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