Italy, which redeem its modern
architecture from the reproach of universal degeneracy. One of these is
the Triumphal Arch of Milan, known also as the Arco della Pace. It was
full in view from where I stood, rising on the northern edge of the
esplanade, with the line of road stretching out from it, and running on
and on towards the Alps, over which it climbs, forming the famous
Simplon Pass. I crossed the plain in the direction of the Arco della
Pace, to have a nearer inspection of it. It was more to my taste than
the Duomo. The Cathedral, much as I admired it, had a bewildering and
dissipating effect. It presented a perfect universe of towers,
pinnacles, and statues, flashing in the Italian sun, and in the yet more
dazzling splendour of its own beauty. But, stript of the tracery with
which it is so profusely covered, and the countless statues that nestle
in its niches, it would be a withered, naked, and unsightly thing, like
a tree in winter. Not so the arch to which I was advancing. It rose
before me in simple grandeur. It might be defaced,--it might grow old;
but its beauty could not perish while its form remained. It presents but
one simple and grand idea; and, seen once, it never can be forgotten. It
takes its place as an image of beauty, to dwell in the mind for ever. To
look upon it was to draw in concentration and strength.

I found this arch guarded by a Croat,--beauty in the keeping of
barbarism. Much I wondered what sensations it could produce in such a
mind: of course, I had no means of knowing. I touched the arch with my
palm, to ascertain the quality of its polish and workmanship. The Croat
made a threatening gesture, which I took as a hint not to repeat the
action. I walked under it,--walked round it,--viewed it on all sides;
but why should I describe what the engraver's art has made so familiar
all over Europe? And such is the power of a simple and sublime
idea,--whether the pen or the chisel has given it body,--to transmit
itself, and retain its hold on the mind, that, though I had only now
seen the Arco della Pace for the first time, I felt as if I had been
familiar with it all my life; and so, doubtless, does my reader. The
little squat figure, with the swarthy face, and dull, cold eye, that
kept pacing beside it, watched me all the while my survey was going on.
Sorely must it have puzzled him to discover the cause of the interest I
took in it. Most probably he took me for a necromancer, whose simple