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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.