Memories grave and gay

by Florence Howe Hall

January 11th, 1855.

Editor’s Table

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.