WHILE THE present century was in its teens，and on one sunshinymorning in June，there drove up to the great iron gate of missPinkerton's academy for young ladies，on Chiswick mall，a largefamily coach，with two fat horses in blazing harness，driven by afat coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig，at the rate of fourmiles an hour.a black servant，who reposed on the box beside thefat coachman，uncurled his bandy legs as soon as the equipagedrew up opposite miss Pinkerton's shining brass plate，and as hepulled the bell at least a score of young heads were seen peeringout of the narrow windows of the stately old brick house.Nay，the acute observer might have recognized the little red nose ofgood-natured Miss Jemima Pinkerton herself，rising over somegeranium pots in the window of that lady's own drawing-room.