February 11th.—We are in the very height of the Carnival, but with unvarying, cloudy, and rain-threatening skies. On Monday it was so; the rain striving against the sun, and finally gaining the mastery. The Corso was, nevertheless, more animated than on Saturday, and the warfare of comfit and flowers was carried on very gayly; but the carriages continued to be few in number. People threw flowers at each other from balcony to balcony, from window to window, and people amused themselves with grand comfits strung upon long threads fastened to long sticks, like fishing lines, which they enticed their acquaintances from one story to another to catch, or they decoyed the boys in the streets with these same tempting baits, which the next moment were snatched up again. If any one wishes to be polite he fastens at the end of the string a beautiful flower, or some other pretty little thing, and allows it to be caught by the lady for whom it is intended. The street-boys, however, are in general, the greatest winners by this polite warfare; for everything which misses its object, and falls into the street, belongs to them, and that is not little.
The spectacle of the day again closed with horse-racing—only six horses—and then going home in drizzling rain. People deplored it with melancholy visages, especially, “on account of the poor,” who calculate upon their gains at the Carnival as furnishing them with their livelihood for many weeks. The little love-making sports of the Carnival, are not, however, prevented by the rain, and Jenny has gained an admirer who stands steadfastly before our balcony in San Carlo, and makes her, under his umbrella, the
