To paint a
carnival without blotching, to touch it without destroying, is an art
given unto few, I almost might say to none, save to our own wondrous word-
wizard, who dreamt the "dream of Venice," and told it waking. For my own
part, the only branch of art to which, even as a child, I ever took
kindly, was the humble one of tracing upon gritting glass, with a grating
pencil, hard outlines of coarse sketches squeezed tight against the
window-pane. After the manner in which I used to draw, I have since
sought to write; for such a picture-frame then as mine, the airy,
baseless fabric of an Italian revel is no fitting subject, and had the
Roman Carnival for 1860 been even as other carnivals are, I should have
left it unrecorded. It has been my lot, however, to witness such a
carnival as has not been seen at Rome before, and is not likely to be
seen again. In the decay of creeds and the decline of dynasties there
appear from time to time signs which, like the writing on the wall,
proclaim the coming change, and amongst these signs our past Carnival is,
if I err not, no unimportant one. While then the memory of the scene is
fresh upon me, let me seek to tell what I have seen and heard. The
question whether we were to have a Carnival at all, remained long
doubtful; the usual time for issuing the regulations had long passed, and
no edict had appeared; strange reports were spread and odd stories
circulated.
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