"A chiel's amang ye taking notes, and 'faith
he'll prent it!" They reconnoitre the ground
in various detachments for the Commissary,
and report the movements, words, and almost
thoughts, of the "suspected," or of whomsoever
they please to place upon that fatal list.
They assume no distinctive dress–––make no
sign; they walk in darkness, and move like the
pestilence, yet they are as real existences, and
follow as precise a trade, as the vendor of
maccaroni. These spies are not sent forth at
random, like gleaners in a wheat-field, to pick
up whatever they can; but they are selected
with caution, and assigned a position for
which their talents or rank best fit them.
Thus it happens that every grade of society
has its appropriate and peculiar spies. Some
are appointed to watch over the upper classes;
some over the canaglia; some over the
clergy; all watch each other. Enter a drawing-
room, and rustling in satin, and distributing
the courtesies and refinements of the galleria
(drawing-room), you may behold a Government
Spy. Beauty and refinement unite to
lament the fate of the poor Marchese Maroni,
who was arrested yesterday; nay, two crystal
drops confirm the grief of the sympathising
syren–––"It was so hard a case. There was
really nothing that could be proved against
his Eccellenza. Alas! who is safe under the
existing order of things–––is there no hope–––
will there never be any change?" But beware
fall not into the meshes, though they
may be woven of silk; be silent or indifferent;
the very iips which pronounced these
commiserations, are those which a few hours ago
denounced the subject of them to the Government.
You adjourn, at the close of the Opera,
to a cafe; you are accompanied by several
friends, and feel disposed to relax over a glass
of iced punch 'tis so hot and then from one
topic of conversation you range to another,
as if you were breathing the air of liberty.
But who is that sleek old gentleman opposite,
whose keen and cunning eye glances
occasionally at you from above his paper? He
has been seated there, I know not how long,
spelling rather than reading yesterday's paper;
yet he has a benevolent expression of
countenance; perhaps he is infirm, poor fellow, or
Is looking for an advertisement; perhaps some
article has deeply interested him. Phaugh!
waste not your compassion or your speculation
upon him–––he is a Spy! he has been taking
notes, and woe be to you if you have been
betrayed into any thoughtless expression of
opinion; for every word is registered. What
corner of the city, or the country, what class
of society is free from this pest! Nor is all
this merely imaginary. I paint from the life,
and could adduce instances of betrayal in the
belle of high society, or in the shopman at
the counter, in the caburan who takes your
paltry buonamancia, or the friend you have
cherished in your bosom.

For even private friendship is not held sacred.
There was living in Naples, upwards of a year
since, a Count Montinona, who appeared to
have no particular object in view except the
pursuit of pleasure. For many years he had
lavished his bounty and his friendship on
another, who was at length discovered to
have made somewhat free with the Count's
property; accusations ensued, and, though
compassion and a certain lingering
recollection of the past did not permit the Count
to cast the villain entirely off"; yet he so far
restricted his intimacy as to put it out of his
power to rob him–––"he was poor, and the
temptation had been too great!" But what
ensued?–––This man denounced his friend as
having concealed arms, and as entertaining
free and dangerous opinions. Straightway
the Count was arrested–––his house and papers
were examined, though nothing could be found
to implicate him or to prove the charge; yet
for many, many months he pined away in
prison. I never heard when he was released,
or if he is yet at liberty. All that time the
informer ranged about at his own sweet will,
to entrap as many new jail victims as he
could make.

The eifect of the Spy System on the national
character is exceedingly demoralising. There
is no country in Europe where the low, secret
vices, as opposed to those of a bolder, opener,
and more ferocious character, exist so strongly
ao in the South of Italy. There, the result of
that timidity and want of faith in what is good,
and just, and true, which has been engendered
by intrigue, is practised in its most comprehensive
sense. The Secret Police system is one
of the very many causes of this. To appreciate
this thoroughly, you must regard it as being
not merely a political institution, but as
having now become national; people have
followed the example which has been set
them, and have all become spies spies on
each other's actions, words, and thoughts.
Sometimes this habit is pursued to the extent
only of simple curiosity, watching, investigating,
and reporting the commonest trifles.
Sometimes it is a little more malignant, and
engages, almost as a pastime, in embroiling
individuals or families. Sometimes it pushes
further, and furnishes denunciations to the
Priest, the Bishop, the Intendente, or the
Minister. I have seen it under all its phases,
and the effect has been to produce a want of
faith in all that is high, generous and noble,
and to form a low national character.

It is more ridiculous and annoying than can
well be imagined, to get behind the scenes of
Italian life, and listen to the daily gossip:
How such an one "ha fatto un' ricorso" against
this or that person. How Don So and So has
written certain letters to the Intendente,
containing charges against another Don, and has
forged two signatures. How So and So has
been to the bishop and laid a long list of
crimes at the door of some luckless priest.
Then watch the tempest of official papers
which fly through the air; some contain
inquiries into the truth of the statements,