The low Venetian, however, knows that he works for the commonwealth,
and is happy; for things go round, says he, _Il Turco magna St. Marco;
St. Marco magna mi, mi magna ti, e ti tu magna un'altro_[S].

[Footnote S: The Turk feeds on St. Mark, St. Mark devours me; I eat
thee, neighbour, and thou subsistest on somebody else.]

Apropos to this custom of calling Venice (when they speak of it) San
Marco; I heard so comical a story yesterday that I cannot refuse the
pleasure of inserting it; and if my readers do not find it as pleasant
as I did, they may certainly leave it out, without the smallest
prejudice either to the book, the author, or themselves.

The procurator Tron was at Padua, it seems, and had a fancy to drive
forward to Vicenza that afternoon, but being particularly fond of a
favourite pair of horses which drew his chariot that day, would by no
means venture if it happened to rain; and took the trouble to enquire of
Abate Toaldo, "Whether he thought such a thing likely to happen, from
the appearance of the sky?" The professor, not knowing why the question
was asked, said, "he rather thought it would _not_ rain for four hours
at most." In consequence of this information our senator ordered his
equipage directly, got into it, and bid the driver make haste to
Vicenza: but before he was half-way on his journey, such torrents came
down from a black cloud that burst directly over their heads, that his
horses were drenched in wet, and their mortified master turned
immediately back to Padua, that they might suffer no further
inconvenience. To pass away the evening, which he did not mean to have
spent there, and to quiet his agitated spirits by thinking on something
else, he walked under the Portico to a neighbouring coffee-house, where
fate the Abate Toaldo in company of a few friends; wholly unconscious