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.
* * * * *
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."