demeanour, will you come with us, as we make "a course" in our white-lined carriage up and down the scene of festivity?

It is one of the last days of the Carnival, up to which the general spirit and brilliancy of affairs have gradually increased. To-day, many new carriages, and more romantic "cars" have appeared, with new devices, and new costumes. Here comes one, containing a party all attired to represent different flowers. The general effect of daffodil, rose, daisy, and poppy, is managed most ingeniously. In another, each occupant bears a large heartsease as a badge, and pelts with nothing but bouquets composed of those flowers. Again, here is the most picturesque of all, a long, open car, containing a group of Bedouin Arabs, standing or reclining majestically under the shelter of a tall palm tree.

We drive along, now quickly, now slowly, pelting and being pelted from carriages, balconies, and pedestrians, recognizing our friends every now and then, and thereupon giving and receiving charges of bon-bons and pretty bouquets. Does not the line of the Corso look well?-the tall white houses, deep in shade, except their tops, which are shining in "radiance most absolute; occasional spears of light from that same radiance breaking in at openings in the street, and falling upon the decorated balconies with their picturesque occupants, on the motley crowd below, or glancing on the helmets and swords of the dragoons, as at regular intervals they patrol the course? This open space at the end, where all the carriages career round and turn-the Piazza del Popolo-is now a perfect sea of sunshine, into which we plunge as into a bath. Here there is glittering of bayonets and shining of swords and helmets; and white dominoes and coloured trimmings, bright flowers, beaming faces, and everything most gay and brilliant looks its gayest and brightest. In truth, our eyes are almost blinded by excess of radiance. There is the fountain under the Pincian Hill sparkling in the sunlight, and the terrace-road winding up to the gardens gleams whitely bare, and the grave Michael Angelo gate with groups about it, of soldiers and country people, and the obelisk in the centre of the Piazza, rising straightly into the air, and the dark green of the trees in the Pincian Garden high up above the terraced-road, and the blue sky beyond and above all; and everything quivering in this intense light, and blending into one lustrous picture from which it is quite a strange sensation to turn into the deep shadow of the Corso, with its glancing lights, and glowing colours, and life, and movement, and sound. There are waves of music ever and anon rushing up and breaking in on the perpetual noise of voices, laughter, queer Carnival cries, and the loud importunities of the innumerable flowermerchants who, fearless in the pursuit of business, dart about everywhere, under the horses' feet, between the carriage wheels, with their urgent "Ecco fiori-ecco fiori! M'sieur, volet-Signori, 'vuol fiori? Tre paoli due e mezz-due-uno!" &c., &c.

Now recommences the exchange of bouquets between inmates of carriages and balconies, and occasional sharp engagements with confetti;

besides, every now and then, the double line of carriages will be stationary for awhile, in consequence of some stoppage farther down, and then encounters, varying in friendliness according to the disposition of the several parties, will take place with great spirit between the two carriages which happen to be abreast. Sometimes, a perfect hail of confetti is mischievously exchanged. Oftener, the war begins with flowers, then sugar-plums, then bunches of violets, then decorated bon-bons; and the battle ends with a final salute of a charming bouquet of camellias, elaborately arranged in embossed paper, which same bouquets are almost invariably stolen from us immediately afterwards by those adroit little banditti, who, as we have seen before, keep a preternaturally sharp look-out for such things, and will leap on to the carriage-step, snatch the coveted flowers, or a handful of bon-bons from under our eyes, and in a moment, spring back again into the crowd, with the most consummate audacity.

Again, when the carriages are stopped for a time, interesting scenes take place between their occupants and the pedestrians. A mask approaches, and in the most reverential manner offers a flower, or a bouquet, which is immediately accepted and returned in kind. Profound bows expressive of gratitude, follow, and the silent masquer passes on. Sometimes the scene is not all in dumb show, and a little dialogue takes place. A Polichinelle claims our sympathy on the score of his broken nose, for example, and relates how handsome it was before misfortune came to it. Then our nation is inquired, and a little speech in English follows, as an appropriate compliment. Occasionally, we are addressed in verse, and with elaborate action and gesture, which it is unfortunate we cannot understand or respond to. Hopes are expressed that we like the Carnival-have we anything like it in England? and so on. The Romans are delighted and flattered beyond measure when they see the forestieri entering into the spirit of the diversion and enjoying it as much, or nearly as much, as themselves.

And in this way the Carnival goes on, in a succession of moving pictures, and varied sonatas; all life, brilliance, and colour, confusion without turbulence, and frolic without offensiveness, of which it may be said at least, that if it be not very sensible, it is, so far as one can see, very harmless-and in this respect may well afford comparison with many fashions of festivity conventionally current in our own land. At least here, in the Carnival, we have the free air and light of day to purify our merry-making. We do not stretch our hours of diversion into the late night and early morning. Every day's proceedings are concluded at a certain hour. At half-past five o'clock the Corso is cleared of carriages, and immediately becomes to all appearance, quite as crowded as ever, by swarms of pedestrians who choke up the roadway, with no perceptible diminution of the crush upon the trottoir. It is curious then to see the sudden rush with which the crowd divides, as the troop of dragoons comes down the street at a hand gallop, cleaving the stream of people as if it were

VOL. III.

Y

demeanour, will you come with us, as we make "a course" in our white-lined carriage up and down the scene of festivity?

It is one of the last days of the Carnival, up to which the general spirit and brilliancy of affairs have gradually increased. To-day, many new carriages, and more romantic "cars" have appeared, with new devices, and new costumes. Here comes one, containing a party all attired to represent different flowers. The general effect of daffodil, rose, daisy, and poppy, is managed most ingeniously. In another, each occupant bears a large heartsease as a badge, and pelts with nothing but bouquets composed of those flowers. Again, here is the most picturesque of all, a long, open car, containing a group of Bedouin Arabs, standing or reclining majestically under the shelter of a tall palm tree.

We drive along, now quickly, now slowly, pelting and being pelted from carriages, balconies, and pedestrians, recognizing our friends every now and then, and thereupon giving and receiving charges of bon-bons and pretty bouquets. Does not the line of the Corso look well—the tall white houses, deep in shade, except their tops, which are shining in "radiance most absolute;" occasional spears of light from that same radiance breaking in at openings in the street, and falling upon the decorated balconies with their picturesque occupants, on the motley crowd below, or glancing on the helmets and swords of the dragons, as at regular intervals they patrol the course? This open space at the end, where all the carriages career round and turn-the Pata del Popolo-is now a perfect sea of sunshine, into which we plung as into a bath. Here there is glittering of bayonets and shining of swords and helmets; and white dominoes and coloured trimmings bright flowers, beaming faces, and everything most gay and brillat looks its gayest and brightest. In truth, our eyes are almost blind by excess of radiance. There is the fountain under the Pincian H."! sparkling in the sunlight, and the terrace-road winding up to the gardens gleams whitely bare, and the grave Michael Angelo gate with groups about it, of soldiers and country people, and the obelisk in the centre of the Piazza, rising straightly into the air, and the dark green of the trees in the Pincian Garden high up above the terraced rood, and the blue sky beyond and above all; and everything quivering in this intense light, and blending into one lustrous picture from wh. à it is quite a strange sensation to turn into the deep shadow of the Corso, with its glancing lights, and glowing colours, and life, and move ment, and sound. There are waves of music ever and anon rushing up and breaking in on the perpetual noise of voices, laughter, quest Carnival cries, and the loud importunities of the innumerable flowers merchants who, fearless in the pursuit of business, dart about every where, under the horses' feet, between the carriage wheels, with their urgent “Ecco fiori-ecco fiori! M'sieur, volet - Signori, 'cuol' fors? I· paoli -due e mezz— due-- uno !” &c., $e.

Now recommences the exchange of bouquets between inmates of carriages and balconies, and occasional sharp engagements with confeit..

besides, every now and then, the double line of carriages will be stationary for awhile, in consequence of some stoppage farther down, and then encounters, varying in friendliness according to the disposition of the several parties, will take place with great spirit between the two carriages which happen to be abreast. Sometimes, a perfect hail of confetti is mischievously exchanged. Oftener, the war begins with flowers, then sugar-plums, then bunches of violets, then decorated bon-bons; and the battle ends with a final salute of a charming bouquet of camellias, elaborately arranged in embossed paper, which same bouquets are almost invariably stolen from us immediately afterwards by those adroit little banditti, who, as we have seen before, keep a preternaturally sharp look-out for such things, and will leap on to the carriage-step, snatch the coveted flowers, or a handful of bon-bons from under our eyes, and in a moment, spring back again into the crowd, with the most consummate audacity.

Again, when the carriages are stopped for a time, interesting scenes take place between their occupants and the pedestrians. A mask approaches, and in the most reverential manner offers a flower, or a bouquet, which is immediately accepted and returned in kind. Profound bows expressive of gratitude, follow, and the silent masquer passes on. Sometimes the scene is not all in dumb show, and a little dialogue takes place. A Polichinelle claims our sympathy on the score of his broken nose, for example, and relates how handsome it was before misfortune came to it. Then our nation is inquired, and a little speech in English follows, as an appropriate compliment. Occasionally, we are addressed in verse, and with elaborate action and gesture, which it is unfortunate we cannot understand or respond to. Hopes are expressed that we like the Carnival-have we anything like it in England? and so on. The Romans are delighted and flattered beyond measure when they see the forestieri entering into the spirit of the diversion and enjoying it as much, or nearly as much, as themselves.

And in this way the Carnival goes on, in a succession of moving pictures, and varied sonatas; all life, brilliance, and colour, confusion without turbulence, and frolic without offensiveness, of which it may be said at least, that if it be not very sensible, it is, so far as one can see, very harmless-and in this respect may well afford comparison with many fashions of festivity conventionally current in our own land. At least here, in the Carnival, we have the free air and light of day to purify our merry-making. We do not stretch our hours of diversion into the late night and early morning. Every day's proceedings are concluded at a certain hour. At half-past five o'clock the Corso is cleared of carriages, and immediately becomes to all appearance, quite as crowded as ever, by swarms of pedestrians who choke up the roadway, with no perceptible diminution of the crush upon the trottoir. It is curious then to see the sudden rush with which the crowd divides, as the troop of dragoons comes down the street at a hand gallop, cleaving the stream of people as if it were

VOL. III.

Y

indeed a tide of waters flowing there. This is to clear the way for the horse-race- -a pitiful sight, which takes place every day at this hour. It is difficult to understand what pleasure can be derived from seeing these six or seven riderless steeds, about which, to enhance their fright, are hung various clanking pieces of metal, and which are set free at the Piazza del Popolo, and urged with shouts and cries along the Corso to the Piazza di Venezia, where, half maddened with alarm, they arrive, and where the Ripresa de Barberi gives its name to the spot.

to see.

But the crisis, and the prettiest and most picturesque incident of all is the " Moccoletti," which winds up the Carnival on the last evening. After the horse-race has taken place, a gun is fired, and although it is not yet dark, the lights immediately begin to appear. The ordinary gas-lamps on each side the Corso have been exchanged for pyramidal jets of gas, which form a kind of avenue of light up the long, straight street. And presently, as the darkness increases, the real illumination begins, twinkling into life from the upper end at the Piazza del Popolo, until at last it seems to melt along its way and comes nearer, and grows larger with a crescendo of lustre, very beautiful The shining of this vast, moving radiance is something quite apart from ordinary illuminations, in its peculiar effect. It is, in fact, a living illumination. All the carriages (now admitted again into the Corso) are not only profusely lit with lamps, but each person in them holds a taper, large or small, which it is their earnest endeavour to keep alight, in spite of the equally earnest and mischievous efforts of every one not of their special party, to knock, or switch, or blow them out. Then, at each balcony and window, to the very tops of the tall houses, appear thronging people, each holding a light. So, as the double line of carriages passes up and down the Corso, the waving, twinkling, glancing lines of light look beautiful with the strange, enchanted beauty of a dream or of a fairy tale-forming a vista of light, at the end of which a perpetually moving mass of radiance is ever shifting, changing, sparkling, dividing, and blending again-while the fronts of the palace-houses, far off, are flecked with starry lights, and nearer we are able to distinguish the faces and the figures of the people holding them. Meanwhile, there is a continual sound, between a loud murmur and a low roar, something like that of the sea at a distance, caused by the people who, holding aloft their brightly burning tapers, cry triumphantly: "Ecco Moccolo―――o or (as they succeed in extinguishing that of some unfortunate wight call in derisive exultation, "Senza Moccolo—0—0—0!" the full, round O's making a diapason of sound that is quite musically grand.

All around we see eager, uplift faces, now bright with the flickering glare, now lost in shadow; tall figures standing majestic in the street or at the windows with coloured drapery falling about them; busy groups here and there directing all their most ingenious efforts to the great end of extinguishing the obstinately twinkling light at some near balcony or passing carriage. Bouquets are flung at it, hand