They used to show to visitors the implements of torture wherewith the Three were wont to worm secrets out of the accused—­villainous machines for crushing thumbs; the stocks where a prisoner sat immovable while water fell drop by drop upon his head till the torture was more than humanity could bear; and a devilish contrivance of steel, which inclosed a prisoner’s head like a shell, and crushed it slowly by means of a screw.  It bore the stains of blood that had trickled through its joints long ago, and on one side it had a projection whereon the torturer rested his elbow comfortably and bent down his ear to catch the moanings of the sufferer perishing within.

Of course we went to see the venerable relic of the ancient glory of Venice, with its pavements worn and broken by the passing feet of a thousand years of plebeians and patricians—­The Cathedral of St. Mark.  It is built entirely of precious marbles, brought from the Orient —­nothing in its composition is domestic.  Its hoary traditions make it an object of absorbing interest to even the most careless stranger, and thus far it had interest for me; but no further.  I could not go into 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.