arn, the desire for
Italian unity does not penetrate very low down. It is the desire, I
freely grant, of all the best and wisest Italians, but scarcely, I
suspect, the wish of the Italian people. In truth, Italy at this moment
is very much what Great Britain would be, if Scotland, Ireland, Wales and
the States of the Saxon Heptarchy had remained to this day separate petty
kingdoms, ruled by governments who fostered and developed every local and
sectional jealousy. The broad fact, that for some weeks at Rome we were
in utter ignorance whether there had been a revolution or not in the
capital of the frontier kingdom, not thirty miles away, and should have
been quite surprised if we had learnt anything about the matter, is a
sufficient commentary on our state of isolation.

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 seeme