A LADY who had taught for over thirty years, once gave the writer some very interesting information. "When a new scholar was introduced," she said, "I always looked first at her dress. If that was plain, neat, and tidy, I was pretty confident that I had good material to work with. For the first two or three years of my teaching, I was in the habit of scrutinizing the features, and the formation of the heads, but these came at last to be quite secondary considerations. One school was so expensive that none but daughters of the wealthy could possibly enter it; so when a young lady came to the class-room in a plain dress, I was sure that it was on account of her idea of the fitness of things. This argued common sense. Common sense is always in antagonism to vanity, and where there is vanity there is self-consciousness. So, you see, a plain dress came to mean a great deal to me. I learned never to expect anything from a girl whose school dress was silk or velvet. I shall always retain the impression made upon me by a quiet little body in a blue flannel dress, and the plainest of plain trimmings. She came from one of the first families in wealth and culture, and was the most unobtrusive child I ever knew, as well as the most brilliant. When she told me graduation day that she had decided to study for a physician, I was not in the least surprised, and I was sure she would succeed, as she certainly has in the most marvelous manner. She carried off every honor, and though the girls in 'purple and fine linen' sneered at her plain attire, and lack of style, there was not one who could ever compete with her." Certainly, on the whole, the deductions of this teacher are correct. It takes time to array one's self in elaborate garments, and the girl whose mind is occupied with loops and trimmings and general furbelows, cannot, for philosophical reason, have room for much else. Then there is a reason deeper than this, even. The girl whose tastes are in the line of dress and display has not an intellectual development. She may be imitative and intuitive to a degree, but she will always, or generally, be superficial in her learning and shallow in character. A very good story in this connection is told of a prominent musician in New York. A young lady went to him for a course of "finishing off" lessons. "Let's see what you can do," said the teacher, and placed before her a simple air of Mozart's. She played a few bars, and was interrupted. "Take off your rings," said the great man. A few bars more, and another interruption. "Take off your bracelets." A little farther on she was stopped again. "Your sleeves are too long. I want to see your wrists." The pupil pinned up her sleeves, with a face on fire. At last she succeeded in finishing the selection. "Do you want me to teach you?" the instructor asked, as she took her hands from the keys. "Very well. Come to me to-morrow at this hour, without any jewelry, and in some sort of a dress that you can breathe in. I don't know at all how you have played this aria, because of the rattling of gewgaws, and the distressing noise you have made in getting your breath. I am afraid you haven't the instinct of a musician. A musician thinks first of his art, and last of appearances, but it seems to me you think first, last, and always of how you look." Now this may seem rough and very uncalled for to some, but he was an honest soul and a grand musician. His words proved true. This young lady had not the musical instinct, and after a fair trial was dismissed. Her teacher proved that her practice had been superficial, and all that she had done had been spoiled by vanity and self-consciousness. A school girl who dressed very plainly, but in good taste, was once asked why she did not "rig up" more. "Because," she said, "I haven't time to fuss about clothes and learn too, and then I should like to have something new to wear when I am older. Velvets and brocades, and diamonds and pearls, and all those fine things will be new to me bye-and-bye, and there is nothing left for you girls to anticipate."—Selected.