one of the school-girls. The head of a small china doll was displayed on a tiny plate, adorned with vermilion paint!

The following Listener editorial, from my mother’s pen, tells of an excursion to Fresh Pond and of her falling down. She never learned to be thoroughly at home on ice, like her own ducklings:

The Listener

We do not know that the week just past had in it any event more important than the great Stevenson and Howe sleigh-ride, which took place on Monday last—the Stevenson school sleigh-ride, in the great Howe sleigh. The young ladies looked and behaved their very best. Miss Loring’s bonnet and yellow ribbons were remarkably becoming—shouldn’t wonder if other Judges than Judge Loring thought “our Gal” very good looking. Arrived at the pond, sliding became the order of the day. Misses Kate Selfridge and Susie Sargent were last seen with Mrs. Howe between them, like two little steam-tugs towing out a seventy-four. The 74 went down (on the ice) and the tugs scattered. Mr. Henry Marion (Bunker) Howe distinguished himself by a bump on the head, Mr. Bradford went about like a dear old Puss in Boots. After a good deal of slip-sliding, the party adjourned to the Hotel, where hot lemonade was demanded, drunk, and paid for, the young ladies supplying the spirits. The ride home was chiefly remarkable for the hearty cheering of sleighs and dirt-carts and hissing of toll-gate men.

Among our friends and playmates was Mary Adams, the youngest daughter of Charles Francis Adams, Sr. The town residence of the family was in Mount Vernon Street, only a stone’s-throw from the State House. It was a simple brick structure, of the fashion then prevailing. That early style of architecture gave an air of solidity and dignity not always found in the more ornate fashions of to-day. The Adams house was built in the English-basement style, the pleasant dining-room looking out upon Mount Vernon Street. Like the neighboring residences, it stood some twenty or thirty feet back from the sidewalk, a paved court leading up to the door and giving the abode a certain air of privacy and retirement. Spacious parlors ran across the entire front of the second story, the building being a wide one. At the rear, a ball-room had been built on, and I remember a delightful children’s party there. To say that we played at “pillows and keys” with John Quincy Adams and Charles Francis Adams, Jr., has a historic, almost a presidential sound.

At supper there was a ring in the cake, an essential feature of these juvenile entertainments. We drew lots out of a silk hat, and the prize fell to my share. As the slips were not folded up, “Ring,” written on one larger than the rest, was plainly discernible to my youthful eyes. The recording angel suggests in mitigation that greater care should have been taken to disguise that royal slip!

In the Adams’ nursery we had many merry times with our paper dolls and other toys. The favorite doll in that day was “Jenny Lind,” with changes of dress showing all the operatic rÔles in which the famous prima donna had appeared.

I fear these recollections of mine will seem strange to those people who have heard that Boston society was opposed to theater-going in the ’Fifties and ’Sixties. There was, in some families, a disapproval of the theater, and certain of our young friends were not allowed to go to the play—save at the Boston Museum. This was considered a family place of resort, and many persons came to see performances there who would not have thought it right to go to a regular theater. The children liked to arrive early and to examine all the curiosities including the wax-works, which were terrible, yet fascinating. It seems strange now to think that a group representing the murder of a well-known Bostonian should have been exhibited here.

Boston people then dined at half past two o’clock, on the return of the children from school, business men coming home across the Common for the meal, and going back to their offices afterward. The dinner hour at the Adams’ was a little later, three o’clock, and this seemed in keeping with a certain stateliness that characterized the family, as well as great cordiality and hospitality. I remember that there was a profusion of silver plate, and all the appointments were handsome. A closed buffet with glass doors and glass shelves seemed to me especially elegant. Mr. Adams sat at the head of the table and carved, as the heads of families did at that time. I remember him as a quiet and dignified gentleman, yet kindly rather than stern. Doubtless we youngsters were impelled to behave well in his presence, yet I do not remember being afraid of him, as we should have been of an unkind or tyrannical man.

How quiet and primitive was the dear old Boston of that day! As girls of eight and ten years we loved to romp and play on the Common, tumbling about on the grass and having little feasts of strawberries in the small thimble-shaped baskets wherein those delectable berries were then sold. How delightful it would be, some of us thought, to have a real picnic on the State House steps!

The supplies having been secured from our respective homes, we met on the steps of Massachusetts’ Capitol, but, alas! unwelcome guests came too. Various boys of our acquaintance, led by Brooks Adams, the youngest of the family, appeared upon the scene, and we reluctantly beat a retreat, the boys forming a skirmish-line and hovering around us and our provisions. After this feat of daring we were never allowed to have picnics again within the city limits.

When summer came, the Adamses removed to the old family mansion in Quincy, and here, too, sister Julia and I had the pleasure of visiting them. I am afraid we did not think much about the presidential memories connected with the house, which was certainly a delightful one. On the second floor was a spacious drawing-room, only opened, I think, for state occasions. It was furnished in yellow damask, and I have a dim memory of family portraits as we sported about among the cushions.

Evidently the sturdy spirit of the old Adamses was not wanting to their descendants, and with Master Brooks we had some conflicts (he was seven or eight at this time). Perhaps we, being so many girls, in some way infringed upon his rights.

The older sons of the house, John Quincy and Charles Francis, Jr., were at this time students at Harvard College, or had recently graduated there-from. They were genial, witty and delightful, and showed great kindness to their little sister and her friends. Of course we were only too well pleased to listen to the conversation of such clever and agreeable young men, though too youthful to have developed much feminine coquetry. Yet it was a salve to our pride that we were considered old enough to be worthy any notice from such brilliant people. Master Brooks did not appreciate us as his elder brothers did.

“Green Peace” was not more than eight miles distant from Quincy. My father was extremely fond of riding on horseback and often took us with him. The younger generation of the Adamses were also fond of this exercise, hence we used occasionally to join forces and pace through the lovely country lanes together. By this time I had attained to the dignity of semi-young-ladyhood. An untoward event attended our return from one of these expeditions. As our hospitable hosts detained us to “high tea,” it was dark when we went to the gate to remount our horses, and one of the young gentlemen, in putting me on my palfrey, landed me on the horse’s neck. When this disaster was discovered every one laughed heartily, while I crawled back into the proper position, feeling my youthful dignity somewhat diminished.

My father, who was active in the councils of the Republican party and who was a friend of Charles Francis Adams, once called to see him about some matter connected with his approaching election to Congress, if I remember aright. We were received in the wonderful mahogany room. The existence of this was not known until recent times, when some workmen accidentally discovered beneath the plaster a wall of solid mahogany reaching from floor to ceiling. The plaster was removed and the mahogany paneled and varnished, thus making a beautiful and unusual interior.

Mrs. Charles Francis Adams was a fine-looking woman whose bright black eyes bespoke keenness of mind as well as geniality and vivacity of temperament. At the time of which I speak, her hair was jet black and worn in the smooth bandeaux then fashionable. Both in appearance and in disposition she formed a contrast with her distinguished husband, who was already bald and gray, with blue eyes.

Brother Harry and sister Laura went at this time to a school kept by Miss Susan Hale, a sister of Edward Everett Hale. Harry had been from his tenderest years an extremely mischievous child. If Miss Hale punished him by putting him in the closet, some damage to the clothing hanging there was sure to result. Laura was a very good and amiable little girl, and conscientious as well.

Nevertheless, when she was about five years old a curious indisposition was wont to attack her as the time approached for starting for school. With the brutal penetration of the older sister, I saw that this was only “shamming.” But the elders were more lenient. The child perhaps might not feel well, so she was allowed to remain at home. As soon as the rest of us had departed she recovered her health with surprising promptness!

In extenuation of this little piece of innocent deception it should be said that she was rather a delicate child.

She, as well as Julia, developed a literary turn of mind very early. When only five years old she delighted the rest of us by reciting “Annie of Lochroyan” and other ballads from Thalatta, a book of which we were all fond. A little later, when she went to the school kept by Mr. Henry Williams, he called her in to read before the older girls, for the instruction of the latter. Dear, good man, he did not realize the naughtiness of girls. They made the child’s life miserable by teasing her after this event.

I have already mentioned some of our foreign teachers. Among these was a German, Dr. D——, who had ten children and, as I think, no servant. Yet he told us that he never wanted to dine out, as his wife was such a good cook. This seemed to me a little hard on that good woman. He had the habit of learning, before breakfast, one hundred words of some foreign language! Evidently he was a man of attainments but not of scientific accuracy.

One could pardon, as a poetic flight of fancy, his statement that the mastodon—or some other extinct beast—was as large as the Institution for the Blind. But when it came to the price of cows, that was another matter. He made a misstatement on this subject to the blind boys, some of whom were country lads, and thus lost their confidence. Possibly they were unjust, for the learned professor might have confused German and American prices!