My Archival Surprise, Or, Charles Sumner’s Views on the Birthright Citizenship Case

By Michael A. Schoeppner, Andrew W. Mellon Short-Term Fellow, Associate Professor and Trustee Research Professor University of Maine-Farmington

Historians often go into the archives with specific questions in mind, and we can exhibit obscene levels of patience as we sift through materials in search of historical evidence to answer those questions. Many research trips yield more frustration than insight. But other times, not only do we find what we are looking for, we come across an item that speaks directly to us about our contemporary historical moment. I call this fortunate event an “archival surprise.”

During my first week at the Massachusetts Historical Society, I was scrolling through the Winthrop Papers, a sprawling collection that contains multiple volumes from Robert C. Winthrop, former US Senator and US Speaker of the House. In 1843, Winthrop wrote a report about the imprisonment of Black people in Southern port cities. This report was central to my current research on the movement of free Black people before the Civil War and their ideas about citizenship. As I scrolled through Winthrop’s personal correspondence, I came across a letter from Charles Sumner, who was just cutting his teeth in public service when he wrote it. In the letter, he applauded Winthrop’s argument about Black people’s citizenship rights. I did not read the entire letter at first; I made an electronic copy to read later.

Two days afterwards, I was in the MHS reading room, exhausted from the previous evening’s doomscrolling over the recently argued birthright citizenship case currently before the Supreme Court. While I was waiting for a set of documents to be delivered, I read that letter from Charles Sumner. As I suspected, he held similar views as Winthrop regarding the citizenship rights that Black travelers ought to be entitled. But then, completely unsolicited, Charles Sumner wrote,

“The genius of our institutions invites immigration, but it does not say “come,” then add “but all who come must be of the purest white, and you cannot have offspring entitled to privileges + immunities of citizenship.” For whatever may be the conditions of the foreign immigrant under the Acts of Congress, I cannot doubt that his children, born in the United States, are citizens thereof.”

And just in case I was misreading Sumner’s rather deplorable handwriting, he reiterated in no uncertain terms,

“The accident of birth impresses upon the infant this indelible character. He becomes a citizen by birth within the jurisdiction of the Commonwealth, for then the C’wealth treats him as owing allegiance. He is one of her children. He is not a resident, but a citizen.”

I was shellshocked at how pertinent and precise Sumner’s position was. Given how essential he and other Radical Republicans were in the drafting and passage of the Reconstruction Amendments and the 1866 Civil Rights Act while Sumner was a US Senator, his views on immigrants’ birthright citizenship should be required reading for legal theorists. If anyone cared what the Radical Republicans meant when they proposed the 14th Amendment’s birthright citizenship clause, here was a powerful enunciation.

I swore Sumner was talking to me. Then I remembered the portrait hanging directly behind my table in the MHS reading room. I turned around, and Old Charles was there, sitting in his chair, staring down. His smug glare confirmed my suspicion. He wrote that letter to us as much as he wrote it to Winthrop. Here was an archival surprise, courtesy of Charles Sumner.

painting of man in a suit framed in a gold frame
Portrait of Charles Sumner in the MHS reading room

Anyone who has spent considerable time in the archives has met with similar moments. Archival surprises are special rewards, a reminder that the past is not ever really past. It also confirms that public archives, such as the Massachusetts Historical Society, are invaluable cultural repositories.

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Remembering Fernald: Uncovering the Hidden History of Disability in Massachusetts

by Meg Szydlik, Visitor Services Coordinator

On February 12, 2026, the MHS welcomed Alex Green of the Harvard Kennedy School to give a talk on his book, A Perfect Turmoil: Walter E. Fernald School and the Struggle to Care for America’s Disabled. Green’s research has been ongoing, so he included information in his talk that he has uncovered since publication. It was a fascinating glimpse into a subject I have been researching in the MHS collection with my Disability in the Archive series, which you can check out in the further reading section. Green’s work looks at the ways disability was treated in Boston’s own backyard at the Walter E. Fernald State School in Waltham, Massachusetts.

Book cover is a grid of images. Most grids show a three-story stone building, which is placed differently and rotated in each box. One box is a photograph of an older man in a hat.
Green’s book A Perfect Turmoil: Walter E. Fernald School and the Struggle to Care for America’s Disabled.

Green took us through the context around the creation of the Fernald School. He complicated the narrative of Walter Fernald, the man who founded the school, who was neither good nor evil. Through Green, the audience understood that Fernald was a man who was trying his best, even when his best failed people. Fernald was a eugenicist who eventually changed his opinion and fought against his prior beliefs. Green discussed the way the Fernald School was set up and the impact this particular school had on the education of disabled children in the United States, and later the world. Fernald believed that hard work and busyness could improve disabilities. Green pointed to the way the theories Fernald espoused are still present in special education practices around the United States today, and even presented his own rather radical idea that there should be no separation of disabled and abled children in schools.

However, Green did not shy away from the damage that Fernald’s theories created. He showed image after image of truly horrifying ways the students were treated, including being locked up, chained, and other brutalizations. Much of what he described was remarkably similar to the things I read in Dorothea Dix’s texts about the treatment of disabled people in jails and almshouses. The cruelty is still startling to me, no matter how many descriptions of it I read or images I see. And Green was clear about how cruel these things were. He was clear too about how that cruelty extended to the way the school handled the health and safety of these students. Those who died while attending the Fernald School, as well as the Metropolitan State Hospital, are buried in a cemetery on the grounds. I have been to the cemetery myself and the anonymity of the graves is as striking as Green said. It is not meant to be a place for loved ones to come and weep. And that is even more clear from Green’s explanation that sometimes families were never told what happened to their loved one who entered the school.

The research Green has done is not without controversy or challenges. Even accessing the records of the Fernald School at the Massachusetts State Archives was difficult, as a state law requires that an individual’s medical records remain private after their death, even to family members. He was able to get a court order to unseal them, but he noted his belief that these records should be accessible to survivors and family members without such extreme measures and described his frustration that only an Ivy League professor could access them. He also emphasized that much of the restricted material did not seem to be medical records at all, including drawings done by residents of the school and hospital. The issue of access to information is further complicated by the lack of centralization. As hospitals and schools closed, many of the records did not go to a single location or even an archive at all. In fact, many of these records have been sold on eBay and other similar sites in the ensuing years. It is a multi-pronged problem with no clear solution.

Green shared an important story. The brutality of what happened in these schools should not be forgotten or swept under the rug. The same ideas that formed the Fernald School are still present in American society today, as Green pointed out by linking the philosophy of Fernald to modern special education. Green demanded an unflinching look at the treatment of disabled people, one with compassion towards all but particularly towards the victims of an abusive system. It was a good reminder, and one we should take care to listen to.

Further Reading of the Disability in the Archive Series

Freaks and Geeks

Insanity and Institutions

Veteran Voices

Fairies or Workers?

The Mind Shudders With Disgust

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The Diaries of Henrietta Maria Schroeder Stout, Part V

By Susan Martin, Senior Processing Archivist

This is the fifth part of a series. Read Part I, Part II, Part III, and Part IV to catch up.

Today I return to the diary of 13-year-old Henrietta Schroeder, part of the Stout family papers here at the MHS. Henrietta has made a big impression on me, with her unfiltered, exuberant, and irreverent writing style. She seems so relatable, so much like a teenager today. I hope you’ve been enjoying getting to know her, too.

We pick up our story on September 11, 1889. After spending the summer in the U.K., Henrietta and her family visited the continent, first France and then Switzerland. They landed at Dieppe, where Henrietta wrote in her diary (her “Cher Confidante”), “Now, surrounded by French people gabbling off French I really feel as though I were abroad.” She made herself right at home, polishing off three glasses of claret at one dinner.

From Dieppe, the Schroeders went south to Rouen and Paris. They visited Rouen Cathedral, the burial place of Richard I’s “lion” heart and of “Henry the something of England,” as Henrietta put it. In Paris, they spent 5-6 days touring the famous Exposition Universelle, including the brand-new Eiffel Tower. Henrietta did ride the elevator to the top, but not until a few weeks later, so I’ll talk about that in a future post. She also saw Mont Blanc at Chamonix, France, which inspired her first original sketch in the diary.

Color photograph of a pencil sketch drawn on part of a manuscript page, labeled sideways in the left-hand margin “General view of Chamonix.” The sketch depicts a view of multiple mountain peaks with small buildings in the foreground.
“General view of Chamonix,” drawn by Henrietta Schroeder, September 29, 1889

But October 1889 was a relatively quiet month for the Schroeders, spent mostly at the Grand Hotel in Montreux, Switzerland. The hotel still exists today. It was there Henrietta spent her fourteenth birthday on October 9. Among her presents was a small ivory letter opener from her best friend Lina, which she cherished.

It was also on her birthday that the family toured Chillon Castle, where François Bonivard was imprisoned back in the sixteenth century. The castle seems to have genuinely spooked Henrietta. She wrote, “For the rest of the day I had the horrors. […] The Gallows were there, and a lot of other horrible things which I don’t want to write about.”

During this month-long pause at Montreux, Henrietta wrote in her diary a little more often and in a more introspective vein. Occasionally some of her fears and insecurities came through. While she was enjoying her European sojourn, she was also thinking about the future, which to her looked bleak.

Her older sister Lucy had “come out”—that is, debuted in society—the previous winter after her eighteenth birthday. Henrietta, five years younger, wondered what was in store for her. This passage made me want to give her a hug.

Oh! dear I feel so cross today – To think of my future! See what a lovely time Lucy had last winter! and see what is prepared for me! Lucy is pretty – I am an ape. Lucy has a splendid talent for music, and I have no talent what ever. I only long to paint, paint, paint – I never can be any kind of a belle in society – I can never do any thing – I have kept this feeling in for weeks & weeks, but have said but a few words about it, and Mamma instantly came down upon me and told me never, never to say it again, it was wicked etc. so I am not going to write about it any more.

Color photograph of two open pages of a thick manuscript volume. The text is written in pencil and smudged in several places, and the pages are numbered 118 and 119 in the upper left- and right-hand corners.
Pages from Henrietta Schroeder’s diary, October 29 to November 8, 1889

I hope you’ll join me for my next post in this series here at the Beehive.

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Commemorating the 250th Anniversary of Dr. Joseph Warren’s Funeral

By Rakashi Chand, Reading Room Supervisor

April 8, 2026, marks the 250th anniversary of the funeral of Dr. Joseph Warren, whose death at the Battle of Bunker Hill helped define the beginning of the American Revolution. After nine months in a shallow grave on the battleground on Breed’s Hill, his remains were recovered following the British evacuation of Boston and brought into the city for a ceremony that united Americans in renewed resolve.

Only thirty-four years old; a widower with four young children; newly engaged; admired for his intellect, courage, and striking presence; Warren was a leader of the colonists’ rebellion and embodied the promise of a rising nation. His death in battle quickly became a catalyst that spread revolutionary fervor throughout the colonies. Some historians have speculated that had he survived, Americans might today walk along “Warren Street” in every major city instead of “Washington Street.” News of his death raced through colonial newspapers, carrying shock and sorrow to communities that had never seen his face yet mourned him as one of their own.

Oil painting of man with white wig and dark coat
Joseph Warren, by Edward Savage, after portrait by John Singleton Copley

By the time his remains returned to Boston for burial in April 1776, Warren had become the Revolution’s first great martyr—a figure whose courage at Bunker Hill and choice to fight beside ordinary militiamen rather than take command captured the spirit the colonies were beginning to claim as their own.

No contemporary voice captures the meaning of that day better than Abigail Adams. In a letter dated 7-11 April 1776 she wrote to her husband, John Adams:

“Yesterday the Remains of our Worthy General Warren were dug up upon Bunker Hill and carried into Town and on monday are to be interred with all the Honours of War.”

Three days later, she described the funeral itself:

“The Dr. was Buried on monday the Masons walking in procession from the State House, with the Military in uniforms and a large concourse of people attending… The amiable and heroic virtues of the deceased… the noble cause to which he fell a Martyr… must give weight and energy to whatever could be delivered upon the occasion.”

Handwritten letter in ink
Excerpt of letter from Abigail Adams to John Adams, 7 – 11 April 1776

Her account evokes a city still bearing the scars of occupation, now gathered around Warren’s body “like that of Caesar’s before their Eyes” to confront the cost of liberty. The funeral procession made up of Masons in regalia, militia in uniform, and citizens in great number was one of the largest public gatherings Boston had seen since the outbreak of war.

Inside King’s Chapel, young attorney Perez Morton delivered an Eulogy that gave voice to the dead themselves. His most powerful passage urged the living to understand the depth of their betrayal and the justice of their cause:


“Ought we not to listen to the Voice of our slaughtered Brethren, who are now proclaiming aloud to their Country—

Go tell the King, and tell him from our Spirits,

That you and Britons can be Friends no more;

Tell him to you all Tyrants are the same:

Or if in Bonds, the never conquer’d Soul

Can feel a Pang, more keen than Slavery’s self,

‘Tis where the Chains that crush you into Dust,

Are forg’d by Hands, from which you hop’d for Freedom.”


Not merely a break with Britain, but the recognition that the oppression now suffered came from those once trusted to protect. For the mourners gathered around Warren’s coffin, this was not rhetoric, it was lived experience. For a city emerging from siege, the ceremony was both a memorial and a moment of political awakening.

Engraved scene of battle. In the foreground a crowd of soldiers gathers around a fallen man.
The Battle at Bunker’s Hill Near Boston. June 17, 1775, Engraving after painting by John Trumbull, 1786.
John Trumbull’s paintings of The Death of General Warren at the Battle of Bunker’s Hill visually framed Warren as a martyr whose sacrifice sanctified the cause of Revolution.

On this 250th anniversary, we remember that Warren’s funeral was not merely an act of mourning. It was a public reckoning with sacrifice, betrayal, and the moral necessity of separation. In honoring Warren, the city made its own symbolic declaration of independence, months before Congress put the sentiment into words.

Visit the Massachusetts Historical Society for an in-person look at the documents that declared independence in the current exhibition 1776: Declaring Independence.

Further Reading:

Letter from Abigail Adams to John Adams, 7 – 11 April 1776

MHS Collections Online: John Rowe diary 13, 8 April 1776, pages 2136-2138

Perez Morton’s 1776 eulogy for Joseph Warren

Early Forensic Odontology – The Dr. Samuel D. Harris National Museum of Dentistry The effort to recover Warren’s body led to the first documented use of forensic dentistry in America, when Paul Revere recognized the wire and dental work he had placed in Warren’s mouth identifying his remains.

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“Salted Cod, According to the Weather”

By Morgan S. Hardy, Mary B. Wright Environmental History Fellow (2025-2026)

It had been eleven years since loyalist Samuel Quincy left his hometown of Boston, Massachusetts. The Harvard-educated lawyer and friend of both John Adams and John Hancock fled Boston after the fighting at Lexington and Concord in 1775. Despite his self-exile, Samuel Quincy missed the comforts and staples of New England. In particular, he missed the taste of freshly salted Atlantic cod. In a letter dated March 4, 1786, Quincy wrote, “My Mouth has watered for their salt-Fish ever since your last letter.” Then, lamentingly, Quincy wrote, “I fear I never shall taste the Relish of the Quintal you say you bought for me.” Quincy never returned to Massachusetts after passing away in 1789.

Black and white illustration
Image of Cod fish
From George Brown Goode, The Fisheries and Fishery Industry of the United States, (Washington, D.C.: Washington Government Printing Office, 1884), plate 58A. Drawing by H. L. Todd.

Salted Atlantic cod was New England’s most profitable export in the eighteenth century. This export was made possible through “curing,” a commercial process designed to prevent decay and turn perishable fish into durable products. However, only about two-fifths of the cured fish qualified as “merchantable” and were shipped to Spain, Portugal, and Italy for substantial profit. The remaining three-fifths were labeled as “refuse” fish. These badly cured, oversalted, or sunburned fish, among others, were sent to feed chattel slavery on Caribbean plantations. Fishers, shoremen, fishmongers, and parliamentary lobbyists all knew that nature influenced how well a fish cured.

Various weather conditions and fierce storms were among the notorious factors affecting the daily fishing life in New England. Fishers had to be hardy persons who were “oblig’d to life at the Mercy of the Winds, and [who] are often expos’d to Storms.” Good weather was always preferred for fishing, but it was never guaranteed. In September 1775, a giant storm struck the North American coast from Virginia to Newfoundland. A storm surge, over thirty feet high, wrecked the coast and caused chaos among the Newfoundland fishing fleet. It’s estimated that 4,000 people, mostly fishers, lost their lives. Storms and unpredictable weather emphasize the vulnerability of eighteenth-century fishing communities, making it tough to find, secure, and process salted Atlantic cod.

Printed image showing a shore line and men doing multiple activities.
“A View of a Stage” depicting “the manner of Fishing for, Curing & Drying Cod.” This image is from a map by English cartographer Herman Moll published in 1718 based on a 1698 map by French cartographer Nicolas De Fer.
Library of Congress, Geography and Map Division.

Being exposed to the “inclemencies of the severest weather [and] the dangers of the turbulent Atlantic” meant that New England fishers had to read the signs of the weather. This was helpful not only to avoid disasters while fishing but also for locating baitfish. New England fishers caught large amounts of baitfish, including herring, alewives, capelin, and squid, to catch other species such as the prized Atlantic cod and mackerel. John Knox, a Scottish philanthropist aiming to expand England’s fishing industry, reported in 1785 that “young herring always come in a body some time in June [but] their stay depends on the wind and weather.” Knox also noted that “herring shoals are subjected to the “tides, currents, and bays.” New England fishers relied on their understanding of weather patterns and the ocean’s depths to efficiently find, catch, and process the fish that supported their livelihoods. This knowledge was gained through extensive time at sea.

Samuel Quincy’s home of Boston was supported by fishers who understood that the environment posed a challenge to curing cod effectively. A fisher’s work, toil, and knowledge of the sea proved invaluable in making cod a profitable export and a local favorite. Salted cod’s unique, briny flavor was still prevalent to Samuel Quincy after almost a decade of fleeing Boston. Perhaps the next time you find yourself in Boston, try the salted cod—and remember that nature has been undermining human schemes for centuries.

Further Reading:

Letter from Samuel Quincy written from Tortola, March 4, 1786, Quincy Family Letters, Massachusetts Historical Society. Please note that a quintal was about 112 pounds of salted cod.

For how fishers were exposed to the elements, see “The Importance and Management of the British Fishery Consider’d,” (London, 1720), Folger Shakespeare Library, Washington, DC.

Chuck Lyons, “The Independence Hurricane: Chuck Lyons Examines the Events Around a Massive Storm That Brought Destruction to Newfoundland, and Likely Helped to Determine the Outcome of the American Revolution,” History Magazine 14.4 (Toronto: 2013): 24–26.

For inclemencies and herring, see John Knox, “A View of the British Empire: More Especially Scotland: with some Proposals for the Improvement of that Country, the Extension of its Fisheries, and the Relief of the People,” Volume 1 (London, 1785), Massachusetts Historical Society.

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Caring for Constituents: A How-To by John Quincy Adams

By Gwen Fries, Adams Papers

John Quincy Adams was a public servant for more than fifty years. When we think of him, it’s easy to fall into a highlights reel of his life—partying with princes as a diplomat, advancing the cause of science education as president, and especially raging against the Gag Rule and the “slavocracy” in his congressional career. Sounds like he’s an absolute rock star. Where does the “servant” part come into it?

Recently I was reading a book by Tony Benn (1925-2014)—a British MP who, like Adams, was a politician for fifty years and kept a daily diary of how humdrum that seemingly glamorous life could really be. “Much of the casework,” he wrote, “fell into the same category as the palliative care offered by hospices. Support was needed whether or not you could actually solve the problem for a particular constituent. The people who wrote to me or queued up at my advice centers to tell me their problems wanted to be heard and wanted me to listen.”

I instantly thought of Adams.

Adams’s diary is full of his constituents. He truly did view himself as their servant, advocate, and protector, as is clear from the time he dedicated to each one. On 17 December 1836, for instance, the 69-year-old congressional representative listened to the Collector of Customs at New York complain about merchants skirting consular fees. He tucked that away in his brain to bring up with the Committee of Manufactures the next week. Next, he heard out a disgraced English ophthalmologist who wanted to complain about his lot in life. (Again, palliative care.) Then, the elderly statesman walked through the rain to the Department of War to deliver a letter from a Plymouth widow seeking her husband’s pension. He carefully notes her name in his diary: Bethiah Dyer. He languished in the waiting room as the office was “beset with visitors,” then wouldn’t leave until he had the Secretary’s word that he would follow up with him.

a few lines of handwritten text
A detail of Adams’s 17 Dec. 1836 diary entry mentioning Bethiah Dyer

This is one of about 17,000 days of JQA’s life that went that way. One of the most brilliant men of his age sitting in an unassuming room and just listening. Most people wanted something from him, but many came simply to gawp at him as a living curiosity. Anne Royall in her 1826 Sketches of History, Life, and Manners, in the United States wrote that JQA possessed “a calmness peculiar to him.” He was willing to sit silently and listen as long as you wanted to talk, giving you his undivided attention. “What most distinguishes his features, is his eye,” she wrote. “It is. . .one of such keenness that it pierces the beholder. He has the steadiest look I ever witnessed.”

The miracle of Adams’s devotion to his constituents is his further devotion to recording their dearest hopes and fears in his diary. Because of this, posterity has a window into the lives of thousands of ordinary Americans and their faith in the democratic process.

The Adams Papers editorial project at the Massachusetts Historical Society gratefully acknowledges the generous support of our sponsors. Major funding for the John Quincy Adams Digital Diary was provided by the Amelia Peabody Charitable Fund, with additional contributions by Harvard University Press and private donors. The Mellon Foundation in partnership with the National Historical Publications and Records Commission also supported the project through funding for the Society’s digital publishing collaborative, the Primary Source Cooperative.

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The Diaries of Henrietta Maria Schroeder Stout, Part IV

By Susan Martin, Senior Processing Archivist

This is the fourth part of a series. Read Part I, Part II, and Part III to catch up.

“Here I am in London, as big as life.”

These are the words 13-year-old Henrietta Schroeder wrote in her diary on August 15, 1889. She was on a European tour with her widowed mother and three siblings. The family had been traveling up and down the U.K. and would now spend three weeks in and around London before moving on to the continent.

Late Victorian London was a booming, bustling metropolis. The population of inner London alone was already over four million, quadruple what it had been at the start of the century. In 1889, it was the most populous city in the world, and Henrietta was very excited to be there.

As I’ve mentioned before, the Schroeders were indefatigable tourists, and in her diary Henrietta described the sights they saw and shared her unfiltered opinions. She thought Westminster Abbey was “lovely” and especially liked Poets’ Corner and the tomb of Queen Elizabeth. While there, unable to help herself, she had “leaned over, and touched the tomb of an old Saxon king, dated 616!!!” This was presumably King Saeberht of Essex.

The family also visited the Victoria & Albert Museum in South Kensington, took a trip up and down the Thames to see the West and East India Docks, oohed and aahed over the Queen’s golden jubilee presents on display at Windsor Castle, and of course spent some time at the massive Crystal Palace. Henrietta pasted several prints of the building into her diary.

Color photograph of two pages of an open volume, numbered 84 and 85, with two black and white prints pasted onto each page. The prints show a large glass building from multiple angles, some with fountains or people in the foreground. Underneath the prints are the following captions written in black ink: “The Crystal Palace,” “The Fountains,” “View from the South,” and “The Gardens.”
Prints of the Crystal Palace pasted into Henrietta Schroeder’s diary, 21 August 1889.

One attraction that didn’t overly impress Henrietta was Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, but that was probably because her mother didn’t allow her into the Chamber of Horrors. The Chamber of Horrors was home to what promotional material at the time called “the most extraordinary relic in the world,” the blade of a guillotine from the French Revolution.

Screenshot of two paragraphs from a printed catalog, under the heading “Centre of Chamber of Horrors.” The two paragraphs are headed “327. Marat” and “328. The most extraordinary relic in the world.”
Excerpt from Madame Tussaud’s catalog of 1886

Like many teenagers then and now (and a lot of adults, let’s be honest), Henrietta was fascinated by the more macabre parts of history. Her diary is full of references to historical figures who’d been imprisoned or stabbed or beheaded or tortured. She’d been delightfully spooked by the dungeons at Carlisle Castle. Now, after touring the Tower of London, she breathlessly recounted how she

“walked over the site of the scaffold where lady Jane Gray, Anne Boleyn and others were beheaded. And by the way, I saw the scaffold itself, STAINED WITH BLOOD!!”

Later she wrote about Canterbury Cathedral.

“You know that Thomas â Becket was murdered there? well, there is a little place marked where Tommie stood when he was murdered, and I stood on it too.”

In late August, the Schroeder family visited with some distant relatives in the wonderfully named village of Stoke Poges. Henrietta had mentioned the Gilliats before, but it wasn’t until this diary entry that I had enough information to identify them. The Schroeders were apparently guests at Duffield House, the home of Algernon Gilliat. He had three twenty-something sons, the youngest of whom later became both a footballer and an Anglican minister. If my research is correct, Algernon’s aunt married Henrietta’s uncle’s half-brother.

The U.K. portion of Henrietta’s diary ends, I think poignantly, with a single wild poppy she pressed into the volume on September 9, 1889. She explained, “When I pressed it, it turned purple, but it was scarlet once upon a time. The fields are red with them.”

Color photograph of the top half of one page of a manuscript volume. A pink or light purple flower and stem are flattened and taped diagonally across the page next to the following caption written in black ink: “Wild poppy / A souvenir of Brighton / 9th September ’89” and a small sketch of the British flag. One petal of the flower is torn.
Poppy pressed into Henrietta Schroeder’s diary, September 9, 1889

Stay tuned for more about Henrietta in my next post.

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Henry and Lucy Knox’s Revolutionary Romance 

by Rakashi Chand, Reading Room Supervisor

In the aftermath of Valentine’s Day during the 250th anniversary of the American Revolution, we invite you to celebrate some of the most romantic figures of the Revolutionary era.  

The Couple  

In the turbulent years when a young America was struggling to define itself, two young people met in a bookstore. Her name was Lucy Flucker, just sixteen, the daughter of a wealthy Loyalist family whose father ranked as the third highest British official in Massachusetts. His name was Henry Knox, a Boston bookseller who devoured volumes, was outgoing, warm, endlessly curious, and remarkably intelligent. 

By every measure of class, politics, and expectation, she was not meant to fall in love with Henry Knox. Yet she did, and with the courage that would come to mirror the revolution reshaping the world around them. This silhouette at the Massachusetts Historical Society is the only known contemporary image of Lucy Flucker Knox. 

Lucy Flucker Knox, silhouette, circa 1790

The Marriage 

Their affection grew in the corners of a city on the brink of war and soon they married, defying her family and the life laid out for her. Although Lucy and Henry are well documented and significant figures in the formation of our nation, for a while there was considerable confusion about where and even when they were married.  

For a deeper look at the confusion surrounding their wedding, read these two posts from J. L. Bell’s Boston1775 blog: “When did Henry Knox and Lucy Flucker marry?” and “Where did Lucy Flucker and Henry Knox marry?” Bell notes that the couple married at King’s Chapel in Boston. Luckily, the MHS houses the Records of King’s Chapel, and a dive into the archives shows the recording of their marriage on June 23, 1774.  Lucy’s sister Hannah and half sister Sallie attended the wedding, but her parents were notably absent.

Register of marriages, 1718-1841, Vol 41 (XT), King’s Chapel (Boston, Mass.) Records

The War Begins

A year later the Battles of Lexington and Concord forced the young couple to slip out of Boston for their safety. Lucy took refuge in Worcester, Mass., never to see her family again, while Henry joined the militia besieging the city. He directed fortifications using knowledge he had gained from his books, and in his first surviving letter to Lucy, dated July 6, 1775, he described meeting George Washington, who was impressed by his engineering skill. 

Not long after, Henry embarked on his now famous feat, transporting 59 captured cannons from Fort Ticonderoga over 300 winter miles by ox drawn sled to Boston. Washington positioned the guns above Boston and forced the British to evacuate. Henry, only twenty-five, became commander of the Continental Army’s artillery and would rise to major general before the war’s end.  

As the American Revolution ignited, the nation and the newlyweds came of age together. Forced apart by battle lines and duty, Henry and Lucy kept their bond alive through letters that pulsed with longing, fear, devotion, and hope. With Henry often away, Lucy also grew into a woman forged by independence and responsibility, writing him on 23 August 1777 that “I hope you will not consider yourself as commander in chief of your own house.”

The Love Letters 

The wartime correspondence between Henry and Lucy Knox offers a vivid, intimate window into both the American Revolution and the emotional world of a couple separated by conflict. Over the course of the Revolution, they exchanged more than 150 letters. 

Below are a few excerpts that illustrate the tone and content of their letters to one another, demonstrating their commitment to each other during a remarkable time. 

This rich letter from Henry notes both the sadness of separation and the hardships encountered in transporting the artillery from Fort Ticonderoga, though is not without humor.

“My dearest Companion, It is now twelve days since I’ve had the least opportunity of writing to her who I value more than life itself. . . .Had I the power to transport myself to you, how eagerly rapid would be my flight. It makes me smile to think how I should look, like a tennis ball bow’ld down.”

Henry Knox to Lucy Flucker Knox, Ft. George, NY, 17 December 1775  

Their letters continue to gush with love and sadness at separation.

“My lovely & dearest friend, Those people who love, as you & I do, never ought to part. It is with the greatest anxiety that I am forc’d to date my letter at this distance from my love at a time too when I thought to have been happily in [your] Arms.” 

Henry Knox to Lucy Flucker Knox, Albany, NY, 5 January 1776

“I should long before this have indulged myself in the pleasure of writing to him who is allways in my thoughts, whose image is deeply imprinted on my heart and whom I love too much for my peace, but the fear that the language of a tender wife might appear ridiculous to an impartial reader (should it miscarry) has restrain’d me.

Lucy Flucker Knox to Henry Knox, Boston, MA, 29 or 30 April, 1776

Born in a bookstore, tested by war, and carried in ink, Henry and Lucy’s love came of age alongside a nation fighting to define itself. 

Further Reading:

The Henry Knox Papers, on microform at the MHS, owned by the Gilder Lehrman Institute, include the correspondence between Henry and Lucy Knox

Henry Knox Papers II collection

Henry Knox Papers III collection

Hamilton, Phillip. The Revolutionary War Lives and Letters of Lucy and Henry Knox. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2017. 

Stuart, Nancy Rubin. Defiant Brides: The Untold Story of Two Revolutionary Era Women and the Radical Men They Married. Boston: Beacon Press, 2013. 

Posted in From Our Collections

Calling All History Enthusiasts!

By Alexandra Moleski, Massachusetts History Day Program Coordinator

The 2026 Massachusetts History Day (MHD) season is in full swing and we would love to have you join us as a judge. Spend your day supporting history and civics education with other like-minded history buffs of all ages! All you need is a love of history–no experience or prior knowledge required.

Massachusetts History Day is a project-based learning program in which students grades 6-12 conduct research on a historical topic of their choice and present their work as a documentary, website, performance, paper, exhibit, or–for the first time ever–a podcast. Think science fair, but history! Through their research and the curation of their projects, students will explore the 2026 theme, Revolution, Reaction, Reform in History.

Judging is a great opportunity to learn from and celebrate our student historians and their hard work. You will:

  • Be assigned to a small judging team, as well as a specific age division and project category
  • Review student research projects and their project paperwork
  • Interview the students using sample questions provided to you
  • Work with your team to provide written feedback for each project
  • Receive a judging orientation and all the information you need beforehand
  • Enjoy breakfast, lunch, coffee, and sweet treats on us!

Visit https://www.masshist.org/masshistoryday/judges for more information on MHD contests, the judging experience, and how to register.

Are you an educator? Join us as an MHD judge and earn professional development points. Teachers who judge at a contest/showcase will receive 10 PDPs per event.

Posted in MHS News Tagged ,

The Diaries of Henrietta Maria Schroeder Stout, Part III

By Susan Martin, Senior Processing Archivist

This is the third part of a series. Read Part I and Part II to catch up.

I hope you’ve been enjoying the diaries of 13-year-old Henrietta Schroeder as much as I have. In early July 1889, she and her family were staying at Keswick, in England’s beautiful Lake District, part of their grand tour of Europe. After Keswick, they spent the summer traveling up and down Great Britain, hitting all the tourist hotspots.

As I mentioned in Part II, Henrietta described events a little out of order, frequently backtracking to catch up, so it’s sometimes difficult to pinpoint her location. I’ve done my best to trace her route from July to the middle of August on this map.

Color screenshot of Great Britain, with a red line tracing up the west coast of the island to Scotland and then down the east coast to London.
Map of Henrietta’s route

The cities and towns the Schroeders visited included Carlisle, Glasgow, Rothesay, Rowardennan, Stirling, Edinburgh, Melrose, Newcastle upon Tyne, York, Rowsley, Warwick, Stratford-upon-Avon, Oxford, and finally London. It’s no wonder she often fell behind in her diary!

I enjoy how Henrietta addressed her diary as if it were another person, calling it “my dear old Journal,” “my darling Journal,” “dearest Companion,” or “my dearest Confidante,” and apologizing when she neglected it. It feels like you, the reader, are having a conversation with her. But she also had another audience in mind: her best friend Caroline “Lina” Wetherill, who she mentioned frequently and missed terribly.

In fact, on July 6, when she received three letters from Lina, she was overjoyed, writing:

You see how she forgot herself entirely, and only thought of me and my well fare, she is the best girl that ever breathed the breath of life!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh! dear! I wish that I were worthy of her!! . . . God bless her she is so sweet. The dear old girl! I wonder what she is doing now, I dare say she is climbing some haystack or perhaps swimming about like a duck in the water. I wonder if she ever thinks of me. Oh! I love her so!!!!!

Close-up color photograph of one page of a manuscript volume. The text is written in black ink and contains underlining, exclamation points, and smudges.
Excerpt from Henrietta Schroeder’s diary, July 6, 1889

The Schroeders were energetic tourists. Here are some of the sights they saw during this period: the Castlerigg stone circle, Carlisle Cathedral, Carlisle Castle, Rothesay Castle, Dunoon Castle, Loch Eck, Loch Katrine, Edinburgh Castle, Holyrood Palace, Melrose Abbey, Abbotsford, Newcastle Cathedral, Durham Castle, Durham Cathedral, York Minster, Haddon Hall, Chatsworth House, Kenilworth Castle, Warwick Castle, St. Mary’s Church in Warwick, Trinity Church in Stratford-upon-Avon, William Shakespeare’s house, and Christ Church and Magdalen Chapel in Oxford.

What I like most about Henrietta is her combination of exuberance and irreverence. From making up songs to chipping off pieces of castles as keepsakes to complaining about her bedtime, she feels real. Her diary is also just plain funny. One entry mentions “that nasty old Cromwell,” like he was a schoolyard bully. And this dismissive aside made me laugh: “My window looks right down on the city, the Cathedral & a ruin of some abbey or something.”

But Henrietta was also growing up. I think we get a glimpse of this in the following passage, about a distant family relation the Schroeders happened to meet in Glasgow.

He has three awfully nice looking boys (they are young men though) and I am going to make a mark on one I know, for he stares at me so already. (Don’t say a word, we must make great friends with them, they are as rich as Croesus.[)]

I’ll pick up the next installment of Henrietta’s story in London.

Posted in From Our Collections Tagged