WE left Verona at mid–day for Milan. The scenery was fine, and for some
miles we had Lake Garda, the largest of the Italian lakes, in view,
at one part as near as only a mile off. Here we passed over the field
of the battle of Solferino, which took place on 24th June 1859. An
interest naturally attaches to ground where not many years previously a
great battle was fought, and so many events were being enacted terrible
to the actors, but there is nothing specially to mark it out. The day
had been clear when we started, but before we got to Milan the clouds
began to gather, the sky became very black, and we unluckily arrived at
four o’clock in a thunderstorm. However, we had not far to drive down
the wide Corso to the Hôtel de Ville, which is well situated near the
Cathedral, in the principal street of Milan.
* * * * *
We were out betimes next morning to see the glorious cathedral. It is
certainly a magnificent church, inside and out, built of white marble,
and of great size and height, being only inferior in size or extent
to St. Peter’s.[42] It was not a little refreshing to see a Gothic
church of any sort, after having had so much elsewhere in other styles.
It is not divided into or surrounded by chapels, so that it wants the
aid which these accessories afford for decoration; and therefore, in
contrast with many less pretentious churches, there is a feeling of
vacancy about it, although it is devoid of the gloom of the large,
empty, dark Duomo of Florence. Fault, no doubt, has been found with the
windows that they do not throw down the light sufficiently from above,
but the windows themselves are traceried and filled with beautiful
stained glass. Upon entering by the great portal at the west, the eye
is caught in the far distance by the glimmering colours of the grand
east window, whose dimensions are colossal, as may be gathered from
the fact that its traceried compartments comprise no fewer than 350
pictures in glass, copies, in many instances, of known paintings.
Then the eye is arrested by four long rows of lofty clustered
columns—upwards of 50 in number in all—each 8 feet in diameter and 90
feet high, their comparative slenderness giving an airy character to
the great interior, which rises in graceful pointed arches in the nave
to the height of 152 feet. These pillars are most peculiarly adorned by
a sort of double capital, between which are placed in canopied niches
sculptured figures or statues in white marble, evincing that herein
Milan is master; but somehow they do not attain the effect of a grand
capital. The roof is painted in imitation fretwork or open carving,
a species of deception which, however well done, is hardly to be
expected, or even tolerated, where no cost has otherwise been spared.
The exterior has so light and fairy–like an appearance that one
can hardly believe it to be of stone, and yet all the parts which
look so light and delicate are in reality massive and substantial
marble. The mass or quantity of statues is really surprising. Niches
innumerable contain them, studded at every conceivable spot over the
huge building. Every one of the countless pinnacles, besides being
adorned in successive courses by them, is surmounted by a statue, a
mute mast–headed man, patiently and uncomplainingly remaining where he
has been ordered to do duty, and so aiding to adorn the magnificent
edifice. The number of marble statues inside and outside has been
variously computed, but cannot be less than 4000. The central tower
may be objected to as fully too small or too light for the size of the
building, but it is in style in harmony with the numberless spirelets
which rise like a forest around it, sometimes in clusters, and spanned
by flying buttresses in lace–like decoration, which give strength and
stability to a structure which, if it were not irreverent to say so,
has a good deal of the look, in its white purity, of a most gigantic
and beautiful bride–cake.
We lingered about the cathedral on our first visit for a long time. It
was grand to hear the great organ pealing through the vast chamber,
although the music was not so fine as it had been at St. Mark’s on the
Sunday.
* * * * *
The following morning (for while at Milan we never missed seeing it
every day) we again entered the church, and found an important service
proceeding, apparently either a levée, or, more likely, a consecration
of priests. An old bishop wearing a large mitre sat on his throne,
and one after another young men ascended and knelt before him, when
he placed his paternal hands on the head of each successively, and
apparently kissed him. The string of those who thus went up for
consecration seemed, like Paddy’s rope, to have had the other end cut
off—we thought it would never terminate. But what struck me much was
the remarkable want of intelligence in the faces of the old priests,
particularly those who wore the grandest dresses; they had such a
stupid, stolid look, reminding one very much of a ‘donnered auld
Hieland porter.’ After witnessing enough of this ceremony, we ascended
the stair leading to the summit, admission to which costs a small fee.
The cathedral is 360 feet high, if not higher to the topmost point,
for here also authorities differ; but the point I reached might not
exceed 300 feet, and, if I am not mistaken, there did not seem to be
open access to the public to a higher elevation. There are many breaks
of the ascent by the way, where one can halt and look around and have a
near view of the sculpture, which is by no means coarsely executed; the
figures, however, upon the top of these long needle–shaped pinnacles
convey a nervous dread of their stability, though, no doubt, securely
fastened. About many of them lightning conductors are placed, without
which they might only be points of attraction for the electric fluid.
The roof of the building is composed of slabs of white marble in neat
layers or courses overlapping each other upon a slope of moderate
angle, giving a remarkably clean finish to the whole. It was glorious
to think of this being a work of man. One could envy the feelings of
the architect who had the honour to design and commence it, but did
not live to see it completed. It was begun in 1385; the main body was
finished thirty–three years later, but the central spire not till the
year 1440. It may be said, therefore, that it is 450 years old, and
yet it has such a freshness about it that one could readily suppose it
is hardly a generation old. They are, however, always making additions
to and repairing it. Standing upon the high tower, and surrounded by a
forest of marble pinnacles and statues, and by rich sculpture at every
point, the eye is yet attracted to the distant view from the summit,
which is very magnificent. The country, which for miles from Milan is
very flat but verdant, lies spread out in panorama, from Turin, 80
miles distant, to Venice, 150 miles off; but Venice, at least, is too
distant to be visible, and I doubt if Turin, even by aid of a glass,
can be descried. Right in front to the north, and thence west and east,
within a radius of from 80 to 100 miles, the grand mountain ranges of
Switzerland lie. We saw some of the snowy peaks, but unfortunately the
sky was clouded, and the view of most of them was obscured. But we took
note of where Mont Blanc, the Matterhorn, Monte Rosa, and other old
friends might have been seen on a clear day, though it would require a
good telescope to distinguish the different mountain celebrities. The
Italian lakes are, with the exception of Lake Garda, between 30 and 40
miles distant, but, shut in by the mountains, they are not visible,
although we imagined we could make out their situation. The city of
Milan lay compactly spread out all around just under us, the cathedral
standing very much in the centre of all.
* * * * *
We were fortunate in getting a tolerably clear day for this ascent. I
had intended to go up again on the following Monday, but found it too
cloudy to be of any use. Another rather interesting sight, however,
was in progress that day within the church; for an immense number of
young children—boys and girls—were all seated in long rows round a
vacant space, wherein were priests with candles, and an archbishop or
some other dignitary, who was going round them. The girls were all
dressed in white with white veils, the boys in their best attire,
many of them with white ties and some with white waistcoats. The
children seemed to be from seven to fifteen years of age, and by all
it was evidently regarded as a grand gala–day—something like a public
school examination–day in Scotland, before breaking up for the summer
holidays. They were perhaps receiving confirmation. The procession of
priests stopped at each child in rotation. The old bishop performed
motions with his hands over each—I suppose making the form of the cross
over them, and mumbling something inaudibly. It must have taken a long
time so to go over them all, as there were several hundreds.
* * * * *
The people of Milan have wisely left a large vacant space or piazza in
front of the cathedral, upon its west side, so that one can admire,
without intervening interruption, its beauty from a sufficient
distance. On the south side of the piazza, or rather of the cathedral,
the Royal Palace, a plain building, is situated. The piazza itself
is surrounded on three sides by new and very handsome commercial
buildings, which are quite an ornament to the place; and out of it,
upon the north side, there has been built, at an expense of no less
than £320,000, the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele—a splendid arcade, or
rather street or streets of stone buildings, laid out in the shape
of a cross, covered over by an iron and glass vaulted roof, upon the
Crystal Palace model. The main gallery is nearly 1000 feet long, about
50 feet wide, and 94 feet high; and it is occupied in the lower floor
by shops, and the upper floors apparently by warehouses or other
places of business, the façades being of an elegant style adorned by
sculpture. The central dome is particularly graceful, and at night is
lighted up by a circle of gas jets placed round the top. These, with
the other lights, produce a most brilliant effect, and it is scarcely
surprising to find that in the evening the gallery is crowded by
the townspeople and strangers, so that passage through it is rather
difficult. This gallery—really the most perfect thing of the kind I
have seen anywhere—leads out at the other end to another piazza, in
the centre of which a very fine marble monument to Leonardo da Vinci
has been erected. He stands surrounded by four of his pupils, all of
white marble. In another part of the town is the famous picture by that
artist of the Last Supper, a fresco which is almost obliterated. The
charge for admission to see this celebrated work is at the exorbitant
rate of 1 franc per person.
There may be seen gratuitously on the streets of Milan a picture of a
different kind in the elaborately made–up head–dress of the women. In
a pad of hair at the back of the head a dozen or two of long pins, of
more or less magnificence, are stuck, in arrangements to suit the fancy
of the wearer, but most commonly in a fan shape. It is not for man to
pry into the hidden mysteries of the toilet, but it seems scarcely
possible for any woman to effect this elaborate tire unaided, nor is
it probable that the effect is achieved by a daily effort. The amount
of nightly torture by acupressure to which the Milanese women may
therefore subject themselves, in obedience to a law of fashion, is not
agreeable to contemplate. We can only be grateful.
* * * * *
In order to see a little of the town, we took a carriage one afternoon
and drove out in the direction of the Piazza d’Armi, a large open
space about 2000 feet square, outside the inhabited part of the city.
The castle or barracks occupies one side of the square. The noble
Arco della Pace, begun by Napoleon in 1804 as a termination to the
Simplon route, faces the castle on the west side. It is of the same
character as the triumphal arches of the Tuileries at Paris, and the
Piazza Cavour at Florence, and is a beautiful three–arched gateway of
white marble, Corinthian columns supporting an entablature, on the top
of which a hero drives six fiery horses abreast, in utmost peril to
himself and them (were they living), while a man on horseback at each
of the four top corners, in equal peril and in violent action, holds up
a conqueror’s wreath. These figures, being in bronze, will not, it is
supposed, readily commit an act of self–destruction.
On the north side of the piazza there is a large, modern, oval
amphitheatre of wood, and without cover, within which races are held,
and capable of accommodating 30,000 spectators.
From the piazza we proceeded to visit some of the churches, and _inter
alia_ the church of San Ambrogio, founded by Saint Ambrose in the
fourth century. It is entered by passing through a large arcaded
court or _atrium_ in front, dating back a thousand years. The church,
associated with various events in history, is ancient evidently, and
peculiar in its interesting decoration, but not to be compared with
that of San Zeno in Verona. On Sundays mass is celebrated, accompanied
by the old Ambrogian music, but this we did not hear. The church of San
Lorenzo was not far off—also a very ancient building, said, in part at
least, to have been built in the fourth century. It is octagonal in
form and surmounted by a dome. A colonnade of sixteen large Corinthian
columns stands close by, and is thought to have formed part of a Roman
building or temple, of which the church may at first have been also a
part. All the churches, at the time of our visit, were being decorated
for Trinity Sunday.
* * * * *
The picture gallery (the Pinacoteca) was unfortunately closed while
we were in Milan, so that we missed seeing its frescoes and examples
of the great masters. There is apparently not much more to be seen in
Milan than what I have mentioned; but it contains some good streets and
a public park—not of great extent—embracing within it in a zoological
garden a small and not very valuable collection of animals. This park
is no doubt a very nice retreat in hot weather. We spent an hour in
it one afternoon, and while there witnessed a very novel method of
watering the road. Attached to a water–barrel drawn on a cart, was
a flexible pipe about five or six feet long and about six inches in
diameter, with a bulb at the end perforated with holes. A man walked
behind with a rope attached to the bulb, by which he jerked it about so
as to spread the water from side to side all across the road. This man,
who was endowed with a pair of five–o’clock legs, was, notwithstanding
his deformity,—which seemed, indeed, to contribute to his power of
dispersing the water,—somewhat of a wag, and with a wicked leer
quietly contrived to bestow an amicable sprinkling on the laughing
nurserymaids as he passed. The method of watering, however, was both
novel and ingenious, and answered its purpose remarkably well. But
there was little dust to lay in this rainy quarter; and indeed it never
was, while we were in Milan, particularly hot, and perhaps it never is;
while in winter–time, especially in December, it is sometimes a place
of excessive cold.[43]