unheard-of sufferings under the Bourbons for
the cause of liberty, and all thought they had
indisputable claim on the dictatorial government
for pensions or sinecures. After the
departure of Garibaldi, and during the Vice-
regency of Farini, our author witnessed a
disgraceful scene at the palace of the government.
A porter entered one of the private rooms, and
announced that a deputation from "the martyrs
of freedom" was in the hall, and wanted to see
Farini. He explained this singular designation
by saying that the persons referred to were the
patriots who had been either imprisoned or
persecuted by the Bourbons. They were shown
in to the governor-general, and courteously
asked what they required. "The martyrs, whose
messengers we are," answered the spokesman,
"request places in the government—every man
a place; but a lucrative one, and without delay."
Farini replied that he would consider their
cases, but he at the same time pleaded the
difficulty of finding room for so many applicants.
"Thereupon," says Count Arrivabene, "as if all
the martyrs, living and dead, not only of the
kingdom of Naples, but of all Italy, were
assembled in the room, there arose a chorus of
voices, shouting, 'Bread, bread! We are all
starving!'" Farini, in a mood between pity
and disgust, flung his purse towards the
supplicants, saying, "If it is only bread you want,
take this!" Our author witnessed the incident
from the door of the room; and, he adds, "it
was revolting to see how the miserable wretches,
changing at once from candidates for office into
downright beggars, clutched at the purse, tore
it from each other's hands, and seized upon the
few napoleons it contained, squabbling and
snatching, as if oblivious of the absent martyrs,
who were probably as hungry as themselves, but
who assuredly never had their share of Farini's
liberality." These men, it must be borne in
mind, all belonged to the well-to-do classes, and
therefore had not the excuse of dire necessity
which they feigned.

There are other forms of beggary in Naples,
less ignominious, perhaps, than this, but even
more annoying. The streets are so infested (or
at any rate were, until recently) with crowds of
horrible creatures soliciting alms, and sometimes
exhibiting malformations and the ravages of
disease, that locomotion, whether on foot or in a
carriage, becomes a difficult, painful, and
disgusting task. Relieve one of these professed
beggars, and you are a marked man; you are
followed from place to place by a buzzing swarm
of petitioners, and are even assailed outside the
windows of your hotel by such cries as
"Excellency—general—highness! we are dying of
hunger—we are dying of hunger!" In England
and in other countries, beggary is a trade; in
Naples it appears to be an art—a science.
The devices by which a traveller (especially an
English traveller) is annoyed, are multitudinous
in number, and wonderful in ingenuity. There
are half-naked beggars and well-dressed beggars;
gentlemanly beggars and priestly beggars. The
mendicant friars supply a large contingent. In
fact, mendicity approaches in so many shapes
that the foreigner may well be excused if he
doubts every man, woman, and child he meets.
And yet Naples has a magnificent central
workhouse, with a large annual income; but in the
time of the Bourbons the funds were
scandalously misappropriated, being divided amongst
the administrators and the political police. It
is to be hoped matters are now better.

The government deposed by Garibaldi, though
strong enough to imprison and torture all who
refuse to be its slaves, was powerless for good.
Its impotence in a matter of ordinary police
was strikingly shown in the rise of a society
of thieves and assassins, called the Camorra,
which was allowed to strike its roots so deep
that it has not yet been extirpated even by
the present government, notwithstanding the
strenuous efforts made with that view. The
society is composed of liberated convicts, minor
officials, and men connected with the police and
with the prisons. Its members keep a watch
on all persons from whom they think they can
extract anything, and by continued threats
impose such contributions as they please. During
the two last reigns they set the authorities
completely at defiance. They paid no custom-
house duties, and taxed the citizens in any way
they liked. They even extended their influence
over the jails, and forced the prisoners to buy
with cash, protection from annoyance and injury.
The government was at length roused into
taking some steps against so frightful an evil;
and the principal Camorristi were despatched to
the penitentiary island of Ponza. But, by a
piece of false liberalism in the days of June,
1860, when free institutions were proclaimed
with a sort of hysterical haste and vehemence,
in the vain hope of checkmating Garibaldi, the
Camorristi were allowed to return. They
affected to be great friends of liberty, and, in
that desecrated name, abandoned themselves to
the most horrible licence. "They smuggled,
and protected smugglers; they violated all moral
laws; they robbed openly; they used thieves
as their instruments, and committed deeds of
blood which remained unpunished, owing to the
cowardliness of the witnesses, who would not
depose against them, for fear of their lives."
Since the revolution, the evil has been in some
degree checked; but it still exists, and will
probably continue to exist until the whole people
have been educated in habits of industry and
order. When the Duke of Cajanello—an alleged
political offender—was in prison during the
administration of Commendatore Nigra, he used
to be met every Sunday, while taking his walk
in the lobby, by the chief of the Camorra, who
was there together with a crew of thieves and
assassins, and who, addressing him with the
greatest respect, would say: "Eccellenza, this
week you have been fined such and such a sum."
From twenty to thirty piastres a time, were thus
extracted from the pocket of his excellency,
who, had he refused the contribution, or
denounced the miscreants to the authorities, would
in all probability have been assassinated.