Short note from Countess Sarah Rumford to James Fowle Baldwin, 21 June 1852
The Count Rumford papers in the George E. Ellis Papers consist mainly of correspondence between Count Rumford’s adult daughter, Sarah Thompson (Countess Rumford), and James Fowle Baldwin (1782–1862), a civil engineer and Harvard classmate of Count Rumford. According to the finding aid for the Baldwin Family Papers at the Winterthur Library, Baldwin named his last born son George Rumford. The Rumford-Baldwin letters are sweet and friendly and mostly copies of Sarah’s own letters that she kept. She addresses Baldwin as “Dear Friend” and asks after his wife and family, then asks for favors. Several letters inquire about a house he’s building, then later when it’s finished, her wish to visit and see the house. The letters show a sincere and lovely friendship between the writers.
The item I found most interesting, as I do love good historical gossip, was the handwritten account in a half-empty journal titled Sketches of the Late Count Rumford. Countess Sarah recounted a period of her father’s life and transcribed letters he had written her before his death in 1814. She extolls his virtues and mentions several times his mindfulness in having a daughter, but also describes his marriage to a French woman in 1804, which followed the death of his first wife, Sarah, in 1792. Starting in 1799, after leaving Bavaria, Rumford split his time between France and England, establishing the Royal Institution of Great Britain and continuing his scientific research. While in France, he met, courted, and later married Marie-Ann Lavoisier, the widow of the French chemist Antoine Lavoisier.
Sketches of the Late Count Rumford, by Countess Sarah Rumford, 1851
Rumford ‘s letters to his daughter Sarah, describe his new love interest in France, which Sarah includes in her Sketches:
“…a widow without children…about my own age—has a handsome fortune, at her own disposal, enjoys a most respectable reputation, keeps a good house, which is frequented by all the first Philosophers and men of eminence in science and literature of the age, or rather, of Paris. And what is more than all the rest is goodness itself.
The excerpted letters continue: “She is very clever… she has been very handsome in her day, even now at forty-six or forty-eight, not bad—of a middling size, but rather on en bon point than thin. She has a great deal of vivacity, and writes incomparably well.”
The Count’s opinion of Madame Lavoisier, as recounted by his daughter, Countess Sarah Rumford, in Sketches of the Late Count Rumford, 1851
Several of the loose letters father and daughter wrote to each other were in French, which I do not know, so I relied on Sarah’s translated English versions in the book.
Lavoisier loved entertaining, dining, and company above all other activities, and Rumford was the opposite. He took pleasure in research and science and had little taste for company and dining. He preferred plain food and did not relish the joys of French cuisine. The couple divorced after three years.
Rumford wrote to Sarah on 12 April 1807: “I have the misfortune to be married to one of the most imperious, tyrannical, unfeeling woman, that ever existed, and whose perseverance in pursuing an object is equil to her profound cunning and wickedness in framing it.” Sarah noted right after this, “What a contrast between former descriptions!” Further in the same letter, her father wrote, “Do you preserve my letters, you will perceive a very different account I give of this woman, for lady I cannot call her.”
On Rumford’s later opinion of his second wife, Madame Lavoisier, Sketches of the Late Count Rumford, by Countess Sarah Rumford, 1851
If you speak French, or just want a little more of this fun historical gossip, I recommend visiting the MHS to read these first and second-hand documents. Keep your eye out for Count Rumford, Rumford Baking Powder, Rumford, NH, Rumford, RI, and the Rumford Professor at Harvard University, Part 3: This Collection Keeps Drawing Me In
Today I’d like to continue my series on the Clarke family by telling you about Lilian Freeman Clarke (1842-1921), whose papers can be found here at the MHS in the Perry-Clarke collection and additions, as well as two smaller collections of correspondence and Sturgis-Hooper family papers. Lilian has made a few appearances at the Beehive, most recently in a funny post written by my colleague Hilde Perrin last December.
Lilian was the oldest daughter of Anna Huidekoper Clarke and Rev. James Freeman Clarke of Boston. She was a social reformer and translator. I’ll be focusing on the former in this post.
Two quick clarifications: First, you’ll find her name spelled “Lillian” in many secondary sources, but she and her family consistently used “Lilian,” so that’s what I’m going with. Second, she was actually christened Lilian Rebecca Clarke, but like her aunt Sarah, she adopted the middle name Freeman. This was undoubtedly a nod to her Freeman ancestors, probably especially her step-great-grandfather (great-step-grandfather?) James Freeman, the first ordained Unitarian minister in the United States and an important influence on her father James.
The Perry-Clarke additions, the collection I recently processed, contains family correspondence, personal correspondence, and other personal papers of Lilian F. Clarke. Included is a ledger containing detailed accounts of some of her charitable work between 1895 and 1900.
Lilian Freeman Clarke account ledger, 1895–1900
In 1873, Lilian was concerned about the lack of resources available to new mothers living in poverty. Noticing that “there was in Boston no charity intended to care for infants which did not involve the separation of the mother and child” (from a 1913 report), she and two other women decided to provide direct assistance to these mothers that would allow them to retain custody of their children.
The group was variously known as the Charity (or Society) for Aiding (or Helping) Destitute Mothers and Infants. The two other founders were Dr. Susan Dimock, resident physician at the New England Hospital for Women and Children, and Elizabeth “Bessie” Willard Greene. Tragically, in May 1875, both Dimock and Greene were killed in the wreck of the S.S. Schiller off the coast of England. Lilian was left to shoulder the bulk of the work, though she found a willing and able partner in Mary R. Parkman.
This volume lists expenses for room and board, medicine, milk and food, travel fares, etc. Included are the names of women receiving assistance, as well as Lilian’s charitable partners. For example, Johanna (Pelger) Denecke appears frequently; she was a German immigrant and a widow who apparently boarded many of the mothers and children at her home.
I was impressed by the group’s ability to zero in on a gap in traditional social services, not to mention the individual attention paid to each recipient. Two things were especially important to Lilian: that they worked without institutional bureaucracy, and that they made no distinction between married and unmarried mothers.
Lilian supported various causes during her lifetime. Her obituary in the Boston Globe described her as “a member of almost every organization for the protection of children, and enthusiastic in every movement for the humane treatment of animals.” She also worked with the U.S. Sanitary Commission during the Civil War. She was a suffragist and an anti-vivisectionist. And she donated to victims of the Armenian massacres in the 1890s and the Armenian genocide.
But based on her papers, she devoted the majority of her time and energy to her work with mothers and children in Boston. She was the primary driving force behind the Society for Helping Destitute Mothers and Infants from its founding in 1873 to 1918, when she had to resign because of physical disabilities. The organization disbanded a year later due to lack of funds.
The MHS holds several of the charity’s reports printed between 1875 and 1919. And Lilian herself described its work, particularly the role of Susan Dimock, in “The Story of an Invisible Institution,” published in 1906 in The Outlook magazine. In that article, she emphasized Dr. Dimock’s philosophy: “Think that every patient is your sister. Imagine that you see your own sister in that bed before you.”
On September 25, 2024, join us for a virtual program, Women & Children First: The Trailblazing Life of Susan Dimock, M.D., with author Susan Wilson, and former president of the Dimock Community Health Center Jackie Jenkins-Scott. Register to attend online.
From your grandmother’s kitchen to a well-stocked Girl Scout table, there’s something about cookies. Cookies make your taste buds dance and your fingers reach out to steal just one more from the jar. They are the quintessential American treat, encapsulating all that is quick and convenient: they mix easily, they bake quickly, they don’t require wrappers or refrigeration, and they taste wonderful. But cookies tell us more about ourselves than what we read on the label: they are a glimpse into family rituals and cultural traditions, sometimes passed down over generations. Every beloved cookie has a story.
Americans are a nation of prodigious cookie eaters (we eat on average about 200 cookies a year)[1]. The most famous American cookie of all? The chocolate-chip cookie, of course. It is arguably the best and certainly the most popular. We like chocolate chippers so much we’ve even made a cereal out of them. Surprisingly, however, they are a relatively new invention. First mixed, scooped, and baked by Ruth Wakefield at her Toll House restaurant in Whitman, Massachusetts, the recipe was originally published in 1938 as the “Toll House Chocolate Crunch Cookie.”[2] Nestlé soon swooped in for the rights to the cookie, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Chocolate-chip cookies soon became America’s darling, a sweet bite amidst the Great Depression. Just a few years later, they appeared in care packages to New England troops sent abroad during the Second World War. By the 1950s, copycat chocolate-chip cookies popped up in supermarkets across the U.S., produced by companies like Pillsbury and Nabisco. Variations appeared, some with margarine, others with macadamia nuts; a few with white chocolate, others with M&Ms. Ben and Jerry’s put cookie dough in ice cream in 1984, and their Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream remains one of their most popular flavors.[2] As Jon Michaud posited in his New Yorker article on the history of the cookie, “In its ability to absorb such a heterogeneous list of ingredients and still retain its identity and appeal, the chocolate chip cookie is representative of the aspirations of the country for which it has become the preferred treat.”[2] The chocolate-chip cookie quickly became as American as apple pie.
Original Toll House Chocolate Crunch Cookie recipe from Ruth Wakefield’s Tried & True Recipes, image from HathiTrust
Chocolate “chippers” (our family’s probably unoriginal nickname for them) were a steady favorite in our house during the 1980s and ‘90s. My mom baked them so often that my aunt bought her a special cookie-making bowl made of heavy beige ceramic and decorated with thick blue stripes. My aunt was clearly on to something, because I’m pretty sure I’ve seen versions of that bowl in antique stores across the country.
Probably like many Americans, we followed the recipe on the back of the Nestlé Toll House 12oz bag of semi-sweet morsels, which was adapted from Mrs. Wakefield’s original recipe. The ingredients and measurements are the same as the original, with a couple notable exceptions. For example, Nestlé no longer sells semi-sweet chocolate by the bar for you to chop into “pea-size pieces” (which Mrs. Wakefield swore by). She also instructed you to dissolve the baking soda in hot water before mixing it intermittently with the flour.
In my family, we used butter, but the omnipresent ‘80s Crisco occasionally made an appearance. I remember waiting ages for the butter to soften, impatiently pressing the back of my fork into the hard stick, its pliable metal tongs yielding against my thumb (I ruined more forks that way). Creaming the butter and sugar was the hardest part – even when I had begged to be allowed to make the cookies, my mom always ended up creaming the butter, bowl squeezed under one arm, her right hand steadily working the butter into the sugar. As an adult, I’m lazy and use a hand mixer, but my mom was a fork-purist. I wonder if that’s how she achieved the perfect texture and spread every time, not too greasy, not too cakey.
We used a mix of white sugar and light brown sugar in equal parts (the dark brown sugar was too reminiscent of molasses, though Mrs. Wakefield didn’t specify which type in the original recipe), and we always added the eggs together instead of beating them in one at a time (or beaten together prior to going in, as in the original). Then came the vanilla. My mom was heavy-handed with the McCormick – she tipped the bottle over the teaspoon and let it run over the edge for a solid 1-1000. She never seemed to worry about an imbalanced liquid to dry ingredient ratio.
If memory serves, mom would switch out the fork halfway through mixing in the flour. She had a designated oversized and sturdy ‘cookie spoon’ that we only used for baking, and it was always on hand to do the final mix of dough and chocolate chips. The recipe calls for a ludicrous amount of chips, and this is where we deviated from the measurements. We are parsimonious chip people, even today – the elegant simplicity of the chocolate chip cookie is in its rich vanilla dough to chip balance. Too much dough and it gets monotonous; too many chips and it may as well be dough-flavored fudge. We poured the chips by sight, occasionally just a small squeeze of the bag. We gently folded them in, careful not to overmix the flour. In the original recipe, Mrs. Wakefield also called for nuts, and the Nestlé bag lists them as “optional.” In our house, they were “optionally” excluded. Once mixed, we would take a small spoon from the drawer and measure out equal-ish balls of dough, putting them on the gray metal baking sheet, three to a row at alternating angles. (Mrs. Wakefield’s recipe called for ½ teaspoon balls, gently formed by moist fingers, which look ludicrously small to modern eyes.)
Baking time was our only real disagreement. My mom loved the soft middles and squishy centers, when cookies came out just shy of underbaked. And I appreciated that – at first. Then my dad’s genes kicked in. I quickly developed an appreciation for crunchy brown edges and stiff, unyielding crusts. The over-caramelization of sweet dough melted on my tongue. So, we compromised. One sheet went in for 9-10 minutes, the next sheet for 12-13. There’s no crying over cookies. (The original recipe called for the ½ tsp. size balls to be baked at 375 degrees for 10-12 minutes. Modern ovens must run hotter, because the only thing you get at the end of that are burned little hockey pucks. I suggest checking them at six minutes.)
Mrs. Wakefield baked her cookies to accompany ice cream, which perhaps accounts for the small size. We baked ours to eat, hot and crumbly from the oven, snatching them off the rack before they had time to set. It was in the kitchen that I learned the best lessons from my mom, which she in turn had learned from her mom. Baking cookies connected me with the grandmother I never knew. When Mrs. Wakefield dedicated her first cookbook to her own mother, “whose encouragement and confidence have meant more than mere words can express,” I think she was hoping that her recipes would bring families together.
Growing up, neither my mom nor I knew that the original chocolate chip cookie originated in Massachusetts. When doing research for this blog post, I was sad to learn that the original Toll House restaurant, which the Wakefields ran from 1930 to 1967, was lost to a fire in 1984. I was equally sad to find that the MHS doesn’t hold her original recipe book, published in 1931, or any of the revised editions published thereafter, which include the famous cookie. If anyone has a copy, let us know, we’d be glad to take it off your hands.[3] We’ll bake you a batch of cookies for it. Having tested a batch of her original Toll House Chocolate Crunch Cookie, I can confirm, they are pretty darn tasty. I even liked the nuts.
From the Test Kitchen: Mrs. Wakefield’s Original Toll House Chocolate Crunch Cookie
P.S.
If you want to try your hand at a batch of the original “Toll House Chocolate Crunch Cookie,” you can find the recipe in several places. The 1940 version of Ruth Wakefield’s Toll HouseTried and True cookbook is available online for free through HathiTrust. In 2018, the New York Times published a short obituary on Mrs. Wakefield, including the original recipe, in their “Overlooked No More” column, which documents the stories of remarkable but historically overlooked people.[4]
[2] “Sweet Morsels, A History of the Chocolate-Chip Cookie” by Jon Michaud, The New Yorker
[3] The MHS has plenty of other cookbooks, both published and unpublished. Visit our catalog, ABIGAIL, to learn more.
[4] “Overlooked No More: Ruth Wakefield, Who Invented the Chocolate Chip Cookie,” by Sam Roberts, New York Times, originally published March 21st, 2018.
Count Rumford, or Benjamin Thompson Jr., was born in Woburn, Massachusetts, on 26 March 1753. He went to school in Woburn and Byfield and attended Harvard classes, apprenticed to a doctor for a short time and to a merchant. During his apprenticeships he gained refinement and an interest in science. In 1772, he married Sarah Rolfe, a rich and well-connected widow. Her late husband left her property in Rumford, New Hampshire (now Concord), but after marrying, the couple moved to Portsmouth and had a daughter two years later, whom they named Sarah.
When the American Revolution started, Thompson was a loyalist, and although his wife’s connections got him an appointment as a major in the New Hampshire militia, he acted as a British intelligence agent and recruiter for the British army. His activities became known, and a mob attacked his house. He escaped, abandoning his wife and child. For the rest of the war, he led the king’s American Dragoon’s on Long Island and conducted scientific experiments on gunpowder. The results of his work were published in 1781, in Philosophical Transactions, solidifying his early scientific acclaim. When the war ended in 1783, he left the United States, never to return. In England, King George III knighted him, and in 1785 he moved to Bavaria where he undertook projects for Prince-elector Charles Theodore, including cultivating the potato and creating the Englischer Garten park that still exists today. He also continued his scientific research, for which he was made an Imperial Count, Reichsgraf von Rumford, named for the New Hampshire town of his marriage.
Count Rumford spent eleven years in Bavaria conducting scientific research, the most important of which was a contentious theory that heat was not caloric but caused by motion. His research on this topic helped to later create the law of the conservation of energy in the 19th century.
So, how was Count Rumford connected to Rumford Baking Powder? He endowed the Rumford Chair and Lectureship on the Application of Science to the Useful Arts at Harvard, under which Eben Horsford was employed. Eben Horsford also built statues to Leif Erikson, but that’s a different blog.
What happened to Count Rumford’s wife and daughter? And where did he go after those eleven years in Bavaria? Stay tuned for part 2, where we connect this story to the MHS’s archival documents.
Count Rumford, Rumford Baking Powder, Rumford, NH, Rumford, RI, and the Rumford Professor at Harvard University, Part 2: He Loves Her, He Hates Her
This is Part Three of a three-part series on architecture at the MHS. You can find Part One here and Part Two here.
As you approach 1154 Boylston Street today, you’ll find the Massachusetts Historical Society tucked nicely between similarly sized buildings on both sides. Its strong, stone appearance blends into the Berklee College of Music buildings throughout the surrounding streets. But if you had arrived just after the building’s completion in 1899, you would see the MHS standing out from the fewer, smaller buildings around it.
The MHS at 1154 Boylston Street, August 1899.
Designed by Edmund March Wheelwright, the physical structure emphasizes strength and scale with beautiful exemplars of the Georgian Revival movement. A quick tour of the exterior of the MHS highlights these architectural elements, which can be found on buildings throughout Boston and the United States.
The building is visually divided into three sections: the ground floor, the upper floors, and the roof. The ground floor is distinguished by the large, stone construction of its façade. This form of masonry, common in Georgian and Georgian Revival structures, is known as ashlar, meaning large, precisely cut stone blocks. Ashlar masonry emphasizes strength and simplicity in its appearance and recalls the monumental stone temples of classic civilizations.
The upper floors adopt more modern stylings, a transition from classic to contemporary (at the time) common in Georgian Revival buildings. The stone ashlar masonry transitions to brick masonry, and the height of the building is accentuated with white fluted pilasters (which we learned about in Part Two of this series). Above the windows, flat arches provide structural support, but some of the arch components—known as voussoirs—alternate in size, drawing attention to the windows by breaking the repetitive, consistent placement of the bricks beside and below. The flat arch, white in color, also provides visual contrast from the red bricks surrounding it. The use of bricks and flat arches recalls the Federal Style, an American architectural movement from the early Republic and famously utilized on the Massachusetts State House.
The Georgian period pulled not only from Classic structures (in its use of ashlar) and Federal structures (in its use of symmetrical brick façades) but also heavily pulled from Renaissance architecture, as seen in the balconettes, sometimes called Juliet balconies. These features are too small to actually serve as balconies but help make the exterior seem more refined. Balconettes have existed since the earliest architectural movements, but it was the Italian Renaissance which truly utilized the balconettes as varied, decorative flourishes. Though earlier periods used stone or wood balconettes, the Georgian Revival was unique in its introduction of wrought iron or metal balconettes, like those seen on the MHS.
The western façade of the MHS. Note the ashlar and brick masonry, pilasters, balconettes, semi-Palladian windows, and fanlights.
The third-story windows on the western façade of the building likewise pull from the Italian Renaissance. The Italian architect Andrea Palladio, one of the most influential Renaissance architects, popularized a style of visual organization in which one large element (in his case, an arched opening) is flanked by two thin elements on either side (in his case, two columns). This “Palladian style” was quickly adopted throughout Europe and later, the Americas. Now that you know about Palladian style features, you’ll begin to see them everywhere. The ground floor windows at the MHS are somewhat Palladian (one large central window flanked by two narrower windows), but the third-story windows on the western façade are even more Palladian, with a fanlight(or half-circle window, also known as a lunette) spanning over all three sections and recalling Palladio’s arches.[1] These windows exemplify a design philosophy on display throughout the building’s exterior: clean and simple symmetry.
The final portion of the building is also inspired by Palladio: The MHS boasts a flat roof, bordered by a balustrade—a broad, low railing made of molded and flat features. [2] The balustrade was popularized as a decorative feature during the Renaissance and became an important feature in both Federal and Georgian styles. Flat roofs were used by American founders and recalled the palaces of Renaissance Italy. (See how it contrasts with the sloped roof of the Boston Conservatory next door!) Once again Wheelwright used architecture to connect with idealized pasts and a simple but strong visual identity.
As with Ellis Hall, there is far more one could consider in regards the architectural choices present throughout the Massachusetts Historical Society’s exterior: the pedimented entryway could be the subject of a blog post all its own. Now that you’ve read the article, stop and take an extended look at our building the next time you’re doing research. If you’re not in the area, take a trip on Google Maps! Consider how Wheelwright emphasizes strength and precision in his design, and how those choices create an atmosphere of historical permanence and accuracy.
The MHS at 1154 Boylston Street, 1932.
When the building opened in 1899, the Boston Herald remarked, “The place will be known as one of the surest storage batteries of historic knowledge in the city.” [3] Three years later, Charles F. Adams, president of the MHS, remarked that the beauty of the building lay in its “severe simplicity.” [4] Today, it is neighbored by other gorgeous buildings with styles and design choices all their own. 1154 Boylston Street simultaneously represents a number of Georgian Revival buildings in and around Boston yet stands out from other styles in a city overflowing with architectural movements and periods. Despite all that has changed on Boylston Street, in Fenway, and in Boston, I think the MHS building still stands out as an expertly designed symbol of how the past influences the present, and how the present is always reinterpreting the past.
[1] The third-floor window on the northern façade of the building, visible in the first image, is even more Palladian! Quintessential Palladian windows, such as the one installed by George Washington at Mt. Vernon, feature two narrow windows on each side of one large, arched window. Palladian windows are sometimes called Venetian windows.
[2] Below the balustrade, the cornice of the building includes a distinctive feature described in Part Two. Can you find it?
[3] Boston Herald, March 9, 1899. As cited in Tucker, Louis Leonard. 1995. The Massachusetts Historical Society: A Bicentennial History, 1791-1991. Boston: Northeastern University Press, 226.
[4] Charles F. Adams to Edmund M. Wheelwright, June 6, 1902. As cited in Tucker, 224.
As we remember the 79th anniversary of the end of the Second World War, the day US General Douglas MacArthur accepted Japan’s formal surrender aboard US battleship Missouri, we might recall iconic imagery, like the famous Uncle Sam Wants You! recruitment poster, or posters advertising the sale of war bonds. If we imagine what life was like during the Second World War for women in the US, we might remember Rosie the Riveter, whose famous image appeared on a poster to remind American women that they had talents which might help the war effort. But what about the people who paid attention to those messages, the people who worked during the Second World War, then picked up their lives once it was over, without applause or acclaim?
When I think of the real Rosies, working in factories and at the wheels of ambulances, I think of Hilda Chase Foster, born in Brookline, Massachusetts in 1891. As a visiting researcher at the Massachusetts Historical society this summer, I had the chance to read through the letters and documents of Hilda Chase Foster. Her writing includes numerous letters and a self-published memoir—and reveals a woman who was never content to sit idly by during either of the two World Wars.
Detail of Hilda Chase Foster’s 1917 passport, Hilda Chase Foster Papers 1859–1979, Carton 2, folder 11, Passports and birth certificates, 1917–1919, MHS.Photograph of Hilda Chase Foster, ca. June 1919, in her American Red Cross uniform on a postcard. Hilda Chase Foster Photographs 1859–1979, Box 6, War Work Photographs, World War I, 1918–1919, various photographs, #143.1714.
Joining her brother Reginald C. Foster, who worked in Poland to ensure that orphaned children had food during the war, Hilda crossed the Atlantic during the First World War to serve as a canteen worker. Hilda had applied not just once, but multiple times to work for the Red Cross during the First World War, only to be rejected due to policies against women serving if they happened to have a brother, husband, or other relative in the armed forces. Nevertheless, she arrived in Paris on Armistice Day, November 11, 1918, just in time to take part in Armistice celebrations. Hilda felt she was “gadding” about, especially since she had the chance to meet up with friends—as well as her brother Reginald when he visited on leave.
Hilda Chase Foster and Reginald C. Foster, ca. 1918–1919, #143.1721a, Hilda Chase Foster Photographs 1859–1979, Box 6, War Work Photographs, World War I, 1918–1919, various photographs.
To her relief, Hilda found work in a canteen in Dijon, France that December. There were still American soldiers traveling across France, along with displaced refugees. The Red Cross needed willing hands to serve in their kitchens, providing soldiers with much-needed coffee, muffins, and meals. She later accepted a post in a canteen located in Cochem, Germany.
Reginald wrote to their mother in a letter of April 23rd, 1919:
“When I strongly advocated her coming over here I was terribly torn at heart for I knew what her leaving could mean to you particularly and how you would miss her…only over here could she gain that freedom of old dreads and fears of competition handed down from youthful days…In other words she had to find herself and find herself alone. When I saw her on her way into Dijon last December I noticed a change…she was a different Hilda from when she first arrived in France… there was a light in her eyes, a color in her cheeks, and a jaunty swing to her bearing that showed that she was really finding life through finding herself. I was overjoyed for I felt that my practical certainties were becoming real certainties and that often all was through you would miss her most terribly while she was gone, you would be greatly proud of her when she returned and the joy she would bring would make the months of waiting worthwhile.”
Foster became her own person during the First World War, unlocking a desire to travel: in her memoir, she refers to herself as a rolling stone. When Britain entered the Second World War, she was living in Cambridge, England. Though encountering difficulties due to her alien status, Hilda immediately joined a fire watching squad and wrote to her friends and family for their support to sponsor an ambulance.
Hilda Chase Foster Papers 1859–1979, Carton 3, folder 23, World War II Papers, Passports and Certifications, 1940–1945, MHS.Hilda Chase Foster Papers 1859–1979, Carton 3, folder 22, World War II Papers, Government Publications/Forms, MHS.
And if that wasn’t enough, she took on the task of driving an ambulance in the Cambridge women’s corps. Her collected documents include training materials for emergency preparation and response, indicating her interest in educating herself in fire prevention and first aid.
To her family, from Cambridge; 1940:
“I had returned to the hotel by 10:30 p.m., bathed and gone to bed when at 1 p.m. the siren started. It had been arranged that all the personnel should report at the first siren so I leapt from my bed still half asleep, pulled on my clothes which have been piled on a chair each night for over a month (trousers, pullover sweater, heavy button-up sweater and coat). I grabbed my tin bucket, gas mask, and map, ran down the stairs, passing in the front hall a group of hotel guests standing waiting, wondering what to do. My bicycle is kept in a shed. Of course in my haste the ‘bike’ caught in a ladder and extra boards, etc., but I finally got started and pedalled up the road passing and being passed by other bicycles also hurrying to their respective jobs. It took me under fifteen minutes from the time of siren to arrival at Russell St. post. I reported to my leader, put on my uniform coat, helped in my job of attending to engines of cars to see they have gasoline, etc., then came inside and lined up on a bench.”
(Hilda Chase Foster Papers 1859–1979, Carton 3, folder 14, World War II Correspondence 1940, MHS, reprinted in Morris, Anne Farlow. The Memoirs of Hilda Chase Foster. Privately printed, 1982.)
In photos, Foster poses in her gas mask, which she would have worn and kept in working order as an inhabitant of Cambridge during 1936–1942.
Photographs of Hilda Chase Foster, ca. 1940–1942 . Photographer unknown. Includes views of Hilda wearing a gas mask. Box 6, # 143-1762 and #143.1774 MHS.
When Hilda was able to return home to Boston in 1942, she signed up to work at a rubber factory: her collection includes her union card, passport, with entry and exit stamps, and her notebook, where she scribbled notes during fire watching.
Photograph of Hilda Chase Foster posing with ambulance in Cambridge, England, 1940s. Box 6, # 143.1741. MHS.
In her study of First World War women writers, Debra Rae Cohen asks, “Is there a safe space for the female citizen?”—and during war, women often experienced terror and danger, even while exercising new independence from their families and traditionally expected roles (p 84). While it might seem contradictory to find identity during world war, Hilda Chase Foster was not alone in embracing her newly found freedom. Carrie Brown’s book Rosie’s Mom: Forgotten Women Workers of the First World War establishes that the Second World War was not the only war where women served. As we see with Hilda, these same women were sometimes active during the First World War as well. And as Kimberly Jensen’s chapter “Gender and Citizenship” in Gender and the Great War (2017, ed. by Susan R. Grayzel and Tammy M. Proctor) shows, “the first world war reinforced the links between masculinity, military service, and citizenship but also offered the possibility for… women of various communities, to claim enhanced civic roles through patriotic service on the home and war fronts.” Hilda Foster continued to live independently, never marrying until her death in 1975, due to a stroke. You can read her memoirs, compiled as a memorial by her surviving family members, in the archives of the MHS.
During the First World War, women articulated their citizenship through helping the war effort, a role which they again held during the Second World War. Such actions, along with new independence gained through traveling abroad, offered young women a real sense of confidence and personal development. The writing, possessions, and photographs of Hilda Chase Foster show that for every idealized Rosie the Riveter, there was a real person, intent on helping the war effort—and finding themselves along the way.
Works Cited
Brown, Carrie. Rosie’s Mom: Forgotten Women Workers of the First World War. Boston: Northeastern University Press, 2002.
Cohen, Debra Rae. Remapping the Home Front: Locating Citizenship in British Women’s Great War Fiction. Boston: Northeastern University Press, 2002.
Hilda Chase Foster Papers 1859-1979, Carton 3, folder 23, World War II Papers, Passports and Certifications, 1940-1945, Massachusetts Historical Society.
Hilda Chase Foster Photographs. Photographer unknown. Includes views of Hilda wearing a gas mask. Box 6, # 143-1762 and #143.1774. Massachusetts Historical Society.
Hilda Chase Foster and Reginald C. Foster, ca. 1918-1919, #143.1721a, Hilda Chase Foster Photographs 1859-1979, Box 6, War Work Photographs, World War I, 1918-1919, various photographs.
Photograph of Hilda Chase Foster, ca. June 1919, in her American Red Cross uniform on a postcard. Hilda Chase Foster Photographs 1859-1979, Box 6, War Work Photographs, World War I, 1918-1919, various photographs, #143.1714.
Jenson, Kimberly, “Gender and Citizenship,” in Gender and the Great War, edited by Susan R Grayzel and Tammy M Proctor. New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2017. Morris, Anne Farlow. The Memoirs of Hilda Chase Foster. Privately printed, 1982
For my last blog post, I wrote about Gerry E. Studds, a Congressman from the Massachusetts 10th District and the first openly gay man in Congress. Pride Month is over, but Studds had far more to him than being gay. In this blog, I want to highlight his work in Congress to protect the environment. As the representative for much of Cape Cod, he was particularly protective of the oceans and the fishing industry in which many of his constituents made their living. The work he did for the environment has far-reaching consequences that still exist today.
As the representative for the Cape Cod area, his commitment to environmental causes was the focus of his career in Congress. He was originally on the Merchant Marine and Fisheries Committee until it was eliminated, a move he strongly opposed. He was appointed as the ranking Democrat on the Fisheries, Wildlife, and Oceans Subcommittee and was also on the Natural Resources Committee, which included oversight of the National Parks Service. As part of those committees, he lobbied for the inclusion of the Boston Harbor Islands in the National Park System, a dream that eventually became reality. He also protected Massachusetts’ land and waters by opposing cuts to funding for environmental cleanup and Superfund sites. At every opportunity, he acted to protect the shores of Massachusetts and the fishing industry in the interests of his constituents.
Boston Harbor Islands booklet
His care was not limited to environmental concerns that directly impacted Massachusetts, however. He championed laws like the Wild Bird Conservation Act of 1992, the International Dolphin Conservation Act of 1992, the Marine Mammal Protection Act, and the High Seas Driftnet Fisheries Enforcement Act. For a complete list of his sponsored legislation, see the US Congressional website. He protected striped bass, opposed drilling for oil in the North Atlantic, supported wildlife refuges, and advocated to hold companies responsible for oil spills and pollution that they caused. He supported making environmental laws funded, rather than unfunded, mandates to help communities dealing with issues like clean water and pollution. He also consistently tied environmental concerns to concerns for people, supporting their financial well-being by protecting industries like fishing and tourism, and their physical health by fighting against pollution and the eradication of plant species that might lead to key health discoveries. This holistic view helped him maintain a position that was not always popular in the pro-business atmosphere of politics during that period.
Gerry Studds was a representative who was able to hang onto his seat through a censure and redistricting (from the 12th District to the 10th, if anyone was curious) in large part because he was fighting for the things that his constituents cared most about: their homes. It is hard to imagine what Cape Cod might look like if Studds had not fought so vigorously to protect its beautiful shoreline and the water that surrounds it. In protecting the environment, Studds protected the people and for that they sent him to Congress for 14 years until he himself chose not to run again. To honor his work, explore a natural resource gem near you like the ones he fought so hard to defend.
This is Part Two of a three-part series on architecture at the MHS. You can find Part One here.
If you’ve ever done research at the Massachusetts Historical Society, you’ve spent an afternoon (or ten) in the reading room, officially known as Ellis Hall. Your eyes, when not glued to the materials you were consulting, may have wandered around the room or through the windows to get a break from cramped, crosswritten cursive. But did you know that this room is a historical resource of its own? And much easier on the eyes!
The current MHS building on Boylston Street was completed in 1899 by Edmund March Wheelwright in the Georgian Revival Style. Originating in the 18th century and revived as the 20th century approached, Georgian Revival relied heavily on the Classical details of the Greeks and Romans and emphasized symmetry. Looking around Ellis Hall, you can see these two characteristics on display.
Standing in the center of the room, one can see how each wall is framed by partial columns, just sticking out from the wall at regular intervals. These kind-of-columns are known as pilasters, a decorative element which create a feeling of structural strength and emphasize the wall itself. These pilasters are fluted, meaning they have deep grooves recalling the columns of ancient Greece or Rome.
Symmetry of the walls of Ellis Hall.
As they reach toward the ceiling, they end with fancy, curled tops. These tops are called capitals, and they have a variety of forms – some are simple and give the feeling of strength, while others have plant shapes and designs to feel light and natural. The curly capitals of the reading room are Ionic capitals, a middle ground that emphasizes both structural integrity and artistic precision. If the curls remind you of scrolls, they’re doing their job! (Remember, you’re in a historical society, after all.)
Keep looking upwards and spot the area where the walls meet the ceiling. There you’ll find an entablature, or a set of decorative bands. In classical architecture, entablatures were decorative sections on a lintel, or the long beam that went across columns and supported the roof.
An entablature typically has three sections, all visible in Ellis Hall. On the bottom is an architrave, which is decorated in the reading room with bead and reel and egg and dart patterns, both of which were used in the Greek and Roman periods. Following the architrave is the frieze, which can be decorated with moldings, paintings, or sculptures, but here it is rather simple and undecorated. This works well for the modern MHS, which uses the frieze to attach speakers and cameras during public programming. Finally, the entablature concludes with a cornice, or the portion that sticks forward into the room and reaches up to meet the ceiling. The cornice in Ellis Hall is decorated with larger bead and reel, and egg and dart patterns.
Above these patterns are numerous thick wooden blocks. These are known as dentils, literally meaning “little teeth,” since they look like little teeth sticking out of the wall. (Cool! Gross!) Dentils were commonly used in Ionic Greek architecture and contribute to the Classical feeling of the reading room. When ancient architects were building massive stone temples to outshine the earlier wooden constructions, they used dentils to represent the original timbers used in roof construction. So, when you look at those unassuming little blocks, remember that you’re looking at architects using wood to remind us of architects who used stone to remind us of architects who used wood. As with everything at the MHS, there are layers upon layers of history!
Detail of the wall in Ellis Hall. See if you can find the pilaster, capital, entablature, and dentils!
While Wheelwright used symmetry and Classical details to emphasize the philosophical, thoughtful nature of Greece and Rome, he also aimed to emphasize the enlightened, national feelings evoked by more recent constructions. The dark wood paneling of the room, the ornamented fireplace, and the door to the Orientation Room, all recall the Georgian Colonial style common across the homes of the wealthy during the Revolutionary period.
One key example can be found above the door to the orientation room. There, you’ll see another entablature, with the image of a bald eagle on its frieze and an egg and dart cornice. Above it, two pieces of wood curve towards each other, with a little box in the middle. This is a Georgian remix of a Greek feature, the pediment. On Greek structures, you may recall a triangular area between the lintel (decorated with an entablature) and the sloping roof. This area is called the pediment, and it is often recreated at smaller scales over doors or windows to make them seem fancier or more significant.
In the Georgian style, these pediments are often “broken” or separated in the middle. To get even fancier, these broken pediments were curved to look more natural, resembling the graceful necks of swans. As such, these pediments are called swan’s neck pediments, and you will see them all over colonial mansions if you keep your eye out. Many American swan’s neck pediments feature an ornament in the middle, such as a family crest or a bust, though ours are undecorated. These design features recall the earliest days of the American project, and the meticulously planned appearance of the homes of our founders. After all, if the papers of Jefferson and Adams are going to live here, shouldn’t it be a delightful place to stay?
A door in Ellis Hall. Can you find the frieze, the egg and dart pattern, and the swan’s neck pediment?
These are only a few details about the architecture of our favorite reading room. There is more to be seen in design above the mantel, for example, or the mysterious lizard living in our fireplace. But this brief overview will have to do for now. The next time you’re doing research at the MHS, take a moment to look at the room around you and consider why it looks the way it does. In Ellis Hall, the Georgian Revival blends Classical details and Georgian embellishments to make you feel thoughtful, enlightened, and curious. Architects like Wheelwright hide small secrets and reminders in every detail of the places we inhabit. Now that you know their names, can you hear what they’re saying?
When I began my fellowship at the MHS, I did not plan to find much in the collections about Louisa Jacobs (1833–1917), the subject of my research project. I was there to research the people she knew, especially in the African American community of the Boston area. Louisa Jacobs has previously only been a minor character in the writings about her mother, author Harriet Jacobs (1815-1897), who wrote Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl (1861).
Kate Culkin, Jean Fagan Yellin’s Associate Editor for the Harriet Jacobs Family Papers (2008), once told me that “Louisa Jacobs was like a ghost—very difficult to find.” The comment struck a chord; my research for a biography of Louisa Jacobs seems a bit like ghost hunting. I see hints or tantalizing details, but little to add to what has already been found. Gradually, however, a more comprehensive understanding of Jacobs is emerging for me.
Louisa Jacobs is everywhere in Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, because her mother wrote about her daughter, using the pseudonym, Ellen. I began reading Incidents my first day as a Fellow at the MHS in 2023. Purchased in 1911 by the Society and inscribed “April 2, 1864” on the flyleaf, the book had once been owned by J. W. Clarke (perhaps John Willis Clarke, who wrote The Care of Books in 1901). Reading in the quiet comfort of Ellis Hall Reading Room makes me part of a shadowy community of people who over the course of 163 years have also read this very copy of the Jacobs’s family story.
Harriet Jacobs, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl (1861), Title Page. Massachusetts Historical Society. Call #E187.
Jacobs was more elusive in the sources of people she knew; many of them ghosted her. For example, in sixteen volumes of the diaries of Robert A. Boit, who married Lilian Willis, a member of a family deeply connected to Jacobs for over fifty years, he detailed his life and glued in his correspondence. He noted he took tea with Louisa Jacobs twice, but barely discussed her otherwise. He waited until her death to write, “She had great intelligence, a rare fancy & imagination, and a way of expressing herself that was quaintly and delightfully her own. Her letters were always interesting in their graceful and quite unusual turns of thought and of expression.” Did he save any of her letters? Not one.
Another example of ghosting appears in the collection of Reverend Samuel May, Jr., a Garrisonian abolitionist. May and his wife, Sarah, visited so-called “contraband camps” for freedpeople during the Civil War. They visited the Jacobs School in Alexandria, VA, where Louisa Jacobs taught. Did Samuel May note the visit in his memorandum book? No. Based on a letter Louisa wrote to Sarah May, published in the February 1865 National Anti-Slavery Standard, the Mays had continued soliciting donations for the school. But the Mays did not record their efforts.
One more example of ghosting Louisa Jacobs. In May 1865, Jacobs traveled with Hannah E. Stevenson and other women to Richmond, VA to distribute clothing. Stevenson was the first woman from Boston to volunteer to serve as a nurse, and the MHS has a collection of her wartime letters to family members. Stevenson didn’t mention the Jacobses in any of her letters home that month. She redeemed herself, however, when she worked as secretary for the Boston branch of the Freedmen’s Union Commission. At the Boston Public Library, I recognized a previously unidentified fragment of a letter as having been written by Stevenson, who commented that Louisa Jacobs had stopped by the office, “looking pretty and well.”
That’s what is so invigorating about this quest; I find Louisa Jacobs in unexpected ways. From a Garrison family scrapbook, I learned that Jacobs donated $2.00 (approximately $75 today) to the anti-slavery cause.
Scrapbook, 1859-1860/compiled by an unidentified member of the Garrison family. 1 vol. Massachusetts Historical Society. Call# E187.
In other sources I got a sense of William Cooper Nell, an African American historian who helped integrate Boston schools in the 1850s. The MHS has an edited collection of his letters; he hinted of his romantic interest in Louisa Jacobs in letters to Amy Kirby Post. I also traced the teaching careers of Jacobs’s friends, sisters Virginia and Mariana Lawton, in the Freedmen’s Record, and I built an understanding of the African American community Louisa Jacobs inhabited in the Boston and Cambridge areas from numerous sources available at the MHS.
The staff of the research department enhances the extensive collection of books, diaries, manuscripts, and artifacts. They found answers to questions such as those I had about stage sleighs, religion, and nineteenth-century maps and publications. They also connected me to scholars and archivists who continue to help me recreate the world Louisa Jacobs inhabited. The woman who was once a ghost is materializing as personable and imaginative, deeply loyal to her friends and her community. My sojourn at the MHS helped make this possible.
Can I tell you a story? A story that will transport you to the court of Tsar Nicholas II and the Meiji Regime, gilded carriages, opulent palaces, and a war between superpowers, that ends in Portsmouth, NH, USA.
The Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905) was primarily fought over Russia’s expansionist policies in East Asia, with major battles occurring both at sea and on land. Japan emerged victorious over Russia, marking the first time an Asian power defeated a European power in modern history, setting the stage for Japan’s future imperial ambitions and exacerbating internal political unrest growing in Russia. President Roosevelt made it his personal mission to bring peace to the two empires, eager for America to take its place as a world power player.
Getting both sides to the negotiating table at the neutral location of Portsmouth Naval Yard, straddled between New Hampshire and Maine, proved to be a daunting task. Roosevelt hand selected George von Lengerke Meyer, a Bostonian serving as the US Ambassador to Italy, for the very special mission of negotiating that peace, and reassigned him to the court of Nicholas II, Emperor of Russia. The George von Lengerke Meyer Papers detail the Russo-Japanese War from the Russian perspective and Meyer’s extensive peace negotiations with the Russian Tsar and government.
Roosevelt writes to Meyer on December 26, 1904, from the White House (Received by Meyer on January 20, 1905, in Italy)
“Dear George,
This letter is naturally to be treated entirely confidential, as I wish to write to you freely. I desire to send you as ambassador to St. Peterburg. My present intention is, as you know, only to keep you for a year as Ambassador, but there is nothing certain about this inasmuch as no man can tell what contingencies will arise in the future, but at present the position in which I need you is that of Ambassador at St. Petersburg. St. Petersburg is at this moment, and bids fair to continue to be for at least a year, the most important post in the diplomatic service, from the standpoint if work to be done, and you come in the category of public servants who desire to do public work, as distinguished from those whose desire is merely to occupy public place – a class for whom I have no particular respect. I wish in St. Petersburg a man who, while able to do all the social work, able to entertain and to meet the Russians and his fellow-diplomats on equal terms, able to do all the necessary plush business – business which is indispensable can do in addition, the really vital and important things. I want a man who will be able to keep us closely informed, on his own initiative of everything we ought to know, who will be, as an Ambassador ought to be, our chief source of information about Japan and the war – about the Russian feeling as to the continuance of the war, as to the relationship between Russia and Germany and France, as to the real moaning of the movement for so-called internal reforms, as to the condition of the army, as to what forces can and will be used in Manchuria next summer, and so forth and so forth.”
Letter from George von Lengerke Meyer to President Theodore Roosevelt, 31/13 April, 1905.
Arriving in St. Peterburg on April 7, 1905, Meyer sought an audience with the Emperor of Russia, Nicholas II and after being presented at court, Meyer wrote to Roosevelt on 31/13th April 1905:
“Mr. Delcasse assured me, as far as France is concerned, that there was nothing official in this talk of peace and that the two warring nations had not asked for it or agreed to enter into pourparlers.
Wednesday, April 5th, I left for St. Petersburg, arriving the afternoon of the 7th. The next day I called on Count Lamdorff, Minister of Foreign Affairs, presented a copy of my letter of Credence and asked for formal audience with the Tsar, after exchanging the usual courtesies. The audience took place yesterday afternoon at Tsarskoo Selo in the Alexander Palace, with much formality and state. I was driven from the station I a gilded coach with six white horses. My first presentation was to the Dowager Empress, (Sister of the Queen of England), and ten minutes later I was received by the Emperor and Empress. I had hoped I would see the Emperor alone, as the English Ambassador had told me that the young Empress was influencing her husband to continue the war and gain a victory.
I delivered your instructions as cabled by Adee on March 27th, and she drew nearer and never took her eyes off the Tsar. When I pronounced the words “at a proper season, if the two waring nations are willing, the President would gladly use his impartial good offices towards the realization of an honorable and lasting peace, alike advantageous to the parties and beneficial to the world,” His majesty looked embarrassed and then said: “I am very glad to hear it.” but instantly turned the conversation on to another subject, never alluding it to it again.“
Convincing the Emperor and, more importantly, the Empress, was not going to be easy.
On June 12/1, 1905, Meyer writes to Mr. J. Morris Meredith: “They are tremendously shocked by their naval defeat here, but are not even yet talking peace. What they are demanding through the press is a call of the promised Representative body, in order that they may get an expression of opinion from the people direct whether the war should continue or not.” It would take a lot of convincing on Meyer’s part to make the Emperor and Empress realize the effort to continue the war was futile, but in the end he succeeded. Japan was optimistic that Russia would acquiesce based in the expense and political unrest the war was causing.
Roosevelt writes to Meyer on June 19, 1905:
“In my efforts I have been actuated by an earnest desire to stop bloodshed, not merely in the interest of humanity at large and in the interest of other countries, but especially in the interest of the Russian people for I like them and wish them well.
You know Lamsdorff and I do not. If you think it worthwhile, tell either him or the Czar the substance of what I have said, or show them all or parts of this letter. You are welcome to do it. But use your own discretion absolutely in this matter.
Russia has not created a favorable impression here by the appearance of quibbling that there has been over both the selection of the place and over the power of the plenipotentiaries whom Russia will appoint. It would be far better if she would give the impression of frankness, openness and sincerity.”
The envoys of Imperial Japan and Imperial Russia arrived in Portsmouth on August 9, and the Treaty of Portsmouth was signed on September 5, 1905. Roosevelt won the Nobel Peace prize for his success in bringing both sides to the negotiating table. On September 1, 1905, Roosevelt finally writes to Meyer, as the negotiations are settled in Portsmouth:
“Dear George,
It seems to me that one of the crucial points in securing the peace was what you finally did in your conversation with the Czar when you persuaded him that the southern half of Saghalin would have to be surrendered to the Japanese. Of course while I was cabling to you messages for the Czar I was also doing what I could with the Japanese Government…
(and concludes the letter with)
Well, apparently we have carried the thing safely through, but it has not always been plain sailing.
Faithfully yours,
Theodore Roosevelt”
Dive further into the Meyer Papers to be transported to Imperial Russia on the brink of chaos and experience the effort to bring a peaceful end to the Russo-Japanese war.
Portsmouth is a beautiful city by the sea, featuring cobblestone streets lined with gas lanterns and the historic homes of sea captains and merchants. Whenever I visit Portsmouth, I look out at the ocean and imagine what a sight it would have been to see the arrival of vessels from Imperial Russia and Imperial Japan in August of 1905.
![booklet with yellow borders and a picture of two people on a bench looking out onto the water with “Boston Harbor Island” written in yellow on the top right of the picture. In the bottom right corner of the booklet, it reads “10 years of progress/Laying a solid foundation” in white.]](https://www.masshist.org/beehiveblog/wp-content/uploads/2024/08/BostonHarborIslands-768x1024.jpg)
