CHAPTER XXIII.

Arrival in Milan--Railway station--Tram carriages--History and present condition--The Cathedral--Irreverence of Italian Priests--The Ambrosian Liturgy--Sunday school--S. Carlo Borromeo--Relics--A frozen flower-garden --View from the tower.

Arriving at Milan shortly before dusk, we drove at once to the Hotel de France, where we had been assured we should find cleanliness and moderate charges. It is very conveniently situated at the head of the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele, near the Cathedral, and it was certainly cleanly; but if I ever go to Milan again, I should give the Hotel de la Ville the preference.

Catching a glimpse of the public gardens on our way, and passing up some of the principal streets, we saw something of the greatness and attractiveness of the city. The station is quite a busy terminus, like Euston, or the Midland--a fine building, and brilliantly lighted up at night by electricity, two lamps outside illuminating the park-like piazza. The tramway omnibuses (which are not propelled by steam, as at Florence), move about as briskly as in London; they are, however, more neatly and comfortably appointed than ours.

Milan, anciently called "La Grande," still looks like the capital of a great kingdom, although, like Turin, it has been deserted in favour of Rome. It has fine buildings, well-lighted streets, beautiful public gardens, and brilliant shops. It is, moreover, very clean for an Italian city, and gives the idea generally of wealth and progress, for it is full of gay and busy life; yet it is a small city in comparison with our own great capital, being only about seven miles in circumference, and with a population of 320,000. Owing to its central position in Lombardy, Milan has always been prosperous, and is one of the richest manufacturing towns in Italy, silk and woollen goods being the chief commodities. Since 1859, when it was incorporated into Italy, it has also risen to the first rank in the fine arts, and, I believe, has wonderfully progressed as an educational centre generally.

It must have been a proud and glorious day when, after the peace of Villafranca, Victor Emmanuel and the French Emperor, with the leaders of the allied armies, marched in triumph through Milan. Bouquets and garlands of flowers were strewed in their way; the wounded of both sides were brought in, and tenderly nursed by the Milanese ladies. It was Italy's first day of real free national life; she had at last cast off the oppressive yoke of Austria for ever! But she had still one other adversary to conquer--the enslaving Papal power; and this she also nobly accomplished a few years later, as all the world knows. The Italians have a grateful remembrance of the sympathy shown and influence exerted by England at the time of their emancipation.

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Our hotel being so close to the Cathedral, we saw just enough of its external beauty and grandeur on the evening of our arrival, to anticipate with the greatest eagerness our visit on the morrow to this magnificent structure of white marble, which stood so majestically outlined under the blue, star-lit sky, its graceful spires and peaks seeming interminable:

"And high on every peak a statue seem'd To hang on tiptoe."

It is regarded by the inhabitants as one of the wonders of the world, and is certainly unique in its style, which belongs to no school. "From the beginning," says a modern writer on architecture, "it has been an exotic, and to the end of time will probably remain so, without a follower or imitator of the singular development of which it is the only example.... It has all the appearance of having been the work of a stranger, who was but imperfectly acquainted with the wants or customs of Italian architecture, working to some extent with the traditions of his own native school before him, but at the same time impressed with a strong sense of the necessity under which he lay, of doing something quite unlike what he had been taught to consider necessary for building in his native land.... There is a constant endeavour to break up plain surfaces of wall, unlike the predilection for smooth surfaces of walling so usual in thoroughly Italian work."

Early the following morning, immediately after breakfast, we proceeded to the great open Piazza in which the Cathedral stands. It is of almost dazzling whiteness in the bright sunshine, and I could not but think what a contrast it offered to our great St. Paul's, so buried in the heart of the city, amid the roar and din of commerce. And how different the smoky atmosphere in which the great Dome is enshrouded, to the clear, bright air of Milan, where every delicate spire, every graceful projection with its play of light and shadow, is seen to perfection, and the pure whiteness of the marble is unsullied by the soot and dirt which form, alas! a complete veil to our own Cathedral! What aspect, I thought, would the fairy-like Dome of Milan present after a winter in our city of fogs? The lights and shades of Wren's great work appear to be made up of smoke, which has been partially washed off by driving winds and rains.

The roof is adorned with a hundred turrets, and more than a thousand statues of angels, saints, and men of genius. On the topmost spire towers a gilt figure of the Virgin Mary, to whom the church is dedicated.

"An aërial host Of figures human and divine, White as the snows of Apennine Indurated by frost.

"Awe-struck we beheld the array That guards the temple night and day,

Angels that might from heaven have flown And virgin saints--who not in vain Have striven by purity to gain The beatific crown;

"Long-drawn files, concentric rings, Each narrowing above each;--the wings-- The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips, The starry zone of sovereign height, All steeped in this portentous light! All suffering dim eclipse!"

With the exception of the façade, it is in a pseudo-Gothic style. It was founded about the year 1386, by Gian Galeazzo, Visconti Duke of Milan--probably somewhat after the model of the Cologne Cathedral; and in 1805 Napoleon added the tower over the Dome. A very large sum of money was left for keeping the church in repair--a deed stipulating that a certain amount must be expended annually on this object, I believe, something at the rate of £2000 a month! The marble used is of an unusually soft nature, hence its decay and cost of repair. But these constant patchings certainly disfigure and spoil the beauty of the surface architecture, especially at the Eastern end, and afford a convincing instance of how a man may mar his own object by want of judgment.

The first view of the interior is very striking, the vaulting being supported by fifty-two exceedingly lofty clustered columns, dividing the church into a nave and two aisles each side. These columns have most beautifully sculptured capitals, formed of figures within niches. They greatly impede the light, however, and the view within the church generally, and from the pavement the canopies of the capitals have somewhat the appearance of outspread parasols, which lends a slightly grotesque air. The vaulting itself also being panelled, to resemble elaborate stone fretwork, rather detracts from the general beauty of the building, being but a meretricious kind of ornamentation, and quite unworthy the building. There are three stained glass windows above the choir--

"Through which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue,"

stream upon the pure marble and golden pulpits.

"Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced, Would seem slow flaming crimson fires From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, And tipt with frost-like spires."

Thus Tennyson in his "Palace of Art," with which this beautiful edifice at Milan may fully compare. Some of the windows illustrate the life of the Saviour, and the Revelations of St. John at Patmos. The whole Cathedral impresses the mind greatly with its beauty and solemnity, so essentially different to the too frequently tawdry decorations of most of the Roman Catholic churches.

"It seems as if the ancient spirit of religion, such as dwelt in Milan in the days of St. Ambrose, loved to linger here. The inscription, which is conspicuous on the rood aloft, 'Attendite ad Petram unde excise estes' (Look unto the Rock whence ye were hewn), pointing to Christ, not St. Peter, as the true Rock of the Church, is very significant." The great charm of this church is the impressive feeling that steals over one on entering, that it is indeed the House of God. There is a certain simplicity in its grandeur that is infinitely refreshing, after seeing so many temples desecrated as mere places of theatrical display.

In Italy one soon tires and becomes disgusted with the glitter of tinsel. I have visited some of the churches when in a state of preparation, when the priests, with their assistants, have fussed about as it were behind the scenes, and got the pageantry and scenic displays ready. Gilded wooden candlesticks are brought out from behind some altar or secret cupboard; a shabby, painted image of the Virgin or some other saint is produced from the sacristy, which is hastily draped in gorgeous finery, a necklace of beads adjusted round its neck; artificial flowers dusted and arranged in gay-looking vases; the candles are then lighted, and--up goes the curtain!

The utter irreverence of these proceedings has often made me shudder, and from the bottom of my heart I have pitied the poor abject creatures who swarm in to worship they know not what. The confessionals are open, and some forlorn woman enters therein, and, having unburdened her conscience, perhaps with bitter tears, she goes her way, still in the dreadful dark, still the same miserable, sin-laden creature--no word of real comfort has been whispered to her sorrowful heart, no fresh hope lovingly instilled into her darkened soul. But the priest has pocketed his fee, and that, alas! is all that concerns him. He has no pity for the ignorance and misery of the men and women around him; the tale of sorrow poured into his ear touched not his heart--he is too accustomed to the outpourings of these sinful souls. Human nature is human nature, he would tell you; it will go on sinning. Is it not enough that the sin has been confessed (_paid for_, rather)? The sinner has gone away, rejoicing at having cleansed his conscience so easily; and he, the priest, has pronounced absolution, has received his fee for so doing, therefore his duty is over, and he comes forth from the confessional box, grossly expectorating on the Cathedral floor--even this action showing how little he respects his calling, and the place which he above all others should honour. This to me has been utter desecration of soul and temple, and I have gone away sick at heart. Alas! how sad to think of a man presuming to forgive sin--perhaps a far greater sinner himself than the unhappy penitent who seeks spiritual consolation! Italians, after centuries of deception and soul-bondage, have at last discovered their blindness; they now see that _money_ is the aim of their Church and her priests. Money is paid for forgiveness of sins, for fresh indulgence in the same, for their souls to be delivered from purgatory when they die, for everything which God gives His children freely and lovingly, and this for the sole and especial benefit of the priesthood.

I believe, however, that the Milanese are the least priest-ridden people even in young Italy, and they keep Sunday with far more reverence and quietude than elsewhere, and in France. The Ambrosian Liturgy, which the Pope has never been able to suppress, is a standing proof of the independence of the Milanese Church. Priests who use the Roman ritual are not allowed to officiate, except on very urgent occasions.

I noticed that after morning service in the Cathedral, screens were erected in one of the aisles, and on returning in the early part of the afternoon, I saw this part full of children, who were being taught their catechism, and other religious knowledge. I thought this was rather a happy use of churches between the services, and wished I could see it more often practised at home.

The credit of this Sunday school is due to the Archbishop St. Carlo Borromeo, who was a very excellent man, and, as far as wide views of charity and advanced thought are concerned, might have fitly adorned the present generation; for in his own day he was certainly "centuries before his time." He gained the hearts of his people by mingling among them, working for them, and ministering to their many necessities, during the infliction of the terrible plague. I think there is no objection to the custom of canonizing such men,--that is, in reverencing them (but not worshipping them as saints) as noble examples of self-sacrificing holy life, and so preserving the memory of their good deeds to posterity. The resplendent gold and silver shrine of this holy man is one of the most interesting objects in the Cathedral. His body is preserved below the altar, dressed in his pontifical robes, sparkling with diamonds--the head reposing on a richly gilded cushion; the face, dead and shrivelled, which is the only part exposed, presents a sad contrast to all this splendour. He was the nephew of Pius IV., and was canonized by his successor; but (shame to such an age!) it cost his family so large a sum that they declined a similar honour for his cousin, Cardinal Federigo Borromeo, celebrated by Manzoni in the Promessi Sposi.

With all its religious freedom, this Cathedral draws on the credulity of the people by its supposititious relics--such as a nail of the true cross, which is carried in procession every third of May; the cradle and swaddling clothes of the infant Christ; part of the towel with which He wiped His disciples' feet; four thorns from His crown; parts of the reed, the sponge, the spear, and the cross; a piece of Moses' rod; two of Elisha's teeth; and many other such profane make-believes. The tombs and bronzes, especially the bronze tabernacle by Brambilla, and the choir by Pellegrini, which has seventeen beautiful bas-reliefs, are all worth study. On the right-hand side of the choir is a wonderfully executed statue of the devoted martyr, St. Bartholomew, carrying his skin on his arm--anatomically, a perfect masterpiece.

I heard one or two services here, and thought both organ and acoustics very fine, the noble vaulting carrying back each note, grandly swelling, to the entrance porch. Such is the magnitude of the interior, that on week-days, when gangs of workmen are chipping away at the columns while service is being performed, there is no unusual noise to be heard. But the frequent interruptions by people moving about during the service is very irritating to a people who are accustomed to quiet devotion such as we invariably find in the mighty congregations at St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey.

Paying my twenty-five centimes (about 2½_d._), I ascended from the right-hand transept, and, mounting numerous steps, at length reached the roof. Here a wonderful and magnificent sight met my admiring gaze. All around me nothing was to be seen but the most exquisitely chiselled figures in white marble. It was like a snow scene in a forest, for there were thousands of beautiful little sculptured columns, representing every known flower; in fact, it is called the "Flower-Garden," and the more I gazed the more I realized the truth of Goethe's beautiful simile--"Architecture is frozen music." Crossing the roof, I ascended by a spiral staircase to the central tower, getting occasional glimpses of spires and statues, alternating with peeps of the blue sky. At last I reached the topmost pinnacle of the temple, and a truly glorious scene it was that lay on every side. A sea of dazzling white marble beneath, and the fair city stretching far and wide beyond; this, again, surrounded by silvery rivers, green fields, cultivated plains, and distant towns and villages. On one side, breaking the horizon, the view is bounded by a great towering mountain barrier--the majestic snow-clad Alps, some of the peaks lost in the misty clouds above. First, on the extreme south-west, Monte Viso, then Mont Cenis, between them the less lofty Superja; near Turin, Mont Blanc, the great St. Bernard, Monte Rosa most conspicuous of all; to the left of these last, the Matterhorn, then the Cima de Jazi, Streckhorn near the Mischabel, Monte Leone near the Simplon; away to the north the summits of the St. Gothard and Splügen, and in the distant east the peak of the Ortler. In the south the Certosa of Pavia is visible, and sometimes the towers and domes of the city itself, with the Apennines in the background. This, perhaps the grandest view in Europe, can only be seen to perfection on favourable days. I myself only saw a part of the great Alpine range, the rest was enshrouded in mist. On the day I made this ascent, the wind was very strong, as it was on my visit to the Capitol in Rome. On descending, I took one more view of this mighty Cathedral, of which an American writer, Nathaniel Willis, gives the following true and beautiful description:--

"It is a sort of Aladdin creation, quite too delicate and beautiful for the open air. The filmy traceries of Gothic fretwork; the needle-like minarets; the hundreds of beautiful statues with which it is studded; the intricate and graceful architecture of every window and turret; and the frost-like frailness and delicacy of the whole mass, make an effect altogether upon the eye that must stand high on the list of new sensations. It is a vast structure withal, but a middling easterly breeze, one would think on looking at it, would lift it from its base, and bear it over the Atlantic like the meshes of a cobweb. Neither interior nor exterior inspire you with the feelings of awe common to other large churches. The sun struggles through the immense windows of painted glass, staining every pillar and carved cornice with the richest hues, and wherever the eye wanders it grows giddy with the wilderness of architecture. The people on their knees are like paintings in the strong, artificial light; the chequered pavement seems trembling with a quivering radiance; the altar is far and indistinct; and the lamps burning over the tomb of St. Carlo shine out from the centre like gems glistening in the midst of some enchanted hall."