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DOSIA
— OB —
THE TAMING OF A GIRL.
BT HENRY GRLYILLE.
Translated from the French, for the
“Sunny South,”
XXIII.
Summer was near, and Madame Zapline wanted
her daughter to come back. Sophie had promised
to bring her back before Whitsunday, that is be
fore her marriage, for she intended to travel dur
ing her honeymoon. Madame Zaptine invited the
three friends to spend one week with her before
the wedding. Incited by Dosia, the Princess
consented.
‘What shall I do when you are gone? sad-
dly asked the young girl.
‘I will come back next winter,’ answered the
Princess. . .
Dosia shook her head. When one is in her
teens, next winter is synonymous to Greek cal
enders.
Since April, she had completely changed. Had
not the Princess' mind been absorbed by her com
ing wedding she would have certainly noticed
such a rapid and important change. Pierre was
only thinking of Sophie. As for Plato, he was
thinkiDgof himself, and while he was quarrelling
with his conscience and philosophy, the real object
of his troubles was fast withering.
On the night of their arrival at Madame Zip-
tine they were all struck by that truth to which an
exclamation of the mother called their attention.
•What has been the matter with you, Dosia ? you
must have been very ill; you look so thin 1
All looked at Dosia, who blushed and said, in a
voice that she tried to render gay but sounded
like a sob. * ,
‘It is the wisdom that comes to me, mother.
She ran to the garden.
‘I see she is very sorry to leave you, said
good Madame Ziptine, trying to doawaywith the
impression her first remark might have made on
the Princess.
‘Yes,’ answered Sophie, slowly, ‘but I did not
believe her sorrow to be so deep. I wish I could
spare her that regret, but I don t see how.
‘Oh !’ put in an elder sister, ‘she must get ac
customed to living at home. We have always been
here ourselves, and we still enjoy good health.
Plato looked at the speaker in no sympathetic
way, and turned his back to her.
•Poor little bird !’ he thought, ‘when the cage
closes upon her it will bruise her wings.’
Early next morning, Dosia was in the garden,
and everything seemed changed to her. Still it
was the same garden : the long plank used as a
swing was a little older, but caterpillars were
falling on it as abundantly as when she had that
memorable conversation with her cousin. She
avoided the swing and took a path leading to the
shrubbery, then full of lilacs in blossom.
Plato had not slept much that night. He was
asking himself if the change of air and the fatigue
of a gay life were the real causes of Dosia’s
fading. A secret desire to know the topography
of the garden, and ascertain if Pierre had not—
materially at least-altered the truth, incited
Sourof to take a walk in that garden.
Pierre had told the truth : the picture was cor
rect, as far as^the place was concerned—the swing,
the dangerous steps, the lawn where they played
aorelki, everything was in the right place, even the
large black head of Dosia’s dog appeared in the
yard Plato went toward the thicket where he
expected to find the old pavillion in which the
young girl had asked her cousin to run away with
her. At the end of a long alley of lindens, he
perceived the roof of the small kiosque, and made
his way to it through the not very complicated
meanders of that primitive labyrinth.
Mourief had described faithfully, even the col-
nmns that time had robbed of their plaster, leav
ing the bricks in their nakedness. Plato entered
the kiosque to examine the mossy stone bench
and saw a large frog looking at him fixedly, then
jumping heavily among the grass.
Mourief seated himself on a rock, and became
more thoughtful. All was true, then ! Why was
not Mourief charrtable enough to keep silent !
•It was my fate to love her,’ muttered the young
man with that sort of fatalism peculiar to Russians,
‘then why did 1 not love her blindly, without all
the doubts that besiege my mind V
A light sound made him raise his head. On the
other side of the kiosque, among the lilacs. Dosia
was looking at him. As he raised his eyes she
gravely—almost solemnly—motioned to him to
ftay were he was, and she disappeared from his
B,g piato did not try tc join hei, but remained sadly
on the bench until the bell called him for break-
•
Madame Ztptine’s house was the temple of Noise.
If that god ever had any altar, the incense burnt
in this house in his honor must have been very
agreeable to him, for he made that residence his
favorite dwelling. ......
For two long hours, the breakfast table saw suc
cessively all the members of the family and their
visitors; but through a special favor which Provid
ence always keeps in store for the benefit of un
decided persons, those who wished to speak to
each other could never meet, some one going out
or coming in just at the wrong time. At last the
company was complete, or almost so.
‘What will you do to day ? asked Madame Zap-
tine, ‘you ought to go to the country.’
A party was promptly organized. At four o clock
they all started, some in open carriages, others in
country droskis. As for Dosia she mounted her
favorite horse, who, during her absence, had be
come perfect in the art of breaking the water hogs
head. Dressed in a deep blue amazone, and a
wide hat with a white plume, the young girl hand
led her horse with a perfect ease. For about five
minutes she rode by the side of her mother s
carriage, but sucu a comparatively slow gait could
not suit her. She gave Bayard a vigorous stroke of
her whip, which caused him to kick and cover
the vehicle with dust. He then started towards
the forest with the rapidity of an arrow.
‘She will surely break her neck, said the Prm-
Ce *No danger,’ sighed Madame Zaptine. ‘It is
always so, and she never met with any accident.
XXIII.
When they arrived in the forest, the company
found a large table cloth already spread upon the
grass, and covered with bowls of sweet cream
pyramids cf cakes, glass jars of clabber milk with
a heavy top of golden cream, sunk into ice to keep
it coot. .
Dosia came to meet the carnages. She was
now walking, her hat in one hand and her trail
under her arm, as much at ease as if in a parlor,
but her face had lost that sarcastic expression
that was one of her characteristic features. Her
hair, plaited in long braids, was hanging down
along her dress, and she did not seem to mind it,
She appeared to l’iaio, serious, almost haughty,
sad, wiin a touch of bitterness at the corner of
her lips. No I it was not Dosia any more, it was
tan who was suffering and who wished to
silently.
This apparition remained deeply engraved in
Plato’s heart. He felt that Dosia’s mind was
in a state of fermnt. What would come out of it ?
Would a new Dosia reveal itself, more serious
and more deserving to be loved.
By a graceful motion she threw her tresses back
and her gravity seem 3d to disappear.
They all seated themselves on the grass around
the table cloth, and a thousand little incidents
succeeded each other. Cups that turn over,
cream jars that cannot find their equilibrium on
so uneven a table, plates that start loaded with
delicacies and come back empty without anybody
able or willing to say how the thing happened;
all those gay follies characteristic of a pic nic
were soon in full blast. Dosia’s sisters were very
pleasant v hen in company, showing their defects
only at home, under the pretense generally adopt
ed that no restraint is needed among the family.
Dosia was giving the tone to all that merriment of
good company; her silvery laugh was heard above
all others, and Plato was listening with a joy full
of anxiety to that laugh, evidently coming from a
free and satisfied mind.
‘It is of no use, Pierre,’ said Dosia, ‘mother will
scold me, but I can’t help it. Let it be as it is
against etiquette, I cannot say thou to the Prin
cess--wnom 1 have kaown only for one year—and
you to her husband—whom I know ever since I
am born. I have tried my best to do it, but I must
give it up, it is too hard for me.’
The two betrothed ones laughed, and Mme Zaptine
opened her mouth for some remonstrance, but
Plato rose suddenly.
‘Unless Wisdom herself is opposed to it,’ said
Mourief, interrupting his aunt and looking at
Sophie, ‘I dou't see any objection. For my part
1 shall not complain of it.’
Sophie’s eyes wandered for a while from Plato
to Dosia.
•I don’t see any harm in that,’ she said, smiling,
but her voice betrayed a certain uneasiness.
Dosia noticed it and started to her feet. Leav
ing the group she walked a few steps and stopped
behind a large tree away from the place where
Plato was absorbed in his thoughts. She did not
cry, for she had exhausted her tears in the morn
ing. She was looking at the ground, when a
shadow projecting before her made her raise her
head. Plato was standing before her as if trying to
read her face. She did not seem surprised a
his presence.
‘I wish I was dead,’ she said, softly, it is sot
hard to live !’
Heart-struck, Plato remained silent fora while.
•Fortunately, life is long!’ he said, trying to
smile, ‘one may change and ’
Dosia’s look stopped his innocent phrase, which
sounded as dissonant as a cracked bell.
‘It is too hard to live,’ she repeated, shaking
her head sadly. ‘Still I must try to get used to
it; but it is hard, very bard!’
She left the tree she was leaning against, and
went off.
Plato had a great desire to run after her, take
her in his arms and tell her :
‘Live for me 1’
But at that moment Pierre’s voice was heard in
the distance.
•Dos i_a!’ cried Mourief, in that Izay and
prolonged tone used by country people for call
ing each other in the forests, ‘must I bring thee
Ba—ya—rd?’
‘Yes, please ’
Plato resumed his indecision.
Pierre brought the animal, who was decidedly
gentle,'as long as Dosia had no hand in bis manage
ment.
‘Must I make him cross the ditch ?’
‘Why? asked Dosia, ‘he is very well here.'
Pierre had hardly fixed up the stirrup., before the
young girl was on the saddle with<H*t the aid of
her cousin’s hand. Pierre gathered the folds of
her dress around her tiny feet, while Plato, tor
mented by jealousy, was deliberating if it was not
his duty to open his sister’s eyes.
‘She will break her neck,’ said Mourief, wink
ing at Sourof with his honest, candid eyes.
Dosia gratified him with a stroke of her whip
that knocked down his white cap, and without a
word whipped her horse and made him jump the
ditch, very wide at that place. Bayard himself
seemed astonished at his own feat.
•It shall not be for this time yet,’ said Dosia,
carressing her horse, ‘we shall not perish so
together; shall we, my old friend?’
She then slowly started ahead, while the com
pany was entering the carriages.
On returning, Dosia remained near the com
pany, riding now by the side of one carriage and
then by the side of another, acting with a graceful
manner that surprised her mother.
‘Is it possible, dear Princess,’ said Madame.Zap-
tine, deeply moved, ‘that I owe you so much, that
you have made such an amiable young lady out of
my almost wild girl ?’
‘There is a little remnant of the old habits yet,
but very little of it, 1 hope,’ answered Sophie,
smiling.
I"TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.]
Girls of To-day.
It is undoubtable that the ideal of marriage
on the part of the young girls of the period,
has of late years greatly changed,’ says the New
York Home Journal, ‘and the change has been
produced in part by what she sees and in part
by what she reads. We entertain no doubt that
the female novelists who have followed in the
wake ot the late George Lawrence have materi
ally modified the ideal of a suitable lover as en
tertained by many of their sex, ‘Ouida,’ Miss
Broughton, Miss Annie Thomas and others who
have accustomed them to ferocions lovers—but
we will not waste our time in repeating a descrip
tion of the physical peculiarities of the Adonis
of the period, according to the standard of the
female three-volume novel. Everybody knows
the sort ot lover, half-Ajax half-Paris, of their
monotonous pages, Grown-up people may
smile at such absurdities, but the girls are very
impressionable, and when once they have adopt
ed such an ideal it is not easy to expel it from
their minds. The person hardly exists in real
life; the nearest approach to it being any or every
unprincipled man who is prepared to make
fierce love to any fool he meets. Obviously this
is not a condition of things favorable to marriage,
for while it makes girls more prompt, indeed,
more eager to flirt, it indisposes them to appre
ciate attentions of a more delicate but more
practical kind. So much for the change pro
duced in the ideals of women by what they read.
The transformation is completed by what they
gee. While silly novels tell them that a lover,to
be worth anything, must rail against heaven
and bite the grass with his teeth, the whole ar
rangements of society keep daily telling them
that a husband is no good at all unless he has a
great deal of money. During the last twenty
years the practice of luxurious self-indulgence
has crept on apace. We are assured that trade
is bad, and that everybody is poor. We can only
reply. ‘Circumspice i’ Splendor and spending
are still the order of the day, and households
vie with each other in the race of ostentation.
People whose home is in the country must have
a house in town- People who live in town must
be able to take a bouse in the country or at the
s aside whenever they feel inclined to have a
change. Extravagance, not economy, is the
standard of domestic happiness at present in
fashion. It is not a girl’s ideal, when she mar
ries, that she should stay at home; but, on the
contrary, that she should leave it perpetually.
In a word, if you get at the heart of a great many
girls, you discover that their ideal of life is that
it should be one continual ‘spree.’
Famous by Accident.
How Fortune May Hinge Upon
Chance.
How the fortunes of painters may hinge upon
the most trifling circumstances has another ex-
ample in that ot Ribera or Spagnoletto, which
was determined by a very simple incident. He
went to reside with his father-in-law, whose
house, it so happened, stood in the vast square,
one side of which was occupied by the palace of
the Spanish vioeroy. It was the custom in Italy,
as formerly among the Greeks, that whenever an
artist had completed any great work, he Bhould
expose it in some street or thoroughfare, for the
public to pass judgment on it. In compliance
with this usage, Ribera’s father-in-law placed in
his balcony the ‘Martyrdom of St. Bartholomew
as soon as it was finished. The people flocked
in crowds to see it, and testified their admira
tion by deafening shouts of applause. These
acclamations reached the ears of the viceroy,
who imagined that a fresh revolt had broken
out, and rushed in complete armor to the spot.
There he beheld in the painting the cause of so
much tumult. The viceroy desired to see the
man who bad distinguished himself by so mar
velous a production; and his interest in the
painter was not lessened on discovering that he
was, like himself, a Spaniard. He immediately
attached Spagnoletto to his person, gave him an
apartment in his palace, and proved a generous
patron ever afterward.
Lanfranco, the wealthy and munificent artist,
on his way from the church II Gesu, happened
to observe an oil-painting hanging outside a
picture-broker’s shop. Lanfranco stopped his
carriage, and desired the picture to be brought
to him. Wiping the thick dust from the can
vas, the delighted broker brought it, with many
bows and apologies, to the great master, who on
nearer inspection saw that his first glance had
been correct. The picture was labeled ‘Hagar
and her Son Ishmael dying of Thirst,’ and the
subject was treated in a new and powerful man
ner. Lanfranco looked for the name of the
painter, and detecting the word Salvatoriello
modestly set in a corner of the picture, he gave
instructions to his pupils to buy up every work
of Salvatoriello they could find in Naples. To
this accident Savator owed the sudden demand
for his pictures, which changed his poverty and
depression into comparative ease and satisfac
tion.
More than one famous singer might probably
never have been heard of but for some discrim
inating patron chancing to hear a beautiful
voice, perhaps exercised in the streets for the
pence of the compassionate. Some happy stage-
hits have resulted from or originated in acci
dents. The old hop skip and jump so effective
in the delineation of Dundreary, says an Amer
ican interviewer of Mr. Sothern, wss brought
about in this way. In the words of the actor:
‘It was a mere accident. I have naturally an
elastic disposition, and during a rehearsal one
cold morning 1 was hopping at the back of the
stage, when Miss Keene sarcastically inquired if
I was going to introduce that into Dundreary.
The actors and actresses standing around laugh
ed; and taking the cue, I replied: ‘Yes, Miss
Keene; that’s my view of the character.’ Hav
ing said this, I was bound to stick to it; and as
I progressed with the rehearsal, I found that
the whole company, including scene-shifters
and property-men, were roaring with laughter
at my infernal nonsense. When I saw that the
public accepted the satire, I toned down what
was a broad caricature to what can be seen at
the present day by any one who has a quick
sense cf the absurd.’
An excellent landscape of Salvato. Rosa’s ex
hibited at the British InstPnUap-vin 1K‘23 came
to be painted in a curious wzp The painter
happened one day to be amusing himself tuning
an old harpsichord; some one observed that he
was surprised he could take so mnch trouble
with au instrument that was not worth a crown.
T bet you I make it worth a thousand before I
have done with it!’ cried Rosa. The bet was
taken; and Salvator painted on the harpsichord
a landscape that not only sold for a thousand
crowns, but was esteemed a first-class painting.
Cnemistry and pathology are indebted to what
has often seemed the merest chalice for many an
important discovery. A French paper says it
has been accidentally discovered that in cases
of epileptic fits, a black-silk handkerchief
thrown over the afflicted persons will restore
them immediately. Advances in science and
art, and sadden success in professions, have of
ten more to do with the romance of accident
than most people imagine.
It is curions to trace now the origin of some
famous work has been suggested apparently by
the merest accident. We need bat remind the
reader how Lady Austen's suggestion of ‘the
sofa’ as a subject for blank verse was the begin
ning of ‘The Task,’ a poem which grew to for
midable proportions under Gowper’s facile pen.
Another example of—
‘What great, events from trivial causes spring,’
is furnished by Lockhart’s account of the grad
ual growth of ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel.’
Tne lovely Countess of Dalkeith hears a wild
legend of border diablerie, aud sportively asks
Scott to make it the subject of a ballad. Tne
poet's accidental confinement in the midst of a
yeomanry camp gave him leisure to meditate
his theme to the sound ot a bugle; suddenly
there flashes on him the idea of extending his
simple outline so as to embrace a vivid pano
rama of that old border-life of war and tumult.
A friend’s suggestion led to the arrangement
and framework of the ‘Lay’ and the conception
of the ancient harper. Tuns step by step grew
the poem that first made its author famous.
The manuscript of ‘Waverly’ lay hidden away
in an old cabinet for years before the public
were aware of its existence. In the words of the
Great Unknown: ‘I had written the greater part
ot the first volume and sketched other passages,
when I mislaid the manuscript; aud only found
it by the merest accident, as I was rummaging
the drawer of an old cabinet; and I took the
fancy of finishing it.’
Charlotte Bronte’s chance discovery of a man
uscript volume of verses in her sister Emily's
handwriting led, from a mutual confession of
the furor poeticus, to the j oint publication of
their poems, which, thongh aiding little to
their subsequent fame, at least gives us another
instance of how much of what is called chance
has often to do with the carrying out of literary
projects. It was the burning of Drury Lane
Theatre that led to the production of ‘The Re
jected Addresses,’ the success of which, says
one of the authors, ‘decided him to embark in
that literary career, which the favor of the nov
el-reading world rendered both pleasant and
profitable to him.’ Most of us know how that
famous fairy tale ‘Alice in Wonderland’ came
to be written. The characters in ‘Oliver Twist’
of Fagin, Bikes, and Nancy, were suggested by
some sketcues of Cruikshank, who long had a
des : gn to show the life of a London thief by a
series of drawings. Dickens, while paying
Crui&shank a visit, happened to turn over some
sketches in a portfolio. Wuea he came to that
one which represents Fagin in the condemned
cell, he studied it for half an hour, and told his
friend that he was tempted to change the whole
plot of his story—pot to carry Oliver through
adventures in the country, but to take him up
into the thieves’ den in LoBdon, show, what this
life was, and bring Oliver through it without
sin or shame. Cruikshank consented, to let
Dickens write up to as many of the drawings as
he thought would suit his purpose. So the story
as it now runs resulted in a great measure from
that chance inspection of the artist’s portfolio.
The remarkable picture of the Jaw malefactor
in the condemned cell, biting bis nails in the
torture of remorse, is associated with a happy
accident. The artist had been laboring at the
subjact for several days, and thought the task
hopeless; when sitting up in his bed ore morn
ing with his hand on his chin and his fingers
in his mouth, the whole attitude expressive of
despair, he saw his face in the cheval glass.
‘That's it! he exclaimed; ‘that’s the expression
I want! And he soon finished the picture.—
Chamber's Journal.
Society Ladies.
Not the Butterflies they Seem'
The dainty, elegantly dressed ladies of fash
ion, who look as though made only to grace a
ball or a dining, and to show off handsome silks
and laces and nodding plumes, are it appears,
not the buttreflies they are accused of being.
They are held up by most zealous philanthropists
as mere drones in the worlds hive; and held to
be selfish and heartless as they are useless. A
New York writer denies this and says that ‘so
far from being idle and frivolous the society
woman is, in nineteen cases out of twonty, oc-
oupied in the best work she can find. She may
be said to pass a large part of her life in the
practice of benevolence and charity. She labors
as few men labor; she taxes her strength to the
utmost; she visits unpleasant places and tries
to help people from whom she would instinct
ively shrink. It would be hard to mention a
women of culture and refinement in easy cir
cumstances, capable of commanding money
and her time—and this is tne ordinary signifi
cance of a fashionable woman—who is not au
active member of several elemosyrarv societies
and an industrious worker in the field of phil
anthropy. No one knows who has not given
attention to the matter, or been in some way
associated with them, how much our women
holding the best social positions, whether rich
or simply comfortable, undertake from day to
day, and how much real good they do, which
but for them would be left undone. They are
by no means half-hearted or perfunctory in their
kind offices, they are entirely in sympothy
with their work; they are strictly conscientious,
zealous, efficient, and their labors produce ex
cellent fruit.
Our fashionable women do not as a rule con
secrate themselves, as is often supposed, to the
amelioration of Bovro-boola-Gha and other vis
ionary schemes. They seek and find any number
of heathen on Manhattan island, dwelling in dirt
and ignorance, and evil because of these, and
they try hard to make them clean and intelli
gent, and so bring the benighted to light. They
know that the Greeks are at their own doors;
they understand in a broad and beautiful sense
that charity begins—though it does not end—at
home; they hold it as their duty to do that which
lies nearest and is most needful.
In all the city charities—and no capital has
more or better—they have part, and perform
their part earnestly and faithfully. In fact,
many of the charities could not be sustained or
conducted without the energetic co-operation of
the very women who are painted as sentimental
sluggards and sheer pleasure-banters. Women
do a vast deal that men wont and can’t do. They
have, or rather take, more time; they are quicker
to discern and to feel; their sympathies are
larger and livelier; they are the true almoners,
the gentle ministers who help and never hurt.
Our fashionable women seldom tell where they
go and what they do. They look not for ap
proval or praise from the men they meet and
are on easy terms with, and these judge from,
such silence that they are without serious pur-
pos in life —that their whole aim and art is to be
graceful and agreeable.
Men knew far less of women than they com
monly imagine. What they observe they think
to be her all. They see her elegantly dressed,
talking commonplaces, absorbed apparently in
trifles; they encounter her at the theatre or
opera, in the drawing-room or on the promenade.
Sae is so well fitted to her surroundings, and so
delicate and dainty, also, that they fancy there
is no back ground to the picture. The fashion
able woman of New York is no ascetic or parader.
When she dusts the slums, or emerges from the
squalid and dreary tenement house to which her
generous heart has impelled her, she is not elo
quent of the woes she has witnessed or of the
antipathy sho has repressed. She regains her
self in her proper atmosphere; she represents
society once more. To morrow she returns to
her poor and suffering, and the consciousness
that she can and does aid them renders her ser
vice gracious and grateful.
Lord Lome’s Exile*
The Noble Youth Oatracisecl for Marry
ing; iuto Royalty
W’hat may be promotion in some cases may bo
exile in others. The appointment of the Marquis
of Lome to the governor-generalship of Canada,
and his departure to the seat of his new author
ity, can only be regarded as the crowning sym
bol’ of that ostracism from his order and his
adopted kindred to which he has long submitted
at home, but of which there were signs that
he was beginning to grow somewhat restive.
Born to immense power and to high hereditary
honors, the queen s son-in-law underwent a de
liberate pioeess of self-eff*cem9nt by taking a
position within the glare of that fierce light by
which only kings and princes are visible. Es
tablishing himself on the dangerous interspace
which separates subjects frem sovereigns, he
found that he could not become a personage
among the former, and that he was a cipher in
the company of the latter. By nature courteous,
not devoid of ambition, and endowed with a fee
ble order of mental talents, he found himselt
imprisoned on a bleak table-land of existence,
with no career on which to feed his hopes, no
encouragement for the exercise of his intellect
ual powers, nothing to gratify or stimulate the
kindlier instincts of his disposition. He had
eclipsed the ancestral honors of his house by
perilous proximity to a house in which he never
was, nor could be at, home. He was an anoma
ly in society aud with his political party. He
was an intruder among princes and a mock-
prince among peers. Oa the one hand his pres
ence was resented; on the other it was suspect
ed. Had he been of a resolute and independent
character, he would have taken up his own line,
and have shown that the heir to a dukedom
could be a political success even though he had
married the daughter of the Qaeen. But Lord
Lome was not the man to witnstand the numb
ing, paralyzing, influence within whose sphere
he had come. He was a nonentity in the house
of commons, as he was a nonenity out of it. He
exerted his fntellect npon the production of
fifth-rate literary compositions in prose and
verse and iu the delivery of little lectures in
Highland towns. But all this time, as the event
proved, there slumbered a strong ambition be
neath a feeble will. Recognizing the tact that
his connection with the court was a fatal obstacle
to his aoheivameuts as a politician, he resolved
at last to see what could be done by em
bracing the destiny and adopting the arts
of a courtier. Tne family of his wife had tacitly
enacted a decree of partial banishment against
their new relative. Their new relative now pro
ceeded to baa ish himself from the party ol which
be was nominally a member in the house of
commons, and of which his father is a diffi lent
oracle in the house of lords. The imperial titles
bill was brought forward, and the Marquis of
Lome voted with the government that had wot
the peculiar confidence of the Queen, his mother-
in-law. The policy of that government on the
eastern question was discussed, and here again
the Marquis of Lome bade the same bold defi
ance to parental and political ties. In accept
ing the succession to Lord Dufferin, Lord Lorn
pursues the fate of banishment yet further.
Courtiership has at last secured him an avenir,
but at last that be should have to go out from
his own home and his own kindred to find it is
the crucial proof of the reality of that sentence
of exile which he pronounced upon himself
seven years ago. Yet he sallied forth with a
light heart, and even with the elation of igno
rance and bumptiousness.
A Wonderful New Animal
Hall Bog and Half Hog.
Frank Buckland writes to Turf and Farm that
be has seen the eighth wonder of the world—a
beast that was bought by a Mr. Lemann from
the peasants in the South of France and said by
them to be a hybrid between a wild boar and a
native sheep dog. Mr. Bucklaud says : when
Mr. Lemann brought his animal into the cast
ing-room I must say i was very much interested.
I have seen almost every living and dead hid
eous monster known, but I never did see such a
curious specimen as this. He looks like a gar
goyle, as sculptured by the mediieval artists in
old cathedrals, or one of the satauic animals as
painted on the pandemoniacal pictures of Fas-
elii. I will endeavor to draw his picture. Cut
an ordinary sheep-dog in two halves, take out
two-thirds of the back-bone and join the hind
legs on to the fore-ribs. Take a wild boar’s
head ; pricked ears and wiry coat, and give it
a dog-1 ke appearance and tack it on to the body;
put in great staring brown eyes and finish off
with a general outline of stupidity and cunning,
mixed with ferocity and good nature. He is
nearly of a square shape. The measurement of
the beast’s height at sbonlder is twenty-one
inches; nose to rump, twenty-four inches ;
shoulder to rump, fif.eeu inches ; length of
bead, nine inches. The leg-bones of this ani
mal are very large and bony in proportion to its
size. His manners are very peculiar. When
spoken to he does not seem to take any notice,
but simply stares up in a demon-like manner
into one's face with his great eyes ; he cannot
wag his tail—apparently he has no tail to wag-
but on examining his long, wiry coat he has a
curly, pig-like tail, about three inches long,
which turns sideways into the woolly coat. The
hind legs, although so long, cannot reach his
ears to scratch them-
Mr. Lemann introsted this curiously-deform
ed animal to Mr. Divy, the naturalist, to take
him down to Mr. Farini, ot the Westminster
Aquarium, for his professional opinion as a
showman.
D ivy says, the animal may be properly styled
“eighth living wonder of the world.” He re
ports that the animal is very docile, remarkably
strong, wonderfully keen-sighted at dusk, and
can see a cat a long distance off; he mas at very
great speed ; he is quite deaf but that is made
up for by very quick sigh*. Oa walking through
the streets, dogs take no notice of him, nor he
of them, bat cats and monkeys are bis great at
traction.
As Davy passed down the street he was liter
ally mobbed by the people ; the busmen drew
up to the pavement, and the cabs stopped to
look at hiiu. When at the Underground Rail
way the authorities compelled Davy to travel in
the brake on account of the ugliness of the
beast frightening the passengers. When going
down Regent street, the crowd was tremendons,
and the question “ What is it?” fell hot npon
D ivy on all sides. Being obliged to answer civ
illy, Mr. Divy coined a name for it, and called
it “ the hybrid from Cyprus.” Tas jeering and
London chaff was something wonderful. This
pleased the people, and didn’t hur; Davy.
Adventure with Wolves in Lithuania.
A friend who is out in Lithuania, wrote to tell
me of a very narrow escape he had ia the winter
from being torn in pieces by wolves, and I give
it in his own words :—‘I was staying at a friend’s
house when Madame B received the intelli
gence of her sister-in-law, Madame Kartell's ac
cident ; aud Natalie Kertoh, a girl of twelve, who
was staying at her aunt's, desired to go home to
see her mother at once. Our host was absent, go
1 offered to take the child back, and tue drosoh-
ky was turned out, the horses harnessed, aud we
turned in. We had not gone more than four
or five miles from the house before a sort of bu-
ran came on, a violent high wind accompanied
by snow, but it fortunately did not last long,
thongh it delayed us some little time ; and I
was glad to find when it was over that the horses
quickened their pace, but I noticed that our
driver looked alarmed, yet still urged the ani
mals on. I enquired the reason of this, aud
heard to my dismay, that he believed we were
followed by a pack of wolves —horses, he said,
could smell the danger a long way off. A short
time proved that his fears were correct, and the
horses rushed madly on, Ws fortunately bad
two guns, and I am, as you know, a fair shot;
but I still hoped that we should not come into
such close quarters with our pursuers as to ren
der it necessary to use them. The pack gained
on us, our horses began to flag, and the driver
called out ‘Fire !’ I obeyed, and for a moment
or so the wretches seemed to have received a
check, but on they came again. My little charge
screamed terribly. 'Shoot me—kill me!’ she
shrieked oat; ‘don’t let them tear me, and eat
me !’ And the thought did for the instant flash
across my mind that such a death as the poor
girl proposed would be preferable for us both ;
but matters had not become quite so desperate
yet Our driver gave the horses their heads—
how be secured the reius I know not, but his
bauds were at liberty—and he loaded one gttn.
as I fired the other. Each charge produced a
momentary check or pause, which was of course
iu our favor ; bat I doubt our ultimate escape
if, j ust as two of the foremost wolves were near
ly up with us, a company of horse-men, accom
panied by 6ome magnificent bounds, bad not
suddenly appeared on the scene. They were a
hunting party, headed by Prince , who,
having beard cf the ravages committed by this
very band of wolves, bad come out to seek for
them, and most providentially arrived on the
spot in time to save us from their fangs.’—[Land
and Water.
The Editorial and Telegraph fraternities of
Memphis suffered terribly from the epidemic.
Of twenty-five operators in the telegraph of
fice, eleven died. Mr. Putnam was the only
one of the old force who did not succumb to
the disease. Tne mortality among the employ
ees and their families was something terrible.
Of all those engaged in the production of the
Evening Ledger only one escaped, of the Ava
lanche four escaped, and of the Appeal only
two. Of the Ledger employees 4 died, of the
Avalanche 13. and of tbe Appeal 19 Of the
Ledger employees 9 convalesced to recovery, of
the Avalanche 10, and of the Appeal 21.
An Odessa newspaper states that the Govern
ment of Roumania has issued an order prohibiting
Jews from entering the country.
Servia.—Eugland, Italy and France have de
clared that they will not recognize the indepen
dence of Servia until the civil and political rights
of the Jews in Servia have been proclaimed.