Virginia was preparing, with a rueful face, to resume her enjoyment of the higher pleasures, when a horrible smell, like that of an open drain, was suddenly blown in through the window.

"Oh, rapture!" cried the Professor, as Virginia was stopping her nose with her handkerchief, "I smell the missing link." And in another instant he was gone.

"Well," said Virginia, "here is one comfort. Whilst Paul is away I shall be relieved from the higher pleasures. Alas! she cried, as she flung herself down on the sofa, he is so nice-looking, and such an enlightened thinker. But it is plain he has never loved, or else very certainly he would love again."

Paul returned in a couple of hours, again unsuccessful in his search.

Ah," cried Virginia, "I am so glad you have not caught the creature!"

66

'Glad," echoed the Professor, "glad! Do you know that till I have caught the missing link the cause of glorious truth will suffer grievously? The missing link is the token of the solemn fact of our origin from inorganic matter. I did catch one blessed glimpse of him. He had certainly a silver band about his neck. He was about three feet high. He was rolling in a lump of carrion. It is through him that we are related to the starsthe holy, the glorious stars, about which we know so litttle."

"Bother the stars!" said Virginia; "I couldn't bear, Paul, that anything should come between you and me. I have been thinking of you and longing for you the whole time you have been away."

"What!" cried Paul, "and how have you been able to forego the pleasures of the intellect?"

"I have deserted them," cried Virginia, "for the pleasures of the imagination, which I gathered from you were also very ennobling. And I found they were so; for I have been imagining that you loved me. Why is the reality less ennobling than the imagination?

Paul, you shall love me; I will force you to love me. It will make us both so happy: we shall never go to hell for it; and it cannot possibly cause the slightest scandal."

The Professor was more bewildered than ever by these appeals. He wondered how Humanity would ever get on if one half of it cared nothing for pure truth, and persisted in following the vulgar impulses that had been the most distinguishing feature of its benighted past-that is to say, those ages of its existence of which any record has been preserved for us. Luckily, however, Virginia came to his assistance.

"I think I know, Paul," she said, " why I do not care as I should do for the intellectual pleasures. We have been both seeking them by ourselves; and we have been therefore egoistic hedonists. It is quite true, as you say, that selfishness is a despicable thing. Let me," she went on, sitting down beside him, "look through your microscope along with you. I think perhaps, if we shared the pleasure, the missing link's parasites might have some interest for me."

The Professor was overjoyed at this proposal. The two sat down side by side, and tried their best to look simultaneously through the eye-piece of the microscope. Virginia in a moment expressed herself much satisfied. It is true they saw nothing; but their cheeks touched. The Professor too seemed contented; and said they should both be in a state of rapture when they had got the right focus. At last Virginia whispered, with a soft smile

"Suppose we put that nasty microscope aside; it is only in the way. And then, oh, Paul! dear love, dove of a Paul! we can kiss each other to our hearts' content."

Paul thought Virginia quite incorrigible, and rushed headlong out of the room.

XVIII.

"Alas!" cried Paul, "what can be done to convince one half of Humanity that it is really devoted to the higher pleasures and does not care for the lower-at least nothing to speak of?" The poor man was in a state of dreadful perplexity, and felt well nigh distracted. At last a light broke in on him. He remembered that as one of his most revered masters, Professor Tyndall, had admitted, a great part of Humanity would always need a religion, and that Virginia now had none. He at once rushed back to her. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "all is explained now. You cannot be in love with me, for that would be unlawful passion. Unlawful passion is unreasonable, and unreasonable passion would

quite upset a system of pure reason, which is what exact thought shows us is soon going to govern the world. No! the emotions that you fancy are directed to me are in reality cosmic emotion-in other words are the reasonable religion of the future. I must now initiate you in its solemn and unspeakably significant worship."

"Religion!" exclaimed Virginia, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. "It is not kind of you to be making fun of me. There is no God, no soul, and no supernatural order, and above all there is no hell. How then can you talk to me about religion?"

66

Nonsense!" replied Paul; "that cannot be the religion of half Humanity: else high, holy, solemn, awful morality would never be able to stand on its own basis. See, the night has fallen, the glorious moon has arisen, the stupendous stars are sparkling in the firmament. Come down with me to the seashore, where we may be face to face with nature, and I will show you then what true religion-what true worship is."

The two went out together. They stood on the smooth sands, which glittered white and silvery in the dazzling moonlight. All was hushed. The gentle murmur of the trees, and the soft splash of the sea, seemed only to make the silence audible. The Professor paused close beside Virginia, and took her hand. Virginia liked that, and thought that religion without theology was not perhaps so bad after all. Meanwhile Paul had fixed his eyes on the moon. Then in a voice almost broken with emotion, he whispered, "The prayer of the man of science, it has been said, must be for the most part of the silent sort. He who said that was wrong. It need not be silent; it need only be inarticulate. I have discovered an audible and a reasonable liturgy which will give utterance to the full to the religion of exact thought. both join our voices, and let us croon at the

moon.'

Let us

The Professor at once began a long low howling. Virginia joined him, until she was out of

breath.

"Oh, Paul," she said at last, "is this more rational than the Lord's Prayer?"

"Yes," said the Professor, "for we can

analyze and comprehend that; but true religious feeling, as Professor Tyndall tells us, we can neither analyze nor comprehend. See how big nature is, and how little-ah, how little! we know about it. Is it not solemn, and sublime, and awful? Come, let us howl again."

The Professor's devotional fervour grew every moment. At last he put his hand to his mouth, and began hooting like an owl, till it seemed that all the island echoed to him. The louder Paul hooted and howled, the more near did he draw to Virginia.

"Ah," he said, as he put his arm about her waist, "it is in solemn moments like this that the solidarity of mankind becomes most apparent."

Virginia, during the last few moments, had stuck her fingers in her ears. She now took them out, and, throwing her arms round Paul's neck, tried, with her cheek on his shoulder, to make another little hoot; but the sound her lips formed was much more like a kiss. The power of religion was at last too much for Paul.

"For the sake of cosmic emotion," he exclaimed, "O other half of Humanity, and for the sake of rational religion, I will kiss you."

The Professor was bending down his face over her, when, as if by magic, he started, stopped, and remained as one petrified. Amidst the sharp silence, there rang a hu man shout from the rocks.

"Oh!" shrieked Virginia, falling on her knees, "it is a miracle! it is a miracle! God is angry with us for pretending that we do not believe on him."

The Professor was as white as a sheet; but he struggled with his perturbation manfully.

"It is not a miracle," he cried, "but an hallucination. It is an axiom with exact thinkers that all proofs of the miraculous are hallucinations."

"See," shrieked Virginia again, "they are coming, they are coming. Do not you see them ?"

Paul looked, and there, sure enough, were two figures, a male and a female, advancing slowly towards them, across the moonlit sand.

"It is nothing," cried Paul; "it cannot possibly be anything. I protest, in the name of science, that it is an optical delusion."

Suddenly the female figure exclaimed, "Thank God, it is he!"

In another moment the male figure exclaimed, "Thank God, it is she!"

none other than he).

"Welcome to Chasu

ble Island. By the blessing of God it is on your own home you have been wrecked, and you have been living in the very house that I had intended to prepare for you. Providentially, too, Professor Darnley's wife has called here, in her search for her husband, who has overstayed his time. See, my love, my dove, my beauty, here is the monkey I promised you as a pet, which broke loose a few days ago, and which I was in the act of looking for when your joint cries attracted us, and we found you.'

A yell of delight here broke from the Professor. The eyes of the three others were turned on him, and he was seen embracing wildly a monkey which the bishop led by a chain. "The missing link!" he exclaimed, "the missing link!"

"Nonsense!" cried the sharp tones of a lady with a green gown and grey cork-screw curls. "It is nothing but a monkey that the good bishop has been trying to tame for his wife. Don't you see her name engraved on the collar?"

The shrill accents acted like a charm upon Paul. He sprang away from the creature that he had been just caressing. He gazed for a moment on Virginia's lovely form, her exquisite toilette, and her melting eyes. Then he turned wildly to the green gown and the grey cork-screw curls. Sorrow and superstition he felt were again invading Humanity. "Alas!" he exclaimed at last, "I do now indeed believe in hell."

And I," cried Virginia, with much greater tact, and rushing into the arms of her bishop, "once more believe in heaven." -The Contemporary Review.

W. H. MALLOCK.

THE WANTS OF MAN.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS, sixth President of the United States, (1825-29), was born in Braintree, Mass., July 11, 1767, died in the Capitol at Washington, Feb. 23, 1848. He filled many public stations, was Professor of Rhetoric at Harvard, minister to Russia and England, Secretary of State, and Senator and Representative in Congress. He wrote copiously in prose and verse, and his oratory gained him the title of the "old man eloquent." His style is more distinguished for strength than grace, and his posthumous diary, in twelve volumes, is full of caustic observations upon the men and the events of his time.

"Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long." 'Tis not with me exactly so;

But 'tis so in my song.

My wants are many and, if told, Would muster many a score; And were each wish a mint of gold, I still should long for more.

What first I want is daily bread

And canvas-backs-and wine-
And all the realms of nature spread
Before me, when I dine.

Four courses scarcely can provide
My appetite to quell ;

With four choice cooks from France beside,
To dress my dinner well.

What next I want, at princely cost,

Is elegant attire:

Black sable furs for winter's frost,

And silks for summer's fire, And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels lace My bosom's front to deck,And diamond rings my hands to grace, And rubies for my neck.

And then I want a mansion fair,

A dwelling-house, in style,
Four stories high, for wholesome air-
A massive marble pile;

With halls for banquetings and balls,
All furnish'd rich and fine;
With high-blood studs in fifty stalls,
And cellars for my wine.

I want a garden and a park,
My dwelling to surround-

A thousand acres, (bless the mark!)
With walls encompassed round-

Where flocks may range and herds may low,
And kids and lambkins play,

And flowers and fruits commingled grow,
All Eden to display.

I want, when summer's foliage falls,
And autumn strips the trees,

A house within the city's walls,
For comfort and for ease;
But here, as space is somewhat scant,
And acres somewhat rare,
My house in town I only want
To occupy a square.

I want a steward, butler, cooks;
A coachman, footman, grooms;
A library of well-bound books,
And picture-garnish'd rooms;
Corregio's Magdalen and Night,
The Matron of the Chair;
Guido's fleet coursers in their flight,
And Claudes, at least a pair.

I want a cabinet profuse

Of medals, coins, and gems;

A printing-press for private use,

Of fifty thousand ems;

And plants, and minerals, and shells;

Worms, insects, fishes, birds;

And every beast on earth that dwells In solitude or herds.

I want a board of burnish'd plate,
Of silver and of gold;

Tureens of twenty pounds in weight,
And sculpture's richest mould;
Plateaus, with chandeliers and lamps,
Plates, dishes-all the same;
And porcelain vases, with the stamps
Of Sèvres and Angouleme.

And maples of fair glossy stain,

Must form my chamber doors, And carpets of the Wilton grain Must cover all my floors; My walls with tapestry bedeck'd, Must never be outdone;

And damask curtains must protect Their colours from the sun.

And mirrors of the largest pane
From Venice must be brought;
And sandal-wood and bamboo cane,
For chairs and tables bought;
On all the mantel-pieces, clocks

Of thrice-gilt bronze must stand, And screens of ebony and box

Invite the stranger's hand.

I want (who does not want?) a wife,Affectionate and fair;

To solace all the woes of life,

And all its joys to share.

Of temper sweet, of yielding will,
Of firm, yet placid mind,-
With all my faults to love me still
With sentiment refined.

And as Time's car incessant runs,
And Fortune fills my store,
I want of daughters and of sons
From eight to half a score.
I want (alas! can mortal dare
Such bliss on earth to crave?)
That all the girls be chaste and fair,
The boys all wise and brave.

And when my bosom's darling sings,
With melody divine,

A pedal harp of many strings
Must with her voice combine.

Piano, exquisitely wrought,

Must open stand apart,

That all my daughters may be taught To win the stranger's heart.

My wife and daughters will desire
Refreshment from perfumes,
Cosmetics for the skin require,

And artificial blooms.

The civet fragrance shall dispense,
And treasured sweets return;
Cologne revive the flagging sense,
And smoking amber burn.

And when at night my weary head
Begins to droop and doze,
A chamber south, to hold my bed,
For nature's soft repose;

With blankets, counterpanes, and sheet,
Mattress, and sack of down,
And comfortables for my feet,
And pillows for my crown.

I want a warm and faithful friend,
To cheer the adverse hour;
Who ne'er to flatter will descend,

Nor bend the knee to power,

A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, My inmost soul to see;

And that my friendship prove as strong For him as his for me.

I want a kind and tender heart,
For others' wants to feel;

A soul secure from fortune's dart,
And bosom arm'd with steel;
To bear divine chastisement's rod,
And, mingling in my plan,
Submission to the will of God,
With charity to man.

I want a keen observing eye,
An ever-listening ear,

The truth through all disguise to spy,
And wisdom's voice to hear:

A tongue, to speak at virtue's need,
In heaven's sublimest strain;
And lips, the cause of man to plead,
And never plead in vain.

I want uninterrupted health,
Throughout my long career,
And streams of never-failing wealth,
To scatter far and near-
The destitute to clothe and feed,
Free bounty to bestow,
Supply the helpless orphan's need,
And soothe the widow's woe.

I want the genius to conceive,
The talents to unfold,

Designs, the vicious to retrieve,
The virtuous to uphold;
Inventive power, combining skill,
A persevering soul,

Of human hearts to mould the will, And reach from pole to pole.

I want the seals of power and place,

The ensigns of command;
Charged by the People's unbought grace
To rule my native land.

Nor crown nor scepter would I ask
But from my country's will,
By day, by night, to ply the task
Her cup of bliss to fill.

I want the voice of honest praise To follow me behind,

And to be thought in future days The friend of human kind, That after ages, as they rise, Exulting may proclaim

In choral union to the skies

Their blessings on my name.

These are the Wants of mortal Man,-
I cannot want them long,
For life itself is but a span,

And earthly bliss-a song.
My last great Want-absorbing all-
Is, when beneath the sod,
And summoned to my final call,
The Meroy of my God.

And oh while circles in my veins
Of life the purple stream,
And yet a fragment small remains
Of nature's transient dream,

My soul, in humble hope unseared,
Forget not thou to pray,

That this, THY WANT, may be prepared
To meet the Judgment Day.

THE BABIES.

MARK TWAIN.

Speech of Mark Twain at the banquet given in honor of Gen. Grant, by the Army of the Tennessee, at the

Palmer House, Chicago, Nov. 14, 1879.

TOAST:

"The Babies-As they comfort us in our sorrows, let us not forget them in our festivities."

I like that. We haven't all had the good fortune to be ladies; we haven't all been generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast works down to the babies, we stand on common ground, for we have all been babies. It is a shame that for a thousand years the world's banquets have utterly ignored the baby-as if he didn't amount to anything! If you gentlemen will stop and think a minute,-if you will go back fifty or a hundred years, to your early married life,

and recontemplate your first baby, you will remember that he amounted to a good deal, and even something over. You soldiers all know that when that little fellow arrived at the family head-quarters you had to hand in your resignation. He took entire command. You became his lackey, his mere body-servant, and you had to stand around, too. He was not a commander who made allowances for time, distance, weather, or anything else. You had to execute his order whether it was possible or not. And there was only one form of marching in his manual of tactics, and that was the double-quick. He treated you with every sort of insolence and disrespect, and the bravest of you didn't dare to say a word. You could face the deathstorm of Donelson and Vicksburg, and give back blow for blow; but when he clawed your whiskers, and pulled your hair, and twisted your nose, you had to take it. When the thunders of war were sounding in your ears, you set your faces toward the batteries and advanced with steady tread; but when he turned on the terrors of his war-whoop, you advanced in the other direction-and mighty glad of the chance, too. When he called for soothing syrup, did you venture to throw out any side remarks about certain services unbecoming an officer and a gentleman? No, you got up and got it. If he ordered his bottle, and it wasn't warm, did you talk back? Not you,-you went to work and warmed it. You even descended so far in your menial office as to take a suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself, to see if it was right, three parts water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify the colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those immortal hiccups. I can taste that stuff yet. And how many things you learned as you went along; sentimental young folks still took stock in that beautiful old saying that when the baby smiles in his sleep, it is because the angels are whispering to him. Very pretty, but "too thin,"-simply wind on the stomach, my friends! If the baby proposed to take a walk at his usual hour, 2.30 in the morning, didn't you rise up promptly and remarkwith a mental addition which wouldn't improve a Sunday-school book much-that that was the very thing you were about to propose yourself! Oh, you were under good discipline! And as you went fluttering up and down the room in your "undress uniform" you not only prattled undignified baby-talk, but even tuned up your martial voices and tried to sing "Rockaby baby in a tree-top," for instance. What a spectacle for an Army of the Tennessee! And what an affliction for the neighbors, too, for it isn't everybody