A PARABLE.

“Baby with the hat and plume,And the scarlet cloak so fine,Come where thou hast rest and room,Little baby mine!“Whence those eyes so crystal clear?Whence those curls, so silky soft?Thou art Mother’s darling dear,I have told thee oft.“I have told thee many times,And repeat it yet again,Wreathing thee about with rhymesLike a flowery chain,—“Rhymes that sever and uniteAs the blossom fetters do,As the mother’s weary nightHappy days renew.”

“Baby with the hat and plume,And the scarlet cloak so fine,Come where thou hast rest and room,Little baby mine!

“Whence those eyes so crystal clear?Whence those curls, so silky soft?Thou art Mother’s darling dear,I have told thee oft.

“I have told thee many times,And repeat it yet again,Wreathing thee about with rhymesLike a flowery chain,—

“Rhymes that sever and uniteAs the blossom fetters do,As the mother’s weary nightHappy days renew.”

Perhaps some of my readers may already know the lovely verses called “Baby’s Shoes.”

“Little feet, pretty feet,Feet of fairy Maud,—Fair and fleet, trim and neat,Carry her abroad!“Be as wings, tiny things,To my butterfly;In the flowers, hours on hours,Let my darling lie.“Shine ye must, in the dust,Twinkle as she runs,Threading a necklace gay,Through the summer suns.“Stringing days, borrowing phrase,Weaving wondrous plots,With her eyes blue and wiseAs forget-me-nots. . . . . . . . . .“Cinderel, grown a belle,Coming from her ball,Frightened much, let just suchA tiny slipper fall.“If men knew as I doHalf thy sweets, my own,They’d not delay another day,—I should be alone.“Come and go, friend and foe,Fairy Prince most fine!Take your gear otherwhere!Maud is only mine.”

“Little feet, pretty feet,Feet of fairy Maud,—Fair and fleet, trim and neat,Carry her abroad!

“Be as wings, tiny things,To my butterfly;In the flowers, hours on hours,Let my darling lie.

“Shine ye must, in the dust,Twinkle as she runs,Threading a necklace gay,Through the summer suns.

“Stringing days, borrowing phrase,Weaving wondrous plots,With her eyes blue and wiseAs forget-me-nots. . . . . . . . . .“Cinderel, grown a belle,Coming from her ball,Frightened much, let just suchA tiny slipper fall.

“If men knew as I doHalf thy sweets, my own,They’d not delay another day,—I should be alone.

“Come and go, friend and foe,Fairy Prince most fine!Take your gear otherwhere!Maud is only mine.”

But it was not all singing, of course. Our mother read to us a great deal too, and told us stories, from the Trojan War down to “Puss in Boots.” It was under her care, I think, that we used to look over the “Shakspere book.” This was a huge folio, bound in rusty-brown leather, and containing the famous Boydell prints illustrating the plays of Shakspere. The frontispiece represented Shakspere nursed by Tragedy and Comedy,—the prettiest, chubbiest of babies, seated on the ground with his little toes curled up under him, while a lovely, laughing lady bent down to whisper in his ear; and another one, grave but no less beautiful, gazed earnestly upon him. Then came the “Tempest,”—oh, most lovely! The first picture showed Ariel dancing along the “yellow sands,” while Prospero waved him on with a commanding gesture; in the second, Miranda, all white and lovely, was coming out of the darksome cavern, and smiling with tender compassion on Ferdinand, who was trying to lift an impossible log. Then there was the delicious terror of the “Macbeth” pictures, with the witches and Banquo’s ghost. But soon our mother would turn the page and show us the exquisite figure of Puck, sitting on a toadstool, and make us shout with laughter over Nick Bottom and his rustic mates. From these magic pages we learned to hate Richard III. duly, and to love the little princes, whom Northcote’s lovely picture showed in white-satin doublet and hose, embracing each other, while the wicked uncleglowered at them from behind; and we wept over the second picture, where they lay asleep, unconscious of the fierce faces bending over them. Yes, we loved the “Shakspere book” very much.

Sometimes our mother would give us a party,—and that was sure to be a delightful affair, with charades or magic lantern or something of the kind. Here is an account of one such party, written by our mother herself in a letter to her sister, which lies before me:—

“My guests arrived in omnibus loads at four o’clock. My notes to parents concluded with the following P. S.: ‘Return omnibus provided, with insurance against plum-cake and other accidents.’ A donkey carriage afforded great amusement out of doors, together with swing, bowling-alley, and the Great Junk. [I have not mentioned the Junk yet, but you shall hear of it in good time.] While all this was going on, the H.’s, J. S., and I prepared a theatrical exhibition, of which I had made a hasty outline. It was the story of ‘Blue Beard.’ We had curtains which drew back and forth, and regular footlights. You can’t think how good it was! There were four scenes. My antique cabinetwas the ‘Blue Beard’ cabinet; we yelled in delightful chorus when the door was opened, and the children stretched their necks to the last degree to see the horrible sight. The curtain closed upon a fainting-fit, done by four women. In the third scene we were scrubbing the fatal key, when I cried out, ‘Try the mustang liniment! It’stheliniment for us, for you know wemust hangif we don’t succeed!’ This, which was made on the spur of the moment, overcame the whole audience with laughter, and I myself shook so that I had to go down into the tub in which we were scrubbing the key. Well, to make a long story short, our play was very successful, and immediately afterward came supper. There were four long tables for the children; twenty sat at each. Ice-cream, cake, blancmange, and delicious sugar-plums, also oranges, etc., were served up ‘in style.’ We had our supper a little later. Three omnibus-loads went from my door; the last—the grown people—at nine o’clock.”

In another letter to the same dear sister, our mother says:—

“I have written a play for our doll theatre, and performed it yesterday afternoon with great success. It occupied nearly an hour. I had alternately to grunt and squeak the parts, while Chevplayed the puppets. [Chev was the name by which she always called our father; it was an abbreviation of Chevalier, for he was always to her the ‘knight without reproach or fear.’] The effect was really extremely good. The spectators were in a dark room, and the little theatre, lighted by a lamp from the top, looked very pretty.”

This may have been the play of “Beauty and the Beast,” of which the manuscript is unhappily lost. I can recall but one passage:

“But he thought on ‘Beauty’s’ flower,And he popped into a bower,And he plucked the fairest roseThat grew beneath his nose.”

I remember the theatre well, and the puppets. They were quite unearthly in their beauty,—all except the “Beast,” a strange, fur-covered monstrosity. The “Prince” was gilded in a most enchanting manner, and his mustache curled with an expression of royal pride. I have seen no other prince like him.

All this was at Green Peace; but many as are the associations with her beloved presence there, it is at the Valley that I most constantly picture our mother. She lovedthe Valley more than any other place on earth, I think; so it is always pleasant to fancy her there. Study formed always an important part of her life. It was her delight and recreation, when wearied with household cares, to plunge into German metaphysics, or into the works of the Latin poets, whom she greatly loved. She has told, in one of her own poems, how she used to sit under the apple-trees with her favorite poet,—

“Here amid shadows, lovingly embracing,Dropt from above by apple-trees unfruitful,With a chance scholar, caught and held to help me,Read I in Horace,” etc.

But I do not think she had great need of the “chance scholar.” I remember the book well,—two great brown volumes, morocco-bound, with “Horatius Ed. Orelli” on the back. We naturally supposed this to be the writer’s entire name; and to this day, ‘Quintus Horatius Flaccus’ (though I have nothing to say against its authenticity) does not seem to me asreala name as “Horatius Ed. Orelli.”

Our mother’s books,—alas that we shouldhave been so familiar with the outside of them, and have known so little of the inside! There was Tacitus, who was high-shouldered and pleasant to handle, being bound in smooth brown calf. There was Kant, who could not spell his own name (we thought it ought to begin with a C!). There was Spinoza, whom we fancied a hunchback, with a long, thin, vibrating nose. (“What’s in a name?” A great deal, dear Juliet, I assure you.) Fichte had a sneezing sort of face, with the nose all “squinnied up,” as we used to say; and as for Hilpert, who wrote the great German dictionary, there can be no reasonable doubt that he was a cripple and went on crutches, though I have no authority to give for the fact beyond the resemblance of his name to the Scotch verb “hirple,” meaning “to hobble.”

Very, very much our mother loved her books. Yet how quickly were they laid aside when any head was bumped, any knee scratched, any finger cut! When we tumbled down and hurt ourselves, our father always cried, “Jump up and take another!” andthat was very good for us; but our mother’s kiss made it easier to jump up.

Horace could be brought out under the apple-trees; even Kant and Spinoza sometimes came there, though I doubt whether they enjoyed the fresh air. But our mother had other work besides study, and many of her most precious hours were spent each day at the little black table in her own room, where papers lay heaped like snowdrifts. Here she wrote the beautiful poems, the brilliant essays, the earnest and thoughtful addresses, which have given pleasure and help and comfort to so many people throughout the length and breadth of the land. Many of her words have become household sayings which we could not spare; but there is one poem which every child knows, at whose opening line every heart, from youth to age, must thrill,—“The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Thirty years have passed since this noble poem was written. It came in that first year of the war, like the sound of a silver trumpet, like the flash of a lifted sword; and all men felt that this was theword for which they had been waiting. You shall hear, in our mother’s own words, how it came to be written:—

“In the late autumn of the year 1861 I visited the national capital in company with my husband Dr. Howe, and a party of friends, among whom were Governor and Mrs. Andrew, Mr. and Mrs. E. P. Whipple, and my dear pastor Rev. James Freeman Clarke.“The journey was one of vivid, even romantic interest. We were about to see the grim Demon of War face to face; and long before we reached the city his presence made itself felt in the blaze of fires along the road where sat or stood our pickets, guarding the road on which we travelled.“One day we drove out to attend a review of troops, appointed to take place some distance from the city. In the carriage with me were James Freeman Clarke and Mr. and Mrs. Whipple. The day was fine, and everything promised well; but a sudden surprise on the part of the enemy interrupted the proceedings before they were well begun. A small body of our men had been surrounded and cut off from their companions; reinforcements were sent to their assistance, and the expected pageant was necessarily given up. The troops who were to have taken part in it wereordered back to their quarters, and we also turned our horses’ heads homeward.“For a long distance the foot-soldiers nearly filled the road. They were before and behind, and we were obliged to drive very slowly. We presently began to sing some of the well-known songs of the war, and among them—‘John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave.’This seemed to please the soldiers, who cried, ‘Good for you!’ and themselves took up the strain. Mr. Clarke said to me, ‘You ought to write some new words to that tune.’ I replied that I had often wished to do so.“In spite of the excitement of the day I went to bed and slept as usual, but awoke next morning in the gray of the early dawn, and to my astonishment found that the wished-for lines were arranging themselves in my brain. I lay quite still until the last verse had completed itself in my thoughts, then hastily rose, saying to myself, ‘I shall lose this if I don’t write it down immediately.’ I searched for a sheet of paper and an old stump of a pen which I had had the night before, and began to scrawl the lines almost without looking, as I had learned to do by often scratching down verses in the darkened room where my little children were sleeping. Having completed this, I laydown again and fell asleep, but not without feeling that something of importance had happened to me.“The poem was published soon after this time in the Atlantic Monthly. It first came prominently into notice when Chaplain McCabe, newly released from Libby Prison, gave a lecture in Washington, and in the course of it told how he and his fellow-prisoners, having somehow become possessed of a copy of the ‘Battle Hymn,’ sang it with a will in their prison, on receiving surreptitious tidings of a Union victory.”

“The journey was one of vivid, even romantic interest. We were about to see the grim Demon of War face to face; and long before we reached the city his presence made itself felt in the blaze of fires along the road where sat or stood our pickets, guarding the road on which we travelled.

“One day we drove out to attend a review of troops, appointed to take place some distance from the city. In the carriage with me were James Freeman Clarke and Mr. and Mrs. Whipple. The day was fine, and everything promised well; but a sudden surprise on the part of the enemy interrupted the proceedings before they were well begun. A small body of our men had been surrounded and cut off from their companions; reinforcements were sent to their assistance, and the expected pageant was necessarily given up. The troops who were to have taken part in it wereordered back to their quarters, and we also turned our horses’ heads homeward.

“For a long distance the foot-soldiers nearly filled the road. They were before and behind, and we were obliged to drive very slowly. We presently began to sing some of the well-known songs of the war, and among them—

‘John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave.’

This seemed to please the soldiers, who cried, ‘Good for you!’ and themselves took up the strain. Mr. Clarke said to me, ‘You ought to write some new words to that tune.’ I replied that I had often wished to do so.

“In spite of the excitement of the day I went to bed and slept as usual, but awoke next morning in the gray of the early dawn, and to my astonishment found that the wished-for lines were arranging themselves in my brain. I lay quite still until the last verse had completed itself in my thoughts, then hastily rose, saying to myself, ‘I shall lose this if I don’t write it down immediately.’ I searched for a sheet of paper and an old stump of a pen which I had had the night before, and began to scrawl the lines almost without looking, as I had learned to do by often scratching down verses in the darkened room where my little children were sleeping. Having completed this, I laydown again and fell asleep, but not without feeling that something of importance had happened to me.

“The poem was published soon after this time in the Atlantic Monthly. It first came prominently into notice when Chaplain McCabe, newly released from Libby Prison, gave a lecture in Washington, and in the course of it told how he and his fellow-prisoners, having somehow become possessed of a copy of the ‘Battle Hymn,’ sang it with a will in their prison, on receiving surreptitious tidings of a Union victory.”

Our mother’s genius might soar as high as heaven on the wings of such a song as this; but we always considered that she was tied to our little string, and we never doubted (alas!) our perfect right to pull her down to earth whenever a matter of importance—such as a doll’s funeral or a sick kitten—was at hand.

To her our confidences were made, for she had a rare understanding of the child-mind. We were always sure that Mamma knew “just how it was.”

To her did Julia, at the age of five, or it may have been six, impart the first utterancesof her infant Muse. “Mamma,” said the child, trembling with delight and awe, “I have made a poem, and set it to music!” Of course our mother was deeply interested, and begged to hear the composition; whereupon, encouraged by her voice and smile, Julia sang as follows:—

I had a lit-tle boy; He died when he was young.

As soon as he was dead, He walked upon his tongue!

Our mother’s ear for music was exquisitely fine,—so fine, that when she was in her own room, and a child practising below-stairs played a false note, she would open her door and cry, “Bflat, clear! not B natural!” This being; so, it was grievous to her when one day, during her precious study hour, Harry came and chanted outside her door:

“Hong-kong! hong-kong! hong-kong!”

“Harry!” she cried, “do stop that dreadful noise!” But when the little lad showed a piteous face, and said reproachfully, “Why, Mamma, I was singing to you!” who so ready as our mother to listen to the funny song and thank the child for it?

When ten-year-old Laura wrote, in a certain precious little volume bound in Scotch plaid, “Whence these longings after the infinite?” (I cannot remember any more!) be sure that if any eyes were suffered to rest upon the sacred lines they were those kind, clear, understanding gray eyes of our mother.

Through all and round all, like a laughing river, flowed the current of her wit and fun. No child could be sad in her company. If we were cold, there was a merry bout of “fisticuffs” to warm us; if we were too warm, there was a song or story while we sat still and “cooled off.” We all had nicknames, our own names being often too sober to suit her laughing mood. We were “Petotty,” “Jehu,” “Wolly,” and “Bunks of Bunktown.”

Julia Romana Howe.

On one occasion our mother’s presence of mind saved the life of the child Laura, then a baby of two years old. We were all staying at the Institution for some reason, and the nursery was in the fourth story of the lofty building. One day our mother came into the room, and to her horror saw little Laura rolling about on the broad window-sill, the window being wide open; only a few inches space between her and the edge, and then—the street, fifty feet below! The nurse was, I know not where,—anywhere save where she ought to have been. Our mother stepped quickly and quietly back out of sight, and called gently, “Laura! come here, dear! Come to me! I have something to show you.” A moment’s agonized pause,—and then she heard the little feet patter on the floor, and in another instant held the child clasped in her arms. If she had screamed, or rushed forward, the child would have started, and probably would have fallen and been dashed to pieces.

It was very strange to us to find other children holding their revels without theirfather and mother. “Papa and Mamma” were always the life and soul of ours.

Our mother’s letters to her sister are delightful, and abound in allusions to the children. In one of them she playfully upbraids her sister for want of attention to the needs of the baby of the day, in what she calls “Family Trochaics”:—

“Send along that other pink shoeYou have been so long in knitting!Are you not ashamed to think thatWool was paid for at Miss Carman’sWith explicit understandingYou should knit it for my baby?And that baby’s now a-barefoot,While your own, no doubt, has choice ofPink, blue, yellow—every color,For its little drawn-up toe-toes,For its toe-toes, small as green peas,Counted daily by the mother,To be sure that none is missing!”

Our mother could find amusement in almost anything. Even a winter day of pouring rain, which made other housewives groan and shake their heads at thought of the washing, could draw from her the following lines:—

THE RAINY DAY.

(After Longfellow.)

The morn was dark, the weather low,The household fed by gaslight show,—When from the street a shriek arose:The milkman, bellowing through his nose,Expluvior!The butcher came, a walking flood,Drenching the kitchen where he stood:“Deucalion is your name, I pray?”“Moses!” he choked, and slid away.Expluvior!The neighbor had a coach and pairTo struggle out and take the air;Slip-slop, the loose galoshes went;I watched his paddling with content.Expluvior!A wretch came floundering up the ice(The rain had washed it smooth and nice),Two ribs stove in above his head,As, turning inside out, he said,Expluvior!

The morn was dark, the weather low,The household fed by gaslight show,—When from the street a shriek arose:The milkman, bellowing through his nose,Expluvior!

The butcher came, a walking flood,Drenching the kitchen where he stood:“Deucalion is your name, I pray?”“Moses!” he choked, and slid away.Expluvior!

The neighbor had a coach and pairTo struggle out and take the air;Slip-slop, the loose galoshes went;I watched his paddling with content.Expluvior!

A wretch came floundering up the ice(The rain had washed it smooth and nice),Two ribs stove in above his head,As, turning inside out, he said,Expluvior!

No doubt, alas! we often imposed upon the tenderness of this dear mother. She was always absent-minded, and of this quality advantage was sometimes taken. One day,when guests were dining with her, Harry came and asked if he might do something that happened to be against the rules. “No, dear,” said our mother, and went on with the conversation. In a few moments Harry was at her elbow again with the same question, and received the same answer. This was repeated an indefinite number of times; at length our mother awoke suddenly to the absurdity of it, and, turning to the child, said: “Harry, what do you mean by asking me this question over and over again, when I have said ‘no’ each time?” “Because,” was the reply, “Flossy said that if I asked often enough, you might say ‘yes!’”

I am glad to say that our mother didnot“say yes” on this occasion. But, on the other hand, Maud was not whipped for taking the cherries, when she needed a whipping sorely. The story is this: it was in the silent days of her babyhood, for Maud did not speak a single word till she was two years and a half old; then she said, one day, “Look at that little dog!” and after that talked as well as any child. But if shedid not speak in those baby days, she thought a great deal. One day she thought she wanted some wild cherries from the little tree by the stone-wall, down behind the corn-crib at the Valley. So she took them, such being her disposition. Our mother, coming upon the child thus, forbade her strictly to touch the cherries, showing her at the same time a little switch, and saying: “If you eat any more cherries, I shall have to whip you with this switch!” She went into the house, and forgot the incident. But presently Maud appeared, with a bunch of cherries in one hand and the switch in the other. Fixing her great blue eyes on our mother with earnest meaning, she put the cherries in her mouth, and then held out the switch. Alas! and our mother—did—not—whip her! I mention this merely to show that our mother was (and, indeed, is) mortal. But Maud was the baby, and the prettiest thing in the world, and had a way with her that was very hard to resist.

It was worth while to have measles and things of that sort, not because one hadstewed prunes and cream-toast—oh, no!—but because our mother sat by us, and sang “Lord Thomas and Fair Elinor,” or some mystic ballad.

The walks with her are never to be forgotten,—twilight walks round the hill behind the house, with the wonderful sunset deepening over the bay, turning all the world to gold and jewels; or through the Valley itself, the lovely wild glen, with its waterfall and its murmuring stream, and the solemn Norway firs, with their warning fingers. The stream was clear as crystal, its rocky banks fringed with jewel-weed and rushes; the level sward was smooth and green as emerald. By the waterfall stood an old mill, whose black walls looked down on a deep brown pool, into which the foaming cascade fell with a musical, rushing sound. I have described the Valley very fully elsewhere,[2]but cannot resist dwelling on its beauty again in connection with our mother,—who loved so to wander through it, or to sit with her work under the huge ash-tree in the middle, where

Julia Ward Howe.(From a recent photograph.)

Julia Ward Howe.

(From a recent photograph.)

our father had placed seats and a rustic table. Here, and in the lovely, lonely fields, as we walked, our mother talked with us, and we might share the rich treasures of her thought.

“And oh the words that fell from her mouthWere words of wonder and words of truth!”

One such word, dropped in the course of conversation as the maiden in the fairy-story dropped diamonds and pearls, comes now to my mind, and I shall write it here because it is good to think of and to say over to one’s self:—

“I gave my son a palaceAnd a kingdom to control,—The palace of his body,The kingdom of his soul.”

In the Valley, too, many famous parties and picnics were given. The latter are to be remembered with especial delight. A picnic with our mother and one without her are two very different things. I never knew that a picnic could be dull till I grew up and went to one where that brilliant, gracious presence was lacking. The games weplayed, the songs we sang, the garlands of oak and maple leaves that we wove, listening to the gay talk if we were little, joining in it when we were older; the simple feast, and then the improvised charades or tableaux, always merry, often graceful and lovely!—ah, these are things to remember!

Our mother’s hospitality was boundless. She loved to fill the little house to overflowing in summer days, when every one was glad to get out into the fresh, green country. Often the beds were all filled, and we children had to take to sofas and cots: once, I remember, Harry slept on a mattress laid on top of the piano, there being no other vacant spot.

Sometimes strangers as well as friends shared this kindly hospitality. I well remember one wild stormy night, when two men knocked at the door and begged for a night’s lodging. They were walking to the town, they said, five miles distant, but had been overtaken by the storm. The people at the farm-house near by had refused to take them in; there was no other shelter near. Our mother hesitated a moment.Our father was away; the old coachman slept in the barn, at some distance from the house; she was alone with the children and the two maids, and Julia was ill with a fever. These men might be vagabonds, or worse. Should she let them in? Then, perhaps, she may have heard, amid the howling of the storm, a voice which she has followed all her life, saying, “I was a stranger, and ye took me in!” She bade the men enter, in God’s name, and gave them food, and then led them to an upper bedroom, cautioning them to tread softly as they passed the door of the sick child’s room.

Well, that is all. Nothing happened. The men proved to be quiet, respectable persons, who departed, thankful, the next morning.

The music of our mother’s life is still sounding on, noble, helpful, and beautiful. Many people may still look into her serene face, and hear her silver voice; and no one will look or hear without being the better for it. I cannot close this chapter better than with some of her own words,—a poemwhich I wish every child, and every grown person too, who reads this might learn by heart.

“I sent a child of mine to-day:I hope you used him well.”“Now, Lord, no visitor of yoursHas waited at my bell.“The children of the millionaireRun up and down our street;I glory in their well-combed hair,Their dress and trim complete.“But yours would in a chariot comeWith thoroughbreds so gay,And little merry maids and menTo cheer him on his way.”“Stood, then, no child before your door?”The Lord, persistent, said.“Only a ragged beggar-boy,With rough and frowzy head.“The dirt was crusted on his skin,His muddy feet were bare;The cook gave victuals from within:I cursed his coming there.”What sorrow, silvered with a smile,Glides o’er the face divine?What tenderest whisper thrills rebuke?“The beggar-boy was mine!”

“I sent a child of mine to-day:I hope you used him well.”“Now, Lord, no visitor of yoursHas waited at my bell.

“The children of the millionaireRun up and down our street;I glory in their well-combed hair,Their dress and trim complete.

“But yours would in a chariot comeWith thoroughbreds so gay,And little merry maids and menTo cheer him on his way.”

“Stood, then, no child before your door?”The Lord, persistent, said.“Only a ragged beggar-boy,With rough and frowzy head.

“The dirt was crusted on his skin,His muddy feet were bare;The cook gave victuals from within:I cursed his coming there.”

What sorrow, silvered with a smile,Glides o’er the face divine?What tenderest whisper thrills rebuke?“The beggar-boy was mine!”

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 happenedthat, 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 Lauramarching round the dining-room table, each shouldering a log of wood, and shouting,—

“We’ll kill old Feaster!We’ll kill old Feaster!”

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. Thepoor 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 opeyyou?”

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 didhave 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:

“I am a Dane! I am a Dane!I am not ashamed of the royal name!”

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

“Danish woman very ugly,But remarkably instructive,—Drawing, painting, French, and German,Fancy-work of all descriptions,With geography and grammar.She will teach for very little,And is a superior person.”

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 yousay 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 theerrant 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 knowledgeof 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 picturethat 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,—ofthedancing-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.

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