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ABIGAIL ADAMS AND HER TIMES
* * * * *
Books By Laura E. Richards
Abigail Adams and Her Times
Pippin
Elizabeth Fry
Florence Nightingale
Mrs. Tree
Mrs. Tree's Will
Miss Jimmy
The Wooing of Calvin Parks
Journals and Letters of Samuel Gridley Howe
Two Noble Lives
Captain January
A Happy Little Time
When I Was Your Age
Five Minute Stories
In My Nursery
The Golden Windows
The Silver Crown
The Joyous Story of Toto
The Life of Julia Ward Howe
_With Maud Howe Elliott,
etc., etc._
* * * * *
[Illustration: ABIGAIL ADAMS
From an original painting by Gilbert Stuart]
ABIGAIL ADAMS AND HER TIMES
by
LAURA E. RICHARDS
Author of "Elizabeth Fry, the Angel of the Prisons,"
"Florence Nightingale, the Angel of the Crimea," etc.
[Illustration]
Illustrated
D. Appleton and Company
New York London
1917
Copyright, 1917, by
D. Appleton and Company
Printed in the United States of America
TO
THE HONORED MEMORY OF
FRANKLIN BENJAMIN SANBORN
THE FRIEND OF MY PARENTS AND OF MY CHILDREN;
TO THREE GENERATIONS A FAITHFUL,
AFFECTIONATE, AND BELOVED
COUNSELLOR.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. BEGINS AT THE BEGINNING 1
II. GIRLHOOD AND MARRIAGE 24
III. THE BOSTON MASSACRE 40
IV. THE BOSTON TEA PARTY 60
V. AFTER LEXINGTON 88
VI. BOSTON BLOCKADE 112
VII. IN HAPPY BRAINTREE 124
VIII. INDEPENDENCE AT LAST 142
IX. MR. ADAMS ABROAD 181
X. THE COURT OF ST. JAMES 197
XI. VEXATIOUS HONORS 231
XII. AFTERNOON AND EVENING 260
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Abigail Adams _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
Abigail Adams 36
John Adams 188
South Elevation of the President's House 252
For much of the local and contemporary color in this little book, the
author is indebted to the admirable works of the late Mrs. Alice Morse
Earle.
ABIGAIL ADAMS AND HER TIMES
CHAPTER I
BEGINS AT THE BEGINNING
SEVENTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-FOUR! George the Second on the throne of
England, "snuffy old drone from the German hive"; Charles Edward Stuart
("bonnie Prince Charlie") making ready for his great _coup_ which, the
next year, was to cast down said George from the throne and set Charles
Edward thereupon as "rightful, lawful prince--for wha'll be king but
Charlie?", and which ended in Culloden and the final downfall and
dispersion of the Scottish Stuarts.
In France, Louis XV., Lord of Misrule, shepherding his people toward the
Abyss with what skill was in him; at war with England, at war with
Hungary; Frederick of Prussia alone standing by him. In Europe,
generally, a seething condition which is not our immediate concern. In
America, seething also: discontent, indignation, rising higher and
higher under British imposition (not British either, being the work of
Britain's German ruler, not of her people!), yet quelled for the moment
by war with France.
I am not writing a history; far from it. I am merely throwing on the
screen, in the fashion of today, a few scenes to make a background for
my little pen-picture-play. What is really our immediate concern is that
on November eleventh of this same year, 1744, was born to the wife of
the Reverend William Smith of Weymouth, Massachusetts, a daughter,
baptized Abigail.
Parson Smith was a notable figure of the times; not a great man, but one
of character, intelligence and cultivation. He married a daughter of
Colonel John Quincy, so my heroine was a cousin--I cannot tell in what
precise degree--to Dorothy Q. of poetic-pictorial fame; cousin, too,
(her grandmother having been a Norton) to half Boston, the cultivated
and scholarly half.
Parson Smith kept a diary, as dry a document as I have often read. He
had no time to spare, and his brief entries are abbreviated down to the
finest possible point. For example, we read that
"By my Gd I am as'd and Ev. am as'd at my S and do now ys D Sol prom By
Thy God never to T. to s. ag."
This is puzzling at first sight; but the practiced reader will, after
some study, make out that the good Parson, writing for himself alone,
was really saying,
"By my God I am assured and Even am assured at my Strength, and do now
this Day Solemnly promise By Thy God never to Tempt to sin again."
Even this is somewhat cryptic, but we are glad of the assurance, the
more that we find the poor gentleman still troubled in spirit a week
later.
"Lord g't me S to res the e. so prej'd to me. Lord I am ashamed of it
and resolve to s. e. T. by thy S."
Which being interpreted is: "Lord, grant me Strength to resist the evil
so prejudicial to me. Lord, I am ashamed of it and resolve to shun evil
Temptation by thy Strength."
What the temptation was, we may not know. Possibly he was inclined to
extravagance in certain matters of personal dignity and adornment: we
read of his paying fifteen pounds "for my wig"; and again, "At Boston.
Paid Mr. Oliver for a cut whigg £10.00." But this is nothing. Parson
Smith came of "kent folk," and may have had private means beside the
salary of eight hundred dollars. Do we not read that Samuel Adams'
barber's bill "for three months, shaving and dressing," was £175, paid
by the Colony of Massachusetts?
Necessary expenses were also heavy. "Dec. 4th, 1749. Paid Brother Smith
for a Barrel of Flower £15.11.3." But on the other hand, he sold his
horse to Mr. Jackson for £200.
1751 was an eventful year. On April 23d we read,
"Weymouth Meeting House took fire about half an hour after 10 o'clock at
night and burnt to the ground in abt 2 hours."
This is all Parson Smith has to say about it, but the Boston _Post-Boy_
of April 29th tells us that:
"Last Tuesday Night the old Meeting-house in Weymouth was burnt to the
Ground: and three Barrels of Gunpowder, the Town-Stock, being in the
Loft, blew up with a great noise. 'Tis uncertain by what Means the Fire
happen'd."
Paul Torrey, the town poet, says of it:
Our powder stock, kept under lock,
With flints and bullets were
By dismal blast soon swiftly cast
Into the open air.
The poem hints at incendiaries.
I'm satisfied they do reside
Somewhere within the town:
Therefore, no doubt, you'll find them out,
By searching up and down.
On trial them we will condemn,
The sentence we will give:
Them execute without dispute,
Not being fit to live.
This was a heavy blow to minister and congregation, in fact to the whole
community; for the meeting-house was the centre and core of the village
life.
Meeting-house: (Cotton Mather found "no just ground in Scripture to
apply such a trope as 'church' to a home for public assembly.") Sabbath,
or more often Lord's Day: these are the Puritan names, which happily we
have not yet wholly lost. The early meeting-houses were very small; that
of Haverhill was only twenty-six feet long and twenty wide. They were
oftenest set on a hilltop, partly as a landmark, partly as a lookout in
case of prowling Indians. The building or "raising" of a meeting-house
was a great event in the community. Every citizen was obliged by law to
share in the work or the expense. Every man must give a certain amount
of "nayles." Contributions were levied for lumber, for labor of horses
and men, and for "Rhum and Cacks" to regale the workers. "When the
Medford people built their second meeting-house, they provided for the
workmen and bystanders, five barrels of rum, one barrel of good brown
sugar, a box of fine lemons, and two loaves of sugar. As a natural
consequence, two-thirds of the frame fell, and many were injured. In
Northampton, in 1738, ten gallons of rum were bought for £8 'to raise
the meeting-house'--and the village doctor got '£3 for setting his bone
Jonathan Strong, and £3 10s. for setting Ebenezer Burt's thy' which had
somehow through the rum or the raising, both gotten broken."[1] Finally
it was realized that rum and "raising" did not go well together, and the
workmen had to wait till night for their liquor.
Once up, the meeting-house became the centre of village life. On the
green outside stood the stocks, the whipping-post, the pillory, the
cage. We are told that the first man to occupy the Boston stocks was the
carpenter who made them, his charge for the lumber used being considered
over high. The pillory was much frequented by Quakers and other
non-orthodox persons. Here, too, were horse-blocks, and rows of
stepping-stones for muddy days. The Concord horse-block was a fine one;
it was erected by the women of the town, each housewife giving a pound
of butter toward the expense. On the walls and door of the meeting-house
were nailed grinning heads of wolf and bear, killed partly for safety,
possibly more for the reward: fifteen shillings for a live wolf, ten for
a dead one. We are not told what was done with the live wolves. A man in
Newbury killed seven wolves in one year; but that is nothing. We learn
from the history of Roxbury that in 1725, in one week in September,
twenty bears were killed within two miles of Boston! Wolves were far
more dreaded than bears, and save in this one remarkable instance, far
more abundant. In 1723, Ipswich was so beset by wolves that children
could not go to meeting or to school without a grown attendant.
In the early days, the meeting-house was unpainted; paint would have
been thought a sinful extravagance. The eighteenth century, however,
brought laxer ideas; brought also cheaper paint, and the result was a
sudden access of gayety. Pomfret, Connecticut, painted its meeting-house
bright yellow. Instantly Windham, near by, voted that its meeting-house
be "colored something like the Pomfret meeting-house." Killingly, in
turn, gave orders that "the cullering of the body of our meeting-house
should be like the Pomfret meeting-house, and the Roff shal be cullered
Read." But Brooklyn carried off the palm, with a combination of orange,
chocolate and white, which must have been startling even in 1762, and
which would surely have sent Cotton Mather into convulsions, had he been
alive to see.
Wolves' heads outside the meeting-house; inside, the village powder
magazine! It was the safest place, because there was never any fire in
the meeting-house. Sometimes in the steeple, sometimes under the
roof-beams, there the "powder-closite" was. If a thunder-storm came on
during service, the congregation ran out, and waited under the trees
till it was over.
Few meeting-houses boasted a bell. The shrill toot of a horn, the clear
blast of a conch-shell, or the roll of a drum, gave the signal for
prayer, and brought the villagers hurrying from their doors and across
the green to the meeting-house. In East Hadley, the man who "blew the
cunk" received three dollars a year for his services. The drummer was
better paid, receiving fourteen shillings of the town's money.
This digression on meeting-houses (drawn from Mrs. Alice Morse Earle's
delightful "Sabbath in Puritan New England") may be pardoned if it
gives some idea of the disaster so briefly recorded by Parson Smith.
Neither parson nor parishioners were one whit discouraged, however. On
May 16th, it is true, they kept a "Fast, to bewail the burning of our
Meeting House": but on August 7th we read: "Began to raise Weymouth
Meeting House, 3 days and half about it." And on September 1st: "Met in
our New Meeting House. I p(reache)d."
What heroic labor, what depth and height of earnest purpose, what
self-denial and sacrifice, these eight brief words represent, we may
well imagine, but Parson Smith gives us no help. The thing was done:
there was no more to say.
About this time, we begin to find ominous entries in the diary,
following one another in quick and grievous succession. On the same page
that records (August 15th) "P'd £15 for my wig," we read, "Mr. Benjamin
Bicknells Child Died of the throat Distemper." Two days later: "Mr.
Pettee's Daughter Died of the Throat D. aged 5. Paid £4 for a hat for my
Son."
Every day through the rest of the year they were dying, the little
children, of what we may suppose was diphtheria, or some kindred
affection. It was a dreadful time. On November 21st we read:
"Fast Day at Mr. Bayleys Parish on account of the throat Distemper
prevailing there. Mr. Colton p'd from 2 Jer. 30 'In vain have I smitten
yr c(hildre)n ye rec'd no Correction.'"
There had been a similar epidemic in 1735-6. In twelve months, nine
hundred and eighty-four died of the distemper, by far the greater part
under ten years of age--"the woful effects of Original Sin," remarks a
pious writer of the time.
All this time little Abigail Smith has been waiting patiently in her
cradle; now her turn has come. Remarkable woman as she was, perhaps the
most striking fact in her life was that she _lived_. Why or how any
Puritan baby survived its tribulations, one hardly knows; that is, any
baby born in winter, and late November is winter in New England. Within
a few days of its birth, the baby was taken to the meeting-house to be
baptized; the meeting-house, unwarmed, as we have seen, from year's end
to year's end, the wolf Cold waiting to receive the poor lamb, with jaws
opened wider than those that grinned on the outer walls of the building.
This expedition often completed the baby's earthly career. "Of Judge
Sewall's fourteen children but three survived him, a majority dying in
infancy; and of fifteen children of his friend Cotton Mather, but two
survived their father."[2] We are not actually told that the
christening expedition killed them, but we may infer it in many cases.
The baby slept in a hooded cradle; before going to his christening, he
must be carried upstairs, with silver and gold in his hand, and "scarlet
laid on his head to keep him from harm." If he had fits or rickets, he
was largely dosed with snail-water. To make the "admirable and most
famous Snail-water" you must "take a peck of garden Shel Snails, wash
them well in Small Beer, and put them in an oven till they have done
making a Noise, then take them out and wipe them well from the green
froth that is upon them, and bruise them shels and all in a Stone
Mortar, then take a Quart of Earthworms, scower them with salt, slit
them, and--"[3] but perhaps you do not wish to make Snail-water, even
the most admirable and famous; and after all, we have no reason to think
that Abigail Smith had rickets, though she was a delicate child. She was
not thought strong enough to go to school; possibly in any case it might
not have been thought necessary for her. The education of woman was
little thought of in those days; indeed, she herself says in one of her
letters that it was fashionable to ridicule female learning. In another
letter, written the year before her death, she says:
"My early education did not partake of the abundant opportunities which
the present days offer, and which even our common country schools now
afford. _I never was sent to any school._ I was always sick. Female
education, in the best families, went no further than writing and
arithmetic; in some few and rare instances, music and dancing."
How, then, did Abigail get her education? Easily enough; school was not
necessary for her. She loved books, and there were plenty of them, not
only in Parson Smith's study, but in the home of her grandfather,
Colonel John Quincy, then living at Mount Wollaston, not far from
Weymouth. A great part of her childhood was spent with her grandparents,
and to her grandmother Quincy, in particular, she always felt that she
owed a great deal.
"I have not forgotten," she writes to her own daughter in 1795, "the
excellent lessons which I received from my grandmother, at a very early
period of life. I frequently think they made a more durable impression
upon my mind than those which I received from my own parents. Whether it
was owing to the happy method of mixing instruction and amusement
together, or from an inflexible adherence to certain principles, the
utility of which I could not but see and approve when a child, I know
not; but maturer years have rendered them oracles of wisdom to me. I
love and revere her memory; her lively, cheerful disposition animated
all around her, whilst she edified all by her unaffected piety. This
tribute is due to the memory of those virtues the sweet remembrance of
which will flourish, though she has long slept with her ancestors."
We can fancy the child sitting by the delightful grandmother, imbibing
instruction and amusement, working the while at her sampler, or setting
delicate stitches in a shirt for father or grandfather. Girls do not
make the family shirts nowadays; but I know one dear lady who at seven
years old was set down at her grandmother's side to cut and make a shirt
for her grandfather, taking every stitch herself. We can see Abigail,
too, browsing among Colonel Quincy's bookshelves; reading Shakespeare
and Dryden and Pope and Prior; the _Spectator_, too, and all the history
she could lay her hands on, and perhaps the novels of Mr. Richardson,
Mr. Fielding, Mr. Smollett, three young men who were making a great stir
in those days. She wrote letters, too, in the fashion of the time;
endless letters to girl friends in Weymouth or Boston, "hifalutin" in
language, but full of good sense and good feeling. We elders are always
sighing, "Give us, ah! give us but yesterday!" and I cannot help
deploring the decay of letter-writing. Says Charles Francis Adams, in
the admirable Memoir with which he prefaces his collection of the
letters of John and Abigail Adams:
"Perhaps there is no species of exercise, in early life, more productive
of results useful to the mind, than that of writing letters. Over and
above the mechanical facility of constructing sentences, which no
teaching will afford so well, the interest with which the object is
commonly pursued gives an extraordinary impulse to the intellect. This
is promoted in a degree proportionate to the scarcity of temporary and
local subjects for discussion. Where there is little gossip, the want of
it must be supplied from books. The love of literature springs up where
the weeds of scandal take no root. The young ladies of Massachusetts, in
the last century, were certainly readers, even though only self-taught;
and their taste was not for the feeble and nerveless sentiment, or the
frantic passion, which comes from the novels and romances in the
circulating library of our day, but was derived from the deepest wells
of English literature. The poets and moralists of the mother country
furnished to these inquiring minds their ample stores, and they were
used to an extent which it is at least doubtful if the more pretending
and elaborate instruction of the present generation would equal."
However this may be, (and I believe every word of it myself!) we must
all be thankful that Abby Smith formed the letter-writing habit early in
life; if she had not, we might have lacked one of the most vivid
pictures of life in Revolutionary times. Her girlhood letters (those at
least to her girl friends) were signed "Diana," and were addressed to
Myra, Aspasia, Calliope, Aurelia. Later, in writing to her faithful
friend, lover and husband, "Portia" was the name she chose, a name that
suited her well. Here is a letter, written in her girlhood, to her
friend, Mrs. Lincoln:
"_Weymouth, 5 October, 1761._
"MY DEAR FRIEND,
"Does not my friend think me a stupid girl, when she
has kindly offered to correspond with me, that I
should be so senseless as not to accept the offer?
Senseless and stupid I would confess myself, and that
to the greatest degree, if I did not foresee the many
advantages I shall receive from corresponding with a
lady of your known prudence and understanding.
"I gratefully accept your offer; although I may be
charged with vanity in pretending to entertain you
with my scrawls; yet I know your generosity is such,
that, like a kind parent, you will bury in oblivion
all my imperfections. I do not aim at entertaining. I
write merely for the instruction and edification which
I shall receive, provided you honor me with your
correspondence. . . .
"You bid me tell _one_ of my sparks (I think that was
the word) to bring me to see you. Why! I believe you
think they are as plenty as herrings, when, alas!
there is as great a scarcity of them as there is of
justice, honesty, prudence and many other virtues.
I've no pretensions to one. Wealth, wealth is the only
thing that is looked after now. 'Tis said Plato
thought, if Virtue would appear to the world, all
mankind would be enamoured with her, but now interest
governs the world, and men neglect the golden mean.
"But, to be sober, I should really rejoice to come and
see you, but if I wait till I get a (what did you call
'em?) I fear you'll be blind with age.
"I can say, in the length of this epistle, I've made
the golden rule mine. Pray, my friend, do not let it
be long before you write to your ever affectionate
"A. S."
One feels sure that Abigail was a good child, as well as a bright one.
She was not an infant prodigy, one is glad to think; parents and
grandparents were too sensible to play tricks with her mind or her soul.
One sighs to read of the "pious and ingenious Jane Turell," a Puritan
child who could relate many stories out of the Scriptures before she was
two years old. "Before she was four years old, she could say the greater
part of the Assembly's Catechism, many of the Psalms, read distinctly,
and make pertinent remarks on many things she read. She asked many
astonishing questions about divine mysteries." It is comforting to know
that Jane liked green apples; her father, at the end of a pious letter
adjures her "as she loves him not to eat them," but it shows that after
all she was a human child.
We do not know much about the diet of Puritan children. Parson Smith was
a good farmer, killed his own pork and beef, planted apple trees, made
cider, etc. We may suppose that Abigail had plenty of good fish and
flesh, with a "sallet" now and then, and corn, squash, and pumpkins at
her desire. "Pompions," the latter were often called, while "squash"
were variously known as squantersquash, askutasquash, isquoukersquash,
all Indian variants of the one name which we clip into a monosyllable.
Wheat did not grow well in the Colonies; oaten and rye meal was chiefly
used in combination with the universal corn. They had hasty pudding,
boiled in a bag, or fried: "sukquttahhash," and jonne-cake, or journey
cake, which we have changed by the insertion of an _h_ till it appears
as if "Johnny" had either invented or owned it. Parched corn (our
pop-corn), a favorite food of the Indians, was also highly appreciated
by the Colonists. They were amazed at first sight of it: Governor
Winthrop explains carefully how, on being parched, the corn turns
entirely inside out, and is white and floury within. Sometimes they made
it into "No-cake," which is, we are told, "Indian corn, parched in the
hot ashes, the ashes being sifted from it; it is afterwards beaten to
powder and put into a long leatherne bag, trussed like a knapsacke, out
of which they take thrice three spoonfuls a day." This was considered
wonderfully sustaining food; it was mixed, before eating, with snow in
winter, with water in summer.
The pumpkins were made into "pyes," cakes, bread, sauce.
We have pumpkins at morning and pumpkins at noon,
If it were not for pumpkins we should be undone.
Potatoes were brought over from England as early as 1636, but were not
grown till some time later. People were still afraid of them: some
thought that "if a man eat them every day he could not live beyond seven
years." Some again fancied the balls were the edible portion, and "did
not much desire them." Nor were the recipes for cooking them specially
inviting. "The Accomplisht Cook" much in use about the year 1700 says
that potatoes must be "boiled and blanched; seasoned with nutmeg and
cinnamon and pepper; mixed with eringo roots, dates, lemon, and whole
mace; covered with butter, sugar, and grape verjuice, made with pastry;
then iced with rosewater and sugar, and yclept a 'Secret Pye.'"[4]
Let us hope that Mrs. Smith, a Quincy born, knew better than to torture
and overwhelm a worthy vegetable! We know little of this good lady, but
we may suppose that she was a notable housewife, since her daughter in
later life showed such skill in all household arts. We shall see by and
by how Abigail baked and brewed, spun and wove, clothed and fed and
cared for her family, often with little or no assistance. We may fancy
her now, trotting about after Mother Smith at Weymouth or Grandmother
Quincy at Wollaston, her bright eyes noting everything, her quick
fingers mastering all the arts of preserving, candying, distilling.
There was a passion for such work among the New England women in those
days.
"They made preserves and conserves, marmalets and quiddonies, hypocras
and household wines, usquebarbs and cordials. They candied fruits and
made syrups. They preserved everything that would bear preserving. I
have seen old-time receipts for preserving quinces, 'respasse,' pippins,
'apricocks,' plums, 'damsins,' peaches, oranges, lemons, artichokes;
green walnuts, elecampane roots, eringo roots, grapes, barberries,
cherries; receipts for syrup of clove gillyflower, wormwood, mint,
aniseed, clove, elder, lemons, marigold, citron, hyssop, liquorice;
receipts for conserves of roses, violets, borage flowers, rosemary,
betony, sage, mint, lavender, marjoram, and 'piony'; rules for candying
fruit, berries, and flowers, for poppy water, cordial, cherry water,
lemon water, thyme water, Angelica water, Aqua Mirabilis, Aqua Celestis,
clary water, mint water."[5]
Good living was cheap in Abigail's childhood. An English traveler,
visiting Boston in 1740, writes thus: "Their poultry of all sorts are as
fine as can be desired, and they have plenty of fine fish of various
kinds, all of which are very cheap. Take the butchers' meat all
together, in every season of the year, I believe it is about twopence
per pound sterling; the best beef and mutton, lamb and veal are often
sold for sixpence per pound of New England money, which is some small
matter more than one penny sterling.
"Poultry in their season are exceeding cheap. As good a turkey may be
bought for about two shillings sterling as we can buy in London for six
or seven, and as fine a goose for tenpence as would cost three shillings
and sixpence or four shillings in London. The cheapest of all the
several kinds of poultry are a sort of wild pigeon, which are in season
the latter end of June, and so continue until September. They are large,
and finer than those we have in London, and are sold here for
eighteenpence a dozen, and sometimes for half of that.
"Fish, too, is exceedingly cheap. They sell a fine fresh cod that will
weigh a dozen pounds or more, just taken out of the sea, for about
twopence sterling. They have smelts, too, which they sell as cheap as
sprats are in London. Salmon, too, they have in great plenty, and these
they sell for about a shilling apiece, which will weigh fourteen or
fifteen pounds."
Shad, strange to say, was profoundly despised. In Puritan times they
were fed to the hogs; in 1733 they sold two for a penny, and it was not
at all "the thing" to eat them--or at least to be seen eating them! A
story is told of a family in Hadley, Massachusetts, who were about to
dine on a shad; and who, hearing a knock at the door, delayed opening it
till shad and platter had been hustled out of sight.
"They have venison very plenty. They will sell as fine a haunch for half
a crown as would cost full thirty shillings in England. Bread is much
cheaper than we have in England, but is not near so good. Butter is very
fine, and cheaper than ever I bought any in London; the best is sold all
summer for threepence a pound. But as for cheese, it is neither cheap
nor good."
And milk was one penny a quart!
But we shall see great changes before we finish our story. These were
the years of plenty, of the fat kine and the full ears of corn. Eat your
fill, Abigail! drink your milk while it is a penny a quart; the lean
years are coming, when you will pinch and scrape and use all your wit
and ability to feed and clothe your family, and will look back with a
sigh on these full years of your childhood.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] "The Sabbath in Puritan New England." Alice Morse Earle.
[2] "Customs and Fashions in Old New England." Alice Morse Earle.
[3] _Ibid._
[4] "Customs and Fashions in Old New England." Alice Morse Earle.
[5] "Customs and Fashions in Old New England." Alice Morse Earle.