— ~~7iT n t TTrancc! or anywhere you like, ft »« >£ I thousand a year to start you ?jf? would die ten thousand deaths, dear i lwouiuw h money," lotb' eri /„««ntlv catching her hand and BC nedferven«y c « __ Wg °"_ 9 Dgnow an<Hhen to 'kiss the shrivelled a°jJllPh had once, when soft and full, »0./ bhKbeu sifter and uller_ra ,10 and now, when he was strong and r* yßr', weak tried to shield and succour S^'in the days when he was a little

i-'H; >f bo sentimental at such a crisis," •^lis^Cpeiulantly. "YoushaU m t lv • or if you like, when the Bank „f, iAttied, we can sell the annuity. I Sil I'm old. and it's not worth many &>*,' whose; but we should get a few ,ea" Kir it. and that would give you i 0B V.t„rtin some other business. Mow ,ftT__ this is what shall happen. Do 1 v 7 me' I will not wait for your f* 11. this very day I will see about T_S)JTan-u^-wha. do you call it? lel' .-lin-tit! Go, Henry, and no more t'flU,„ about gunpowder and bullets. 80M l .Wnsa ate only fit for the stase or S^-Snt and ate quite beneath tbe fte^l1' 6 s _ n sible Kngllsh man of busi notice oi W*' .♦„ his feet and cried : "You &_?.£ must not, mother. I have dull no. 3 t jjjj-gg worse t han they WB , lam depressed and ill. Be flSw ,ihere is no need for doing what llre-e.twj, .. Qne ve - tllro 0 f m i ne , in J°n" ,y' poenec'edwi.h the late war, th no way c" ,| my ventures ; and although P*" 8! innkon it as a very safe or sound Jdo n ot lok o come a|l rjght yet _ sha|l ventnre,« tni(; ht. you must promise Bdo nothing »°til *»«»>• ■**>«■«« m "> my dear mo . . . p a3 _i o nately ; and as Ho Bft. _S words he cousht both togK and looked beseechingly 'fed in a fortnight you will ted me ?" tZi look'B-. searchmcly into hisfaoe. ?_£.U.«bt!wiUtellYO...» , r i_& teW tllis :luli then - you *'_ t ta-_V'PT.sence or in your own secret "•Vrnpakor think about such nonsense mtX or poi--on-'.owl-, or gunpowder jggf'sß asked scornfully. i^-S^'-rwilldonoth , J,i fh_ar irom you a", ihe end ot a fort g'tettis sbA* hands, denry, and '^lySs'i" ne exclaimed, as tears of love ■udsttw*came into his eyes_ '• Mother, ™ Kthe only one on fa, hi love now." J ™Hnsh, sir! tiowdare.ou say snch a it !' he cried vehemently. ■' I •toil do anything, dare anything, for you, '^"foryour wife," she added, as if re- Binding Mm of an omission made in care- SSjU no attention to her suggestion. "Ton-re the only one in the world who .*_.« me really." "And longest," she added, with a bnght _. "Tnere-go now, Henry; this «_, _ growing theatrical or Continental, oj mbecoming the drawing-room of an lijliih mother. There—go." Aad she hustled him to the door, opened „ door, thnwt him out, and closed the tenon him. . _~,... v soon as she was sure he had left the •rtjiityof the door, she threw herself down nmcoacli and burst into tears, exclaim^ toftly to herself between the sobs: "My Wat 1 my poor Wat I my dar!;ng 0, h it come to this with you ?"

Then after a while she dried her tjars ad sat up. "Perhaps all may go well „ aim after all, Verhap3 this venture .Us may come right, It was lucKy I i-i him out of the room so coon. Another anient and I should have broken down, si been more dramatic and Continental _i he, and that would never do. No son meets or relies on a mother who weeps _his bosom, and causes him to remember ike is not his earliest and strongest Moi" _, the etrong-room of the Daueford Bakal) the money and securities held by jrßttk were kept. The last duty of is AUridge, manager of the Daneford tn_,eKh day, was to return the cash, W'% books, &c, to this strong room. To _astroog room there were three.' keys in •_>posser:ion of the staff ot the bank, one Mky the manager, one by the account si, lid ono by the teller. BudoM could not be opened.'save by the M the three keys. Tbns no officer of _ Bank could commit a larceny in the tag room without the countenance of In otters, _?Gtey had duplicates of the keys held 'tj lis accountant and teller. But the key _i. the manager was unique, and even .Grey himtelf conldnot enter the strong nnthont the manager's key. Ittl>is strong-room were kept not only isitftaables of the Bonk, but cases and Sustaining all kinds of highly port md extremely precious substances and vtn belonging to customers of the Bank. fa were iron plate-chests, iron deed ka, jewel-caskets in great numbers, left bale keeping, not being part of the Mi property, and against which there mho charge by the Bank but an almost —bat one for storage, Tb evening after Mr Grey had that in- Ink? with his mother, he called at the tot, found the manager in, and having -lit Aldiidge that a secret report had . sled Mm to the disadvantage of a ens to whose name he was not allowed to Use, he wished to borrow the manager's .bthalf-an-honr, as he wanted to turn mile suspected man's account, ...

b got the key and a candle, and went ■to to the strong-room. In holf-an-hour ; sattrrned, and handing back the key fMr Aldridge, said: "1 am glad to >f that the account I spoke of is quite ■JBctory, and that it will not be neces !_.. make any alteration in our derlings ■Stb. customer I alluded to;" rjfptt day Mr Grey went to London, _»tumed*the evening after, a few days M imong the letters was an adyice JMr Grey's London correspondents to ' Meet that Messrs. Barrington, -Ware, liDgrican bad lodged twenty thousand Wivith them to Mr Grey's credit. tot day. Mr Grey called upon bis _», snd told her some of the expected H stack had come—not all, but still H, thousand out ot the fire. l.teld you, Henry, you had only to *|.ittd face it, and you would win. If 111 did any of those romantic and foolish •gwith daggers and poison.bowls, they Jraissy you were little better than a . '.Nowthey could not even say as much," m 80% to himself. .flat are yon thinking about now I" '-other ciied, in exasperation. t».ed up with one of his best and Hrm smiles, and said: "Dreams, *™i 1 nay, it is. I know not dreams;" ™ DBing his mother to punctuate his J™?, he smiled again, and added : "I |S|y joking, just to enjoy the sight of tangM now that thing 3 are looking he left her. {To be Continued.)

MY FRIEND FITZGERALD.

I. I Ajr a little fellow with insignificant shoulders and legs not worth considering. I have no talent, and no distinguished eccentricity. My manner, what there is of it, is timid and awkward. I know that mankind as a species do^s not regard me at all, and that only mercenary motives restrain my tailor from expressing his cos tempt for me. There is nothing more to say about myself, except that I have no, imagination, which may serve to sub stantiate the facts I am about to narrate.

My friend Fitzgerald was my antipodes, He wa3 t I', and strong, and winning. His name betrays his nationality, and his nationality furnishes the key-note to a happy, fun-loving nature. For six years, at : chool and it college, we were close companions, and then for four years we were separated. I, being by lucky accident rich, travelled for improve ment and amusement; Fitzgerald worked for his living. He chose to be an engineer —I s iy chose, for whatever he set his mind to do he would do bril'iantly.

When I had got rouud the world back to my point of departure, I found Fitzgerald about setting out for the north-weit of Canada, where he was to conduct a gov ernment survey. He expected to be absent at least two years. Since coming home baa meant little more than soming back to him, this plan of his filled me with disap pointment, When he suggested that 1 should accompany the expedition I agreed joyfully. The day before that fixed for our departure he came to my rooms, looking nervous and exoted. Feignin" not to notico his perturbation, I began limning over a memorandum of things to be done. He interrupt *d me sharply. *" Look, here, Jack, I want you to go out with me at 3 o'clock this afternoon to ," mentioning a small town some twenty mile? distant. "We will get thereat 4, leave again at 5:30, and reach home in time for dinner."

My time being precious, I objected. "Doit, Jack, the matter is of vital im portance to me." An appeal from Fitzgerald wasirresistible. I agreed at once. At 3 o'clock I met him at the railway station.

We had been ten minutes on our way when he Slid, abruptly, "Jack, I am goin*. ft be married." "The Devil." My emphatic expletive echoed through the car, and then he added: " I should not feel quite right about it if you were not there, and that is how I persuad- d Emily. Be tide \" he continued, after a short pause, " I want you to see her. It will be much to me during two years of separation to have some one near me who has seen ber." Then, the gatei of his confidence being opened, he plunged into lovers' hyperbole. I listened silently, my hat slouched over my eyes, and my hands thrust deep in my pockets. I could listen, and at the same time mentally review the years of onr friendship. It had been my habit to scoff—on envious scoff, of course, at bis love affairs. I knew not that the time of scoffing was past, and I realised (with more than a woman's jealousy— I confess it) that his lova for his Emily would endure, and henceforth bt the guiding impulse of his life, whether for good or ill. On aniving at our station Fitzgeiald went at once to the ladies' waiting room. He re turned with a young girl on his arm whom he iniroduced to me as Miss Emily Gordon. I shook hands with her vigorously, and stretched on tiptoe to get a nearer view of her face, for she was ve.y tall, As I stored a? her I chilled with disappointment —not a vague sentiment, but a decided opinion tbat the face wasnot worthwhat Fitzgerald would sacrifice for it. The face was fair and finely featared, flushed just now with excite ment. The eyes were dark, and though their wavering regard was childish and pretty, and, under the circumstances, io be expected, that it was which made my heart sink. The restless glance struck me not as a trick of the moment demanded by the situation, but as expressing undesirable characteiistics in the woman. There was not a gleam of the steady, spiritual light snch as it would have pleased me to see in the eyes of the woman who was to be Fitz gerald's wife. They were martied in the Methodist parsonage by a very old man, and the marriage was witnessed by the clergyman's wife and myself. Mrs Fitzgerald Insisted on her husband taking her marriage certifi cate, affirming childishly that she wonld surely lose it She had left her home that morning with the avowed intention of visit ing friends. She wasnow to proceedonher jonrney.and her train would leave twenty minutes before ours for the city. I shook hands with her at the parsonage gate, saying with elaborate tact, that I had always longed to pry about this peculiarly interesting town. She was crying and clinging closely to Fiszgerald. She held my hand a moment. "He is going so far from me, and two years are so long I You will take care of him. Promise me—oh, promise me I" " 1 do, with my whole heart," I answered, and turned away from them. I liked her better. The tear, and the sob iv her voice had touched me, almost won me. My dull senses were partially wakened to the attraction which such a creature might have for a man of strong passions and imagination. If it had not been for that first wretched impre'slon, I should have been in love with Fitzgerald's We were on our way home when he asked me what I thought of her. I praised her in the best words I could find, and thought I was acquitting myself well. Fitzgerald's hand felt on my shoulder. " What are you saying, Jack ? fou are as cold as ice." " You forgot. You are at fever heat." "Then what are you feeling V he burst irritably, "Whatare you thinking that detracts from her*' I had been coldly thinking the worst of her. I wai star4ed into an nneqnivocal answer. "I am thinking that she has not the strength to appreciate yon, or to be trne to you. lam fearing that nothing but ill will come to you of what you have done to-day." I expected that he would turn upon me furiously, but he did not. His tace lost its colour, and he said, as if reasoning to him self, not in answer to me: "It was her own wish. I would have trusted her without any pledge. It will be strange If sbjs does not regret this day, yet I stake my soul that she never will." I said to myself, "He has given her his best; surely that cannot have been un worthily bestowed." I dag a grave for my doubts and suspicions, and tried to cover them deep. n. We were in winter quarters in a canyon of the Fraser river. We had had no mail for several weeks, and towards tho end of the year we concluded that there were a noble army of martyrs and an accumulation of mail-bags beneath the snow-drift i which stretched almost un broken for a hundred miles, the distance to the nearest post-station, One day, after a

week of almost uninterruptedly fine weather, the welcome messenger arrived— arrived on his low sledge drawn by eight sure-looted dogs—arrived in hot haste, with bells jingling, and frost-powdered beard, bright eyes gleaming out from a frame of furs, for all the world like a belated Santa Ul»us.

Fitzgerald, as usual, opened the bag, and I knew by his puzzled look that the letters eagerly expected by him from his wife were missing. He kept apart from us all day, but in the evening joined the group round the fire, with a pipe and newspaper. There was a youngster in our narty who I knew was fully intormed of tne love of Fitzgerald and Mi=s Emily Gordon—as far, that is, as the affair had been gossiped over by his mamma and her women friends. When this youth, buried in a home paper, whistled shrilly, and shouted, "Say Fitz gerald, here's a nut for you 1" I felt certain that he had bad news of Fitzgerald's wife. "What is it?" Fitzgerald asked, in differently, not looking up from his paper.

"About that stunning Mis* Gordon—the girl you were such spoons on. Do you re member ?"

Fitzgerald took his pipe from his mouth. "I remember. What about her?"

" ' It is reported from Home that Miss Emily Gordon, one of our fairest daugh ters, is to mairy the young and distin guished Count MondePa, Both parties being of the Boman Catholic faith, tho wed-uing is soon to be celebrated in tho Holy City with great eclat'"

I wondered how Fiizgernld could quietly listen to this announcement, read iv the most deliberate manner. I could barely refrain from getting up and yelling. My astonishment increased when, having asked for the paper, he caref ally re-read the item ; then, taking his great fur coat, he left the loom. In a tew minutes I joined him, and wo walked to and fro together on the hard packed snow before the shanty. " You see, Jack, I must leave at once." "Yes," I acquiesced ; " I suppose you could not rest here." Then I protested : ''Fitzgerald, let her go. She is weak, faithless, unworthy."

He repnatod my adjectives with evident perplexity. " I see. Your old injustice to her. You misunderstand. The case is as plain as daylight, This Count dances attendance on her; her parents encourage him ; people talk of them together, and a wholesale manufacturer of lies—a newspaper core spondent - sends idle gossip to Americi as a fact, She is the victim of a persecution. They may have dis covered our secret, and prevented her wri 'ins to me. How far away is she ? Mot miles, days—ten, twenty, thirty, I shall not rest till she is safe in my arms, for she is my wife. You know it, Jack. They may marry her to a thousand Counts, but she is my wife.'' Feeling tbat the moment was not happy for the presentation of views, I presented no more. I agreed to all the absurdities he chose to advance.

The next morning he announc-d to the camp that he was going to Fort Unrry to consult some engineeis, and would probably be absent about two months. I was to ac company him, and undertook the prepara tions for the journey.

About noon an Indian runner came in on snow-shoes with an extra mail. There was one letter for Fitzgerald, and the baudv. sit ing was that of his wife. 1 sent the letter to his private room. In about balf an hour I knocked at his door, and he said " Come in." He was sitting before a table, leaning on it with folded arms. As if anticipating and wishing to evade inquiry, he said, " I suppose you have been getting things ready." " Yes. We can leave at any minute," "I am undecided about gfing now. I think I will put it off until to-morrow at all events. lam sorry to have given you so much trouble." " Just as you please," I said. "I am in different." "What a good fellow you are, Jack," he said, standing np and looking at me. A casual observer might have thought his face only pale from overwork or want of rest To me it was dead, like a fine por trait without any light in the eyes. I thrust my hands in my pockets and shuffled my feet, overcome by the embar rassment which words of sincere kindliness always excite in me. " Can't I help you ? Tell me something to do for yon." "The kindest thing you can do is to let me alone." !

I elided to the door. "Do go, Jack," ho burst out, impetu ously. " I can't bear to have even you—" Before he could finish his sentence I was on the other side of the door. I felt that Mrs Fitzgerald's letter had merely confirmed the newspaper report. H the marriage, which had been but a legal form conld be annulled, I suspected that Fitzgerald would do it. I had no doubt that he would scorn to strike the woman who had wounded him mortally. When I fell asleepthat night all my suspicions and beliefs had merged into burning anger against her, and a determination to seek the opportunity to Inflict on her some im perishable TO. I fell asleep with this one idea in my brain, and I was awakened from my sleep by a cry: " Jack I Jack J Help I help I" My senses were penetrated by the voice of a man in agony, crying for succour, cry ing to me, and the voice was tbe voice of my friend Fitzgerald. 9 I tried to lift my-"elf from my bed, but a heavy weight held me down. I struzgled to speak, but my tongue was tied. T rubbed my eyes, but the lids seemed glued. At last they parted slowly, and I saw that ot which my mind has never lost the faintest impression. I was not lying on my bed; I was not in the low, square room, with half a dozen men sleeping about me. I was standing on the river's brink several miles below the station, standing there alone in the awfnl sti!lne'«s of a winter night in the wilderness. The moonlight was so brilliant that every object was distinctly visible. " I saw not twenty feet from me a break in the ice, and the blue water bubblin . up clearly. Above the water rose a man's fair, strong head, and two hands grasping, trying to lift the body beneath up to the ice, which broke and crumbled away from their touch. He was dying before my eye . and I could not »tir an inch to save him. I saw the beating of his hands grow feeble and the tension of his face relax. " Spare her, Jack '.—spare her I" he cried. I was silent. Then once again he cried, and that sound I think will always echo about the world with mo : " Speak to me. Give me a sign," • I forgot my hatred of her and my resolve to hurt her; I was sensible only of his pitiful pleading. By a great effort I flung up my right arms as ft sign of acquiescence. His hand fell, his head sank backward, and the blue water sparkle! and bnbbled in the moonlight. I shouted, " Fitzgerald, Fitzgerald 1" I *eemcd to spring forwara, when the whole scene was transformed, I was sitting np in bed, and the watch by the fire was sayin., drowsily : "What's the matter? What are you making such a row about ?" "Where is Fitzgerald?" I said, looking round, and seeing that his place in the row of mattress es was vacant.

" He went out about an hour ago. He said he couldn't sleep, an<l was going to skate up the river to Thompson's station." I got up slowly, and tho motion was painful, for my whole body was numb. 1 spoke with hesitation, as if the power of speech were new to me. "Fitzgerald did not go up the river ; he went down towards Carter's station. He has been drowned six miles below,"

My shout had roused mo«t of the men. They all exclaimed incredulously that I had been dreaming. I stood my ground, and was already getting ready to go out. The dunged persistence of such a matter of fact fellow as I impressed them, and they prepared to accompany me. Wben we reached the river we put on our skates We could not distinguish tracks, for we had recently been skating a great deal, tak ing advantage of the clear ice, rare so late in the season, I led down the river, tbe others following, laughing at ray expense. Soon the infection of my profound hopeful ness spread, and In ten minutes all were skating swiftly, silently, to whatever awaited us.

When but a sharp headland lay between us and the spot I had seen in my vision, I halted.

"He is lying jus! beyond there. If the ice is broken we shall know."

We rounded the point iv line. The Ice was broken and thrown up in pieces nnd the water still bubhling.

I have not much more to 'ell. It was afterwards discovered that he had struck one of tho shallow springs on a sandy bot tom which never freeze solidly. The water would not have covered him standing, but thenumhing influence of tho in'on^c cold and the frailness of th surrounding ice had prevented his saving him elf. 1 oiler no explanation of what l have said that I saw and hoard, but, six men can testify that, when miles away from him, 1 saw the dying fnce and heard the dying words of my friend Fitzgerald, and that I led them to the spot where they found him. He had left a letter for mc in his private room, tic said that he was going to take legal advice and liud the quickest means of rendering void tho marriage cere mony I had witnessed, He asked me to look after his traps, and assured me that as soon a9 ho felt equal to taking np old as sociations he would let me know, as I read bis letter I cried like a Ctrl.

In his pocket-book I found his marriage certificate and the last letter she had written him, I carotully driod both, and as carefully read the latter. What a weak, miserable, cringing effusion, characteristic of the writer. Pages of alternate whining, bullying, ending with this paragraph : - " If you force any claim that would make a scandal, and I havo never been talked about, aud I should be very nervous under disagreeable talk. It would be very un manly and underbred in you to give me so much trouble, and at least I have always considered you a gentleman,"

I swore that she should have cause to be nervous. 1 knew that such a woman could not be wounded mentally or spiritually, and that the blow must be struck at material comforts.

I left the station immediately. From the first telegraph station I reached I sent a message to Miss Emily Gordon to her Boman address : " Fear nothing. I will arrange as you desire," I signed Fitz gerald's name, A month afterwards I was in Venice, In the hotel with the Count and Countess Mondella.

Uu the night of my arrival I made a package of letters beginning "My hus band," with a variety of tender qualifica tions, and signed "Emily Fitzgerald." With tbese I placed tbo matriage certificate aud the last letter. I addressed tbe package to the Count Mondella, intending that the next morning it should be put in his hands. I went to bed feclinc comparatively cheerful. My sleep wasbut a repetition of the sleep in which I saw Fitzgerald die. When I came to my senses I know that I must spare her. I did not doubt then, and have never doubted sinco, that tho repetition of the vision was the work of an excited brain, but tho impression was so vivid that I felt myself bound by an oath to the dead to spare her.l I re-addressed the package to the Countcs Mondella, and ordered my messenger to deliver it into no hands but her own. Ko with ray own hands I deprivod myself of the means of avenging my friend's death, in obedience to his generous and noble spirit, in contra diction to my own insignificant rage and vindictive desire.

I saw her onco in the corridor leaning on the arm of her husband, beautiful and triumphant, with her false oyes flickering still. I wondered then why such a woman should have showered on bcr the gifts that the world holds best, and why a man who, by the mere fact of living in it made tbe world better, should be lying dead in a wilderness, heart-broken and murdered by her.

The Gilded Youth of England.

•' Vknkbrkdßlackguardism" is whatthe London "World" terms the condition of hun dreds of thousands of young men in England whose chief occupation is that of " killing time." "The low blackguardism," it says, «• which was universal among the golden youth of five-and-twenty years ago may be veneered by social affection, but the quality, the fibre, and the tastes of the race are un chanced. Our insular brutality has been crossed by a strain of exotic dandyism, and tho attractions of two or three playhouses have eclipsed the oharm« of the ratting-ring aud the cider cellars. While, a3 is only fair to say, the courage of our young men remains what it has been at all ages of our history, they are as desperately unintelligent as ever. Art, literature, and politics are as much sealed books as ever to the ' chappies' and ' mashors' of the period. The dullness of metropolitan dissipation is periodically relieved by rural recreations,'to which a flavour is given by their latent or avowed ferocity. Our young barbarians—and, for that matter, our old barbarians—must, when they are in the country, have their appetites whetted by blood. To kill some thing during tho day, to crown the exploits of the day with a dinner substantial enough for Squire Western, to loungo afterwards on chairs and sofas in a state of soporific stupor —so runs the interesting programme. The more closely the culture and civilization of the age are examined, the more apparent will be the basis of cruelty upon which tho whole social structure rests. The condition of English schools, public and private, has improved onormously in the course of the last fifty years; but there are no signs what ever that the mutual intercourse of English schoolboys is becoming purged of its in yeterote tint of savagery. Our sons are still brought up to believe that there can be nothing tree or manly in a systom which does not accord the privilego to inflict a maximum of mutual discomfort and misery. We are told that this constitutes an essential part of a genuine English training, and per haps that may be the case. At any rate, it is not to be wondered at if the boys who start life with these ideas develope into the men to whom there can be no perfect enjoy ment without the consciousness of 'killing something,' and if after a time the mere enjoyment of killing is subordinated to the I legitimate pleasure of sport."

THE PROGRESS OF AUCKLAND.

" Ourselves as Others See Us."

A TRAVELLING correspondent of the "Otago Dally Times" supplies to that journal the following description of the advance of Auckland, which contrasts very strongly with the lugubrious picture recently givtn of the decline of Dunedin ;—A visit to Auckland after an absence of five years im presses one much with the evident progress the city and proi ince are making in wealth and prosperity. The tumble-down build ings which once used to be a feature of the principal streets are rapidly giving way to handsome stone and brick edifices. The Bank of New Zealand is mak ing a considerable addition to its frontage, but although the chief office of the Bank is here, the building has nothing like tbe appearance of ihe new offices of the Bank in Duiu'din, Wo doubt, however, its interior accommodation is more commodious, as I understand there are over GO clerks employed in this office. The Bank of New South Wales is erecting a creditable looking building iv Queen-street, and not before it is time, for a more dingy, looking woodcu shanty than the one it has been doing business in lor the last 15 years it is not possible to imagine for a bank. The National In surance Company have, with creditable celerity, built and have just occupied a handsome building in Qncen-street, but to a Dunediuiic it looks stunted after the three and four-story buildinas one is accus tomed to see going up iv the South. The new manager of this company here—Mr Tait, formerly of the Dunediu office—speaks well of business,

Sargootl, Ewen, and Co., a9 tho Auck land firm is designated, although having a branch hero for some years, have recently determined to open out extensively, tho re sult being tho erection of a four story building of Oamaru stone in Victoria-street from the design of Mr Wales, Uuuedin, the resident partner being Mr John Boss, formerly of the Dunedin house. The build ing of a four-story warehouse shows that the firm believe that the two-story age is past in Auckland,

Town decoration in the way of tree planting is a great and pleasing feature in this city. Many of the long streets will iv a few years present quite a Boulevard ap pearance, and even now the graceful shade is pleasant and agreeable. It Is astonishing how little—or rather how nothing—is done in Dunedin in this way. That grand attempt made a few years ago to decorate tho Octagon has, through utter carelessness on the part of each succeeding Mayor of Dunedin, been allowed to even tuate in utter .failure, although under the very nose of the Council. It would be well if the present or prospective Mayor would visit Christchurch and Auckland and take a lesson on this matter, While on the suh ject of what mayors inieht do, I may note that one of the best institutions the Auck landers have is the Free Library, tbe well filled shelves of which are mainly due to the liberality of tho present Mayor, who magnanimously gavo his year's salary to •he library for the purchase of hooks. All honour to him for it. May other mayors go and do likewise. It is true the building is in a back street and most modest in its appearance and pre tensions, but the City Council have in view a better site nnd building, and very soon the Free Library of Auckland will be a morlel for other towns to copy from, Dunediu is in advance of Auckland in its well-filled Athcntoum, but that is merely a privat-; club, and does not in any way take the place of what Puuedin ought to have—a Free Library.

An old feature still remaining in Auck land is the suburban 'hue, of which there ore many, the modern tramway not having yet penetrated here. I believe, however, tramways are at preseut under construc tion, snd before a year is over they will be in full working order.

That Auckland ought to bo the centre of a great portion of the South Sea trade, all will admit, but that she has as yet got but a very small por tion of if, is an uudeniable fact. Two days'steam nearer Fiji than Sydney, and with the Union Company's boats running regularly, Aucklandcrs ought to have tho trade, but they have it not. A great deal of this trade is carried on by what is almost a system of barter; and as money Is the want of all New Zealand houses, they hang back, while Sydney houses rush inland barter aud have all the trade. I believe, however, some of our Dunedin houses who have branches here-aud there are several —are preparing themselves for the strife, and part oi their programme is travellers to Fiji and other islands ol the Pacific,

Eleven years ago, while on a visit to the North, having then only heard casually of hot springs, ccysers, and lakes, I made in quiry, whiic calling in at Tauranga in the then fast and favourite steamer Kangatira, asto the location of tbo lakes and hotsprings, and if it, were possible to get to them. I was told I would have to send a messenger to the Maori King or chief of the district, and having obtained permission to visit them, would require a Maori convoy as guide and safeutiard, and_ two or three horses, occupying a considerable time, Mow, the lakes tiring visitors in hundreds, and it is as easy to visit them as it is to go to Queenstown; and from Auckland, a very few pounds and a few days will do the Hot Lakes district well and comfortably, Enelish tourists swarm hero, and in a few years more visitors will bo coming in thousands, to the benefit of New Zealand generally and of Auckland specially.

A first-class hotnl is a great desideratum in Auckland ; for although there are many, there is admittedly not one really good one ; and were some of our Dunedin caterers to invest capital in this way, and manage as they do in the South, they would make fortunes ; for, bad as they are, every hotel is crowded, and I believe this is always.

With a grand harbour at the very streets of the city, a genial climate, facilities for local and South Sea trado, mail steamers going aud coming to and from its very doors, Aucklaud should, and no doubt has, a good future before it to make up for its past difficulties of Maoris and loss of prestige as capital.

As an outcome of the recent usury case in Melbourne, Mr Marks Herman, one of the persons implicated, has felt it desirable to act nn the suggestion of the " Jewish Herald," aud has resigned the presidency of the East Melbourne congregation. Bishop Moorhouse, of Melbourne, does not approve of church " shows " and other means of '■' raising the wind." He remarked on a recent occasion that lie supposed the next thine; proposed would be an ecclosias ; ical circus, with himself and the dean as j Wrformers.

STAR SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT, MAY 26, 1883.

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