Fanny, though not a bit like me, got along equally as well with the reigning power.  She was a smart, black-eyed maiden, full of life, and had herself some of the managing blood in her veins.  In fact, so bright and so sly was my dear little sister, that she often succeeded in managing the Grand Panjandra herself.  I speak thus particularly of Fanny, because, if it had not been for her, I might now have no story to tell.  I never, from childhood to manhood, worked myself into any tight place, that her little scheming brain did not invent some way of getting me out.

When my collegiate labors were nearly finished, our aunt was taken poor.  She was subject to these attacks, under which she always resorted to the heroic treatment, retrenching and economizing with the greatest zeal.  This attack of hers was the primary cause of my taking a winter school in the little village of Norway, about twenty miles from home.  I was perfectly willing to keep school; it seemed the easiest thing in the world.

The night before leaving home, my aunt summoned me to her chamber.  She sat erect in her straight-backed chair, a tall, dark woman, in a bombazine gown, with white muslin frill and turban.  Her eyes were black and deep.  Her nose was rather above than below the usual height, and eminently fitted to bear its spectacles.  She was evidently a person who thought before she acted, but who was sure to act after she had thought.

Good advice was what she wanted to give me.  The world was a snare.  The Devil was always on the lookout, and everywhere in a minute.  She read considerable portions from the “Boston Recorder,” after which she dropped some hints about the marriage-state,—­said she had noticed, with pleasure, my prudence in not hurrying these matters, adding, that it was much safer to choose a wife from among our own neighbors and friends than to run the risk of marrying a stranger.  No names were mentioned, but I knew she was thinking of Alice, the postmaster’s daughter, a fair young maiden, soft in speech, quiet in manners, and constant at meeting,—­a maiden, in fact, of whom I had long stood in dread.

My school commenced the week after Thanksgiving.  I had fancied myself appearing among my scholars like a king surrounded by his subjects.  But these lofty notions soon melted down beneath the searching glances of forty pairs of eyes.  A sense of my incompetency came over me, and I felt like saying,—­“Young people, little children, what can I do for you, and how shall I show you any good?”

The first thing I did was to take the names.  Ah! in what school-record of modern times could be found such a catalogue of the Christian virtues?  Think of mending pens for Faith and Prudence!—­of teaching arithmetic to Love, Hope, and Charity!—­of imparting general knowledge to Experience!  There were three of this last name, and it was only after a long experience of my own that I learned that the first was called “Pelly,” the second, “Exy,” and the third, “Sperrence.”  Penelope was rendered “Pep.”