none other than he). "Welcome to Chasuble 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 airA 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 Mercy 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-ser vant, 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 disci pline! 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

S. L. CLEMENS.

The idea that a baby doesn't amount to anything! Why, one baby is just a house and a front-yard full by itself. One baby can furnish more business than you and your whole interior department can attend to. He is enterprising, irrepressible, brimful of lawless activities. Do what you please, you can't make him stay on the reservation. Sufficient unto the day is one baby ;-as long as you are in your mind don't you ever pray for twins.

In

Yes, it was high time for a toast-master to recognize the importance of the babies. Think what is in store for the present crop. Fifty years hence we shall all be dead, I trust, and then this flag, if it still survive,let us hope it may-will be floating over a republic numbering 200,000,000 souls, according to the settled laws of our increase; our present schooner of state will have grown into a political leviathan-a Great Easternand the cradled babies of to-day will be on 'deck. Let them be well trained, for we are going to leave a big contract on their hands. Among the three or four million cradles now rocking in the land are some which. this nation would preserve for ages as sacred things, if we could know which ones they are. one of these cradles the unconscious Farragut of the future is at this moment teething-think of it!-and putting in a world of dead-earnest, unarticulated, but perfectly justifiable profanity over it, too; in another the future great historian is lying-and doubtless he will continue to lie until his earthly mission is ended; in another the future President is busying himself with no profounder problem of state than what the mischief has become of his hair so early; and in a mighty array of other cradles there are now some 60,000 future office-seekers getting ready to furnish him occasion to grapple with that same old problem a second time; and in still one more cradle, somewhere under the flag, the future illustrious commander-in-chief of the American armies is so little burdened with his approaching grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole strategic mind, at this moment, to trying to find out some way to get his own big toe into his mouth,-an achievement which (meaning no disrespect) the illustrious guest of this evening turned his whole attention to some fifty-six years ago.

PARAPHRASE FROM SENECA.

Let him that will, ascend the tottering seat
Of courtly grandeur, and become as great
As are his mounting wishes; as for me,
Let sweet repose and rest my portion be;
Give me some mean obscure recess, a sphere
Out of the road of business, or the fear
Of falling lower, where I sweetly may
Myself and dear retirement still enjoy:
Let not my life or name be known unto
The grandees of the time, tost to and fro
By censures or applause; but let my age
Slide gently by; not overthwart the stage
Of public action; unheard, unseen,
And unconcerned, as if I ne'er had been.
And thus, while I shall pass my silent days
In shady privacy, free from the noise
And bustles of the mad world, then shall I
A good old innocent plebeian die.
Death is a mere surprise, a very snare
To him, that makes it his life's greatest care
To be a public pageant; known to all,
But unacquainted with himself, doth fall.
SIR MATTHEW HALL.

"BUDGE'S VERSION OF THE FLOOD."

A CHAPTER FROM "HELEN'S BABIES." That afternoon I devoted to making a bouquet for Miss Mayton, and a most delightful occupation I found it. It was no florist's bouquet, composed of only a few kinds of flowers, wired upon sticks, and arranged according to geometric pattern. I used many a rare flower, too shy of bloom to recommend itself to florists; I combined tints almost as numerous as the flowers were, and perfumes to which city bouquets are utter strangers.

At length it was finished, but my delight suddenly became clouded by the dreadful thought, "What will people say?" Ah! I had it. I had seen in one of the library-drawers a small pasteboard box, shaped like a bandbox; doubtless that would hold it. I found the box; it was of just the size I needed, I dropped my card into the bottom-no danger of a lady not finding the card accompanying a gift of flowers-neatly fitted the bouquet in the center of the box, and went in search of

"He means Noah an' the ark," exclaimed Budge.

"Datsh what I shay-Nawndeark," declared Toddie.

"Well," said I, hastily refreshing my memory by picking up the Bible-for Helen, like most people, is pretty sure to forget to pack her Bible when she runs away from home for a few days-" well, once it rained forty days and nights, and everybody was drowned from the face of the earth excepting Noah, a righteous man, who was saved with all his family, in an ark which the Lord commanded him to build."

"Uncle Harry," said Budge, after contemplating me with open eyes and mouth for at least two minutes after I had finished, "do you think that's Noah?"

66

Certainly, Budge; here's the whole story in the Bible."

'Well, I don't think it's Noah one single bit," said he, with increasing emphasis.

"I'm beginning to think we read different Bibles, Budge; but let's hear your version." "Huh?"

Tell me about Noah, if you know so much about him."

"I will, if you want me to. Once the Lord felt so uncomfortable cos folks was bad that he was sorry he ever made anybody, or any world or anything, But Noah wasn't bad; the Lord liked him first-rate, so he told Noah to build a big ark, and then the Lord would make it rain so everybody should be drownded but Noah an' his little boys an'

girls, an' doggies an' pussies an' mammacows an' little-boy-cows an' little-girl-cows an' hosses an' everything; they'd go in the ark an' wouldn't get wetted a bit when it rained. An' Noah took lots of things to eat in the ark-cookies an' milk an' oatmeal an' strawberries an' porgies an'-oh, yes, plumpuddings an' pumpkin-pies. But Noah didn't want everybody to get drownded so he talked to the folks' and said, "It's goin' to rain awful pretty soon; you'd better be good, an' then the Lord'll let you come into my ark.' An' they jus' said, 'Oh! if it rains we'll go in the house till it stops; an' other folks said, We ain't afraid of rain; we've got an umbrella.' An' some more said they wasn't goin' to be afraid of just a rain. But it did rain though, an' folks went in their houses, an' the water came in, an' they went upstairs, an' the water came up there, an' they got on the tops of the houses, an' up in big trees, an' up in mountains, an' the water went after 'em everywhere an' drownded everybody, only just except Noah an' the people in the ark. An' it rained forty days and nights, an' then it stopped, an' Noah got out of the ark, an' he an' his little boys and girls went wherever they wanted to, an' everything in the world was all theirs; there wasn't anybody to tell 'em to go home, nor no kindergarten schools to go to, nor no bad boys to fight 'em, nor nothin'. Now tell us 'nother story."

"An' I want my dolly's k'adle. Ocken Hawwy, I wants my dolly's k'adle, tause my dolly's in it, an' I want to shee her," interrupted Toddie.

Just then came a knock at the door. "Come in!" I shouted.

In stepped Mike, with an air of the greatest secrecy, handed me a letter and the identical box in which I had sent the flowers to Miss Mayton. What could it mean? I hastily opened the envelope, and at the same time Toddie shrieked :

"Oh, darsh my dolly's k'adle-dare tizh !" snatched and opened the box, and displayedhis doll! My heart sickened, and did not regain its strength during the perusal of the following note:

Miss Mayton herewith returns to Mr. Burton the package which just arrived, with his card. She recog nizes the contents as a portion of the apparent property of one of Mr. Burton's nephews, but is unable to un derstand why it should have been sent to her. "JUNE 20, 1875."

"Toddie," I roared, as my younger nephew caressed his loathsome doll, and murmured endearing words to it, "where did you get that box?"