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.