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