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]