There is an attempt being made to revive the Carnival fêtes--the races in the Corso--but the Veglione won’t be so much fun as last year, I know. Every moment of that night together is unforgettable. Poor erratic Pittsburgo, how you did tease him! And dear old Checkers! There’ll never again be anything so funny as he was in that round masque with its fixed grin, dancing about on the floor of the Costanzi. But now it isn’t carnival for me. Who could feel gay when his love is not here? So I am only an observer, while others sport and play the fool, more or less amusingly. The Corso has been crowded, and many of the balconies draped with bright carpets, and wreathed with flowers. Through the throngs there moved an irregular succession of fantastic figures, men on horseback, dressed in red and yellow, heralds, groups of historic patriots and warriors, and even Marcus Aurelius so ingeniously imitated that he appeared exactly like the statue on the Capitol, which is supposed to have left its pedestal and come down to enjoy the mirth. Then there was a “char” with Venus--to whom as the Goddess of love, I took off my hat and bowed,--drawn by tinsel cupids and snowy pigeons tugging away at the ends of stiff wires. There were sacrificial chariots, too, and floats of hanging gardens, and still more Roman statues,-- “Priests and prophets of the ages, Vestals, augurs, pontiffs, mages, Brazen-belted, scarlet-shrouded, All their altars incense-clouded, Roman wealth of aeons massing Now in golden pageant passing.” The people threw flowers and confetti and everything else they could lay their hands on. Between certain hours there was complete license, and a mask could hit or kiss or be as wild as he pleased. (You know, dear, there _is_ a certain kind of kissing I do not disapprove of.)