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 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 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."