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The rising hour at the Institution was half-past five o'clock during the summer when I first went there; but about 1837 it was changed to six, and some of us found even that hour too early to suit our inclinations. But unless we were able to give a sufficient excuse for being late at morning prayers we were denied our break-fast as a penalty for our tardiness. After breakfast at seven o'clock we enjoyed a lecture on mental and moral philosophy, and the rest of the morning and afternoon was taken up with recitations and singing classes until half-past four. The evening was passed in listening to selections from standard authors.

Sometimes during the breakfast hour they read to us from the newspapers, or we talked over the daring exploit of one of our own number, such as the killing of a mouse by a timid girl; in fact, if any one of us did an act out of the ordinary we heard of it at the breakfast table, and I must confess that I was concerned in many of the practical jokes.

We had a book in the Institution, generally called "a shoe-book," but I called it after the name of our shoemaker, "Simpson on the Understanding." In the evening various books were read to us by students from a theological seminary in the city; and after they had finished "Stevens' Travels in the Holy Land" one room-ing a girl came to me and asked what I thought would be read next. I replied, "Very likely they will read 'Simpson on the Understanding,' which is a fine book; but you had better go and ask the superintendent." This she did, and with a merry laugh he showed her the shoe-book, adding, "That is some of Fanny's work, I know."

We had a postman whom I used to tease in every possible manner. I had never spoken with him in my life; but I would hide the pen and ink and his letter book, which annoyed him so much that he was anxious to see what sort of a being could be so mischievous. Once, while it was raining tremendously, I wrote the following lines, and placed them where he would be sure to find them:

"Postman, come not yet,
Wait till the storm is past,
Or you'll a ducking get;
The rain is falling fast.
You have a new white hat,
As I have heard them say;
Then, postman, think of that!
Don't venture out today!

"Presumptuous man, in vain
To stay your course I sing;
In spite of wind or rain
The letters you will bring;
Though you are such a dunce
I will not cruel be,
But ask our nurse at once
To make some flax-seed tea."

To even scores with me, they sometimes returned a joke at my expense. For example, the superintendent one evening, when I returned home late from a lecture, informed me that there was a "Bridgeport Farmer" in the house, who had come to visit me. Thinking one of my friends had actually arrived during my absence, I went to bed, joyful with the expectation of seeing him early the following morning. To this end I arranged my toilet with unusual care; I went to the office to inquire after my guest; and to my vexation the superintendent handed me a copy of the "Farmer," a newspaper pub-lished in Bridgeport, exclaiming, "Here he is; bid him good-morning."

Once when I had infringed upon a rule the superin-tendent called me to him, and said that I must retire to my room. I went up stairs singing,

"My glad soul mounted higher
In a chariot of fire;
And the moon was under my feet."

He at once called me back, saying, "You are too willing. Don't break any more rules!"

Nor did my daring stop short of the Governor of New York, William H. Seward, who came to inspect our buildings. I thought it would be a capital idea to get him to pick up my ball of yarn, for I happened to be knitting when he called; and so when he was just a little way from me, I managed to drop the ball on the floor. The gracious man picked it up and gave it to me with a good word of encouragement. But one of the teachers saw what I had done and laughingly told Mr. Chamberlain, who remarked, "Oh, don't say any-thing about it to Fanny, for we never know what she will do next." Yet I must have been more prompt at playing jokes than at learning my lessons, for Mr. Hamilton Murray very often waited several days before I would give him the piece of verse I had promised him. Once when his patience was exhausted by a long delay, he came to me and said,

"Fanny, I am coming up in the morning. Will you have that blank verse ready?"

"Yes, sir," I answered, but it was not ready when he came for it.

"Well," said Mr. Murray, "now we will come to business, no blank verse, no dinner." His threat had the desired effect; the verse was ready in less than an hour.

Thus these trivial incidents helped to make up the joy of life; and I think the poet Keble was certainly right, when he wrote,

"The trivial round, the common task.
Will furnish all we ought to ask,
Room to deny ourselves, a road
To bring us daily nearer God."

We had many important days, when famous visitors honored us by coming to see our work. One of the first of these that I remember was Count Henri Gratien Bertrand, the faithful field-marshal of the great Na-poleon, and his constant companion during his exile at Saint Helena. After the death of his general, Mar-shal Bertrand accompanied his remains to France, where he was forgiven by the party which had come into power.