Lorenzo Papanti, his dancing-classes and his hall, were among the institutions of old Boston. It was said that this accomplished veteran had instructed three generations of Bostonians in the art of dancing. He was by no means young when I first remember him, although his dark wig doubtless made him look older than he really was; his blue-gray eyes would have appeared less fishlike, his complexion less red and mottled, had he appeared before us without this adornment. For a man with a bald head to teach dancing might, it is true, seem incongruous. He was always in evening dress, dignified and graceful in his movements, as became one of his profession. Age had no power to wither him. He bore a strong resemblance to William Warren, the noted actor. When I saw portraits of the latter on cigar-boxes labeled “Boston’s favorite,” I supposed they were likenesses of Papanti. In these days of division of labor it seems wonderful to remember that he had no assistant. He taught us to dance, playing at the same time on his fiddle. He kept us in good order, routing the truants out of the dressing-rooms if we stayed there too long to play and talk. He had the Italian genius for governing, inherited, doubtless, from the ancient Romans. When Mr. Papanti sounded a preliminary flourish on his fiddle and asked us to take partners for the quadrille or the lancers, the boys did not rush joyously forward, as might have been expected. Our master was often obliged to lead them out in a long, reluctant line, dragging back as much as they dared. With some twenty or thirty boys in tow, he would approach the girls, who were not very encouraging. It was pleasanter to dance with your girl friends than with strange boys who had little to say. A certain Master J—— once ejaculated, “My stars!” in talking to his partner. We considered this very bad form. There were one or two little boys of greater conversational powers whom we admired. Mr. Papanti duly instructed the elect of the class in the gavotte. It was a proud moment when you were chosen to take part in this. The “shawl” dance was even more select. The single couple—a brother and sister—who danced this had reached the height of human ambition at Papanti’s. The hall had a delightful spring floor, the like of which I have never beheld. It yielded beneath your feet like a live thing! When we were children dancing was one of our home pleasures. Our mother, who had an endless store of operatic airs in her memory, would sit down at the grand piano at the children’s hour. As her nimble fingers struck the keys away we all went, each doing a _pas seul_ of some sort. To sister Julia belongs the credit of inventing the “frog” minuet. This is only suitable for very young children. You go down on your hands and knees, then you lift first the right arm and knee, after that the left, all in time to the music. The movement is rather slow.