This artificial isolation too is increased by a sort of general apathy and almost universal ignorance, which are characteristic of all classes in Rome. How far this intellectual apathy is caused by, or causes, the material isolation of the city, would be a curious question to determine. The existence, however, of this fact, which none acquainted with Rome will question, constitutes one of the chief difficulties in ascertaining accurate information about facts. The most intelligent and the most liberal amongst the Romans (the two terms are there synonymous) never seem to know the value of positive facts, and even in matters susceptible of proof prefer general statements. Then, too, the absence of social meetings, or means of intercourse, is one of the most striking features about Roman society. There is no public life, no current literature, little even of free conversation. Of course, among the English and foreign residents there are plenty of parties and gaieties of every kind. At these parties you meet a few Anglicised Italians, who have picked up a little of our English language and a good deal of our English dress. The nobility of Rome who come into contact with the higher class of English travellers give a good number of formal receptions, but amongst the middle and professional classes there is very little society at all. The summer is the season for what society there is, but even then there is but little. There are no saloons in the Roman theatres, and the miserable refreshment-rooms, with their bars even more shabby and worse provided than our English ones, are, as you may suppose, not places of meeting. Even at the Opera there seemed to be little visiting in the boxes. With the exception of the strangers' rooms, there are no reading- rooms or clubs in Rome, if I may exclude from this category a miserable _Gabinetto di Lettura_, chiefly frequented by priests, and whose current _lettura_ consisted of the _Tablet_, the _Univers_, the _Armonia_, and the _Courier des Alpes_. The only real places of meeting, or focuses of news, are the cafes. At best, however, they are _triste_, uncomfortable places. There is no cafe in all Rome equal to a second-rate one in an ordinary French provincial town. There are few newspapers, little domino playing, and not much conversation. The spy system is carried to such an extent here, that even in private circles the speakers are on their guard as to what they say, and still more as to what they repeat. As an instance of this, I may mention a case that happened to me personally. On the morning before the demonstrations at the Porta Pia a Roman gentleman, with whom I was well acquainted, wished to give me information of the proposed meeting, of which, it happened, I was well aware; but though we were alone in a room together, the nearest approach on which my friend ventured to a direct information, which might be considered of a