A TRAVELER'S STORY.

fllv fiilhcr was a well-to-do farmer In Eng land. I was his only child, and my mother dicil shortly after I wai born. Our land was rented from a very largo landed pro prictor, a nian who-had made his fortune in business. Ho bought the estate about the time of my birth, and came occasionally

to live at tho large house attached to it,

bringinc lii« Wife and children with him. His wife was a very kind but voy homely person who was liked by a'l the tenants. She was very kind to me, and used to have me a great deal at the "Hall," as the house ■was called. When 1 first remember her children, there were three of them—two boys and a girl; but before many years parcel all but the vmiii"cst child died, and then Mra Clark, ns I will call her, gave up going to, Man chester with her husband, and always re mained at the Kail, thinking the country air beneficial for her little girl. jhe child's name was Lucy, and I thouclit her perfect. Sho was but a few veirs younger than I, and she and I were constant playmates in our holiday hours. Mv father sent me to a neighbouring gram mar achool, but kind Mrs Clark often sup plemented the teaching I got th^re by al lowin" me to profit by the lessous given to Lucy by a very accomplished governess. It was in tbis way that a great love of art was developed iv me. I had some natiir.il talent for drawing and painting, and I eagerly availed myself of every op portunity of cultivating it. Lucy and I never'spent happier hours than those m which we used to go out sketching to g°lt a'l rises before me even now like a picture: the morning sun glintine through the trees and checkering our path as we wound through the wood ; tbe discussion as to the bust point of view for our sketches: tiio calm of the noon, when we used to stop our painting and have a picnic, feeling as if wo deserved some rest after such hard work and then our pretence of diligence when we used to say : " Oh. this will never do, wasting so much light!' and beam to paint again with renewed ardour until sun- Sfit. ' '■'(•' Then how delightful it used to be to wander slowly homeward until we cime to a oertain stile where wo always T)ade each other gond-by, unless I were invited to go to spend the evening at the Hall. There was a tangle of dog-roses aad honeysuckle all around that stile, and a ploughed field beyond, with the little spiro of the village church showing in the distance, and the rooks wore always cawing in the tall trees close by when Lucy and! used to say good night The governess or Mrs Clark was always with us or I believe we should have kisßed eich other; but that was put a stop to when Lucy's tenth birthday came, and we ninrked her tenth birthday with a black cross iv our memories in consequence.

Looking back I often wondered why they let us grow up so closely bound together. I suppose it never occurred to thepi that any iiiiluippincss might come from jt. The farmer's s n and the rich beiress were sure to be separated by circumstances as soon a» shef-houid bt introduced into society, and in the meantime I aided in making her happy, and was happy myself. I suppose Mrs tlaik looked no further, and Mr. C|ark lothiswfe have her pwn way about all things that did not interfere with his awn plans, and his plans were chiefly com mercial. Lucy was 10, and I was 21, when Mr Clark one day astonished me by telling me that ho was going to speak to my father about sending me to Italy to study art. He sent for me into his library to tell me this, Ho fat in his armchair, in front of tho writ ing-table, on which lay numbers of papers, and I stood before him. I did not know him well, for when he was at the Hall I did not go there much, and he called me " young man," and spoke of my father as "a. very worthy man, who has striven to give jou every advantage his limited means allow." It struck a chill through me, al though my heart leaped at the idea c^ go ing to Italy. Tho .barest part p,f it aU Vfas leaving Lucy, bu| 1 felt; W'ddinggo6d-by'to my old, fattier very keenly. " " ' I went'up, tp'the JJaJI % day I was to, icavi' the ojd place ; M.r a,p4 Mrs. Claj^ and jucy were hi the dtawjng-rpp.m, wjiep I pntprpd-Mr Olarjc bland ofld pqtrQtHsiflg, ftlrs Clark tparful and nervpu9, and L,ucy very pale and silent, It was a roisarab'o nHair, and I soon onded if. Mrs Clark kissod mo, and cried and called me her " d^ar boy," while Mr Clark looked at her with a midly deprecat"ry smile. Then, ha shook hands with me, a lftfle pompously, and made a pqrf pf valedictory speech which gtujck me as beioglike a funeral oration, and all ihis time Lucy sat with her head averted, and her hands clasped onher fences. ••Luoy, my girl," said MrCJark, ''areyou not going to wish your old playmate good fortuno in his new life ?" Then she sprang up and came over to me quickly. " Oh, Frank 1" she said, and throwing her arms around my nock kissod me. The next instant she was quite calm, with a look in 'her face I had never seen before, I believe she awed her father and mother, for there was no word spoken as I left the room, I walked rapidly home, erp,q?in.g \\p o\i style for the last tinip. } snatcnea apiepc of lipnp'ysucklp as "^ passed, butlwas.no, longer thinking of the b'appy bygone days. Thp pbrtajs''of another existence had hsen fhrosy" open fo ni|e ffl'r a,n, i^stftflt. W d I Wa« fli>!\'"i ng of its radiance still* My father i ppkp but IHtIP aa wo drove to tho station, whither my luggage bad already been taken in a cart. VVhou we where a short distance frnmithe flackeufd the pace, and putting one hand on mine, taid: " Frank, my boy I've b en thinking that it's a chance &shQ\y j oii may no* like this newfangled life you're • going too Jf you don't, why then * rite and say so to mo without any further ado, and the old man will be rigbt-downglad to see you home again, and glad to pay back ■ whatever Mr Clark has spent on you, for that henmv'nt be throwing it in yourteeth." I pressed his hands, and ho went on: " I'm glad to see you so mettlesome about going away, bntjiut you take a word, of advice from your old fathpr ; I don't know any thing of making °,r tDat l>ke> l>uf; I take it that. v artistllA<n to learn his trade like an ot i ie r man.- ; VltßP, t must know how to rj\jr/ ft W eU if you want tiJrg jet good, crofKb don t yon be in, a hurry, Ws< lft^° . fmoping steadily, tffld,'. do,n/S you §gl° « :,.. tor bigh.^n^." 'i; v ' \Vell, I did go In for the thing steadily, , imd I made rapid progres?i I used to write to my father and to Mrs Clark, and hear fr m them rrgulariy. I never wrote to r Liicy nor she to me, "but I heard of her. ; She wont to London the yaar after I left, ; and was presented at Court, and there wa§ j a great deal of compaDy at tip fli^ll dimng ' au'timr. and winter. 1 \\ss& to scan those letters T,vhi?n flptffce of. Upf OA if (hey wore ■(rfiigmas! tryuiß to extract some hidden :< flie"ning. Boinetinits I fancied thit there > \¥:iß some covovt allu'iontohetbeingmind : fal of me through all tluse nwnts of p'_ua ■ sure ; sometimes 1 felt rack'd with jea -1 tisy of some imagina'y admirer of hers, j At length I got a letter from my fa^her,^ telling me of her serious il riesii, and then ■■' aii'ither from-him saying that he heard that - the doctors liod1 ordered her to winter it|? Jta'y. Between tliee letters-I had onjS , ftorn Mra Clark, .taontioriinfj that Lucy ha|j .-.-. been ordered io leave England for a time > • and that Hence I'tinnit not expect any mor je letters until she and Lucy roturned homcv' for thiit.diiringiheiraVscnceher (ike won!:w be fuiiy"'fl?cnpie&i She wrote veiry kin'S"y> but I felt sure tbat tho reason of her iP 101 ' ..writing to me again wa» that Mr CW xk objected to my knowing that Lucy wnsf t0 bo in Italyi • ■.. ... ( .. ,■' •' - | * tlow dreary tliat Avintcr was, in spitcp' °f all the golden dreams of youth, fostcjed|(»y . all tho poetical and romantic tcachingsior Nature, Art and History -with which, t'«o very air of Italy is elep^rlo | •V, I bep>imp so restlcsß that in the spring * left Kome for Florence. ,1 had w-vcr copi«E in the gajlerica th>re, and. I thought P« would' \>o a new Eourco of interest for iff 6 to do so. j ■ One doy. I was seated in front of tin" -bCntihil portrait of CaterinaCornaro. '* do no' know if you have been it. A awe C;' Sftdf«ce>ad a-'graceful fignre, the ho^ici of the dress embroidered -with' gold »n^ • jewels, and *htt mck loaded with chains o ■■; Marlnj magnficent fetters laid on tbei , fair by the Venetian Republic whe? the Senate sold her beauty to the Kiny ° Cyprus, leaving her noble lover, foiiii! Lorondano, .to dla raving.. I w.oa copyiDfi this picture, and was greatly -interested n my work.' Many persons passed throvigr the room, and f omo paused to look at mj painting, so tbat I took little notice of tin tact that tome one was standing behind ma,i«vtil I heard ray name pronounced in a never-forgotten voice: .; ; 3 ~ . ijnjfirna Lucy, and alone I Sho yeas tft]ie| and'"nj.oi^'; Tv;o)|n,ainly;ilj[4n'^henI'l''.'ki]t^pn 1 but the BamS Lucy^stil],'V ",, ","■:-<■.■ ' i

She told mo that she and her mother were in Florence, waiting for her father to join them ; that she hud spent the winter in Sicily, and that her health 'was better, but that her mother's health was failing rapidly, She said that Mrs Clark was in an ad jo ning room resting, and that I must go to sec her. Th°re was a calm power about her manner that surprised me, but she had lost none of her sweetness.

Before we turned from ihe picture I was copying she askf d me whose portrait it was. I told her, and she said : "So that is tlicfacc of the woman who let herself be bought atid sold by a kiug and a Senate, aud not only herself but the man who loved her, and for whom sbe cared, too, in some pitiful sort of a way 1 She could not have loved him, or ulic would have taught those haughty Sfnators that ihere waa something prouder and stronger than even their pride." Mrs Clark received me with tears of joy. I cmild see Hint she was very much broken, and that she was completely under her daughter's dominion, al hough Lucy used horpowor ecntly. She did not ask me to go to sec them, but She said she would often come to see me at my work, and she made some weak little excuse for not in viting me to their hotel..

1 Af ler that I saw her and Lucy every day at the gallery, and Lucy often manag. d to bo alone with me. "We never spoke of our mutual affection, but we felt it, and word* were not needed between us, even to ex- Dlain why we did not speak of it. We lived in an atmosphere of our own. We knew that our happiness could not last long, hut this only intensified our apprecia tion of it and rendered each moment of it doubly precious, while a concentration of thought, ft cling, and of the expression of both grow out of our conviction. It scorned as if year 3of iutimate knowledge of each other must be and wore compressed in those few weeks.

One day I was sitting at my easel, when a woman approached me and gave me a letter. It was from Lucy. She told me that her. moiher was too feeble for her to be able to venture upon any assertion of her own -wishes as to corresponding with me, for that if her father knew that she had been permitted to meet mo constantly his anger would be oxcessive. She said that I might write to her at once, and give the letter to the wife of the porter of the hotel where she was staying. I did so. I poured out my soul in that letter, and she sent me an answer, which I got after she had left Florence. I have got it still; in all my wanderings it haa never left me. Y«t it told me tlia■ there was do hope, only that she would bo forovor fa thful to me, and called on me to (rust her through absence and. >ilonco. My energy flagged, but I whipped myself up. I determined to bo worthy of her, and hoped that perhaps I might win her; hue six months after this my father died sud denly, and I reeled unler the blow. I lost not only him, but the lost chance of hear ing anything of Lucy, for, since our meet ing nt Florence, Mrs Clark lu>,d ceased altogether to write to m,e, . My student days were past, and the sum of money Mr Clark had generously given me was expended : but I had a small for tune left to me by my father, quite WMtgh, for me to feel independent, It is hard to work; at a.rt a,t a.ll success fully whpn one's brain is in constant need of u'miug to do its beat. In the excitement which lollqnvs any great shoe!; which, while shattering a,ny actual ha.pnjn.ess, yet appeals strongly to, the iniaginatio.n, a n^ind deeply imbued with, artistic feeliflgjs likely to find its po.*ers &b.norm.aUy In creased j but a, reaottqn js only too. likely to set in when the, iffinginßiion haa to he excited by the will, and in nvafc aitlstic temperampnts the, will is net particularly strong, except when It acts spasmodically. 1 found all originality of design passing from me; no picture worth, re-producing roje before my mental vision, and my very power of execution seemed failing. My healh, too, began to give way, Just then I read a glowing account of tho Kimbtlry diamond-fields, Io a fit of minded, Wp,e fulness, restlessness and dfyMnoeooy I re solved to try my fortune, ttiere. I pictured tomyr,^ returning to England a millionuiie or <Wiug in si'me tragic manner. "Ot course you know how it al\ ended,, } worked, hard, and. hone^ and hoped.' I got some Bmt^l an.d a, very severo a>ta,pk of fe,ve,r. T.b,en J tried firming, and iflYcsteu, ray money in a. wooVwiUihlng business, hut J wa.s not sharp enough look ing a.fter thp arjyeement as to the supply of water that w«a to bo allowed to me from the little river which ran through rr\y ton. and after the deed- were ."sifjwd the' man I bought it of sold, Vfco nght of taking more than the water to a farmer to who.w k° s°ld a property higher up. I went to law, and lost my case, autl » great deal o£ money. Theu I tried transport riding, and lost heavily again, owing to various diseases in my oxen. I don't mean to b'ame my luck, as many tn?n do. To a'great extent a man makes his own luck, so that each misfortune which struck me disappointed me more and more with myself. Then came the finishing blow. I camo across an old Engli-h newspaper, and in it I saw the advert'sement of Lucy's manage, or, I should say the announoem,ao,t of-her impending marriage, \va,s to be a grand affair, and toer^. w,eJje a, great many details. A_fter ftatjj we^t down steadily. I am speaking tio openly to deny that I often helped myself on the downward journey, \yhen I ought to have known boitor. Yet | hav§ neve? p irted with her letter, nor with the belief that, though her seeming faith may be given to another, her true faith 19 mine and mine alone for ever, as she wrote.

Having finished thes<j words, Frank Heathcoto stood up, wearily. I took his hand and pressed it, and soon after he lay down to 'sleep. 1 lay down too, and v?atobed the liicker of the fi-e for Jong, thinking ovf r the story I had heard.' I could not sleep, and presently I stood np and went softly over to where my strange acquaintance lay.

He *ns lying with his nig flung partially oft, and with one hand under bis head. The otber lay on his breast, an! his shirt being opea, I could see a ribbon round his neck attached to a small bag which was partially concealed by his hand, and from which a portion of an old letter protruded, I could tee its worn and djs^ofuured cdgc3 by the light of the ffiow which had lately risen, and th.6 rays of which fell full on his hag gard yet rolhied face; and as I watched tho oxprossion of its change, according as the dream was passing before him troubled his slumber, 1 thought of how the »ays of the same moon that shed her light on him might be playing on the luxurious couch, of tbc woman he had faith in even through faitlile»BDess.

Tlie next iuo,ri4ns I induced him to leave his companion, a,nd camo with me. I was <7\vritin£a hook, and I assured him, and 'truly, that his artistic talent, of which I jconvii ced myseif Leforo engaging him, i- would bo invaluable to mo in illu-trating it, my own artist:c productions being T-ith-r unsatisfactory. He proved a very agreeable companion, and I enjoyed my wanderings much more after he became my guest. About two months after my meeting with Frank Heathco'e, wo two were riding in ad>ance of the waggon over the brow of a wooded hill, frmi whence we looked down a gorge and over a wide expanse of forest which stretched below us. " Stop a moment," said Heathcute. "What is it that this scene reminds me of? It seems ao familiar to me."

Then suddenly ho exclaimed :—" By Jove I 1 dreamed of this place years ngo ■when I was a boy, only that there were a number of elephants ranging about among the brush-wood and trampling it down.," "There were numbers of elspha.nsß hare, until lately," I said;-"it is a. curious co incidence," and we rode on,

At the bottom pj tho g<n'go we crossed a small stream, oll'.enddled, and watched the h,orsea browsing until the v a^gon came up and creased the rivulet, when the oxen wore outspanoed. Night came on, and we had supnor, saw to the horses and oxen being settled for the night, aud then sat down by the fire. It was very dark, for there was no moon, and there were a great mnny overshadowing trees.

Presently we heard the creaking sonnd raaae by a waggon moving at somo dis tance. It was evidently coming from the Opposite direotion to tbe way we had come, am) after a while we heard not only it but tho tramp of the horses, ihe rid>r being evidently a litt'e in advance of tie waggon. The horses and rider passed into partial vio/r fora moment^ ii radiated by a sudden flame tbat >prang up from the fire. The solitary figure had something unusual about its appearance which excited my ontiosiiy. I stood up and walked toward it It was awonun mounted on a hand some horse, and wiih a led horse by her side. She eat with one hand on the aui- Tsal'a crupper, leaning back and half turn ing to see the waggon go through the drift, i;' Steady with the brake, thtrc," she ched in/ Boer language, as the foremost oken to6k tho water; and- the lumbering

waggon slid down the incline. A hand some figure sbe made as she cat there care lessly, with her wide sombrero hat 'hading her face completely from the flashes of light that ramo from our neighbouring camp fire.

I walked over to her, and she asked in the same language she had used before whether there was a good outspan on the other side. I could tell from her mode of speech that she was English, so I answered in onr common tongue. She laughed pleasantly, and thanked mo, then cantered through the rivulet, and I heard her give tho order to outspan. There did not appear to bo any European with her.

After my return to our fire n good deal of spec v tat'on went on between Heathcote and myself as to this unusual apparition. We saw her camp-fire lighted, and could make nut that she saw to her hordes being fed and blanketed, and to her oxen being tied up, before having her supper. When a gleam from her fire showed us that she whs no longer occupied, our curiosity could not bo restrained any more, and we went over the rivulet to introduce onnclvcs in the free-and-easy fashion of the country. Her waggon was drawn up in a clearing, round which the forest made a dark semi circle. Three Kaflir boys were crouching over the lite and eating their supper out of a large gypsy pot; the shapes of the oxen and horses loomed out of the darkness be hind her as nhe stood full in the blaze of tho firelight, her form erect, her hands clasped closely before her, her head v little thrown back, and her eyes looking dreamily out into ihe darkness.

ileathcute seized my. arm convulsively, and 1 could hardly repress an exclamation ; but at that moment her eyes foil on us, and she startid.

I saw their faces change as they looked earnestly at each other while I spoke, the colour fading fioin each, then ' Frank !" ''Lucy I" broke from their lips, and their hand were knit togethcrr I left them to their happiness, and sat long by my own lire, pondering over the strangeness of this life, over how few are those blessed with the power of evolving from Nature her latent romance, and over which is the essence of that which wo call by this namojinid of which most of us know so littlo.

Heathcote pined me at last. He had much to tell ne. She had been promised in marriage bj her father, and had refused to bow to hu decision in spite of her mother's tears Sh» had told tho suitor that her heart belonged to another, n; u 'i that sho would not be faithloss to h'-,i. but it was of no <vail. He replied that he would abide w her father's word, and hoped to win tor heart after he had bought her hand. Tbn she solemnly assured him and her fathe that she would refuse to pronounce hei marriago vows before tho altar. Her theat was disregarded as an idle ono. <

Sho wrote tftho clergyman who was io oih.wato, hut br letter was intercepted, yhe was jeainisly watched, and the pre parations for Bcrifice we \\i on.

At last the atalnwnhig came, and so solf-posaessed'as she, that her father tnur mured wards*' praiso as he handed her from, th.o carrigo, and, passing her arm through his, kl her up tho aisle of the church, tthere'oses and lilies wore strewn before her, I>cvo she stood between tho two ni^n wheuad bartered hor body and thought thoyjould barter hor soul, and looked \ip im tho kind face of tho old cle.rgym.an, fl;s lips wa parted to commenco the sorvioo, when with a rapid gesture, she throw back hoveil, startling him aud at trnotlng his ntice, while her voice ran" out the word%—

"I am hoveigainst my will; I appeal to you and to yor master." The next nioient her father had fallen prostrate, and/as struggling on tha step» of the nltar. '.c was removed unconscious, mid diul them*, day. Her mo.hnrivcd fora short while after, nlwava & venfeeble health and suffering §reatty frum Srvoua depression, and Lucy Was her falthfl nurse.

It was onlyfter her mother's death that she felt at lilvty to make any inquiries as to.wh.wo Heittcote might be, but all clue to bis wheveaouts seemed to have been lost after ho tt Italy, It was aboiitwo years after her mother's de»th that I lit her at my friend's house. Before that io hud travelled a good deal on the Coutimt uf Europe, then a keling of restlessnQssinie over her, and she visited fir-t .'Norih anthen South Africa.

'l'lio wild lifin the more Tcmoto parts of tho latter had charm for her. She picked up the patois ; the Boers and a little of the Zulu Iswiages, and, although often intending to rum to her Euglish home. utill lingered. Kho had her own travelling waggon and hi horses, but from a lovo of adventure tra'Jlcd alone, except for her Dative attenda's, fearless, because caring little for life, al at last her wandering had led her to hiimr whose sake lifo henco forth would blear to her.

That night Ibuld net sloop, and I stood beside Heathcc a ©o,«ch looking at him b» tlio rays of alimoon. Two short months of comyaratiiy, case and happiness had wrought a chate in him, but the greatest change of all \4 in tho expression of the sleeper's face, (he smiled m his dream— a cbaDge work* by a short watch in the night. _ As I stoopfdfer him I noticed that the libbon and thettle Img were Rone, and I guessed that fe pledge of everlasting jidcliy had b-eicturned to her who gave it—to one whorould treusurc tbe worn and time-stainechcet of jiaper which had laiu olose to his ;art for so many years whi-pering hopolien hope seemed dead. They were mded at a missionary sta tion which was thin a few day's trek of our cncampmenbnd tben, lea<ing their waggon and oxeivith me, started lor Pre toria on norseba< having haught a third horse to carry bir simple baggage and cooking apparatj also tbeirblankets and a tehering-linc r the horses.

Bth of them spd riders, and inured to hardship, I tb< u|, as I bade them God speed, that thoijwas tho very romance of marriage Tijount your horse at the church door, andjee from all the shackles of society, to ridprth into the wild veldt with no one near^u but the one you love besj;; to tether it horses at night and lie 'down beside iem, with your saddle for your pillow, il to wake up with the fresh morning b;zc lifting your hair, and the rosy mfing light bidding you welcome to anotli day of gladnesa; to have ihe memorieif two days like this to look back on, mq it «cemcd to me, be worth guttering fj

They were to ri Pretoria on the even iug of the third d. They trusted to ob taining food at thfeuses of the Boers they should pass. Tlj intended when they reached the villagto buy a ligh carriage to proceed to DurJ, and thence home to th-< old place, wheihey had wandeied in childhood. | 1 was to disposof their waggon and oxen for them, it to anange for theii heavy luggage beii&cnt home. <ts Heathcotc w*g my hand at part ing, lie said :— "It is yon who lie saved us both; but for you this would t have been , but my unhappy past i-cej to me now like a shadow which addsthc lustre ot the sun shine."

And it is even 3 In the spiritual as well as in the maW world, where the sunshine is tbe m radiant, there the shadow will be theiepest. Those alone who, while standidn tho shadow, can realize the cxistenqf the sunshine, and while basking in ttight can be mindful of the gloom, can uprstand what is ro maneo,' can see thejauty of Nature, or listen to her harilies.— All the Year Round. \

Diilee of AlbansWedding Cake.

THE Royal bride-ca lWa s executed by Messrs Holland audits, of Chester, who have had the honour tnaking the bride cake for the martiat of the Prince of Walep, Princess Alif Princess Helena, and Princess Louise. Ihe cake is built in tiers; it risos fromlgold stand to a height of tix feet, t weighs 2 cwt. At the base aie svb and dolphins swimmiog in imitation ler, with seaweed introduced. The firsts is ornamented with four medallion grfc-Europe, Asia, Afiica, and America-grated by pillars, on wlr'ch are painted lily, upou satin. On the pillats are vas filled with iloral emblems of the Uni Kingdom ; and Teading Cupids suppor figure of Litera ture. The second trfe octagonal in form. Medallions beaie arms of Eng land and Waldeck ancyrmont, and the Royal monograms. Oiu ars are orange blossoms and trophies of vc, while Cupids shower imitation water\ flowers. The third tier bears a fau,m with doves, encircled with ornamen^.jllars festooned with wedding, iavonre,,,! the whole is surmounted with an eleJUy.ghaped vase containing a bouquet office flowers.

THE ONE RELIGION.

IN THREE DISCOURSES,

Preached in the Loiink Stkebt Hall, BY Samuel Edoki:, 1?.A., Ariur, 30th and May 7th and 14th, ISB2.

No. 2.—lrs Conscience and Love.

We have now to consider the other two elements of Religion, besides worship, viz., Conscience and Love ; and to see how they confirm the ouo indivisible nature of all true religion,

Conscience is intended to govern all our human relationships, and the conduct spring ing out of them.

It is often maintained that all our duties are duties towards each other, and that the observance of these constitutes the whole of religion. So contends the secularist; and cither dispense* with religion, or maintains a religion without a God or a future But both these statements are inaccurate. 1 havo pointed out that in addition to any system of duties, even the moat perfect, wo need the inspiring imputau to their fulfil ment; which we have in worship, an essen tial clement of all religion, lint neither U it quite true that all our duties are towards each other. I should call that an inaccurate statement of what is a great truth. In one sense—a very inattor-of fact House— we can have no duties towutds God. He, not beiug dependent onus, can receive nothing at our hands, either evil. But if lie is tho infinitely good and all-holy is it quite true that I owe no revcrcneo thoictu '', Is it correct to say I have no dutiss towards truth, and holy law, although no man may be in tho least degree affected l*y Imy conduct, Surely not. As I bow be : fore these superb skies, in deep adoration at their visible grandeur, ami the grander invisible thought they enshrine, and fed that that is right and even imperative— equally whether there be or bo not another man to adore with mo; so in the presence of this moral and spiritual b&tven of what is good, and true, aud beauiihil—the moral law—it is a duty I owe, t*> •whomsoever or whatsoever, to bow adoringly and obedi ently, whether or not any human being may bo allected thereby. My fealty to wards the good lies deeper than any practi cal consequences. Hut to pnt the truth accurately, it may be said that all duty terminates or culminates in our duty one to another. For there are no other practical duties. Vain is the utmost reverence for the good nnd holy, unless it influences my life and conduct. This our New Testament abundantly proclaims. This, then, is the sphere of conscience— tho inward soul's feeling (with pleasure or pain) of the right and the wrong; of which no further explanation (analysis) can be giveo, as neither can it of one's sense of the true and tho false, nor one's sense of tho beautiful and the deformed; all primary feelings deeply rooted in onr Tory nature, though marvellously capable of culture and expression. Concerning conscience are these three great nriucinlea

1. That consoience is strictly indioidttal and personal. In two senses : that my conscience is not yours, nor yours mine, nor any man's any other man's : aod conse quently, that conscience cannot say for all men that this particular thing is right and that particular thing wrong, but that each man must follow the right and shun the wrong, as his individual discernment dis criminates tlie right and wrong. Is not all conscientious action walking by the light we have, the light God gives us ? There can be no right walking without light, nor by another man's light. This is not pleas ing to men, because tbey thiDk i% suoh trouble to find out for one's self (facetting that God may show us) the light, and that it would bo so much easier to have laid down for one and all, the plain path. And so spiritual apathy and laziness makes men run to a pope—so easy to go to heaven by just following his infallible guidauce— whether the pope be in Home or in some little conventicle. But how great the mis take. Suppose for a moment that it were so ; that conscience defined the same precise thing for each individual—child, adult, old man, man, woman, healthy, infirm, lofty genius, stupid clown, &c.—what a con sciense would that be, and what a world 1 The thing is infinitely too absurd. Get your own heaven's guidance ia your own soul. Nought else avails. And then they object further—that this individual cha racter makes conscience variable, unre liable. In a sense variable, no doubt, not therefore unreliable. For in the same sense duly is variable—as in the above diversities; orJf tbat displeases you, just try it.the other way—that conscience should point out just the same duty to a child three years old and a man three scoro and ten to a Maori Chic? and Queen Victoria, • The very thing that makes conscience reliable is just this—that seated upon her interior throne, the minister of God's light, she can indicate to each/wrf Ms and not some other man's faith ; for no two men do or ought to walk the same with. Hence further—

2. That conscience acts according to a man's entire character, and therefore de mands his co-operation. The sense of right and wrong never varies, but whatw right and wrong lias to be discovered with the utmost care. The sense of truth varies not, but you have to search for the true, So of the beautiful; so of the good. Nothing comes to the man of indolence, the sluggard, tlio spiritual drone. Every single action demands thought, reflection, even prayer; then you will discover whether it be good or ill, as all its bearings and meanings pass before you. And so some men are very dullards as to the right and wroDg, and blunder on in moral stupidity; while come are keenly sensitive as finest steel to catch the truth, arid seem to be looking with the eyes of the All-Holy. But the great thing is for us to see that it belongs to each one to bring that; aid to conscience that may ensure tho perfect fulfilment of her. task; and,that is, to pronounce upon every single action possible to man—ftir that marit Yet further—

3. Conscience in one man is imperatively bound to recognise and respect conscience in every other man, and does so. Does any friend of liberty claim liberty for him noli and trample it out in another ? Does the advocate of the rights of man mean hi right and no other mini's ? You cry out— away with aiich arrant hypocrisy. It La just «.v true that every conscientious man respects another man's conscience as much

:ia his own. Away with the hollow false hood that talks pious cant about conscience for himself, and tramples upon another's. Hove you hare the solution of. many diffi culties. Cannot n conscientious man per secute ? Well, on these grounds, Can ho ? Can he not maintain his own convictions, and slander and hate another man for his? Again I say, Can he? Can he not draw into disown little sect and Bay, we ate right and all you are wrong ? Once more, Can lio ? No, no. So soon as mou thus understand conscience, trims will bean end to alt these miserable discords in religion ; nnd Peter's ureat Haying will bo clear enough. Each man from every nation, and in every age that workcth righteousness, will bo working in the light of liis owi con science, not auothor's. .No man cun any, I am holier than thou ; each accepting uud obeying God's light in everything. If lam not holier than thou, nnd thou art not holier than I; each man answeriog to God only and respecting each other man's answer; how can you split up religion into sects; how can it be otherwise than one and indivisible ?

Some, no doubt, will say that in adhering" to sects, we do not say, " I am holier tham thou." 1 must be pardoned for giving a flat denial to this. How long is it since wo heard that thorough Catholics could not be good Christians, that a Unitarian could not enter heaven? Why are men counselled again and again not to come to tluse ser vices if we are as holy as they ? Let not faUehoud be added to injustice. One is enough to answer for to Gud.

Wo corao now to speak of Love, tho last and highest element of Religion. And hero we meet with a difficulty, to know just what place lore shall fill in lifo. Con sider thia. Wo have supposed tho whole of life, to every minutest action, to bo under the guidance of Conscience. Now what room ih left for love, which is certainly a diflorent principle from conscience? The difliculty is not a theoretic, but a most practical ono. A man may say—as scores have said—l have done right towards ail men, studying to maintain tho most exact rectitude I have boon careful rather to ■wrong myself than to wrong anyone else. Having done this, what more oon bo de manded'or expected of me? I cannot be naked to add to all this a love that perhaps Ido not feel. Wbat shall we say to this? We must admit that love does go beyond all duty and conscience, and raises us alto gether into a higher sphere of life. Con scienco again seems to build up and con solidate the individual—love, on the other hand, sinks the individual, in man the brotherhood, others. It is essentially self renouncing, while cooscicnce may bo said to be self-asserting. But now, if we look again, wo may see that love has a most essential sphere, in a world like ours; that even with conscience, it can in no way be dispensed with. For what will conscience or duty dictate towards the base, the worth less, tho outcast or the fallen ? It would be a sadder and darker world than it is were there not something to stretch out a hand towards those who have put them selves outside tho sphere of reciprocal duties; those of wlaom Carlylo, in whom the sense of conscience was so much stronger than sympathetic love, would say—"Let the rascals be hanged ! " Goethe, who never touches religion but with a most reverent hand and deep icilectloii, says, that there are three kinds of reverence; reverence to wards that which is above us, which wo have seen to be the source of worship; reverence towards that which is on our own level, which its the basis of duty or con science ; and reverence towards that which is beneath us,, which gives us the religion of tor-row anid love—the most wonderful exis ing thing. The world owes more to this than perjiaps all other things together. A world railed high by a pure conscience among tho 'Conscientious should not leave its outcasts to the doom of law ; or there were no gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ. On two facts this love, reaching beyond the sphere of (conscience, rests. That wonder ful power of sympathy by which the loving koul goes out of itself to live in anothor's experience o£ joy and sorrow, lays in our very being the foundation of that love which, tmnsce ruling conscience, can sacri fice self to love i's noblest works. And then when-we look up to the great Father, most perfectly revel iled in Christ, what are all His gifts to ns but a regard for that which is beneath Him . To God is no conscience ; for Ho has no equal. But God is lovo. And thus, by that very act, in which we sacrifice self an d become nothing for others, transcending ti .c whole sphere of reciprocal duties, in that do we becomo most like to God—while oil )eying one of the deepest promptings of: our own nature. In all its features, love' 3s a great mystery—evolving the sublimest: truths. In nothing more than in this S that while fulfilling every duty of consc ioDce, and seaming to annihi late self—itti.-anslfonnseveryduty into sacred bliss.^ And this is the highest thiDg in religion, as it is tin; sablimest thing in life^ witi £out it, Carlyle's idea might be realised—a world swept clean of scoundrels and reserv ed for the few—aye the very few —conscien .tiousl. With it, the regions of the deep a jre searched, the dark abodes of hell are t jraversed, the deserts where the miserable . and lonely perish, the sepu'ehres of the de ad, where the maddened in guilt wander, lacerating themselves with stones —all the se dark regions are swept, and from their gloomy darkness, children brought home to ? God. Keligion cannot .dispense with lo' /c. These three thiags—Worship, Conscic {nee, Love —are the ■whole of Re ligion. . , ; • ■ . • •

And. mow what can you say as 'to love an<Ua .Ittoe indivisible religion. Try and

' see if you can pet any discord, any ecpar.it : ing iDiluence out of love, which thus draws : into its sympathetic bosom all the most opposite, guilty, fallen, and miserable elc : nieiits, to melt them into a harmony of goodness and purity. I reserve it tor next Sunday morning to i point out how Christianity is the most perfect realisation or embodiment of this one religion. 13ut I may here just observe iv closing, what must be obvious on a moment's reflection, that those ihree ele ments of religion are mo«t manifestly set before us in Christ himself, and cannot but be recognised by him who possesses tho spirit of Chiut. The absolute manner iD which He made the will of God His own will and very life compels in his true fol lowers that spirit of reverent worship which keeps us drawn towards God, aud inspires us with iuilucnccs that would transform tho human into the very likeness of the divine. If wo desire a sensitive and refined con science, nowhere is it more certain than in fellowship with Him to whom tbc small est evil was intense pain, and who recog nised no true life but in the bliss of holi ness. And for love, when we waut to see itin its deepest compassion for the wretched, its most self-deny ing redemptive power for the guilty, we go nowhere but to Christ to learn this. And when wo havo well seen all this, what more remains to he Been in Christ ? He never proclaimed the barest skeleton ot a creed ; to him all forms were a matter of indifference, and of priests he made a complete end. Or if we ask, what should be the fruits of religion, can we have more tban is here assured to us? AVith inspiring influences that would not stop short of God Himself; ■with a conscientiousness that cannot bear itho breath of contamination, and embrac ling every human concern; with a love "that cannot find an object too pitiable for j £ts compassion or too deeply ruined for its loving help ; tell me what you can add to this, in order to'produce a thoroughly god f like man. Here may ba found all noble \ ncsa of thought, all purity of heart, and all iieroic action in life, equally appropriate to : ■every ago, to erery class, and to every shade iof human character. Tho religion that ; >can so transform the man need* nothing 1 added to it, and should have nothing taken feora it. For these years we have endeavoured to isAiind before this august conception of ■ neQjgion—uninfluenced by the ceremonies | saam iparty dogmas that havo in all ages be ■ Mitlod it—until we might bocome fully ! eoDsoiouz of those sacred influences that dray arid oven toward God and his eternal wsuriight, au/d might sec sinking into abso- Jmtc nothingness eyeiything tbat divides xman from man or disturbs the harmony of God's great family.

Adventures of an Englishman in Paris.

T\VO English, gentlemen set out one day' to pay a visit to the capital of "La belle Franco." Unc of them could not speak a a little that he had been taught at school by a German master, which is sufficient to account for the fact that he had a very imperfect notion of the French accent; however, ho trusted word of French, but the othor remembered ho would manage to pull through with the help of a dictionary. Our two travellers Sit up at a little hotel in the Qusrticr St. onore, where, to pave expense, they en gaged a double-bedded room. It was winter, and a good lire blazed on the hearth. After the customary ablutions, they con ferred together on the best way of spending tho evening. Tlie one who could not speak French, feeling tired, concluded to remain in the hotel, whilst the other preferred taking a stroll on the Boulevvard, smoking ajcigar. As the latter -was leaving the room, his friend asked him to tell the waiter to attend to the fire. Look ing into his "Nugent's Pocket Dic tionary}" our friend translated word for word the following sentence, "Don't let my fire go out," and meeting the waiter on the stairs, he spoke to him as follows : " No laissez pas sortir monfou " (Don't let my fool go out of doors). The waiter stared, and then went straight to the landlord, and said, "It appears that oue of the two Eng lishmen who have come this evening is a lunatic, for tho other, who has just gone for a walk, told me not to let his fool go out." "The best plan," replied the host, "will be to turn the key of liis room door, for he may be raving mad for anything we know : run Francis, and locK him in.'i Francis did ns he was bidden; but when our Englishman heard the key turning in lock, he ran to the door and kicked and thumped, rang the bell, swore, shouted, and stormed, but all to no purpose, as landlord and waiter are outside, congraiulating themselves on having locked the door, and taking good care not to open it. " I say, shrieked tho unfor tunate tourist, " will you open the door ? I wantito go out I" (More thumps and kicks.) "What does he fay?" inquired the land lord' "I doo't understand English," re plies Francis, who then shouts through the keyhole, ,' Will you be quiet and not make such a row?" "Open the door !" repeats the enraged prisoner, "open the door, orl will smash everything in the room." And in a moment afterwards they heard the sound of a stick breaking the win. dows and striking frantically oq the furni ture and against the wall. Then the supe riotendent of police was sent for, and he tried to calm the fury oi the madman, but all to no purpose. The other travellers in the inn came out of their rooms, being roused out of their slumbers by the din ; a crowd gathers in the street—the policemen, arrive and deliberate how to lay hold of the maniac. They began to 'talk about usin? the strait waistcoat, when just at that moment the friend returned from his walk, —explanations were given, bnt not without some difficulty, and the poor Englishman was released as he was found not to be a lunatic, though he was very near becoming one.—" Suzarine, "j

The Re-considered Verdict

Teue in substance, though I tell it from a memory not very retentive of details, and though (rue, probably new to many of my readers, is the story of the "Reconsidered Verdict."

Some sixty Autums ago the case wat tried at Chester, before a judge of grea' ability and eminence, and a jury whose in telligence—-but you shall hear. In the preceding spring—April, I think, was the month—there had been a bad case of bur glary ut a farmhouse in Cheshire. Three men had tied down and Ragged the farmer and Ihe two maid-servants, aad had rilled the house at their leisure. The police were told of the matter, and pretty accurate descriptions were given of the men. There were two other clues. In the struggle one of them had lost a button from his coat, which button he had left behind. Also the same man had hud his fane so severely scratched by one of the maids, that the girl said " she was sure she bad left her mark upon him.' Weeks passed without any arrest being made, and people began to torget the bur glary, until one day a man was taken up at Liverpool on suspicion of being concerned in quite a different matter. lie had with him ,1 bundle containing snme of the plunder of the farmhouse. More of 111 ---plunder was found at his lodgings. His face bore traces of scratching; and, to clinch the matter, bin coat wanted a button, and the buttons of it corresponded exactly with that picked up at the scene of the burglary, His defence was very llimsy " He knew nothing about the burglary, but had bought the coat and Hunts very cheap oil1 a man in the street." "Did he know the man ?' " N",, never saw him before or since." "How about the scratches?" " Well, lie was a sailor, and too much ac customed to big hurts to take any notice of scratches." Or course, he was committed for tiial, and the trial, as I have said, came on at Chester.

It excited a groat deal of intertst, and the court was crowded, an invalid staying at the principal inn so far shaking off a touch of tropical fever as to send in his card to the judge, and ask for a place be hind the bar. And yet, after all, there was very little to be said. The circumstantial testimony above mentioned wa9 over whelming, and, in addition to that, farmer and servants with one accord swore to the identity of the prisoner with the burglar. There was no defence ; the jury found a verdict of "guilty" without leaving the box; and as burglary was a hanging matter in those days, it merely remained to pass sentence of death. Only a formula be tween him and judgment. ''Prisoner at the bar, yon have heard the verdict of the jury ? Have you any thing to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon you."' Then the prisoner spoke for the first time. Just brushing Mb eyes with the cuff of his coat ho began :— " Well, cap'n, it's hard to be hung for nothin" but I can see this is a yard-arm business. I know no more of this 'ere burglary nor ababby; but these witnesses ha'ant told no lies, J s'pose. And what can I say agin 'em? When this thing camo oil—April, didn't they say—l wav fightill1 the slaves on the Gold Coast. But you've got no call to believe that, and so there'H an end to it,"

There was something in the man's man ner that impressed the judge; so he said, not unkindly— " But surely, prisoner, if your story is true, you must have friends and comrades with whom you could have communicated. If you had thouuht they could do you good, you would have done this. It is too late now."

"You're right, cap'n 5 it's too late. But it's all very well to say, ' lot 'em know' when a man's locked up in gaol, and can't read nor write, and don't know where .they are. 1 hey may be in America, they may be at the Cape, and how could I let 'em know—least ways, not in time? No, it's no use, and you'd better order me to run up to the yard-arm at once." "15ut," urged the judge, "the Court ha 9 no wish to hang a man who may be inno cent. Is there no one who could speak for you ?" The prisoner looked in a hopeless sort of way round the court "No," he began ; but just then his eye lighted on the stranger froni the inn. "Yes," he added, pointing to him, "there's a gentleman who might speak for me if he would." The judge turned round. "Do you know the prisoner f' he asked. "No, my loid," was the reply, "I never saw him before in my life." " Well, Captain Sharpe," said the pri soner, " if you put the rope round my neck I give in. Go on, my Lord." "Stay," said the judge; "is your name Captain Sharpe?" "Yes, my Lord." And "Captain Sharpe, R.N. was on he cardhehadsentin. " Well, the prisoner seems to recognise you, so I will ask you to step into the wit ness-box and be sworn, that he may ask you questions." The captain went into the box, and the following dialogue ensued :— " Are you Captain Sharpe, of his Majesty's ship Vulture?" "Yes." "Were you in command of her on the slavo coast this spring ?' " I was." " And was not I one of the crew ?" " Most certainly not." " But, cap'n, don't you remember the big slaver that gave you all the trouble that you had on board ?" "Yes." "And you yourself led the boarders ?"' "Oh, yes ; but all that is nothing—you may easily have heard or read all about that." "Well, but cap'n, once more, don't you remember the big nigger that was almost cutting you down t Don't you remember the man who stood between you and death, and what he got for it ? Don t you remem ber that?"—and, brushing back his hair, the prisoner showed a great scar down one side of his head. The whole court looked on breathless, as the captain stared at the scar and at the man till his eyes stemed startling from his head.' At length, as if in a dream, the captain muttered to himself, " Good God, is it possible ?" Then *lowly and deliberately he got out of the witness-box and clambered into the dock, where he seized the prisoner's band, and, turning to the jndgc, said—"My Lord, thi3 was the best man in my crew, and he saved my life. Providence has sent mo here to save his. He is so changed by illness and imprisonment that I could not recognise him. But there is no mistake now. If you hang the old bosun of the Vulture, you niUßt hang the captain with him."

Then followed a scene rarely witnessed in a court of justice. Amid cheers and sobs that no one cared to suppress, the judge briefly directed the jury to re-con sider thc-ir verdict, which they at once did, liuding a unanimous " Not guilty." The prisoner was discharged, and left the dock arm in arm with the captain. They were hurried into a clia'se, and drawn to the inn in a triumphal procession, and after a sumptuous lunch, they posted oil" together to London.

As they cleared tho ancient town, Cap tain Sharpe might have been heard ad dressing his companion somewhat as fol lows : —" Well, old pal, we pulled through that business pretty well, I think. But it was a near go. That was a good notion tf Wily Bob's to wait for the verdict before moving. We could never have touched that evidence.

" Yes," replied the innocent and long suffering boatswain of the Vulture, " and if you had cottoned to me a minute too soon, the old beak would have been fly to the trick. Lord, I was lit to'burst when the old boy began to cry !"

From which .brief dialogue we gather that " Captain Sharpe" might have known moic of the burglary than of the Vulture. Nothing more was ever heard of either of them. Such is the story of " The Kc considered Verdict." .

Honesty the Best Policy.

" Mister," began a small boy, as he on tcied a Woodward avenue' grocory ycster. day, "ma bought some macnerel here last night." "Yes!" "And in making change yon gave her "No Ididn't! I haven't had a quarter with a hole in it for a month !" "But ma Bay's you gave her " "Don't believe it 1 Don't believe it I I remember now, I gave her half a dollar, a quarter, and a nickel.'' "Ma says you gave her a gold piece for a penny, and here it is." "Good gracious alive 1 hat so I did—so I did ! I remember now that I gave her a dollar bill and a lot of small change. Bub, what's your name, and do ynu think you can eat three eticksoi lemon candy ? • Ah ! it doea me good to find honesty and reward it I"

STAR SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT, JULY 1, 1882



TBCE CLIE^IRIIsI G- SALE ——OF——— C LO T H I N G IS NOW GOING OJST AT COOZMZZBIES'S 86, QUEEN STREET. §A GRAND LINE IN BOYS' SUITS AT ... ss. lid. MEN'S TWEED SUITS 18s. Gd. ALSO A LARGE LINE IN HORROCK'S LONG CLOTH LETTER 8.-3G INCH WIDE AT ... 4fd. „ M2.-3G INCH WIDE AT ... ... ... C|d. TOGETHER WITH A LOT OF FLANNELS, WINCEYS &c All bought in the Napier Stock for CASH. THE NEW ZEALAND CLOTHING AND DRAPERY CO., 86, QUEEN STREET (opposite Wyndiiam Street), SAMUEL COOMBES & Co.



TMcTVOR, Upholsterer and UndertaK — » City Market. Couches rmd Chairs to oi»2. Gr. BRIMBLECOMBK, Queen's HoE{ • Symondß-Btroct and Kybcr Pass GKOKGE (lato U. Wood), Butcher, Parncll, • supplies best quality Moat at lowest prices. _ J YOUNG, Family Grocer. Shortland-utreet, • Auckland, BEST Place for Ranges, uvens. aiovos, and. Blacksmith's Work.-R. NICHOLLS, 326. Upper Queon-street A FEW USEFUL HINTS SUGGESTED BY TUB NEW ZEALAND INSURANCE COMPANY. HOW TO PIIEVKNT FIRKS! " Keep mutches in metal boxe*, and ont of tha reach of children. War matches are espeoinlly dangerous, and should bo kept out of the way of rate and mice, and never thrown on the floor alight. Bryant and May's, Bell and Black's, or Letchford's SAFETY AIATCHRS-tostrlko on the box—are the best. " Fill kerosene lamps only during daylight, and never near a fire. Novcr buy the cheapest oil, get the best. " Deposit no ashes In wooden boxes or barrels but in a non-combustible repository, removed v 9afo distance from wood-work. Place no ashes or light under a staircase. Bo specially careful with the ashes from Waikato Coal. " Never pile up partially burnt wood against the chimney; scores of houses have been burned (n this way in New Zealand. Never put flre svood inside the fender or on the stovo to dry. " Nover examine a gas-meter or gas-pipe by artificial light. Never take a light into a room full of escaped gas. " Avoid placing a light near curtains or dra pery ; or taking a light into a closet. " Do not read or smoke in bed at night, "Place shades over gaslights in shop win. dows.und keep goods a safe distance therefrom. '■ Permit no smoking in warehouses.especlally where goods are packed or flax is stored. '• Stove-pipes should bo nine inches or more from wood, enclosed in non-combustible sub stance, and carried four foot above the roof. " Hatchways and other openings in tho floors of stores factories and warehouses, should bo always closed at night. Close iron doors be tween floors when not required to be open for business Have a few buckets always filled with water, available in oase of acoidents. Stores Bhould have an iron tank of water, always filled, on eaoh floor.) "Buildings in which cotton waste, rags, or oil are used for oleaning and oiling machinery should havo an iron box to hold tho samp, as these substances are liable to spontaneous igni tion, and, if neglected, may oonstituto an element or very serious danger. "Have your ohimneys regularly swept, at axed intervals; at least once in three months." Useful as these precautions may bo ( your greatest safeguard is to • INSUEE AGAINST FIRE , ''■<. IN THE J^EW rgEAL^ND JNSURANCE 0). QUEEN-STREET, AUCKLAND, . ', HHHE AUCKLAND GA? COMPANY, JL Limited. PURVEYORS OF LIGHT. HEAT, & POWER* Gas fittings, Gas Apparatus, and Gas Engines In Stock. FORT-STREET, AUCKLAND. Good Value I? or IMoneyi Bi. B. Ssalder3 & Son, 200} QUEKN-SrREKT, {202 LADIES' NEW DRESS MATERIALS. GOOD VALUB FOR MONKY. BLANKETS, CALICOS, SHEETINGS, FLANNELS, &o. GOOD VALUE FOU MONKY. WOMEN'S & CHILDREN'S HOSIERY AND GLOVES. GOOD VALUE FOR MONEY. . NEW AND CHOICE MILLINERY. GOOD VALUK FOU MONEY. GENTLEMEN'S FASHIONABLE HATS, &c. GOOD VALUK FOR MONEY. MEN'S SHIRTS, COLLARS, lIES, HALF HOSE, flannel and mekino under shirts, pants, &o, GOOD VALUE FOR MONEY. CLOTHS, TWEEDS, COATINGS, &c. GOOD VALUB FOR MONEY. MEN'S WATERPROOF COATS AND LEGGJNGS. GOOD VALUE FOB MONEY. LADIES' AND CHILDREN'S ULSTERS, MANTLES, &C. GOOD VALUE FOR MONEY. Call at BHALDERB ft EON tor everything you may require, whero yon will be buto to got GUOD VALUK FOR MONKY. DRESSMAKING ON THE PREMISES. Gbktlekkn's Suits Made to Order. Sole Agentg for Wheeler and Wilson's Sewing Machines. Notk thb Address— 200 & 202, QUEEN-STREET. O YMONDS STREET MEAT DEPOT. ENOCH WOOD, Family Botcher. Meat delivered at Mount Albert, Epsom, Mount Eden, Cariton Grove, Lower SymondS Street, Newton, and Eden Terrace. First-class quality; reasonable pricoß. Cash customers liberally treated. Inspbction Invited. HE NEW REMEDY FOR ASTHMA DIFFICULTY OF BREATHING, &o. "EUPH.ORBIA PILULIFERA, 1 (Queensland Asthma Herb). A MOST VALUABLE REMEDY Also, E D S O N'S "SYRUP OF HYPOPHOSPHITES, 1 WITH "EUPHORBIA PILULIFERA." For Asthma, Chbonic Bronchitis, cough ' Hoarseness, Tightness of the chest. Incipient Consumption, &o. The advantage ot this preparation Is the com bination of the expectorant qualities of the Euphorbia Pilulifcra with the (reporattve pro perties of the Hypophosphites so universally esteemed for their power to recoup the waato and loss of tone attendant upon this class ot complaints. The numerous voluntaryltcstimonies roceivod from time to time as to tho great benefit derived by those who havo suffered from directions ot the chest and respiratory organs for yoara induces the proprietor with increased confidence to make it virtues moro widely known. The syrup is a pharmaceutical preparation, agreeable to the taste, and may bo taken by tha most fastidious. IN.BOTTLESAT 3S. CD. EDSON'S MilTfcAL HALL, QUEEN-STREET. Auckland. CJIEEDMAN'S SOOTHING PoWDERS O FOB 4 CHILDREN CUTTING TEETH. CAUTION TO PDKCnASERS. The value ot this well-known Family Medlolna has bfen largely tested in all parts of the world, and by all grades of society, for upwards of fifty TEARS. Its well-oarned extensive sale has induced spurious imitations, some ot which in outward ai'picahakob so olosely resemble the original oa to have deceived many purchasers. The proprietor, therefore, feels ft due to the pabllo to give a special caution against the use ot sach imitations. Purchasers are therefore requested carefully to observe the four following distinctive charac teristics, wlthont which none are genuine :— Ist—ln every oiaa the words John btkrd man, Chemist, Walwobtb, bubrsy. are on graved on tbe Government Stamp affixed to eaoh paoket, 2nd—Each Single Powder has directions for tbe dose, and the words John Steedman, Chemist. Walworth, Surrey, printed theieon. 3rd—The name Steodman is always spelt with twoKK's. ■ Ith—The manufacture is carried on solely at Walworth. furroy. Sold in Faokets by all Chemlatß and Medlolna Vendors, at 1b l}d to 8b 9d each. Agents : Kempthornk, Pbobbkb & Co. Auotland. Wellington* Chrlatohuroh, and Dnnodln. . . J__ _ _ _ ___ __ . TAiiOR, &O VULCAN LANE, AUCKLAND, Begs most respectfully to call the attention Gentlemen and the Public in general to hla NEW GOODS of Best Quality tor the present and coming season?, J.D. in returning thanks for past favours solicits a continuance of the same, and will givo satisfaction to all who may favour him with their patronage. Note the Address : OPPOSITE THE OCCIDENTAL HOTEL. Vulcan Lane. • DN. G As:,MN IE B» , Manufacturing Jeweller* :; DEALER IN CURIOS ■ ;, v ■■~ Albert Street (near Star Hotel), Auckland All kinds of Carlos—Ornamental Katirl Gum, Wholesale and Retail; Shells of every dcscrlp > ; tion mounted at moderate charges. ; . An Early Trial ia Respectfully Solioited Repairs of every description. '".';.■■ On Parle Fransals.