In 1858, however, we find him returning good for evil. In that year he was sent in his flagship, the Macedonian, with pressing orders to Syria, to investigate the murder of our missionaries there. Here he found an English frigate ashore, having on board her Majesty's Ambassador, Lord Stratford de Redcliffe and family, in the Gulf of Smyrna. With promptness, vigor and kindness he came to anchor, and remained with the distressed ship, the Curagoa, some days and nights, until she was again afloat. For this act he received the thanks of her Majesty's Government.

Commodore Levy is the author of the "Abolition of Flogging in the Navy," and to him we are indebted for the useful "Manual of Rules and Regulations for Ships of War," so serviceable at this time, when so many officers are taken from the merchant service, and employed temporarily in the regular

N the highroad from Lowminster to Chudleigh, just where the country is most barren and the wind most bleak, stands a small brick house black with age. It is the only thing which breaks the level country as far as the eye can see. The back windows look out on a dismal marsh and the front upon a wild common, covered with dwarf trees and furze; and at night you can see beyond it the lights of Lowminster, which is about half a mile distant. The house is said to have been built for a mad lord, who killed his keeper; and, after frightening away his servants, disappeared himself; and all search after him was ineffectual. Some said he had made away with himself in the marsh; but the old woman who was left to take charge of the deserted house whispered it about Lowminster that he was still concealed there. She declared that two figures-the lord, with his full black velvet cloak flying open, and the tall thin spectre of the murdered keeper always pursuing him--rushed through the desolate rooms, and up and down the wide stairs all night, filling the house with wild demoniac shrieks and laughter. Each of the long narrow windows was guarded by three bars of iron; most of the doors were lined with iron, and all the fastenings were of immense strength.

Perhaps this strength (added to the fact that he could have the house almost at his own price) was the chief reason that induced Mr. Gabriel Thirston, tax-collector of Lowminster, to purchase it, after it had stood empty for nearly fifteen years. But all Lowminster cried out against him, when it was made known that he really intended to shut up his bride-pretty Dorothy Spence-in the deserted and ill-famed house at Madman's Marsh. But a whole year passed without any of the evil prophecies being fulfilled. As for Dorothy, she loved every nook and corner of her new home; and, rambling and ng through the gloomy rooms, she seemed to dispel the musty air and fill them with sunshine; and for awhile sips of Lowminster were silenced. Towards the close of nd year, however, they broke out again. Mr. Thirston,

was now getting harsh and exacting; and Dorothy, when she came down to church, was observed to be paler and thinner every Sunday. Hannah, their servant, was closely questioned when she went to market at Lowminster; but she would only shake her head mysteriously, and answer, "The Lord knows where it will all end!" At last the rector's lady herself paid Dorothy a visit, to see if anything could be learnt from her; but all the news that she carried back to Lowminster was that the change in the husband was as great a mystery to the wife as to themselves. This poor Dorothy had let out in her anxiety, when her visitor began to talk in her mysterious way; and then the good lady took care to tell her of all the rumors that were afloat in the town.

It was on the evening of that same dreary November day that Dorothy sat, waiting tea for her husband, in the comfortable room that served them for parlor and nursery in one. It had been a trying afternoon, and she was rather glad that Gabriel was later than usual, for she wanted to get her mind quiet before he came home. As she sat in the low rockingchair, with her baby in her arms-her ears yet tingling with the Lowminster gossip, she resolved to speak to Gabriel that very night. She had done so once before, and been so repulsed as to be silenced for a long time. Now, however, she was determined to try him again. But her heart sunk within her, when at last the deep hollow-sounding bell in the great empty hall announced his return. Directly he came in, and apparently without noticing Dorothy or her loving preparations, Mr. Thirston swept a portion of the table clear with his arm, and getting his books and taking a bag of money from his pocket, sat down to his accounts. Dorothy made the tea, then stood watching him in the looking-glass over the mantelpiece. It might have been fancy, but it seemed to her that he was not so absorbed as he appeared to be in his work. His eyes darted restlessly about the room, and closed, as if in pain, every time they fell on her or the cradle of her child. Presently he looked up and said quickly

"Dorothy, I have to go to town to-night. I must be at Chudleigh station in an hour; just get me some things together."

She looked at him in amazement, but he was going on with bis accounts, and signed to her not to interrupt him. She wished he would speak again, for she could scarcely believe him in earnest. Never since they had been at Madman's Marsh had he left her a night alone in the house. She lit a candle, and went up-stairs to see about his things, and when she came down he was kneeling by the great massive chest on the landing, where the little iron cashbox was kept.

"How long shall you be away?" asked Dorothy.

"It's uncertain," he answered, shortly; "not more than two days, I should think; but I'm not sure how long I may be kept. You must be very careful; and, of course, not leave the house till I return. There's a good deal of money here."

The carpetbag was packed. He took it from her, wished her good-bye, and added

"Get to bed early; you look jaded and tired."

"I think I shall sit up," said Dorothy; "for I am sure I shall not sleep."

Gabriel paused at the door-then said

"You ought not to sit up. The light burning all night' might make people think that I was away, and you were waiting up alone. I think you had better not do anything unusual. Go round with Hannah and see her shut up carefully."

46

Dorothy said, " Very well," and followed him down-stairs, pale and trembling. Something seemed to whisper to her, 'Speak! In this minute you may change your whole future." Yet her lips seemed glued. When they reached the hall, she laid her hand on his arm.

"Gabriel, tell me; what business is this you are going on? Is it your own-I mean ours?'' "Yes."

"And you cannot tell me what?"

He hesitated; then turned with a sudden impulse, and, in an altered tone and manner, said:

"Dorothy, I cannot tell you more than this. I expect by the time we next meet to be relieved of a terrible weight that has been pressing upon me for months. Ask me no more."

"Dorothy!"

She bent eagerly down, and he whispered: "You know all ?"

"Yes."

"I thought to make a short cut to fortune, by using the funds in my hand to speculate in shares. But they fell greatly in value, and I had to pay incessant calls-and cover one deception by another, to conceal my deficiency, till-till- You know the rest."

He stopped and gasped for breath, and Dorothy murmured, "Hush, you must not speak now. Be still, till the doctor comes."

ing him from the entanglement of fiction in which they have been so ingeniously involved by romance writers. The discontent which led to Mas' Aniello's revolution was stirred up by the tyrannical and oppressive government of the Spanish Viceroy, the Duke d'Arcos. The Ferdinand of our time was not a greater tyrant than this rapacious Spanish duke. D'Arcos, it is true, did not take such peculiar delight in throwing his subjects into prison, and putting them to the torture; but he did what was almost as bad. He drained them of their hardly-earned wealth and gains by frequent impositions, and reduced both rich and poor to the greatest misery. Whenever the King of Spain wanted money, the Neapolitans were laid under contribution to supply him. The viceroy was utterly indifferent to the

"No, no," cried Dorothy, shuddering, and holding him down. "No one need know more than that you returned in the dead of night, when you were supposed to be miles away; and I, in my fright, fired on you. There is nothing to fear if you you live, Gabriel; but if-if you die, your death will be on my head, think of that! Oh, think of it, Gabriel."

"Dorothy, listen." He spoke slowly and with great difficulty, but not a word was lost by those straining ears. "I am going fast, but for God's sake don't let me leave yon with that horrible feeling on your mind. Try to feel, as I do now, glad that you have saved me from the completion of my crime, and from a life of misery and shame. Promise me, Dorothy, that you will try."

She answered nothing, but buried her face in his breast. and wept bitterly. Presently he gasped out, in a kind of hoarse breathing, "Tell me some prayer, Dorothy. I forget all." She lifted her head, and taking his hand, and trying to steady her voice, she repeated a little, simple prayer, and he repeated the words after her like a child. He prayed for the soul that was to struggle yet on earth; she for that which was leaving it; yet it was like one prayer for one soul.

When Hannah and the doctor at last arrived, they found Gabriel Thirston dead, and Dorothy sitting at his side with a smile of strange beauty on her face. She knew that the soul had left the body, but she could not think it had left her-she seemed to feel his presence still. The love of their first days together bad returned at last.

People pitied her when they heard what they did hear of her sad story, little dreaming of all that was kept locked in her own and Hannah's faithful breast. When, her son had grown up, and gone forth into the world, she and Hannah lived alone in the old house; and it was rumored in Lowminster that, every 16th of November, Dorothy spent the night praying by herself on that desolate landing. On the morning after one of these nights, old Hannah saw her there asleep, she thought; and she covered her over, and sat down by her to watch her till she awoke. But soon, the sun shining in upon her face through the narrow barred window, showed her that Dorothy would wake She was dead!

no more.

MAS' ANIELLO, THE FISHERMAN OF NAPLES. NEARLY two hundred years ago there took place in Naples a revolution, as sudden, as decisive, and, for a time, as complete, as that which has recently been effected by the daring genius of Garibaldi. Then, as in our day, the Neapolitans groaned under the yoke of foreign rulers, and then, as now, they found a deliverer in a man of the people. Garibaldi was the captain of a small merchant vessel; Mas' Aniello was of a kindred trade, for he was a fisherman. Of Garibaldi's revolution contemporary historians have chronicled the most minute particulars. We know all about it. Of Mas' Aniello history has taken little note. We scarcely regard him as a personage of real life. Though barely two centuries have passed, since he ruled in Naples, his life and exploits are as fabulous as those of the heroes of ancient Greece. Some historians have passed him over altogether. Alison dismisses him with a passing reference. Thus, in default of faithful chronicles of his time, Mas'Aniello

ing when they declared their inability to pay. These exactions fell with peculiar hardship upon the lower classes, the great majority of whom were vendors of fruit, fish and vegetables, a special tax having been imposed upon all such merchandise. Such were the sufferings of the lower classes, in consequence of these imposts, that many perished from want, and that too in the midst of plenty. The patience of the people could not endure this long, and at length they rose and menaced the viceroy. One Saturday, as he was proceeding to celebrate a religious festival, the mob surrounded him in the street, and demanded a remission of their burdens. The viceroy, alarmed by their determined looks, promised them redress, and was allowed to pass on. The promise, however, was never performed, and the popular discontent once more broke loose. All that the outraged populace now wanted was a leader; and they soon found one.

"In the Quartiere del Mercato, the Wapping of Naples, there dwelt a young man. He was twenty-four years old, and married, full of wit and drollery; of a middling stature, and rather thin than fat. His eyes were black; he had two little brown moustaches; he wore neither shoes nor stockings; his dress was composed of short linen trousers; a thick shirt and a sailor's red cap on his head. But his aspect was beautiful and animated, and as vivacious as possible. His business was to catch little fish with a rod and line; and to buy fish and carry them to sell in some parts of this quarter of the town, which business is in Naples called Pescivendali. His name was Tomaso Angello D'Amalfi ; in the Neapolitan idiom called Mas' Aniello." The above is a pen-and-ink portrait of the fisherman patriot by a Neapolitan author of the time.

It does not appear that Mas' Aniello took a leading part in the rebellion at its beginning, though he conceived dreams of liberating his country, and was known in his own district to hold strong opinions. Beneath the window of his poor hovel was an old fountain, ornamented with the name and arms of Charles V., who had governed wisely and mildly, and the fisherman was wont to say in his joking humors that he was destined to restore to the city the favors and privileges granted by that good monarch. It seems, however, that his name was chiefly the cause of his being singled out by the people as their leader. A hundred years previously, a rising had taken place in Naples, to resist the cruelties of the Inquisition established by Philip II., and this revolt was successfully headed by a man named Mas'Aniello. The coincidence was, consequently, thought to be` a good omen.

At the time when the viceroy proposed to substitute a duty on corn and oil in lieu of the gabella on fruit and vegetables, Mas'Aniello's fish were taken from him in the market-place on the plea that he had not paid the duty. Enraged at this, Mas'Aniello flew to a church in the neighborhood where a notorious captain of banditti had claimed sanctuary, and explained what had happened.

"I will either be hung or set the city to rights," cried the fisherman, in a burst of fury. The bandit langhed.

"Do not laugh," cried Mas' Aniello, "had I two or three of my humor, by heaven! I would show what I could do." "What would you do?" asked the robber.

"Will you be with me?" was the fisherman's reply. "Yes."