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 café--or the church--there he is: “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 lips 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 café; 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