I do not know why we had so many teachers. No doubt it was partly because we were very troublesome children. But I think it was also partly owing to the fact that our father was constantly overrun by needy foreigners seeking employment. He was a philanthropist; he had been abroad, and spoke foreign languages,—that was enough! His office was besieged by “all peoples, nations, and languages,”—all, as a rule, hungry,—Greeks, Germans, Poles, Hungarians, occasionally a Frenchman or an Englishman, though these last were rare. Many of them were political exiles; sometimes they brought letters from friends in Europe, sometimes not.

Our father’s heart never failed to respond to any appeal of this kind when the applicant really wanted work; for sturdy beggars he had no mercy. So it sometimes happened that, while waiting for something else to turn up, the exile of the day would be set to teaching us,—partly to give him employment, partly also by way of finding out what he knew and was fit for. In this way did Professor Feaster (this may not be the correct spelling, but it was our way, and suited him well) come to be our tutor for a time. He was a very stout man, so stout that we considered him a second Daniel Lambert. He may have been an excellent teacher, but almost my only recollection of him is that he made the most enchanting little paper houses, with green doors and blinds that opened and shut. He painted the inside of the houses in some mysterious way,—at least there were patterns on the floor, like mosaic-work,—and the only drawback to our perfect happiness on receiving one of them was that we were too big to get inside.

I say this is almost my only recollection of this worthy man; but candor compels me to add that the other picture which his name conjures up is of Harry and Laura marching round the dining-room table, each shouldering a log of wood, and shouting,—

This was very naughty indeed; but, as I have said before, we were often naughty.

One thing more I do recollect about poor Professor Feaster. Flossy was at once his delight and his terror. She was so bright, so original, so—alas! so impish. She used to climb up on his back, lean over his shoulder, and pull out his watch to see if the lesson-hour were over. To be sure, she was only eight at this time, and possibly the scenes from “Wilhelm Tell” which he loved to declaim with republican fervor may have been rather beyond her infant comprehension.

One day Flossy made up her mind that the Professor should take her way about something—I quite forget what—rather than his own. She set herself deliberately against him,—three feet to six!—and declared that he should do as she said. The poor Professor looked down on this fiery pygmy with eyes that sparkled through his gold-bowed spectacles. “I haf refused,” he cried in desperation, “to opey ze Emperor of Austria, mees! Do you sink I will opey you?”

Then there was Madame S——, a Danish lady, very worthy, very accomplished, and—ugly enough to frighten all knowledge out of a child’s head. She was my childish ideal of personal uncomeliness, yet she was most good and kind.

It was whispered that she had come to this country with intent to join the Mormons (of course we heard nothing of this till years after), but the plan had fallen through; she, Madame S——, did not understand why, but our mother, on looking at her, thought the explanation not so difficult. She had a religion of her own, this poor, good, ugly dame. It was probably an entirely harmless one, though she startled our mother one day by approving the action of certain fanatics who had killed one of their number (by his own consent) because he had a devil. “If he did have a devil,” quoth Madame, beaming mildly over the purple morning-glory she was crocheting, “it may have been a good thing that he was killed.”

As I say, this startled our mother, who began to wonder what would happen if Madame S—— should take it into her head that any of our family was possessed by a devil; but neither poison nor dagger appeared, and Madame was never anything but the meekest of women.

I must not forget to say that before she began to teach she had wished to become a lecturer. She had a lecture all ready; it began with a poetical outburst, as follows:

But we never heard of its being delivered. I find this mention of Madame S—— in a letter from our mother to her sister:—

I remember some of the fancy-work. There were pink-worsted roses, very wonderful,—really not at all like the common roses one sees in gardens. You wound the worsted round and round, spirally, and then you ran your needle down through the petal and pulled it a little; this, as any person of intelligence will readily perceive, made a rose-petal with a dent of the proper shape in it. These petals had to be pressed in a book to keep them flat, while others were making. Sometimes, years and years after, one would find two or three of them between the leaves of an old volume of “Punch,” or some other book; and instantly would rise up before the mind’s eye the figure of Madame S——, with scarlet face and dark-green dress, and a very remarkable nose.

Flossy reminds me that she always smelt of peppermint. So she did, poor lady! and probably took it for its medicinal properties.

Then there was the wax fruit. You young people of sophisticated to-day, who make such things of real beauty with your skilful, kindergarten-trained fingers, what would you say to the wax fruit and flowers of our childhood? Perhaps you would like to know how to make them. We bought wax at the apothecary’s, white wax, in round flat cakes, pleasant to nibble, and altogether gratifying,—wax, and chrome-yellow and carmine, the colors in powder. We put the wax in a pipkin (I always say “pipkin” when I have a chance, because it is such a charming word; but if my readers prefer “saucepan,” let them have it by all means!)—we put it, I say, in a pipkin, and melted it. (For a pleasure wholly without alloy, I can recommend the poking and punching of half-melted wax.) Then, when it was ready, we stirred in the yellow powder, which produced a fine Bartlett color. Then we poured the mixture—oh, joy!—into the two pear or peach shaped halves of the plaster mold, and clapped them together; and when the pear or peach was cool and dry, we took a camel’s-hair brush and painted a carmine cheek on one side. I do not say that this was art, or advancement of culture; I do not say that its results were anything but hideous and abnormal; but I do maintain that it was a delightful and enchanting amusement. And if there was a point of rapture beyond this, it was the coloring of melted wax to a delicate rose hue, and dipping into it a dear little spaddle (which, be it explained to the ignorant, is a flat disk with a handle to it) and taking out liquid rose-petals, which hardened in a few minutes and were rolled delicately off with the finger. When one had enough (say, rather, when one could tear one’s self away from the magic pipkin), one put the petals together; and there you had a rose that was like nothing upon earth.

After all, were wax flowers so much more hideous, I wonder, than some things one sees to-day? Why is it that such a stigma attaches to the very name of them? Why do not people go any longer to see the wax figures in the Boston Museum? Perhaps they are not there now; perhaps they are grown forlorn and dilapidated—indeed, they never were very splendid!—and have been hustled away into some dim lumber-room, from whose corners they glare out at the errant call-boy of the theatre, and frighten him into fits. Daniel Lambert, in scarlet waistcoat and knee-breeches! the “Drunkard’s Career,” the bare recollection of which brings a thrill of horror,—there was one child at least who regarded you as miracles of art!

Speaking of wax reminds me of Monsieur N——, who gave us, I am inclined to think, our first French lessons, besides those we received from our mother. He was a very French Frenchman, with blond mustache and imperial waxed À la Louis Napoleon, and a military carriage. He had been a soldier, and taught fencing as well as French, though not to us. This unhappy gentleman had married a Smyrniote woman, out of gratitude to her family, who had rescued him from some pressing danger. Apparently he did them a great service by marrying the young woman and taking her away, for she had a violent temper,—was, in short, a perfect vixen. The evils of this were perhaps lessened by the fact that she could not speak French, while her husband had no knowledge of her native Greek. It is the simple truth that this singular couple in their disputes, which unfortunately were many, used often to come and ask our father to act as interpreter between them. Monsieur N—— himself was a kind man, and a very good teacher.

There is a tale told of a christening feast which he gave in honor of Candide, his eldest child. Julia and Flossy were invited, and also the governess of the time, whoever she was. The company went in two hacks to the priest’s house, where the ceremony was to be performed; on the way the rival hackmen fell out, and jeered at each other, and, whipping up their lean horses, made frantic efforts each to obtain the front rank in the small cortÉge. Whereupon Monsieur N——, very angry at this infringement of the dignity of the occasion, thrust his head out of the window and shrieked to his hackman:—

“Firts or sekind, vich you bleece!” which delighted the children more than any other part of the entertainment.There was poor Miss R——, whom I recall with mingled dislike and compassion. She must have been very young, and she had about as much idea of managing children (we required a great deal of managing) as a tree might have. Her one idea of discipline was to give us “misdemeanors,” which in ordinary speech were “black marks.” What is it I hear her say in the monotonous sing-song voice which always exasperated us?—“Doctor, Laura has had fourteen misdemeanors!” Then Laura was put to bed, no doubt very properly; but she has always felt that she need not have had the “misdemeanors” if the teaching had been a little different. Miss R—— it was who took away the glass eye-cup; therefore I am aware that I cannot think of her with clear and unprejudiced mind. But she must have had bitter times with us, poor thing! I can distinctly remember Flossy urging Harry, with fiery zeal, not to recite his geography lesson,—I cannot imagine why.

Miss R—— often rocked in the junk with us. That reminds me that I promised to describe the junk. But how shall I picture that perennial fount of joy? It was crescent-shaped, or rather it was like a longitudinal slice cut out of a watermelon. Magnify the slice a hundred-fold; put seats up and down the sides, with iron bars in front to hold on by; set it on two grooved rails and paint it red,—there you have the junk! Nay! you have it not entire; for it should be filled with rosy, shouting children, standing or sitting, holding on by the bars and rocking with might and main,—

Why are there no junks nowadays? Surely it would be better for us, body and mind, if there were; for, as for the one, the rocking exercised every muscle in the whole bodily frame, and as for the other, black Care could not enter the junk (at least he did not), nor weariness, nor “shadow of annoyance.” There ought to be a junk on Boston Common, free to all, and half a dozen in Central Park; and I hope every young person who reads these words will suggest this device to his parents or guardians.

But teaching is not entirely confined to the archery practice of the young idea; and any account of our teachers would be incomplete without mention of our dancing-master,—of the dancing-master, for there was but one. You remember that the dandy in “Punch,” being asked of whom he buys his hats, replies: “Scott. Is there another fellah?” Even so it would be difficult for the Boston generation of middle or elder life to acknowledge that there could have been “another fellah” to teach dancing besides Lorenzo Papanti. Who does not remember—nay! who could ever forget—that tall, graceful figure; that marvellous elastic glide, like a wave flowing over glass? Who could ever forget the shrewd, kindly smile when he was pleased, the keen lightning of his glance when angered? What if he did rap our toes sometimes till the timorous wept, and those of stouter heart flushed scarlet, and clenched their small hands and inly vowed revenge? No doubt we richly deserved it, and it did us good.

If I were to hear a certain strain played in the desert of Sahara or on the plains of Idaho, I should instantly “forward and back and cross over,”—and so, I warrant, would most of my generation of Boston people. There is one grave and courteous gentleman of my acquaintance, whom to see dance the shawl-dance with his fairy sister was a dream of poetry. As for the gavotte—O beautiful Amy! O lovely Alice! I see you now, with your short, silken skirts flowing out to extreme limit of crinoline; with your fair locks confined by the discreet net, sometimes of brown or scarlet chenille, sometimes of finest silk; with snowy stockings, and slippers fastened by elastic bands crossed over the foot and behind the ankle; with arms and neck bare. If your daughters to-day chance upon a photograph of you taken in those days, they laugh and ask mamma how she could wear such queer things, and make such a fright of herself! But I remember how lovely you were, and how perfectly you always dressed, and with what exquisite grace you danced the gavotte.

So, I think, all we who jumped and changed our feet, who pirouetted and chassÉed under Mr. Papanti, owe him a debt of gratitude. His hall was a paradise, the stiff little dressing-room, with its rows of shoe-boxes, the antechamber of delight,—and thereby hangs a tale. The child Laura grew up, and married one who had jumped and changed his feet beside her at Papanti’s, and they two went to Europe and saw many strange lands and things; and it fell upon a time that they were storm-bound in a little wretch of a grimy steamer in the Gulf of Corinth. With them was a travelling companion who also had had the luck to be born in Boston, and to go to dancing-school; the other passengers were a Greek, an Italian, and—I think the third was a German, but as he was seasick it made no difference. Three days were we shut up there while the storm raged and bellowed, and right thankful we were for the snug little harbor which stretched its protecting arms between us and the white churning waste of billows outside the bar.

We played games to make the time pass; we talked endlessly,—and in the course of talk it naturally came to pass that we told of our adventures, and where we came from, and, in short, who we were. The Greek gentleman turned out to be an old acquaintance of our father, and was greatly overjoyed to see me, and told me many interesting things about the old fighting-days of the revolution. The Italian spoke little during this conversation, but when he heard the word “Boston” he pricked up his ears; and when a pause came, he asked if we came from Boston. “Yes,” we all answered, with the inward satisfaction which every Bostonian feels at being able to make the reply. And had we ever heard, in Boston, he went on to inquire, of “un certo Papanti, maestro di ballo?” “Heard of him!” cried the three dancing-school children,—“we never heard of any one else!” Thereupon ensued much delighted questioning and counter-questioning. This gentleman came from Leghorn, Mr. Papanti’s native city. He knew his family; they were excellent people. Lorenzo himself he had never seen, as he left Italy so many years ago; but reports had reached Leghorn that he was very successful,—that he taught the best people (O Beacon street! O purple windows and brown-stone fronts, I should think so!); that he had invented “un piano sopra molle,” a floor on springs. Was this true? Whereupon we took up our parable, and unfolded to the Livornese mind the glory of Papanti, till he fairly glowed with pride in his famous fellow-townsman.

And, finally, was not this a pleasant little episode in a storm-bound steamer in the Gulf of Corinth?