ecstasies over its coarse mosaics, its unlovely Byzantine architecture,

or its five hundred curious interior columns from as many distant

quarries. Every thing was worn out--every block of stone was smooth and

almost shapeless with the polishing hands and shoulders of loungers who

devoutly idled here in by-gone centuries and have died and gone to the

dev--no, simply died, I mean.

Under the altar repose the ashes of St. Mark--and Matthew, Luke and John,

too, for all I know. Venice reveres those relics above all things

earthly. For fourteen hundred years St. Mark has been her patron saint.

Every thing about the city seems to be named after him or so named as to

refer to him in some way--so named, or some purchase rigged in some way

to scrape a sort of hurrahing acquaintance with him. That seems to be

the idea. To be on good terms with St. Mark, seems to be the very summit

of Venetian ambition. They say St. Mark had a tame lion, and used to

travel with him--and every where that St. Mark went, the lion was sure to

go. It was his protector, his friend, his librarian. And so the Winged

Lion of St. Mark, with the open Bible under his paw, is a favorite emblem

in the grand old city. It casts its shadow from the most ancient pillar

in Venice, in the Grand Square of St. Mark, upon the throngs of free

citizens below, and has so done for many a long century. The winged lion

is found every where--and doubtless here, where the winged lion is, no

harm can come.

St. Mark died at Alexandria, in Egypt. He was martyred, I think.

However, that has nothing to do with my legend. About the founding of

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The Innocents Abroad