obedience was to be rendered to any injunction of the police.  Subject to these slight restraints, the wild revel and the joyous licence of the Carnival was to rule unbridled.  In the words of a Papal writer in the government gazette of Venice:  “The festival is to be celebrated in full vigour, except that no masks are allowed, as the fashion for them has lately gone out.  There will be, however, disguises and fancy dresses, confetti, bouquets, races, moccoletti, public and private balls, and, in short, every amusement of the Carnival time.”  What more could be required by a happy and contented people?  Somehow, the news does not seem to be received with any extraordinary rejoicing; a group of idlers gaze at the decree and pass on, shrugging their shoulders listlessly.  Along the Corso notice-boards are hung out of balconies to let, but the notices grow mildewed, and the balconies remain untaken.  The carriage-drivers don’t pester you, as in former years, to engage them for the Carnival; and the fancy dresses exposed in the shop-windows are shabby and few in number.  There is no appearance of unnecessary excitement; but “still waters run deep;” and in order to restrain any possible exuberance of feeling, on the very night before the Carnival the French general issues a manifesto.  “To prevent painful occurrences,” so run General Guyon’s orders, “the officer commanding each detachment of troops which may have to act against a crowd, shall himself, or through a police-officer, make it a summons to disperse.  After this warning the crowd must disperse instantly, without noise or cries, if it does not wish to see force employed.”  Still no doubts are entertained of the brilliancy of the Carnival; the Romans (so at least their rulers say, and who should know them better?) will enjoy themselves notwithstanding; the Carnival is their great holiday, the one week of pleasure counted on the long, dull year through, and no power on earth, still less no abstract consideration, will keep them from the Corso revels.  From old time, all that they have ever cared for are the panem et circenses; and the Carnival gives them both.  It is the Roman harvest-time, when the poor gather in their gleanings.  Flower-sellers, vendors of confetti, hawkers of papers, letters-out of chairs and benches, itinerant minstrels, perambulating cigar-merchants, pedlars, beggars, errand-boys, and a hundred other obscure traders, pick up, heaven knows how! enough in Carnival time to tide them over the dead summer-season.  So both necessity and pleasure, want and luxury, will combine to swell the crowd; and the pageant will be gay enough for the Vatican to say that its faithful subjects are loyal and satisfied.