and partly for want of candles. On our balcony, in San Carlo, where we found ourselves in the same agreeable company as hitherto, the moccoli fight was carried on vigorously, and in good earnest, yet very politely. Finally, I found myself, to my own amazement, last of all, with a moccoli bunch in one hand, and in the other a torch, which I myself extinguished, by swinging it round in the air.
At eight o'clock, all was still and dark. The Carnival was dead and buried, but with great honor, and people congratulated themselves and each other, on its honorable termination. My young friend, who had celebrated her Carnival with all honor and glory, was in no small degree contented with it, and her sheaf of bouquets and memories.
I have been told that the memories of the Carnival become, not unfrequently, of serious import to the whole after-life; and many a little intrigue, which has then its beginning, is carried on afterwards, and finds its end in—a wedding. The so-called Carnival acquaintance begins generally by a gentleman seeing a lady in a balcony, or at a window, who pleases him. He throws bouquets up to her. If she respond, he throws up others, remains steadfastly in his place, sends up to her beautiful flowers and bouquets, follows his elect, at a respectful distance, on her way home, ventures upon a salutation, and afterwards upon a letter, and then—but I do not know any thing more about the affair, excepting that sometimes it ends with a wedding, sometimes, also, by the lady proudly sending back the lover's letter. It may probably have happened that she, like Jenny, lost all romantic
