happy as a citizen, or a docker, or working at a machine all his life in a crowded factory. Would any one of us be happy? Of course not. Education lifts men into a different sphere, gives them different ideas of pleasure, different standards of comfort. One can think of no more exquisite torture for an educated man than to send him to live on eighteen shillings a week in a court in Whitechapel, working ten hours a day at making, say, French nails. He would blow his brains out, poor fellow, and we could hardly blame him; or, more probably, he would get a few hundred others, similarly situated, together, throw up a barricade and fight savagely for life and plunder, as happens every ten years in France. If his rage and fury at the misery within him had not robbed him of his reason, he would specially direct his attentions to philanthropic School Board agitators, and hang them one after another on the lamp-posts along the Strand or Whitechapel Road. But we cannot be expected to believe that all the workers-the vast majority of the British nation, in fact-are in this condition of shocking, horrible misery. If the philanthropist would have us so believe, we must beg respectfully to decline. The thing is impossible, or it could not have gone on for the last fifty years without a revolution. People would have killed themselves by thousands rather than endure it. No moral or legal or religious restriction would have sufficed to prevent them. If, on the other hand, it be maintained that they have only refrained from doing this from sheer dulness and stupidity, and that as soon as it penetrates to their slow minds they will die like flies, we must again take leave to doubt it. We believe there is a vast amount of dull, contented happiness among the working classes, and we cannot see what good will be done by robbing us or them of that

belief. Of course happiness is largely a matter of belief and of temperament, and doubtless if you tell people they ought to be miserable, often enough they will begin to be miserable, or at least uncomfortable. At present the working class is happy enough-far happier, we suspect, than the brain-laborers, with whom a certain measure of melancholy seems to be chronic.

What, then, is the good of teaching them either languages or science and unfitting them for manual labor? Do let us remember that brain-labor is a luxury, and poets are a luxury, and gentlemen are a luxury, and art, science, philosophy, luxuries. Whereas bread and boots and pins and French nails are a necessity, and without butchers and bakers the world could not go on a day. There can be bread without philosophy, but we cannot be philosophers if there are no bakers to feed

us.

We

Let us, therefore, not interfere recklessly with nature's supply of bakers and tillers of the soil, and Heaven will send us enough philosophers. If people are too highly educated to plough, the world must starve. This, it must be remembered, will prove no bar to the rise of great talent or genius. Genius has forced its way to recognition before now despite of lowly birth and small opportunities. One might instance countless names. do not wish to keep any one down. All we protest against is the pulling of every one up-by the roots, as it seems to us. The same problem is agitating France which is troubling us, and M. Taine, in the Revue des Deux Mondes, has put it forward from the French standpoint with all the force of his pen. When we have no laborers and no artisans and no bakers and no domestic servants, we may perhaps begin to realize our error; but not, we suppose, till then.-Saturday Review.

SOME sixty or seventy years ago King Ferdinand of Naples commissioned an English officer to put down and destroy the secret societies with which the province of Apulia was infested. This English officer, General Church, was invested with full powers to try, condemn, and execute all such offenders. He has left behind him some curious accounts of his experience in fulfilling this mission, and from his unpublished papers is drawn the following account of the life and capture of the most remarkable among the brigand chiefs of the time.

Ciro Annichiarico was a priest, and sometimes exercised the functions of a priest in the midst of his blood-stained career. We hear of his celebrating Mass before starting on some wild expedition, and he complained of the Mission priests

"that they did not preach the pure Gospel, but disseminated illiberal opinions among the peasants." At the same time he was cruel, sparing neither age nor sex; his life was openly immoral, and he boasted of his infidel opinions. When he lay under sentence of death, one of these same good Mission priests came to exhort him to repentance. "Let alone this prating," answered Don Ciro, with a sneer; we are of the same profession, don't let us make game of one another!"

General

As to his personal appearance, Church says: "He was a good horseman, and a capital shot; strong and vigorous as a tiger, and equally ferocious; his countenance was bad; he had large features, a very ordinary face, and never without a sinister expression, quite unlike the manly countenance of Don Gaetano

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Vardarelli'' (another brigand chief). "His eyes were small and of a reddish hue; his hair dark, thick, and bushy; he had shaggy eyebrows, and a short, rather turned-up nose." The General adds "Ciro had friends and protectors in all the towns and villages of the province of Lecce, and had the effrontery at times to show himself in broad daylight apparently unaccompanied. He was a perfect Proteus in his disguises-as a woman, as a beggar, as a priest, as friar, as an officer, as a gendarme. His usual dress was of velveteen, highly laced, with many rows of buttons, and belts in every direction, and he was always armed with pistols and stiletto, carbine or rifle. He always carried poison with him, in a small case, within a red pocket-book. He also always wore several silver chains, to one of which was attached the silver death's-head, the badge of the secret society, the Decisi, which he had founded, and of which he was the recognized head -that terrible society, whose first condition of admission into its ranks was that the candidate must have committed two murders with his own hand, and whose decrees and patents were written in blood. On his breast he wore rows of relics, crosses, images of saints, and amulets against the Evil Eye. His head-dress was a high-peaked drab-colored hat, adorned with gold band, buckle, and tall black feather, and his fingers were covered with rings of great value."

Ciro Annichiarico was born of well-to-do parents, in Grottaglia, one of the little white towns which stud the green plain of Francavilla. He was early destined to the priesthood by his relations, who were quiet, respectable people, of the farming class mostly, though one of his uncles was a canonico, and " a man of learning, who never took any part in the crimes of his nephew." The first time we hear of Ciro he has stabbed a young girl of Grottaglia, betrothed to a fellow-townsman, Giuseppe Molotesi. Ciro, though already a priest, waylaid the poor girl, and on her scornful rejection of his addresses, murdered her, and afterward murdered young Molotesi, his sister, and three brothers. This was in 1803.

The only member of the Molotesi family left alive was a little boy, who was hidden away by a faithful servant in his own desolate house, and who grew up

there, barred and bolted in, never once, for fifteen years, venturing to stir outside the door. The child grew to be a man. One day friends came to him, not as they were wont, with gentle tappings and passwords, before the fast-bolted door would open to admit them, but in broad daylight, exulting, saying that he was free, that the murderer of his family was dead, that he could come forth and breathe the fresh air of heaven. But the pale captive shrank back, fearing it was some snare laid for him, and refused to cross the threshold of his door. At last he was persuaded to creep out, trembling, dazzled by the sunlight, to go to the town-gate, and to look upon the ghastly head exposed there in an iron cage. There he stood, poor creature, half dazed at first, then breaking into wild tears and laughter, throwing himself on his knees to thank the Madonna and all the. saints for his deliverance, then running off to the General's quarters to thank him too.

For the murder of the Molotesi, Ciro was condemned to fifteen years' imprisonment in chains; but in four years' time he had escaped, and betaken himself to the mountains, where he gathered round him a band of ruffians and outlaws, and became the terror of the neighborhood. "Justification" which he sent to the Royal Commission appointed in 1817 to act against the brigands, the wolf thus complains of the hard measure dealt to him by the shepherds of the flock:

In a

"The priest Ciro Annichiarico, of the town of Grottaglia, learns with surprise that the Commission . . demands the reason why Ciro Annichiarico resides out of his native country.' He proceeds to protest his innocence of the crimes laid against him, "feeling within me no tumult which reproaches me with having ever acted against reason, or offended against the sacred laws of virtue and honor ;" and adds that in consequence of cruel persecutions, he had for years dwelt among the wild beasts, living by the compassion of peasants and shepherds, or on the wild fruits! But his conscience is at peace, though "the blame of every disturbance falls on him, and whenever robberies or murders are committed, it is put down to the abate Ciro Annichiarico !" He adds:

"When the glorious Bourbon dynasty returned and benignly determined to recall from

exile those who had been banished from society, I presented myself to the authorities, and obtained leave to dwell at Bari under police supervision, and the most pleasing hopes arose within me of living at rest, in social order. I reflected on the obligations imposed upon me by my sacred profession, and determined to join the College of Mission Priests

at Bari. I was on the point of doing this, when the thunderbolt burst upon me; I was secretly informed that my arrest was or dered, and I vanished, and betaking myself to my old haunts, recommenced a wretched and savage life.

"Circumstances invited me to crime and

vengeance: the feelings of nature and religion recalled me to duty. I learned with horror from the shepherds that brigands infested the mountains, and the account of their outrages made my heart bleed. I determined to help my fellow-creatures, and hoped one day to undeceive the Government about the calumnies heaped upon me. I came forth from my cavern, and took the road to Martina.

I

can say with truth that the roads are now safe, that the traveller journeys without fear; the farmhouses stand open, the shepherd sings as he leads his flock to the pasture."

Let us turn to the real story of Ciro's life and ways.

He had escaped, as has been said, after four years' imprisonment, and had gone to the mountains. After awhile, General Ottavio, a Corsican, was sent to put down brigandage, which had become troublesome, in Apulia; and he set about it by offering an amnesty and pension to Ciro if he would reside at Bari, forsaking his evil ways, and becoming a peaceful citizen. 'It was a disgrace to the Government," says General Church, in his account of the affair; but General Ottavio was mightily pleased with his short and easy method of turning the wolf into the lamb, and at Francavilla a meeting took place, articles were signed, and Ciro became, indeed, the pet-lamb of the fold. But it did not last long. He tired of captivity, in spite of riding and dining with the General, who greatly delighted in his company; and the story of his escape recalls one of those old tales which were our childhood's delight.

One fine day General Ottavio and Ciro Annichiarico were strolling together, outside the walls of Bari, accompanied by some officers of the General's suite. Presently the General's horses were brought out for their usual exercise, and Ciro, who had been amusing the company with stories of wild adventures and hairbreadth escapes, interrupted himself to commend the horses, of which the General was vast

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ly proud; among others there was a gray which, saddled and bridled, was brought up by a groom for his master's morning ride. Yes, 'tis a good horse-you shall try him, and give me your opinion of him," said the General; but Ciro modestly excused himself; he was growing stiff, he was out of practice. Yet, if his Excellency insisted-and after much pressing, the abate obeyed, and mounted, rode a few paces, and would have dismounted, but at the General's repeated request took another turn, walked, trotted, galloped, and returned full of praises of the gallant gray. He had never ridden a better horse !

General Ottavio was pleased, but not satisfied. He must have Don Ciro's opinion upon a horse from Conversano; he must know if it would be safe to bet on the speed of the Conversano. The races would soon be coming off, and he knew no man whose judgment would be so good as the abate's. So Ciro obligingly consented to mount again, riding a little way, and returning to the gate where the General and his officers stood watching him. He was met with an indignant protest. "But this is nothing, nothing at all! You have grown lazy, Don Ciro; you must have a gallop out of him, or how can you give an opinion?" Don Ciro seemed strangely apathetic. Good living and comfortable quarters had taken the fire out of him apparently still, to please his host, he consented and galloped off, taking a wider circuit, flashing along the white road which crossed the wide plain, lost to sight for the moment among the olive-woods, then returning at full speed, and declaring that it was an excellent horse, and fleet-though not perhaps quite so fleet as some among the General's stud. Yet a good horse, an excellent horse."

"Ah, you are thinking of my Andalusian. I am told he is five times as fleet as

Conversano. What do you say ?"

Don Ciro looked at the tall dark chestnut and shook his head. No, no, your Excellency. Conversano would match that horse any day. But I will try him." So the Conversano was led back to his stable in the town, and the saddle and bridle were put upon the Andalusian. The General handed a whip to Ciro, saying,

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Andate, andate! presto, presto!" and off he went, tearing along the road till he

reached the turn to Brindisi.

Some of the officers looked at one another significantly, but only for a few moments. Ciro reappeared, at full speed, and was soon among them again, loudly declaring that he preferred Conversano as a riding-horse a thousand times.

"Bah! bah!" answered General Ottavio, " any one can see that the Andalusian is the swifter of the two; you are prejudiced, signore abate, because the race of Conversano is the glory of Apulia. The chestnut is a little fat and lazy, that's all. You should have made more use of the whip!"

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Whip, your Excellency? There was no need of a whip! I rather needed a second pair of arms, ," said Don Ciro, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "The brute! Madonna mia, but he has nearly pulled my arms out of their sockets!" and he dismounted with apparent difficulty, rubbing the said arms, and muttering that the horse must be surely possessed by the devil, and that he should not be able to mount again for a month at leasts at which his Excellency and the officer, laughed uproariously.

So the Andalusian was led away, but General Ottavio was not satisfied. He was determined to have Don Ciro's opinion upon a thoroughbred English mare, of a bright bay color, which he had just bought. "Come, Don Ciro," he said, coaxingly, "what do you say to it? One turn more, just one little turn!"

Impossible, your Excellency-really impossible: I am dead !''.

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Come, signore abate, I must have you try the mare. Can it be the redoubtable Don Ciro Annichiarico, the first of horsemen, who refuses me ?"

"Pardon me, your Excellency. I am not the man I was. In truth, you must

"One more trial, my friend. Only one more! She has cost me 200 English guineas, hard cash, and I have set my heart on having your opinion."

Very reluctantly Don Ciro allowed himself to be persuaded, rubbing his aching arms, and after a short turn, begging to be allowed to dismount; but yielding to renewed entreaties, he took off his hat, bowed low, and saying, 66 At your Excellency's commands," was soon flying along the road, followed by the cheers of the spectators. Soon he had turned the cor

ner of the road that led to Brindisi. Is it necessary to add that General Ottavio never saw his English mare again?

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He did see Don Ciro once again, however, and it was on this wise: He was still in charge of the district, and was making some attempt to pursue some brigands. One day he was placidly walking in his garden alone when a man, armed at all points, sprang over the wall and confronted him. It was Ciro Annichiarico. "You and I have met before," he said; you remember me, General? Pray don't be frightened. Your life is in my hands, but I will let you off this once for old acquaintance' sake. Only remember that I shall not be so lenient another time, and leave off hunting after me in this furious fashion ! Addio! A thousand greetings. Addio!" and so saying he leaped back over the wall and disappeared, and we may be sure that General Ottavio took the hint!

When he was on his trial, Don Ciro was asked how many murders he had committed. "Chi lo sa?" he answered, coolly. "Sixty or seventy, perhaps !" One of these murders made a special impression on General Church. He not only relates the circumstances at length, but refers to it again and again. No wonder it did make an impression not to be effaced on the mind of the chivalrous, kindly Englishman !

The old feudal castle of Martano, he says, stands above the picturesque little town of the same name, and overlooks a magnificent view. There, across the blue waves, you see the opposite coast, and the Albanian mountains beyond, while nearer at hand stretch green plain, olive-woods, vineyards, as far as Otranto, fourteen miles away. This old castle belonged to the Princess of Martano, a beautiful orphan girl some twenty years of age, sole mistress of great wealth and fair estates, dwelling among her own people, in the home of her ancestors, adored by those around her, fair and innocent, happy and fearless-why should she be otherwise?

Many suitors had she, but to none of them had she a word to say, laughingly declaring that the care of her own people, the company of her little cousin (an orphan boy of seven or eight years old), the kind guidance of her old chaplain and of her duenna-both distantly related to her and both devoted to her-filled up all her time