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'dTo hang on tiptoe."
"And high on every peak a statue seem'dTo 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 thepredilection 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 hostOf figures human and divine,White as the snows of ApennineIndurated by frost."Awe-struck we beheld the arrayThat guards the temple night and day,Angels that might from heaven have flown[291]And virgin saints—who not in vainHave striven by purity to gainThe 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!"
"An aërial hostOf figures human and divine,White as the snows of ApennineIndurated by frost.
"Awe-struck we beheld the arrayThat guards the temple night and day,Angels that might from heaven have flown[291]And virgin saints—who not in vainHave striven by purity to gainThe 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,"
"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 firesFrom shadow'd grots of arches interlaced,And tipt with frost-like spires."
"Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced,Would seem slow flaming crimson firesFrom 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 charmof 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 pocketedhis 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 thatmoneyis 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 leastpriest-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. Theresplendent 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 vaultingcarrying 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 2½d.), 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 andvillages. 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 frailnessand 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."
Milan social and charitable—How to relieve our Poor—Leonardo's "Last Supper"—Condition of churches in Italy—Santa Maria delle Grazie—La Scala Picture-galleries—St. Ambrogio—Ambrosian Library—Public gardens—Excursion to the Lakes—Monza—Como—Lake scenery—Bellagio—American rowdyism.
Milan social and charitable—How to relieve our Poor—Leonardo's "Last Supper"—Condition of churches in Italy—Santa Maria delle Grazie—La Scala Picture-galleries—St. Ambrogio—Ambrosian Library—Public gardens—Excursion to the Lakes—Monza—Como—Lake scenery—Bellagio—American rowdyism.
One soon becomes attached to Milan, it is so bright and clean, and the air so pure and bracing; the country around abounds in beautiful lake scenery, most enjoyable for trips and excursions. The means of moving from place to place are convenient and moderate in charges, and the living good and inexpensive. There is an air of welcome and hospitality to visitors and strangers among the people not so readily shown in other cities of Italy,—the highest families opening their doors to all with very slight introduction. There are, I believe, a great number of wealthy people here; and, judging from the scarcity of beggars—that importunate plague, so universal in Italy—I should think the poor are not neglected by them. This may also be proved by a visit to some of the many charitable institutions. The Spedale Grande, for instance, is one of the largest hospitals in Europe: its façade measures nine hundred feet, and it accommodates upwards of two thousand patients.Like most of the Italian hospitals, there are separate apartments for those who can contribute towards their maintenance. The asylums for the insane are also admirably managed. I have heard that the plan for relieving the poor is much better systematized here than in England. Well! I fear, and I say it with shame, that it could not be much worse or more bungling anywhere. Our wretched system of miscalledWorkhouses or Unions is utterly unworthy of us; some of these places, in fact, are abominably demoralizing and degrading. We clothe the poor in a dress of shame, and then wonder at their want of self-respect! Many of our unions are utterly unfit for the respectable poor and (we seem to forget that there is such a class)—I was nearly saying, are places of seething vice; no wonder, then, even starving people, who have a spark of true pride left in them, prefer to die rather than go there. Poverty and distress are inevitable in every great city, and one can no more help being poor than being born, and there is no shame in this lack of riches; yet it is sad to see, in these philanthropic days of clerical energy and individual benevolence and charity, the number of dreadful courts and alleys almost leading out of the finest squares, a frightful contrast between abject poverty and superfluous wealth.[H]The only effectualway to relieve and diminish this misery is by assisting the poor to help themselves; then indeed this would produce gratitude instead of sullen discontent, which, I fear, is the general feeling in our workhouses. A well-managed system of out-door relief, aided by providing employment and well-organized emigration to our own colonies (the natural destiny of our surplus population), is the only efficient method; but this must be done in a thorough, liberal, and judicious spirit, not in the grudging manner in which some charities are doled out. It is much to England's credit that energetic efforts are being made to educate the poor; but I think some help in that direction should also be extended to the middle classes, and those between the two, topreventtheir becoming indigent. The advantages of education cannot be too highly esteemed, but each class should be fitted to the sphere it is likely to occupy in life; the same training does not suit all alike. I fear at the present time we are inclined to run to the other extreme, and over-educate those who would be far happier and altogether more useful members of society, were we content with teaching the three great rudiments—reading, writing, and arithmetic. These, with goodreligiousinstruction and a trade, would enable them to support themselves in a decent and comfortable manner, and to become respected and respectable citizens; nor would it in any way prevent their improving and raising themselves to a higher condition, should they be the fortunate possessors of genius or talent of any kind, forthese more energetic intellects usually show such indications at a very early age, and proper provision should be made, enabling them to pursue those studies which might perhaps be the means of making them men whom England would be proud to acknowledge. But these highly endowed minds are few and far between, compared with the medium, fairly intelligent thousands of men and women who run great risks of starvation by being lifted out of their proper sphere; the market for the employment of such is already over-crowded, while good artisans, workmen, and servants are in great demand. Yet at present we afford no training to supply this want, and by over-educating the masses and spoiling them for their proper vocation, we unconsciously increase the difficulties which go far to fill our cities with those unfortunate beings, to whom life is one long struggle to keep body and soul together. The evils of this system having now become apparent, it is to be hoped a change will soon be made. There is no doubt that both our Poor Law and Board Schools stand in urgent need of reform. But the greatest and most necessary reform of all should be in making a religious education the foundation of all true and useful knowledge; mere secular education will but probably tend to make a poor lad more cunning and maybe a more clever rogue; but not necessarily a good, industrious, and loyal citizen, as religion must do; then poverty even might be borne with contentment and some sense of happiness. A singlereflection on the present condition of irreligious France should be warning enough.
In the Refectory of the old Dominican Friary attached to the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, we saw Leonardo da Vinci's famous fresco of theLast Supper. It is on the wall of a large, bare, whitewashed room, this celebrated work being almost the only furniture and decoration. Although in a very bad state of decay and dilapidation, it is yet sufficient to draw hither artists from all quarters of the world, who are always busily copying the great work, aspiring to fill up the flaws of decay and age in the best way they can imagine the master's hand had originally painted it. But, in truth, there are few parts that have not been retouched at different times, and sometimes by far from skilful brushes; yet the painting bears, and will bear to the end, the divine and ineffable touch of genius given by the inspired mind which so carefully, lovingly, and thoughtfully designed it. It is very probable that the fame of this unique work will ultimately have to depend upon the fine copy in mosaics at Vienna, executed at Napoleon's command, and supposed to be the largest and finest mosaic in the world. The expression in the faces of the apostles is said to be most admirably preserved.
The painting itself, which took the great Leonardo twelve years to execute, was unfortunately painted in oils, and the plaster of the wall not being properly prepared, the paint flakes off from exposure to thedamp. It retains just enough to show the emotions the artist wished to express, and which the best copies fail to produce. Themotifof the work is most beautifully and pathetically represented. Amidst the loving peace of that last evening meal, Jesus sorrowfully bows His head, saying, "One of you shall betray Me." Then all are filled with the deepest agitation and dismay. Two of the disciples, Peter and James, I think, reaching behind the dark form of Judas, who clutches the bag, make signs to John to ask the Master who it is. But the silent, downcast attitude of the Saviour, the expression of heavenly resignation, seems but too truly to confirm the mournful words—"One of you shall betray Me."
I must here repeat my lamentation at the unfinished condition of the exterior of many of the cathedrals and churches of Italy, which I consider disgraceful, containing as they do so much that is beautiful in sculpture, painting, and art-treasures beyond value, which can never be replaced, and yet are allowed to gradually sink into oblivion and ruin. Little care is taken to preserve them, or prevent decay: often have I seen the damp saturating the walls on which were the most admired frescoes of the greatest masters, slowly but surely becoming spoiled and effaced. It must be more than the want of funds which prevents the people from properly finishing the buildings they took so much time to construct and decorate—some senseless superstition must attach to it in some way, I should think.
Santa Maria delle Grazie, adjoining the Friary, is an Abbey Church of the fourteenth century, and, with Gothic nave and picturesque cupola added by Bramante, is considered one of the best architectural specimens of its class to be found anywhere.
Passing through the glass-domed arcade by the Cathedral, we find ourselves in thePiazza della Scala, where there is a fine statue of Leonardo da Vinci by Naqui, in Carrara marble. The figure of the great painter, which is larger than life, stands alone on a lofty pedestal, his fine features full of concentrated thought, while below stand four of his pupils, as though in the act of catching a glow of inspiration from their master: the expression on all their faces is excellent, and wonderfully executed. The base of the pedestal is adorned with copies of the great painter's principal works inrelief.
Here, too, is the famous Teatro la Scala, next to San Carlo at Naples, the largest in Italy, and capable of holding 3000 spectators. The highest ambition of an Italianartisteis attained when he or she has sung at this theatre, for it is a guarantee of success, and, having gained the suffrages of an audience on the boards of La Scala, they are certain of laurels on any other stage in Europe. This is the principal eveningrendezvousof the Milanese, both high and low classes assembling for several hours, paying, however, less attention to the opera than to conversation, flirtation, gambling, and eating ices. The theatre has quite recently been lighted by electricity.
The Arnea, in thePiazza di Arni, built by the French, is dedicated to the populace for their open-air amusements, such as balloon ascents, rope-dancing, fire-works, races, shows, etc.: it contains seats for some 30,000 spectators. TheArc de Triompheis considered the best of the kind in Europe.
The great picture-gallery at Milan, the Pinacoteca, in theVia di Brene, at thePalazzo delle Scienze e delle Arte, contains some six hundred paintings by celebrated artists, among them Raphael'sSposalizio, said to be the gem of the collection; Guercino'sAbraham and Hagar; and a copy of Leonardo da Vinci'sLast Supper, which, however, is in a very bad condition. The Archilogio and other museums also contain paintings and other objects of interest; but having already traversed so many galleries in Rome, Florence, Naples, etc., we were disinclined to visit many of those at Milan. The Palazzo Reale is principally worth seeing for its fine ball-room, decorated with silk tapestries of the sixteenth century.
We visited the church of St. Ambrogio, in the Piazza of the same name. It was founded by St. Ambrose in the year 387. It was here that he baptized St. Augustine, and burst out with the grandTe Deum Laudamus, ascribed to him. In one of the naves is a gigantic pillar, with a bronze serpent. It is said to be the one put up by Moses in the wilderness, despite the evidence in Scripture of its complete destruction! Among other remarkable things there is an ancient pulpit; a splendid shrine of silver adornedwith inscriptions and reliefs in honour of St Augustine's life; the Ambrosian Liturgy in vellum; a curious chapel behind the choir; and many interesting tombs, paintings, and frescoes.
The Ambrosian Library is in the Contrada della Bibliotheca, near the church of St. Sepolcro. It was founded by Cardinal Borromeo, and contains some 60,000 volumes and 15,000 manuscripts. Among the latter are many treasures: a Latin translation of Josephus, by Rufinius, on papyrus, supposed to be eleven centuries old; a copy of the Gospels in Irish, some seven centuries old; Petrarch's copy of Virgil; and autographic letters of Ariosto, Tasso, Galileo, Cavour, Garibaldi, and many others. The place is rich in objects of antiquity and paintings. It contains many of Raphael's cartoons, portraits by Leonardo da Vinci, Correggio'sChrist, and theMater Dolorosa, Raphael'sChrist washing the disciples' feet, and others.
The Public Gardens afford a refreshing change from the city. They are not very extensive, and seem mostly monopolized by gaily attired nursemaids, with great spreading silver head-dresses, which give them somewhat of a conceited air. They strut about as if they were nursing the little kings and queens of the future. Around these Gardens is the fashionable drive, which is thronged on Sundays, when the people assemble to criticise theélitein their carriages.
The ladies of Milan are handsome, carry themselves gracefully, and dress remarkably well—no small praise in these days of pinching, deforming, anddemoralizing French fashions; but it is strange how many men—young men especially—one sees at Milan, bent, stunted, and weak-kneed.
Milan is surrounded by a delightful country, and is most conveniently situated for excursions to the beautiful Italian lakes.
One morning we took train for Como. It was a most interesting journey, through fertile plains, luxuriantly clad with mulberry plantations for the propagation of silkworms; for silk is one of the principal commodities of Milan, and the plain silks of Lombardy are still considered the best in Europe. Nature is very kind to these rich and beautiful plains; it is still—
"Fruitful Lombardy,The pleasant garden of great Italy."
"Fruitful Lombardy,The pleasant garden of great Italy."
I should think there are few places where vineyards exist so abundantly, yet wine-making seems an industry little understood in modern Italy; or has the flavour of her grapes undergone a change? Who can forget the famous Falernian, quaffed by the emperors of Rome? At the present day, Italian wines, cheap and abundant as they may be, are certainly poor in quality. One would think wine-making was a lost art—at least, as understood by the ancients.
But to return to the landscape scenery through which we were passing. The plains and valleys are cooled and invigorated by numerous streams and canals. Monza is the first station stopped at, a small town with some 15,000 inhabitants. Its Cathedral isbuilt on the site of a church founded by the Lombard Queen Theodolinda, dedicated to St John the Baptist. Monza has a Town-hall, and a royal summer Palace, both possessing ancient interest. From here there is a line going to Lecco, a point somewhat higher than Como, almost at the extremity of the eastern fork of the lake Como, being situated at the extremity of the larger western fork. The wedge-like point which separates these two branches, called Bellagio, is charmingly situated, commanding the most lovely and extensive scenery; it is, therefore, one of the most frequented spots in the lake district.
After Monza, we pass through more than one tunnel, and several villages and small towns of Roman foundation. Not one of these places seems to have been overlooked by the ancients. They worked hard for the glory of their great empire, and sought these quiet and beautiful spots so favoured by Nature to recruit their strength and energy. But, as at Tivoli near Rome, we see all along the shores, and on the way to these Italian lakes, the proofs of their persevering activity and genius, employed in the adornment of their summer retreats, leaving, after centuries of time, sufficient to excite our wonder and admiration; and to satisfy us that these great men of old knew both how to work and how to enjoy themselves.
Como is quite an ideal little town, rich in reminiscences, and full of life and beauty. The Cathedral is, next to that at Milan, the finest in Northern Italy. It is severely Gothic; indeed, there is a certainseverity in most of the architecture of the town. There are some fine paintings, chiefly by Guido and B. Quini. On either side of the porch are the figures of the two Plinys, who used often to make the Villa Pliniana their residence, writing many of their celebrated works there. In the gardens of the villa is a fountain of which Pliny the younger made frequent mention in his letters.
The Villa d'Este, some three miles from the town—built by Cardinal Pompeo Galleo, who was born near Como and which afterwards became the retreat of poor Queen Caroline of Georgian memory—is now annexed to the well-known inn, the Regina d'Inghilterra. There are numerous other beautiful villas, interesting both on account of their own merit and the famous names associated with them.
The steamer leaves Como three times daily for excursions to various parts of the lake. Carriages are also available to all points of interest, and the rail goes straight to Bellagio. We preferred going by water, and were soon steaming up the lake, crossing occasionally from shore to shore to take in passengers. At first the morning was a little dull and cold, giving a somewhat sombre tone to the scenery; but after a time the sun shone out brightly, chasing away the shadows and lighting up the wondrous beauties of the Alpine landscape, bringing forth glints of coloured light from the dazzling waters, which reflected the blue sky overhead—a charming and fairy-like change, as if the wand of some good geniushad been waved around, effecting a complete transformation.
The lake is some thirty miles in length, and its greatest width is about two and a half miles. The depth in some parts is profound—some 1900 feet, and all around are the great lofty mountains. The fact of the two shores being seen so distinctly add, I think, not a little to the impressive grandeur of the scene. The mountain slopes are beautifully wooded. Sometimes a great chasm intervenes; and, nestling picturesquely here and there in bowers of green, or poised gracefully, commanding the finest points and curves of the lake, or again scattered around the shores, are the summer residences of the Milanese aristocracy. Winding in and out, crossing from shore to shore, there is an ever-varying panorama, delightful and unexpected surprises continually opening out to the enraptured gaze. At each little station we come to a boat puts off from the shore, bringing a few fresh passengers, and the mails and parcel traffic of the lake; returning with the same, and such passengers who desire to land.
At last we reach Bellagio, where the lake divides. Here one would fain linger, it is so grand, so beautiful, so still,—the snow-capped mountains rising in sublime majesty from the deep blue lake to the paler blue of the sky, their sternness broken by the forests on their slopes, and the brilliant colouring of the trees,—the tender green of the fresh spring foliage contrasting finely with the grey tints of the sombre olive—thewhole, with its moving lights and shadows, mirrored faithfully in the bosom of the lake below.
"Sublime, but neither bleak nor bare,Nor misty are the mountains there—Softly sublime, profusely fair,Up to their summits clothed in green,—And fruitful as the vales between,They lightly rise,And scale the skies,And groves and gardens still abound;For where no shootCould else take rootThe peaks are shelved and terraced round."
"Sublime, but neither bleak nor bare,Nor misty are the mountains there—Softly sublime, profusely fair,Up to their summits clothed in green,—And fruitful as the vales between,They lightly rise,And scale the skies,And groves and gardens still abound;For where no shootCould else take rootThe peaks are shelved and terraced round."
The only thing that disturbed the dream-like enjoyment of the moment was the presence on board the steamer of three rowdy Americans, who preferred to be "funny," and caricature the sublime splendour around them, rather than enjoy it with grateful admiration. Their foolish conceit prevented them keeping this so-called fun to themselves. Happily, it is not often one travels in such disagreeable company, though one too frequently meets with those whose sole object in coming to these beautiful spots is theambitiousone of being able to say on their return home that they have "done" Italy. I am obliged to admit, however, that these are mostly my own countrymen.
After luncheon at the Grand Hotel at Bellagio, which we enjoyed in the verandah, with a magnificent view of the lake spread before us, we took a stroll on the shore, and looked at the little shops, where we saw in process of manipulation the Italian pillow-lace,of which, as a matter of course, my wife longed to make purchases.
The hotels are charmingly situated about the shores of the lake, commanding the most beautiful views of the grand scenery around; they seem to be comfortable, and are reasonable in their charges. Certainly a more pleasant place for a short stay could not be found; the hill-climbing excursions would be delightful. Towards evening we returned on board the little vessel, and steamed quietly down the lake, calling at the different stations on our way, and thoroughly enjoying the beauty of the evening shadows, the sombre mountains sinking into peaceful repose, and the water no longer mirror-like, but calm and dark.
"All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep,But breathless, as we grow when feeling most,And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep;—All heaven and earth are still. From the high hostOf stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain coast,All is concentr'd in a life intense,Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,But hath a part of being, and a senseOf that which is of all Creator and defence."
"All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep,But breathless, as we grow when feeling most,And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep;—All heaven and earth are still. From the high hostOf stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain coast,All is concentr'd in a life intense,Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,But hath a part of being, and a senseOf that which is of all Creator and defence."
The train from Switzerland was awaiting us on our arrival at Como, and we were soon speeding away to Milan, having greatly enjoyed our trip to this lovely Italian lake.
[H]Thanks to the author of "The Bitter Cry from Outcast London," there is now a noble stream of generous sympathy flowing from West to East—from those in affluence to their fellow-creatures in distress; and the words of the Psalmist are at last being realized, "The poor shall not alway be forgotten."
[H]Thanks to the author of "The Bitter Cry from Outcast London," there is now a noble stream of generous sympathy flowing from West to East—from those in affluence to their fellow-creatures in distress; and the words of the Psalmist are at last being realized, "The poor shall not alway be forgotten."
Climate of Milan—Magenta—Arrival in Turin—Palazzo Madama—Chapel of the Holy Napkin—The lottery fever—View from the Alpine Club—Superga—Academia delle Scienze—Departure—Mont Cenis railway—The great tunnel—Modane—Farewell to Italy.
Climate of Milan—Magenta—Arrival in Turin—Palazzo Madama—Chapel of the Holy Napkin—The lottery fever—View from the Alpine Club—Superga—Academia delle Scienze—Departure—Mont Cenis railway—The great tunnel—Modane—Farewell to Italy.
Before leaving Milan, I should like to say a word on its healthfulness. An eminent medical man, recently writing on the subject, says, "On account of the neighbourhood of Milan to the Alps, its climate in winter is cold and damp, and occasionally foggy. The irrigation of the rice-fields, with which Milan abounds, is a fertile source of fevers of all types, which, together with thoracic inflammation, phthisis, rheumatism, and affections of the digestive organs, are the most prevalent diseases." The same authority gives Como a scarcely less baneful character. For my own part, I can only say that, whatever may be the condition of Milan in the winter time, in the month of March, when we were there, the climate was most enjoyable, the air pure and bracing. All the hotels, however, are not equally healthful in their sanitary arrangements, one of my friends having been subjected to a serious illness from this very cause; andthe Italian doctor (a Milanese) who attended him did not hesitate to condemn the sanitary condition of the hotel where he was staying at the time of his illness. The hotels in the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele are, I believe, without reproach in this respect.
After leaving Milan, we passed through Magenta, situated amid fertile corn-fields and plantations of mulberry trees. This was the scene of one of the greatest battles in the war which gained Italy her freedom from the hated rule of Austria. Close to the railway station is a huge pyramidal monument, indicating the spot where the brunt of the battle was borne, and erected to the memory of the brave French who fell in the contest. All along the route are mementoes of the late war. Casting our eyes over the level plains, occasionally broken by the river Ticino, and undulating towards the hills, it was interesting, though sad, to imagine the desperate conflicts of which it had so recently been the scene—these now peaceful plains and valleys saturated with the blood of valiant men, whose bones lie beneath the green sod and waving corn! The result, however, was glorious—a People's Freedom! Very different to the selfish ends and aims of the insatiable Napoleon!
Reaching Turin, we found the station, like that at Milan, an imposing structure, standing in a fine open space planted with trees, the Piazza Carlo Felice. This is surrounded by a colonnaded square—from which runs the Via Roma, one of the principal streets—and extends as far as the Piazza Castello. Thestreets, which are long and straight, like those of an American city, in some cases seem to run right up to the circling foot of the snowy Alps; and, looking up these streets towards the north, one gets most lovely vistas of the grand Alpine range, and feels their majestic presence by the dazzling light reflected from their snowy slopes, and the cold air from their icy peaks, to which the fair blue of the sky above forms a beautiful canopy.
Turin seems to have been badly treated; the removal of the seat of government from her to Milan, Florence, and ultimately to Rome, caused the value in land, etc., to fall considerably. The city was extended, great piazzas and streets lined with handsome shops, tramways laid down in all directions, theatres built on a large scale, and all preparations for making it the capital of Italy; and this expenditure proved, after all, a needless outlay, for soon the city was comparatively deserted, so far as fashion and gaiety are concerned, and these go far to make the vigour and wealth of a rising town. It is, however, busy and industrious in its trade and commerce, and alive with factories; yet recent events have left very distinct traces in Turin, almost more so than in any other Italian city.
Turin, orTorino, was founded by the Taurini, a Ligurian tribe, and was destroyed by Annibal about the year 218B.C.It was ruled during the Middle Ages by its own dukes. The House of Savoy continued to hold it from the middle of the eleventh century untilthe late disturbances in Italy. Most of the streets of Turin converge into the Piazza di Castello, in the centre of which stands the Palazzo Madama, a weird-looking, half-ruined building overgrown with ivy, with a gloomy look about its desolate towers. It is a fine and picturesque old place, especially on a moonlight night—a unique relic of the Middle Ages. Near it are the Royal Palace and the Duomo. The former is not unlike a barrack externally; but it contains a noble staircase and fine banqueting and reception rooms, the ceiling and floors being especially worthy of admiration. From the palace chapel, which is entered from the great hall, you can look right down to the Cathedral adjoining. This chapel of the Santo Sadano (or Holy Napkin) was built in 1648, to receive one of the folds of the shroud in which the Saviour was supposed to have been wrapped by Joseph of Arimathæa. This relic is contained in an altar under the cupola. One cannot help feeling anger and amazement at these miserable impostures on the ignorance of credulous devotees. We were actually shown by one of the priests an oblong frame, about thirty inches by twelve, containing a tracing, probably photographed, of this holy napkin, which, having been pressed against the Saviour's face, retained the imprint of His features; and so this piece of old linen was duly worshipped, and has probably brought a comfortable income to the priests from the pockets of the superstitious and easily beguiled multitude. There is no end to the so-called marvels in these Romish churches.
The Cathedral is built on the site of a Lombard church of the seventh century, but does not contain anything of much interest. Indeed, among the hundred churches at Turin, there are really few worth a visit; perhaps the Consolata Church, including a chapel of the tenth century, is the best of these. Canon Wordsworth quotes an incident relative to this church. "A poor man prayed to the Madonna to reveal to him some lucky numbers for the lottery. He had a dream, in which, as he imagined, she suggested a trio of numbers. He made his purchases accordingly, but they turned out blanks. In revenge for this delusion, he attacked the image of the Madonna della Consolazione, when borne in procession through the city to the Superga, and mutilated it with a hatchet. The mob was enraged, and would have torn him in pieces had he not been rescued by the soldiers, and he was conveyed as a madman to a lunatic asylum." These lotteries are a means of ruin and demoralization in every Italian town, the lottery offices, where the winning numbers are displayed, being only less plentiful than thecafés. I believe many of the poorer people invest their savings in these "official" gambling-places, and the majority are much the worse for so doing. But the State evidently profits by this infatuation for gaming, just as the pope and the priests enrich themselves by the blind superstition of the ignorant and foolish. The suppression of these Lotto banks should be among the first reforming acts of Italy: far wiser tosubstitute a State savings-bank, on the lines of our Post-office system. Bearing to the eastward of the Castello, up the Via di Po, we came to the Ponte di Po, a fine bridge across the river, which greatly resembles the Arno, but is rather cleaner in colour. Crossing the bridge, we mounted the rather steep hill to the Capuchin Church of Del Monti at the top. This hill has been of great military importance in a strategetic point of view, commanding, as it does, the town, river, and valley. A little higher up is a kind of observatory; and on ascending the stairs, we found ourselves in the Alpine Club of North Italy. Here is an interesting little Museum, with a very good and instructive collection of Alpine plants, minerals, maps, etc. From the balcony outside we had a most glorious and impressive view. Immediately below, the river Po, pursuing its rapid course towards the sea, watering the valleys on its way,—rich plains stretching far and wide, and the city of Turin lying in a grand mountain hollow, spread like a map before us; beyond, like an impenetrable barrier, and arranged in a mighty semicircle, towered the great Alpine range. On the left, the Maritime Alps; then the Cottians, with Monte Viso, Mont Cenis, and the Grand Paradis, the Pennines to Monte Rosa, and the Lombard Alps. I looked up at this mighty barrier, its summits deep in misty clouds and vapour, the bright sun glittering on the thick snow, and the blue sky reflecting all manner of lovely hues on the white slopes and beautiful plains beneath: