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 " Sfjall toe go see t\]z reltques of tl)is toinn? " 
 
 TWELFTH Night, Act ill., Scene 3. 
 
 ^rtbatclg ^rinteU 
 
 For the Fair for the Massachusetts Society for the 
 Prevention of Cruelty to Children. 
 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON. 
 
 1880. 
 
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OLD BOSTON 
 
 FOR YOUNG EYES. 
 
 Boston, Dec. i, 1880. 
 
 My dear Children: — 
 
 I think it will intereft you to hear about 
 Bofton in former days; and I fhall tell you not 
 only what I myfelf remember but alfo what I 
 have heard from ftill older perfons. 
 
 Bofton was built on a peninfula, — which is a 
 point of land not quite furrounded by water, 
 but conne6ted with the mainland by a narrow 
 neck. This neck is now fo built upon and en- 
 larged by filling in the water on either fide that 
 you could fcarcely difcover it, but on it was the 
 road leading to Roxbury, which is now called 
 Wafhington Street. You could fee the water 
 on both fides of the road in my youth, — the 
 ocean on one fide, and Charles River on the 
 other. The Indians called this peninfula Shaw- 
 
t 
 
 mut. The firfl white fettler was William Black- 
 Hone, and he fold his claim to the whole land for 
 £30, or $150. I have drawn for you a little map, 
 which will give you fome idea of this pear-fhaped 
 peninfula. There were three hills upon it, and it 
 was fometimes called Trimountain. Thofe hills 
 were Copps Hill, where ftill an old graveyard 
 may be feen; Fort Hill, now almoft entirely 
 levelled; and Beacon Hill. Copps Hill is 
 almoft oppofite Charleftown. The remains of 
 many fine houfes are here, for it was once a 
 fafhionable part of the town. In Salem Street 
 ftands Chrift Church, the oldeft church in Bofton, 
 built in 1723. In the fteeple of this church the 
 lanterns were hung to give warning to Paul 
 Revere that the Britiih were about to march 
 to Lexington and Concord. He was booted 
 and fpurred, and immediately mounted his good 
 Heed, and took the famous ride of which you 
 have read, to roufe the country people and give 
 warning of the approach of the troops. The 
 town was fettled principally by Englifh people, 
 and they called it from St. Botolph's town in 
 Lincolnfhire. That got corrupted to Bofton, 
 jull as in my youth they would call the name 
 Crowninfhield, Groundfel. John Winthrop was 
 
Tac Se*\vW/'<i ^i .<vLtn^ Co ^Ji fre-zite^if**;-'-- 
 
5 
 
 the firft governor of this new little colony. 
 You will fee a ftatue of him in Court Street. 
 The firft colonial governors lived in the 
 Province Houfe. This was on Walhington 
 Street, oppolite the Old South, far back from the 
 ftreet, a balcony over the front door, from which 
 proclamations were read, and two large oak-trees 
 in front of it. Spacious ftables reached into 
 School Street, and the name of Province Houfe 
 Court is ftill retained there. King's Chapel alfo 
 recalls colonial times, and the days when Court 
 Street and State Street were Queen Street and 
 King Street. Fanueil Hall (now altered) and 
 the Old State Houfe and the Old South Church 
 are all memorials of thofe days before the 
 Revolution, — older than the memory of living 
 people. 
 
 On Beacon Hill, where the refervoir for 
 water now ftands, there was a tall maft placed 
 on crofs timbers with a ftone foundation. It was 
 afcended by tree-nails, and fixty-five feet from 
 the bafe there was a crane, from which an iron 
 bafket was fufpended to receive a barrel of tar 
 and tow. This was to be lighted to give notice 
 to the furrounding country of an attack from the 
 Indians, or an}^ danger to the little fettlement. 
 
In 1790, a monument of brick was erected on 
 the fame fpot, an eagle with out-ftretched wings 
 being on the top, in commemoration of the battle 
 of Bunker Hill. It was lixty feet high, and you 
 reached it by afcending the flight of fteps from 
 Derne Street, juft as you fee in my little pi6lure. 
 And here is Mr. Thurfl;on's houfe, too, on the 
 top of the hill. In 181 1, this monument was 
 taken down, and the hill levelled. The ftone 
 panels on the fides are ftill to be feen in the State 
 Houfe. On one fide you read this infcription: — 
 
 AMERICANS ! 
 
 WHILE FROM THIS EMINENCE SCENES OF 
 
 LUXURIANT FERTILITY, 
 
 OF FLOURISHING COMMERCE, AND THE ABODES OF 
 
 SOCIAL HAPPINESS MEET YOUR VIEW, FORGET 
 
 NOT THOSE WHO BY THEIR EXERTIONS 
 
 HAVE SECURED TO YOU THESE 
 
 BLESSINGS. 
 
 The State Houfe was built in 1798, from plans 
 of Mr. Charles Bulfinch. On the oppofite corner 
 from the State Houfe, on Park Street, flood the 
 Workhoufe, then a Poor-houfe and Bridewell, 
 down to the Granary, which flood where Park 
 Street Church now is. From Park Street to 
 
BE-ACO// HlLU' 
 f^rom -Temple 'bC Dtrn^ JtJ". 
 
 Trom a. dravx'ing 
 /laidc in i8n. r. 
 
Somerfet Street, on the upper fide, was a row 
 of large, fquare, detached houfes, with high fteps 
 and gardens, far back from the llreet. Mr. D. 
 D. Rogers's manfion was on the corner, and fo 
 on till you came to the largeft and finefl ot 
 all, Mr. Gardiner Greene's, with terraces, a lofty 
 fummer-houfe, and fine grounds, coach-houfe, 
 and gardens with high box borders. This 
 was nearly where now is Pemberton Square. 
 An Eaft India tree called the jingo-tree, tranf- 
 planted from this garden, may flill be feen with 
 its fan-fhaped leaves on the Beacon Street fide 
 of the Common. Thefe large, fquare houfes 
 were much alike; and the one which I fhow 
 you in the pi6lure, though it flood in Salem, 
 was a good example of the prevailing ftyle. 
 Where the brick church in Somerfet Street 
 now ftands was Mr. Caleb Loring's, a little 
 raifed above the flreet, with a garden at the 
 fide and back. Dire6lly oppofite King's Chapel, 
 at the corner of Beacon and Tremont Streets, 
 I remember Mr. Eliot's, fet back from the 
 flreet, with a flagged walk leading to the door. 
 Where the Revere Houfe now is was Mr. Boott's, 
 and on the corner of Chardon Street, Mr. Jofeph 
 
8 
 
 Coolidge's, with tall poplar trees in front, and 
 next it, Rev. Francis Parkman's. Where Hovey's 
 ftore now is, fifty years ago was Mr. S. P. Gard- 
 ner's houfe, with gambrel roof and dormer win- 
 dows, a paved court-yard in front, and a large gar- 
 den producing delicious pears. Nearly oppolite 
 was Mr. Pratt's, one of the fquare houfes again, 
 with large rooms on each fide of the front door. 
 On the corner of Bedford and Summer Streets 
 flood the New South Church, on what was called 
 the Church Green. This was taken down in 1868. 
 Almoft oppofite was Mr. Sturgis's, and the houfe 
 occupied by George Bancroft, the hiftorian, when 
 he was Colle6tor of the Port of Bollon. Through 
 the whole length of this ftreet were fine trees 
 overarching the pavement. In Pearl Street 
 there were many fine fquare houfes. In 1810, 
 Park Street Church was built, and the owners 
 of the large houfes above it. Dr. J. C. Warren, 
 Mr. Arnold Welles, and others, ufed to con- 
 gratulate themfelves on their unbroken view of 
 the funfet over the water from the Common, — 
 now, alas ! entirely gone. I well remember that 
 where St. Paul's Church now ftands, on Tremont 
 Street, there was an open fpace, with a high 
 
wooden fence around it, filled with large trees. 
 It was lighted at night, and people went there 
 to ftroll about, to fwing, and take refi-efhments. 
 It was called the Wafhington Garden. Farther 
 fouth, on Tremont Street, in the row of houfes 
 called Colonnade Row, lived the Lawrences, 
 Mafons, Reveres, and others. From the balcony 
 of one of thefe houfes I faw the entrance of 
 Lafayette into Bofton in 1824, and the old 
 Frenchman Handing in his barouche, waving 
 his hand and bowing to the multitude, who 
 fhowered him with flowers. 
 
 I was prefent at the laying of the corner-fl;one 
 of the Bunker Hill Monument, in 1825. 
 Lafayette fat among the veterans of the Revo- 
 lution. Rev. Jofeph Thaxter (the chaplain of 
 Prefcott's own regiment) opened the fervices 
 with a tremulous and touching prayer. When 
 Mr. Webflier rofe to addrefs the fea of faces on 
 the open hilllide before him, you could think of 
 nothing but Olympian Jove, fo noble and grand 
 was his whole bearing, fo thrilling and exciting 
 his words. You can read this brilliant fpeech 
 in his works; but I can never forget having 
 heard it. 
 
lO 
 
 Since I have given you fome of my youthful 
 experiences, you may Hke to know that the firft 
 thing I diftindll}^ remember in my childhood is 
 the funeral of Lav/rence. He was killed in a 
 naval battle between the Shannon and Chefa- 
 peake, in Salem harbor. The mournful pageant 
 affedled me ftrongly, and has left an indelible 
 imprellion. The tolling bells, the awe-ltruck 
 people, the car with its gloomy trappings, the 
 mourning for this national forrow, I can never 
 forget. Sixty years after, I faw the monument 
 erected to this hero in Trinity Church-yard, in 
 New York. You may have read that he was 
 mortally wounded early in the encounter, and 
 his dying words as he was taken below were: 
 " Don't give up the fhip." 
 
 Now to return to the State Houfe. As you 
 went down Beacon Street, the firft houfe that 
 ftruck 3^our attention was the Hancock Houfe, 
 built of ftone, far back from the ftreet, with lilac 
 bufhes in front, and a balcony over the front door. 
 A hall, built of wood, forty feet in length, was 
 at the back, for grand occalions. My little pic- 
 ture' will give you an idea of the front of the 
 houfe. 
 
From Governor Hancock's houfe, on Beacon 
 Street, as you defcend the hill, at the corner of 
 Joy Street, far back from the ftreet, flood the Joy 
 houfe, painted yellow, with terraces and high box 
 borders leading up to it. The Harrifon Gray 
 Otis houfe ftill remains unchanged, onl}^ it had a 
 very large garden extending through to Chellnut 
 Street, and a weeping willow could be feen 
 on Cheftnut Street. This is now 45 Beacon 
 Street. 
 
 I thinli I muft give you young people a peep at 
 the interior of fome of thefe houfes, and their 
 ftately and gracious occupants. For where can 
 
12 
 
 you now fee fuch courtly and lovely dames, and 
 fuch noble and grand men, of what is called the 
 old fchool ? They have come down to us in the 
 portraits of Copley, Smibert, and Gilbert Stuart. 
 There was much wealth and difplay. The rich 
 brocade dreffes, the lilver and the glafs, the con- 
 vex mirrors, and the carved fideboards are ftill 
 our precious heirlooms. There was much eti- 
 quette and decorum. I have heard from my 
 mother that children were not allowed to tafte 
 the water at table until they looked round and 
 bowed, and faid, " Duty to papa and mamma, 
 love to brothers and filters, refpe6ls to friends." 
 What would you young people fay to this? I 
 fear you would rather be thirfty. 
 
 The ftyle of drefs was elegant. Gentlemen 
 in full drefs wore fmall-clothes and lilk ftock- 
 ings, a queue in their back hair (unlefs they 
 wore a wig), and delicate, plaited linen-cambric 
 ruffles for their fhirt front. Young ladies in 
 fociety wore only fimple muflin. If they were fo 
 rich as to have an India mull muflin, they often 
 embroidered it with their own hands, and were 
 fupremely rich if they could have a dotted 
 muflin, — fometimes gold or filver dots. A 
 tucker falling over the low neck, and a fimple 
 
13 
 
 fafh completed their toilette. They often made 
 their own flippers with a laft and awl and 
 waxed ends. The mothers wore rich velvet or 
 fatin. I well remember a purple velvet drefs 
 with gold embroidery and a long train, a delicate 
 golden turban, and a bird of paradife feather. 
 A full fet of pearl ornaments, made up In clufl;ers 
 or ftars, with conne6ling chains of pearls, worn 
 on the low neck, completed the attire. At 
 evening entertainments, fupper-tables were rare, 
 but the refrefliments were paffed round to 
 the guefhs on trays; the waiters dodging and 
 twlfl;lng in and out among the company, with 
 their glafles of lemonade or fangaree, and fome- 
 times with empty plates, which you were ex- 
 pected to hold till fomething came to put upon 
 them. 
 
 I mufl: defcrlbe two houfes to you which I 
 thought very elegant. In one you entered a circu- 
 lar hall, with a fl:atue of Hebe In the centre on a 
 pedefl;al, and quite open to the roof, with circular 
 galleries running round the three fhories. When 
 lighted with wax candles (for gas had never been 
 heard of), and hung with garlands of flowers for 
 a ball. It was very beautiful. This houfe was on 
 Beacon Street, built in conne6lIon with the one 
 
H 
 
 t 
 
 on the corner of Walnut, occupied by Mr. 
 
 Homer. It was long called Cotton's Folly, and 
 was finally taken down becaufe the glafs roof 
 made it fo cold. Another, on Cheflnut Street, 
 had a fuite of rooms which was very impofing 
 to me. You entered an oval hall, furrounded 
 with ilatues, and with bufts over the doors. 
 Afcending the Itairs, you were announced; and 
 found yourfelf in a drawing-room which occupied 
 the whole front of the houfe, furnifhed with 
 yellow and purple fatin hangings and chairs, and 
 mirrors and candelabra, and a rich carpet with 
 centre medallion ; opening from this, a mufic room, 
 with fine oil paintings covering the walls entirely; 
 then a boudoir, with yellow filk plaited from top 
 to bottom (which I am told has again come in 
 fafhion); mirrors and ftatues abounded; then a 
 French chamber, a blue boudoir, and another 
 room ftill, — in all, a feries of fix communicating 
 rooms. Is there any thing more beautiful in 
 thefe modern days? 
 
 In many of thefe fine private houfes the rooms 
 were large, lofty, and palatial, and fometimes 
 hung with papers which have again come in 
 fafhion, and are now called Morris papers. 
 Many perfons kept their own coaches. Some 
 were very gorgeous, painted yellow or fcarlet, 
 
IS 
 
 with the coat of arms painted on the panels. 
 I remember feeing a lady flep into one of 
 thefe fine high equipages, dreffed in a brilliant 
 green fatin pelilTe trimmed with ermine, and a 
 white hat with nodding plumes, and it impreffed 
 my youthful eye. The coachman, black and 
 liveried, mounted on a high feat in front, with a 
 fringed hammer cloth, and the footman (alfo 
 liveried) affifting my lady, and then vaulting to 
 his high perch at the back. 
 
 The mode of travelling was quite unlike the 
 prefent day, — ftage-coaches, and turnpike roads, 
 which ran in a perfe6lly ftraight line from place 
 to place. People often made journeys in their 
 own carriages. It took four days with a good 
 pair of horfes to reach Portland from Bofton. 
 Firlt you went over Charleftown bridge and 
 along the dreary, marfhy Salem turnpike. On 
 one of thefe fwampy iflets I once faw a feal, 
 which plunged into the water at our approach. 
 Then you came to the half-way houfe, on a fmall 
 ifland, with a ftunted tree or two; then on to the 
 floating bridge at Lynn, where the water fplafhed 
 through the cracks as you pafTed; then to a 
 rough, rocky, wild country, reminding one of 
 the Highlands of Scotland. In the outfkirts of 
 
i6 
 
 Salem, under a hill, was a row of low negro 
 huts, as though the colored people were unfit 
 to live within the pale of civilization. The firft 
 night was fpent at Ipfwich or Newburyport, the 
 fecond at Portfmouth, the third at Kennebunk, 
 and on the fourth you managed to reach Portland. 
 I have an old journal defcribing one of thefe 
 carriage journeys, and faying there was a good 
 public houfe at Framingham, and it was an 
 excellent place to pafs the night, — twenty miles 
 from Bofton. As late as 183 1, I made a journey 
 to Pittlburg, and you may fee how it was done 
 by thefe extra6ts from my journal : — 
 
 Extra6l from my journal as late as 183 1. 
 
 Rofe at 5 A.M., Monday, and took the ftage for Provi- 
 dence, where we arrived at 12 ; took the fteamer Wafh- 
 ington, and after a very rough night reached New York 
 at 10 next morning. A fteamer to S. Amboy, where we 
 found a railroad. At New Brunfwick we took the ftage 
 again, — nine coach-loads to Trenton, — then a fteam- 
 boat to Philadelphia, which we reached at 7 Tuefday 
 evening. Left Philadelphia at 5 a.m. in boat to Delaware 
 City ; there took canal-boat, Thoufands of little dead 
 fifh on the water, killed by copper ore. At Chefapeake 
 City took fteamer Carrolton and arrived at Baltimore at 
 6. Commenced our ftage journey 27th September. 
 An accident had happened the previous day, and, as we 
 
17 
 
 had the fame driver, we were befet with inquiries about 
 it. The front ftraps broke, the ftage fell, and the hor fes 
 ran and dragged the driver, but were flopped by fome 
 travellers. One of the outfide paffengers had his leg 
 broken. Spent the night at Gettyfburg. On leaving 
 Chamberfburg began very flowly to afcend Cove Moun- 
 tain. You conftantly pafs large and heavy wagons with 
 fix horfes wearing bells on their necks, and droves of 
 cattle, — 300 in each. They faid 50,000 head were 
 driven on this road in a year. Rofe at 3, and were off 
 again. Found one of the trees between the wheels was 
 broken, and we could not proceed. Sent back for a 
 ftage, and paffed the night on the wagoner's beds in a 
 wretched houfe. We were five days croffmg the Allegha- 
 nies. Our road lay near the river, — very rough and 
 a very dark night. Soon it began to pour, with fliarp 
 flafhes of lightning. Thofe near the windows were 
 drenched, and at laft the rain began to come in at the 
 top. The wind was fo high that they could not keep the 
 lamps lighted. In the morning they had to bore holes 
 through the bottom of the ftage to let out the water. 
 
 Molt of the cotton cloth ufed in m}^ childhood 
 was imported from the Eaft Indies or Europe. 
 There were very few manufa6lories here. Flax 
 was raifed in the country, and carded, fpun, 
 and woven in private homes. Canvas for fails, 
 and duck were made here in manufa6lories, as 
 early as 1792. Wool was alfo made into cloth 
 in looms at home. I had a plaid blanket 
 
 3 
 
i8 
 
 myfelf, of gray and white, made by the kind 
 hands of a dear relative, who raifed the lambs, 
 carded, fpun, and wove it herfelf from the undyed 
 wool; and I have alfo both bed and table linen, 
 made by her own hands. Our fnow-ftorms were 
 very fevere. When there was a drift, the fnow 
 would reach to the fecond-ftory windows, and an 
 archway had to be dug from the front door to the 
 ftreet. I remember Rev. John Pierpont being dug 
 out in this way, and walking in full canonicals and 
 a cloak to church, and giving the whole morning 
 fervice to three worfhippers, but he wifely gave 
 them notice that there would be no fecond fer- 
 vice. Children were expe6led to go to church 
 in proceffion behind their parents, in pairs, ac- 
 cording to age, and no excufe or headache was 
 allowed for non-attendance at both morning and 
 afternoon fervices. But what a reverence and 
 awe there was for the clergy in thofe days! A 
 facred halo feemed to furround them. They 
 were fcarcely human to our eyes. Though the 
 minifter might roll his eyes round the church in 
 prayer as though he counted the people, and 
 though we knew the prayer by heart without un- 
 derftanding a word of it, yet he flood there to tell 
 us of holy things, and we adored him. When he 
 
19 
 
 came home to dinner in cloak and fhovel-hat, 
 and laid his white bands fmoothly in the big 
 family Bible, we looked on with folemnity. 
 When he took his glafs of grog before dinner 
 (for the three decanters of old rum, brandy, and 
 gin were on the fideboard for every gueft), 
 and, after the bleffing, ate, drank, and talked like 
 the reft, we only admired him the more, and 
 wondered that one fmall head could carry all 
 he knew. At a baptifm in the houfe, when he 
 appeared in flowing robes and caflx)ck and bands 
 and powdered wig, our veneration was un- 
 bounded, and one fmall child was firm in her 
 
 belief that it was not Dr. , but her 
 
 Heavenly Father himfelf, who had honored them 
 with his prefence in their home. 
 
 The mode of lighting our rooms was peculiar. 
 Tallow dip candles were often made at home, 
 but the beft candles were imported. Oil was 
 ufed in lamps, but even with great nicety in 
 arranging them, one or two were fure to go out 
 when you had guefl;s, filling the room with an 
 odious fmell. Think of the change, — our rooms 
 warmed by an invifible apparatus, and lighted 
 by fimply turning a fcrew! 
 
 Lucifer matches were unknown. Well-to-do 
 
20 
 
 people always kept a tinder box, with flint, fteel, 
 and punk to kindle a blaze. Wood was our 
 only fuel. We had roufing fires in our fitting- 
 rooms, which made the big brafs andirons glitter 
 in the blaze ; but it was bitter cold in the 
 corners of the room, and we ran fliivering from 
 room to room, for furnaces were unknown. 
 There were tiles around many of the fireplaces. 
 All that I remember were in plain colors, bright- 
 blue, brown, or black, with fcenes from flop's 
 Fables, or from the Old Tefl;ament, or from 
 Bewick's woodcuts. The iron backs behind the 
 fire were often cafl; with figures upon them. At 
 our own houfe we had a back with a flower pot 
 filled with tulips cafl; upon it. I hear thefe are 
 now in vogue again. The living-room of even 
 wealthy people was ufually the dining-room alfo, 
 becaufe it was well warmed. Firfl; a plate- 
 warmer was brought in and placed before the 
 fire, giving notice to the hungry children that one 
 o'clock was drawing nigh. Then the waiter 
 puflied afide the centre table, and fpread the 
 crumb cloth, and arranged the table while all 
 the family were fitting round. This was the 
 day, too, when puddings were ferved before the 
 meat. In the kitchen, in my day, the meat was 
 
21 
 
 roalted on a jack. This was a long fpit put 
 through the meat with a pan underneath, and 
 fupported on irons at each end, while a long 
 chain hung from a box near the ceiling, which 
 was wound up like a clock and kept the fpit 
 flowly turning round and round. Sometimes a 
 little dog was put in a cage like a fquirrel cage, 
 and fo he kept the meat turning, and if you have 
 read about Whittington, you remember he was 
 fet to turn the fpit, and afterward became Lord 
 Mayor of London. Our bread was baked in 
 large brick ovens near the fire, into which piles 
 of wood were thruft until it was red-hot ; all 
 fmall loaves were baked in a bake-kettle, over 
 the fire, with live coals put on the cover. In 
 the broad fireplace was a crane, from which 
 hung the pots and kettles. 
 
 Old family domeltics were not uncommon. 
 One dear old man lived fifty years in my father's 
 family, firft taking him to fchool in his arms, 
 and then doing the fame thing for us, — the 
 children. We always called him Uncle ; and 
 it was my greateft delight at tea to fit in his 
 lap and be fed with little fquare bits of bread 
 which he cut with his jack-knife and put in 
 his tea. He carried round in his wheelbarrow 
 
22 
 * 
 
 the turkeys and geefe which were always pro- 
 vided in profulion at Thankfgiving for the poor 
 people, and we loved to affifh in this diftribution. 
 He was our gardener in his old age, and many 
 were the good things he raifed ; — delicious large 
 white raspberries and green-gages and long 
 ftrings of immenfe currants. Then he planted 
 dandelions, which were much more delicate than 
 thofe gathered at the roadlide. He firfl in- 
 troduced tomatoes, or love-apples, as they were 
 called fixty years ago. He had a large afparagus 
 bed raifed on a ftone coping, and around this he 
 placed flakes at regular intervals, and a lattice- 
 work of rope between, and the fruit was trained 
 on this fence, and the leaves cut off to expofe the 
 fruit to the fun on all fides. People came from 
 far to fee them, and it was long before they knew 
 how to cook them. Then he had an elegant 
 multiflora rofe which was a great curiolity. It 
 covered a fouthern brick wall, about twenty feet 
 long, and was full of clufhers of its tiny rofes, — 
 fome pale, fome bright-pink, and all very beauti- 
 ful. Another favorite domeftic — one of the 
 family, you might fay — was our faithful Hannah. 
 She lived thirty years in our family. She was 
 the moft fcraggy and homely woman I ever met; 
 
23 
 
 but love fhone from her wrinkled face, and we 
 called her our dear and beautiful Hannah, and 
 ufed to put her thimble in the hollow between 
 the neck bones and call it " Swallows' Cave." 
 Where can we now find fuch faithful friends? 
 
 One of the pleafant recolle6lions of my child- 
 hood is the being permitted to put the finifh- 
 ing touches to my grandfather's toilette. Firft a 
 large full white apron was tied around his neck. 
 Then I (mounted on a footftool) would carefully 
 befmear the whole bare head, and the few fpare 
 white locks over the ears and at the back of the 
 neck, with a delicate coating of pomatum ; then 
 with a powder-puff gently duft it over; then came 
 the difficult procefs of making (with a corner of 
 the apron) a fharp point dire6lly over the nofe, 
 and curved evenly up on both fides ; then brufh 
 the velvet collar (taking oflf apron) ; fee that the 
 frilled fhirt was nicely arranged; look at the tie 
 of the white neck-cloth; put the gold buckles on 
 the knee-breeches (for he never had a pair of 
 troufers), and look well after the large buckles 
 on the low fhoes, that they were frefh and fhining; 
 and, finally, bring the gold-headed cane, and put 
 on the hat fo that it need not fpoil my work. A 
 kifs would reward me for my pains and care. 
 
24 
 t 
 
 He was a phyfician, and many times I made 
 bread pills for him to take to patients who mujl 
 have fomething and needed nothing. His mode 
 of fpeech was antiquated. He would introduce 
 
 a grandchild, ^^ Mr. , this is my darter 
 
 Sukey's darter Sukey." Every gueft partook of the 
 grog on the lideboard always kept in the liquor 
 ftand, and even the man who brought the wood 
 was invited in for a glafs. He took his own toddy 
 cold before dinner, and piping hot as a night-cap 
 at 9 o'clock. Then he went up to his feather 
 bed on a high-poft bedftead, hung with full cotton 
 curtains printed with paftoral fcenes, and, efpe- 
 cially, tall pink fhepherdelTes, which were the 
 delight of my eyes. Stuart has preferved for us 
 his ferene and noble countenance. 
 
 Now we will turn to the pi6lure in the begin- 
 ning of this letter, which I will defcribe to you. 
 You fee that the Common is furrounded by a 
 wooden fence, and that cows were kept upon it. 
 A flory is told that Madam Hancock, having un- 
 expe6ted company to breakfalt, fent her maids 
 out to the Common to milk her cows. But 
 in my day, a party of fchool-girls were re- 
 turning on one of the cow paths from fchool, 
 when they came upon a cow lying down. One 
 
25 
 
 of the merry ones jumped on her back, when up 
 rofe the cow and walked off, the girl clinging to 
 her neck, wild with delight, amid the fliouts and 
 laughter of her companions. Obferve the pump, 
 which flands in the fame corner to this day, 
 only now Cochituate water runs there. The 
 river, you fee, comes quite up to Charles 
 Street, where is now the Public Garden. A 
 friend of mine fays he recollefts that at high 
 tide the water often covered Charles Street, and 
 came up to the foot of the hill on which the 
 foldier's monument ftands, and he has often fkated 
 there; and a lady tells me that fhe remembers 
 fitting on that plank walk and fifhing for minnows 
 there. The building you fee in the pidure was a 
 gun-houfe. Look at the cannon on each fide, and 
 the anchor and little gun-carriage on top, juft as 
 they were. A company of foldiers called the Sea 
 Fencibles kept their guns here, and boys ufed to 
 fit on thofe (teps to fee them march out. A little 
 lower down, nearer Boylfton Street, were rope- 
 walks, and as you paffed on the plank fidewalk 
 you could fee the men, with coils of hemp 
 round their waifts, walking up and down, un- 
 winding it to twift it into rope. The firft houfes 
 
 4 
 
26 
 
 built on the Mill-dam are thofe of ftone ftill 
 Handing oppolite the Public Garden. 
 
 You fee that Bofton had to grow as the years 
 ■went on, and the only way poffible was to make 
 land, that is, refcue it from the water. So the 
 Mill-dam was built, and a dry balin made, until 
 — oh, marvellous change! Inftead of an ex- 
 panfe of water from Charles Street quite out to 
 Roxbury (for you fee Dr. Putnam's church in 
 the diflance in the pi6ture), we have now the 
 beautiful garden, and ftreet after llreet of fine 
 houfes. Look at Commonwealth Avenue with 
 the noble equeftrian ftatue of Waftiington looking 
 down it, other llatues in the parks, and Trinity 
 Church and the new Old South Church and the 
 Art Mufeum, and all thofe fine buildings, where, 
 within my own remembrance, there was only a 
 ftretch of water. While thus the new-made 
 portion of the city has changed, the eaflern part 
 has changed no lefs; for from thirty to fifty years 
 ago even Pearl Street, Franklin Street, and Sum- 
 mer Street, and the ftreets adjoining them, were 
 lined with handfome refidences. Thefe were 
 gradually torn down to give place to ftores and 
 warehoufes, which in turn were burned in the 
 great fire of 1872. Now that there are fo many 
 
27 
 
 fine new buildings there, the names of the llreets 
 alone remain the fame. So 3'ou fee that during 
 my life Bofton has undergone many changes. 
 
 But I fear I may weary you if I tell you more 
 of my reminifcences. Old people, you know, 
 like to talk about old times ; and I hope that 
 young people like to hear about them. 
 
 Good-by, my dear children, 
 
 Your loving Grandmamma. 
 
 " We will revive thofe times, and in our memories 
 Preferve and ftill keep trefti, like flowers in winter, 
 Thofe happier daj's." 
 
 Denhani's " SoPHY." 
 
7i 
 
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