Miss Sally Pierce was the real head of the school. According to her picture in Miss Vanderpoel’s delightful book of reminiscences of the famous school, Miss Pierce was a very handsome woman with eyes that suggest sensibility, and a mouth that could smile charmingly. But we suspect also that the little stiff curls might bob warningly and the lips settle down into a very firm line, while the tall cap standing up over the brow might strike terror to the heart of any child doubtful about the correctness of her examples, or nervous lest a half or a one-tenth of a “miss” should be counted against her. The truth is, however, that Miss Sally was very much beloved and so greatly admired that she must have been in danger of vanity. John Pierpont, a considerable poet in his day and not forgotten now, celebrated her worth in a passage in his Centennial Poem in 1851. He becomes almost eloquent. Pierce, an honored name! Yea, thrice and four times honored, he cries. Then he contrasts her glories with those of the warrior. Bloodless the garland on her temples laid. To them, reproachful, no poor widow turns; No sister’s heart bleeds, and no mother mourns To see them flourish. Ne’er shall they be torn From off her honored brows. Long be they worn To show the world how a good Teacher’s name Out-weighs, in real worth, the proudest warrior’s fame! The Academy was held in an insignificant house thirty by sixty feet. There was a small closet at each end, one for the piano and one for bonnets. There were desks of the plainest pine, long plank benches, a small table and an elevated chair for the teacher--that was all. Upon the modest throne sat Miss Sally Pierce, the principal. She probably resembled Miss Titcomb, in Mrs. Stowe’s novel, “Oldtown Folks,” a thoroughbred, old-fashioned lady whose views of education were formed by Miss Hannah More and whose style like Miss Hannah More’s was profoundly Johnsonian, which means that her ideas were expressed in very grand and dignified language. The set of rules that she made for the conduct of her school required of the pupils absolute moral perfection. It was written there that persons truly polite would invariably treat their superiors with reverence, their equals with exact consideration, and their inferiors with condescension. Also, under the head of manners, they were warned not to consider romping as indicative of sprightliness or loud laughter as a mark of wit. When these rules were read to the pupils on a Saturday morning, we can imagine that there was some suppressed excitement, for these children with mountain air stirring in their veins were doubtless somewhat given to romping and loud laughter!