all New Zealand towns, and where wooden houses are the rule, fires, of course, are very frequent.
The magnificent jets of water paled into puny insignificance the dribbling gouts of our intermittent Sydney supply, and in Auckland the painful "clank, clank" of the pumps is never heard when the fire-fiend has to be battled with.
There are two capital, commodious theatres. We went to hear Remenyi, the famous Hungarian violinist. The Governor, and Mayor, and councillors were there. Ostrich feathers seemed the leading feature in the head-dresses of the ladies. Gigantic structures of the Queen Anne era were surmounted by a panoply of feathers that would have turned a fashionable undertaker green with envy. These kept nodding time to the magic sweetness evoked by the gifted violinist; and the effect was really ludicrous in the extreme.
One Herr Himmel sang a ballad. The deep German gutturals rang through the building with an unmistakable Teutonic twang. A corpulent civic dignitary sitting behind us, turned to his beplumed dowager, and asked very audibly,—
"What's that, Mariar? Is that Hitalian?"
"Lor no, dear; that's French," said Maria. Foreign critics say the English are wofully deficient in modern languages. Perhaps so!
Banks are numerous. The buildings fine. But the hotels are legion. And yet it is noticeable how many passers-by wear the blue ribbon. When I say hotels, I err. Public-houses or drink-shops there are in abundance, but the bonâ-fide first-class
