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!
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