There is neither luxury nor good taste in the feast of carnival; a kind of universal petulance makes it resemble the bacchanals of the imagination; but in imagination only is this resemblance, for the Romans are in general very sober, and except the last day of carnival, tolerably serious.  We often make sudden discoveries of every sort in the character of the Italians, and this is what contributes to give them the reputation of being subtle and crafty.—­There is, undoubtedly, a strong habit of dissimulation in this country, which has supported so many different yokes; but it is not to dissimulation that we must always attribute the rapid transition from one manner of being to another.  An inflammable imagination is often the cause of it.  The character of a people who are only rational or witty, may be easily understood and will not suddenly surprise us, but all that belongs to the imagination is unexpected.  It leaps over intermediate barriers, it is often hurt at nothing, and frequently indifferent to that which ought most to affect it.  In fact, it is a law unto itself, and we can never calculate its impressions from their causes.

For example, we cannot comprehend what amusement the Roman nobility find in riding in their carriages from one end of the corso to the other for whole hours together, as well during the carnival as on the other days of the year.  Nothing ever diverts them from this custom.  There are also among the masks, men who saunter about with every appearance of weariness, in the most ridiculous costume imaginable, and who—­melancholy harlequins and silent punchinellos,—­do not say a word the whole evening, but appear, if it may be so expressed, to have satisfied their carnival conscience by having neglected nothing to be merry.

We find at Rome a certain species of mask which is not seen elsewhere:  masks formed after the figures of the ancient statues, and which at a distance imitate the most perfect beauty—­the women often lose greatly by removing them.  But nevertheless this motionless imitation of life, these stalking wax countenances, however pretty they may be, have something terrifying in them.  The great nobles make a tolerably grand display of carriages on the last days of the carnival; but the pleasure of this festival is the crowd and the confusion:  it seems like a relic of the Saturnalia; every class in Rome is mixed together.  The most grave magistrates ride with official dignity in the midst of the masks; every window is decorated.  The whole town is in the streets:  it is truly a popular festival.  The pleasure of the people consists neither in the shows nor the feasts that are given them, nor the magnificence they witness.  They commit no excess either in drinking or eating:  their recreation is to be set at liberty, and to find themselves among the nobility, who on their side are pleased at being among the people.  It is especially the refinement and delicacy of amusements