_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]
Footnote 7:
See Chapter IV.
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_
_January 11th, 1855_.