her brother Bassano, who here proves that his pencil is not divested
of dignity, as the connoisseurs sometimes tell us that he is. But it is
not one picture, or two, or twenty, that seizes one's mind here; it is
the accumulation of various objects, each worthy to detain it. Wonderful
indeed, and sweetly-satisfying to the intellectual appetite, is the
variety, the plenty of pleasures which serve to enchain the imagination,
and fascinate the traveller's eye, keeping it ever on this _little
spot_; for though I have heard some of the inhabitants talk of its
vastness, it is scarcely bigger than our Portman Square, I think, not
larger at the very most than Lincoln's-Inn-Fields.

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 hig