inspection of the Police. Don Roberto was sure
that the visit was meant for his mortal enemy,
Don Giuseppe; whereas the master of the
favourite "Cantino" was equally sure that it
must be for his rival who sold such acid wine,
and permitted scenes in his shop enough to
awaken the anger of the Saints. He always
thought he was a Carbonaro!

The Commissary, on his arrival, sent for the
Syndic.

"Pray, Signor Syndic," he said, "is there a
foreigner residing here, called Don
Ferdinand?" (every one is Don, in Naples.)

"Yes!" was the reply.

"And pray, Sir, what is the object of his
residence here?"

"I understand, Signor Commissario, that
he is in search of health and amusement."

"Ah! very good: health and amusement.
And what may be his occupations?"

"They do say, Sir, that he is engaged much
in reading and writing."

"Reading and writing! Yet in search of
health and amusement," said the official,
opening his eyes. "That's a curious combination;
but tell me, has Don Ferdinand any
intercourse with the inhabitants? does he
ever invite any of them to dinner?"

"I must confess," said the Syndic, "that
he does."

"Then it is true, that Don Ferdinand
proposes toasts after dinner?"

"Well," replied the Syndic, as if such an
admission would be fraught with danger.
"I cannot deny it–––he does propose toasts."

"What are they?" asked the great official,
sharply.

"His usual practice is, first, to propose
the health of our Sovereign Lord the King,
and then the health of his Sovereign Lady,
the Queen."

Not without disappointment at having made
out nothing serious against Don Ferdinand,
our Commissary dismissed the Syndic, merely
observing that he had taken note of all his
answers, and should draw up his report there-
from, and present it to the Minister of Police.

After that, the Commissary of the Police
came twice to my friend's residence, and put
a number of searching questions to his
porter. Nothing, however, came of these
investigations; first, because there was
nothing really alarming in the fact of a man
reading and writing, and giving toasts; and,
secondly, and perhaps more strongly, because
Don Ferdinand was an Englishman; for there
is a prestige attaching to the very name of
an Englishman which attracts to him the
respect of the people and a cautious deferential
treatment on the part of the Governments.
It is felt, that, however distant he may be
from his native land, he is not beyond its
protective power, and that any injustice done
to him will be resented as an injustice done to
the nation. It is this conviction which has
been his security in circumstances where I
have known the subjects of other States
arrested, imprisoned, or sent out of the country,
without receiving the protection of their
Governments.

The Commissary is eminently a night-bird;
sometimes you see him with "measured step
and slow," followed by his Myrmidons, stealing
along under the dark shadows of the houses,
like a cat treading; or, perchance, you are
returning home through the silent streets,
carelessly and thoughtlessly, when, at some dark
corner, you find yourself confronted by this
spectre. He listens for and pauses at every
foot-fall, waits about in entries, stops at doors,
watches the lights in houses, and, like a true
inductive philosopher, from such simple facts
–––as seeing two or three lights, more or less,
or a larger group of heads than usual, infers
conspiracies most dreadful and dangerous to
the State. Presently a Commissary is seen
bustling along with his attendants, with a
quick and eager step. He is not on a mission
of inspection–––oh, no–––that cheerful prompti-
tude indicates that game's a-foot, and that
something is to be done. And now he
stops before a house and knocks aloud
"Who is there?"–––demands some one from
within. "Open in the name of the law!"
is the reply. What consternation do these
words create; lights are gleaming and people
are hurrying backwards and forwards, but the
knocking continues and becomes louder, and
the door is opened, and the unfortunate master
of the house is dragged from his bed to be
plunged into the dungeons of the Vicaria.
His neighbour, luckier than he, had timely
notice of the honour intended him by the
Commissary; and, escaping over the roof of his
house, was enabled to get on board some
friendly vessel. Their crime you ask? That of
hundreds of others who are eating the bread of
penury in exile, or pining in loathsome
dungeons–––they had taken part in the movements
which preceded the publication of the
"Constitution" (yet an article of that "Constitution"
says, that "a veil of oblivion shall rest
upon the past"). They had, in short, assisted
in the development of a Constitution which I
saw the Majesty of Naples swear on the
Gospels to observe.

I know no better type than certain noxious
insects for the myrmidons of the Commissary
–––the Police Spies of the South of Italy.
Their multitude, their ubiquity, their
unwearied perseverance, their sharp sting, make
them worse than the whole insect tribe
united, and infinitely more dangerous. You
may crush the wasp, or smoke the mosquito,
or brush away the ant, and get some intervals
of repose in spite of renewed attacks;
they give you, too, some warning signs of
their approach–––but the Police Spy is
invisible and never out of hearing; whether
you are relaxing in frank and thoughtless
merriment, or abandoning yourself to the
sweet and delicious dreams of friendship;
in the market or the street–––the drawing-
room–––the cafe–––or the church–––there he is: