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,—
“Yo-ho! Here we go!
Up and down! Heigh-ho!”
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.