charity who present themselves bedizened in dirty finery, and, on inquiry, learn they were once domestic servants in good families we suspect that had the money they then spent on lace veils and silk mantles been laid by, they would never have sunk to such wretchedness; but they had probably never had good examples, and we know how much better is example than precept. Let our servants see, that our dress is suited at once to our fortune, to our station, and to our sober views of life (we speak to Christian mistresses only), and we at least shall be clear from blame.

In our own rank of life the influence of dress on children and young people is much greater than many are apt to suppose a feeling of which they are hardly conscious often crosses their mind, that Mrs. Such-a-one cannot really be so very good and "unworldly" as they are told, or she would not be " so much too fine for her age;" or that "Miss Soand-so, though she is so fond of religious meetings, may only go to them to show off her splendid bonnets!" The accusations may be quite false; but is it not a pity to cause the young and feeble to offend?

Do we not ourselves feel a momentary chill and disappointment when,-on being introduced to a young lady of whose charitable labours and devoted life we have heardthe image of modest simplicity we had unconsciously formed, is overthrown by the appearance of as showy and determined a votary of fashion (judging from her exterior) as ever frequented a ball-room? Is this suitable for one who goes about among the poor? Could she not be traced for half-amile down the street? Yet surely those who draw their views of woman's place and duties from Scripture, which so clearly shows the modest position intended for her, should wish to be unconspicuous in their dress.

Only try the experiment for a year or two, Christian reader, and you will, we think, be very disinclined to aban

don your modest attire, and be again the slave of the world in this respect, for you will find that you gain far more than you lose. In the first place, you will save money; when you no longer buy every novelty that appears, you will discover how many purchases you formerly made were mere sacrifices to the idol Fashion. Besides, when all your dresses of lasting materials are of quiet hues, you will cease to require the incessant change of trimmings, ribbons, &c., which more decided and lively colours made necessary; your sober-tinted gown seems like the atmosphere-it is a background suited to everything, and far from looking what young ladies call "dowdy," the cheerful ribbon with which you relieve it will be more pleasing to the eye, and your general appearance more agreeable and lady-like than before, while the money you have thus saved may be spent in a more satisfactory way.

Then you will be able to speak with far more effect to the poor or the ignorant-to the vain servant girl, whose love of finery is drawing her towards the pit of perditionto the young governess who is spending her small salary in outward adornment, instead of trying to save for sickness or old age to the poor country girl who wants to cast aside her comfortable and becoming costume of native manufacture for the tawdry town bonnet and flounced skirt—to all, in short, who come in your way, you can speak with some chance of doing good, because you set them an example, and are as suitably and modestly clad for your condition as you wish them to be for theirs.

We can venture also to assure you that if always neat in dress, you will meet with much less opposition than you may expect from your mother, husband, and friends-more especially if the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, so strongly enjoined by the inspired writer, be adopted to supply the place of some that you have laid aside.

And lastly, we have kept the highest motive for the last, you will not now feel a twinge of conscience (as we often have, and daresay you have sometimes), on reading the words we quoted above, or any of the deeper censures on female dress in other parts of Scripture. You will feel that we cannot be obeying these words while we follow the world as minutely in this respect as do the very subjects of the Prince of this world; and you will acknowledge, that if you were far from being one of the "careless daughters," you yet resembled them too closely to be quite safe. And should your friends or young companions urge you to resume your butterfly appearance, and ridicule your quiet dress. (which they may do from fancying it implies a censure upon themselves), you may smile as you reply, "I do not intend to be either singular or gloomy, but I cannot forget that I am a pilgrim, and I am walking through Vanity Fair."

Dublin.

L.

THE PARABLES OF KRUMMACHER.

Or Frederick Adolf Krummacher, the author of two small volumes of parables and a few less important things, one does not find much to report. The year 1768 brought him into the world at Tecklenburg, a town in Westphalia. And having studied and entered into the ministry, he became pastor, first in Elberfeld and then at Bremen, where he died. He is not to be confounded with his nephew, Krummacher of the " Elijah," now one of the pastors of Berlin.

THE TWO WAYS.

The teacher of a little village in the Rhine-land stood once in his school and taught, and the sons and the daughters of the village sat round him and heard him gladly; for

his teaching was vigorous and friendly. But he spake of the good and the evil conscience, and of the soft voice of the heart. And as he had now finished his discourse, he spake to his scholars: "Which of you can furnish a likeness for all this?" Then a boy stood forth and said, “I could indeed rehearse to you a comparison, but I am not sure whether it be a proper one." "Tell it only in thine own fashion," said the teacher; and the boy began:

"I compare the peace of the good, and the unrest of the evil conscience, to two ways which I once went. As the enemy's troops were marching through our town, they had carried off with the rest my dear father and our horse. And when the father did not return home, mother wept and lamented sore, and so too did we all, and she sent me to the city to inquire of tidings concerning the father. I went, and it was late in the night, ere, with sorrowful heart, I was returning home again: for I had not found my father. It was a dark night in late autumn; the wind roared and howled amid the rocks and pines, and among the rock-cliffs, and the night-ravens and the owls were crying; but the thought of the dear father we had lost, and of the mother's sorrow when I should come home alone, filled my heart. Then I shuddered wonderfully in the gloomy night, and the sound of the rustling leaf affrighted me, and I thought within myself it must be somewhat so with the man who has to do with an evil conscience."

"Children," spake then the teacher, "would you like to wander alone in such a dark night, when you have sought the Father in vain, and only the voice of the storm, and the cry of the beasts of prey sound to meet you?"

"Ah, no," cried the children all at once, and shuddered. Thereupon the boy began again to relate, and said,— "Another time I went the same way with my sister, and we had brought with us from the city all manner of fine things

for a private festivity which our father was preparing for our mother's birth-day on the morrow. And it was late evening this time also as we were coming home; but it was in the Lent month, and the heaven was beautiful and clear, and soft and still as in a little chamber, so that we could hear distinctly the motion and the murmur of the little streamlet that flowed by the way, and in the bosky glen around us the nightingales were singing. But we two walked hand-in-hand together, so glad that we could hardly speak. And our loving father came out also to meet us; and now I thought in myself, so must it be in the heart of the man who hath done much good."

So spake the boy. Then the teacher looked with a friendly air upon the children, and the children said together, "We also will be good."

LIFE IN DEATH.

Dora was a God-fearing and lovely maiden. All who knew her loved her; most of all her brother Edmund, who was yet a little boy, and she too loved him with an affection no less hearty. Suddenly Dora fell sick, and Edmund was sorely grieved to behold her sufferings. For it did not enter into his heart that she could die; for he had never seen one dead, neither knew he yet what was the meaning of death. And as Dora lay full of pain upon her bed, Edmund took thought how he might cheer her a little, and he went out to the fields to seek for flowers; for he knew well she had a great love for flowers.

But when he was yet in the field she died, and they arrayed her in her white death-shroud.

Then Edmund came softly into the room where she lay. And he showed first the flowers from afar; but the maiden regarded them not. Then he called, "Look, Dora, what I