It is indeed observable that few people know how to commend a thing so as to make their praises enhance its value.  One hears a pretty woman not unfrequently admired for her wit, a woman of talents wondered at for her beauty; while I can think on no reason for such perversion of language, unless it is that a small share of elegance will content those whose delight is to hear declamation; and that the most hackeyed sentiments will seem new, when uttered by a pair of rosy lips, and seconded by the expression of eyes from which every thing may be expected.

To return to St. Mark’s Place, whence we have never strayed:  I must mention those pictures which represent his miracles, and the carrying his body away from Alexandria:  events attested so as to bring them credit from many wise men, and which have more authenticity of their truth, than many stories told one up and down here.  So great is the devotion of the common people here to their tutelar saint, that when they cry out, as we do Old England for ever! they do not say, Viva Venezia! but Viva San Marco!  And I doubt much if that was not once the way with us; in one of Shakespear’s plays an expiring prince being near to give all up for gone, is animated by his son in these words, “Courage father, cry St. George!”

We had an opportunity of seeing his day celebrated with a very grand procession the other morning, April 23, when a live boy personated the hero of the show; but fate so still upon his painted courser, that it was long before I perceived him to breathe.  The streets were vastly crowded with spectators, that in every place make the principal part of the spectacle.

It is odd that a custom which in contemplation seems so unlikely to please, should when put in practice appear highly necessary, and productive of an effect which can be obtained no other way.  Were the houses in Parliament Street to hang damask curtains, worked carpets, pieces of various coloured silks, with fringe or lace round them, out of every window when the King of England goes to the House, with numberless well-dressed ladies leaning out to see him pass, it would give one an idea of the continental towns upon a gala day.  But our people would be apt to cry out, Monmouth Street! and look ashamed if their neighbours saw the same deckerwork counterpane or crimson curtain produced at Easter, which made a figure at Christmas the December before; so that no end would be put to expence in our country, were such a fancy to take place.  The rainy weather beside would spoil all our finery at once; and here, though it is still cold enough to be sure, and the women wear sattins, yet still one shivers over a bad fire only because there is no place to walk and warm one’s self; for I have not seen a drop of rain.  The truth is, this town cannot be a wholesome one, for there is scarcely a possibility of taking exercise; nor have I been once able to circulate my blood by