Daring beauty, wild, lovely bacchante, with black, beaming eyes, tempt us not with that bright flame to destruction! Look at her, as she stands so proudly and erectly on the highest seat in the carriage, her arms thrown up, her wild eyes gleaming from under jet black, dishevelled locks, while the night breeze flutters in wavy folds the drapery of her classic dress. _Senza moccoli!_ she sends the challenge ringing down through fifteen centuries. He braves all; the carriage is climbed, the taper is within his reach. 'To-morrow I leave!' She flings the burning taper away from her. 'Then take this kiss!' 'SENZA MOCCOLI!' black, witching eyes--farewell! 'Boom!' rings out the closing bell; fast fades the light, 'Out with the tapers!' the shout swells up, up, up, then slowly dies, as die an organ's tones--and Carnival is ended. A handful of beautiful flowers, found among gray, crumbling ruins; a few notes of wild, stirring music, suddenly heard, then quickly dying away in the lone watches of the night: these are the hours of the Roman Carnival. 'Played is the comedy, deserted now the scene.' THE VERMILION MIRACLE. Miracles are no longer performed in Rome. As soon as the police are officially informed, they prevent their being worked even in the Campagna:--official information, however, always travels much faster when the spurs of heretical incredulity are applied--otherwise it lags; and the performances of miracle-mongers insure crowded houses, sometimes for years. Among Caper's artist friends was a certain Blaise Monet, French by nature, Parisian by birth, artist or writer according to circumstances. Circumstances--that is to say, two thousand francs left him by a deceased relation--created him a temporary artist in Rome. 'When the money is gone,' said he, 'I shall endow some barber with my goat's hair brushes, and resume the stylus: the first have attractions--capillary--for me; the latter has the attraction--gravitation of francs--still more interesting--that is to say, more stylish.' Blaise Monet with the May breezes fled to a small town on top of a high mountain, in order to enjoy them until autumn: with the rains of October he descended on Rome. 'How did you enjoy yourself up in that hawk's nest?' Caper asked him, when he first saw him after his return to the city. 'Like the king D'Yvetot. My house was a castle, my drink good wine, my food solid--the cheese a little too much so, and a little too much of it: no matter--the views made up for it. Gr-r-rand, magnificent, splendid--in fact, paradise for twenty baiocchi a day, all told.' 'And as for affairs of the heart?' 'My friend, mourn with me: that hole was--so to speak in regard to that matter--a monastery, without doors, windows, or holes; and a wall around it, so high, it shut out--hope! I wish you could have seen the camel who was my monastic jailer.' 'That is, when you say camel, you mean jackass?'