The School at Lexington, up to the time the buildings were burned, was the truest exponent of education for girls, which has been seen in our country. I say in _our_ country, because my acquaintance with the German methods is not sufficiently complete to justify any comparison between them and the school under consideration. And yet, as has been shown in other chapters in this work, the curriculum at Lexington was far from philosophical or wise. The waste of time and money on music and the languages, was immense; the thought of it, even now, awakens in my mind the keenest regrets. But in this respect, it was no worse than other first-class schools, while in several important particulars, it was greatly superior. 1_st_.--It was a school for _girls_ and _young women_, and not for _young ladies_. This is a very important distinction. 2_nd_.--It had a very strong corps of resident teachers, who mingled with the pupils in all their many amusements. In this way a vigilant, earnest public sentiment was developed, which made the trammels and friction of school government quite unnecessary. The girls bore themselves precisely as they would in a drawing-room, in the presence of men and women of dignified manners and fine culture. Indeed, such were the persons constantly mingling with them. They could not escape the feeling that they were placed on their honor. What is called school government, or discipline, we had little or no occasion to think of. If I had space I could tell you some really very touching stories, illustrating the experiences of girls who, for the first time, were in a school where they were not _told_, but were _expected_ to behave their best. In so large a company, definite rules were indispensable to concert of action. We had as many rules as other schools, but the spirit in which they were observed, was the distinctive feature of which I have spoken. I will venture to give one little anecdote, which will serve to illustrate the point under consideration. One of our bright girls, Mary----, retired on the ringing of the first bell, at half-past eight o'clock; but when the watchman made his nine o'clock round, he found a light burning in Mary's room, and at once left his beat, to report to me. I sent hint to ask if Mary was sick. He returned to say that the light was now out, and that the young woman said she was not sick. He had hardly reported, before Mary appeared at my door in her morning-gown, and said that she was sorry for having failed to observe the hour for turning out the light, but that she had just received a letter from her mother which she wanted very much to answer; that she hoped I would excuse her. I said, "all right," and she was turning to go back, when, looking very earnestly at me, she said: