From the Thames to the Tiber

“I ask myself is this a dream?   Will it all vanish into thin air?Is there a land of such supreme   And perfect beauty anywhere?”

For a long time we sped on through mountainous country whose peaks were bright with sunshine, the hillsides were dotted with pretty villas, which were surrounded with lovely gardens full of shubbery, or ravines that looked cool and shady.  Before the day had begun to wane, we caught glimpses of the great city of Milan, and soon we were being driven to “Hotel Europe.”  We found it all we could desire, large, clean, well fitted and most moderate.  Our great desire, of course, was to see the wonderful cathedral.  We had heard so much of this grand, solemn, vast, airy, peaceful building, that we could hardly sleep for the thought that we were so near what our eyes were aching to see.  We rose refreshed, and, after a good breakfast, we sallied forth to feast our eyes on the object we had heard of so often, but never seen.  Into the streets we went in a fever of excitement.  In this direction and in that, around us, behind us, before us were busy crowds.  At last, a very forest of graceful spires, shimmering in the light of the lovely morning sun, burst upon our view.  We needed no one to tell us what it was.  The Cathedral! my dear wife exclaimed.  We knew it in a moment.  How sharply its angles and its hundred of spires are cut against the sky.  It is like a vision!  Some one has said: “a poem wrought in marble.”  From whatever standpoint you view Milan Cathedral, it is noble, it is beautiful.  You can see it from almost any point of the city, and for many miles outside it is visible.  We were at its doors early in the morning.  The central one of the five is finely bordered with a bas-relief of birds and fruits, beasts and insects, so ingeniously carved that they look as if they were really living things.  On entering, we felt as though we might hear a strange voice saying: “Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standst is holy ground.”

And the lines of Milton at once rose to our lips.

“But let my dear feet never failTo walk the studious cloisters’ pale,And love the high embowered roofWith antique pillars, massive proofAnd storied windows richly dight,Casting a dim religious light.There let the pealing organ blowIn service high and anthems clearAs may with sweetness through mine earDissolve me into ecstacies,And bring all heaven before mine eyes.”

And Tennyson says:

“Oh! Milan! oh! the charming choirs!The giant windows blazoned fires,The height, the space, the gloom, the glory,A mount of marble, a hundred spires.”

We were amazed at the magnitude, the brilliancy, the beauty of all its interior parts.  In every nook and cranny and corner there is some lovely statuary, or vase, or painting, and every one is a study in itself, every face is eloquent with expression, and every attitude is full of grace.  You can trace the master mind and hand of Michael Angelo or Raphael in the many objects of interest that arrest attention.  “Long rows of fluted columns, like huge mountains, divide the building into broad aisles.”  The lovely stained glass windows, one of which contains no less than sixty panes; these throw in the soft morning light their shadows upon the marble floor of the aisles.  We quietly strolled along, viewing with admiration the pictures and mosaics so artistically arranged by their thousands of small pieces of coloured glass, until the whole seems to have the finish of a picture.  Our guide showed us many things of interest, which we might have missed but for his aid.  A piece of sculpture, the colour of a coffee bean, was shown to us, and our guide stated it was believed to be the work of that famous artist, Phidias.  It is a figure of a man without a skin, with every vein, artery and muscle, every fibre and tendon and tissue of the human frame shown in the minutest detail.  It was not a very attractive object to look upon, yet it was a work of skill and genius.  The staircases to the roof are of the whitest of white marble.  There is no stone, no brick, no wood apparently amongst its building material.  We did not feel like going up the one hundred and eighty-two steps, to gain the summit of this great block, we contented ourselves with a general view from the floor.  The statues up in the niches high, looked like tiny dolls, while they are really the size of a man.  There are niches for nearly five thousand statues, but only about three thousand are filled up-to-date.  We were not allowed to see the treasures and relics, these are most valuable and curious.  We learn there is treasure inside the coffers to the value of six million francs.  This is in silver and gold bas-reliefs and images of Bishops, Cardinals, Madonnas and Saints, Crosses, Croziers and Candlesticks.  For relics they have a stone from the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, a fragment of the purple robe worn by Our Saviour, two of St. Paul’s fingers, and a bone of Judas Iscariot, a nail from the real cross on which Our Saviour died.  Once every year these sacred relics come out of their dusty archives, and are carried in a grand procession through the city, amid the acclaims of a deluded people.  On the High Altar is a very fine tabernacle of gilt bronze adorned with figures of Our Saviour and the twelve disciples, the gift of one of the ancient Popes.  A magnificent candelabrum hangs from the roof of the choir stall.  Beneath the choir is a small subterranean church, in which services are held in the winter months, as it is much warmer than in the great cathedral above.  This lower church is from the designs of Pellegrini, and from this church is an entrance to the Chapel of St. Carlo.  This Saint, it appears, was born about 1505, and was specially good to the poor, as he sold his life interest in some property and distributed it amongst the hospitals and charities of the city.  He tried to introduce some salutary improvements into the church, for the scandalous manner of living of the priests had become notorious.  For his desire to reform their habits, an attempt was made to assassinate him.  Several of the attempts failed, they then hired a priest named Farina to execute the bloody deed.  He gained access to this private chapel, and as San Carlo was kneeling before the altar, he fired at him with an old blunderbuss, just at the moment he was chanting: “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”  The bullet struck him on the back but did not penetrate his silken stole, but dropped harmlessly to the ground.  This failure of the attempt to murder him was considered an interposition of Divine Providence.  He died, however, at the early age of forty-six.  His death was hastened by the severe austerity of his life.  His body is deposited in a gorgeous shrine of silver, the gift of Philip IV., of Spain, and he lies in his full canonicals and can be seen through panes of rock crystals.  Upon the sarcophagus is worked in rich tapestry San Carlo’s favourite motto: “Humility.”  There are several busts of San Carlo, also a fine statue.  A mitre, also said to be worn by this Italian worthy during the plague, it is beautifully embroidered with feathers of the choicest and richest hues.  There are many churches in all the cities of Italy that are full of interest, some have been so much modernized that, from the outside, there appears nothing unusual, but once you are inside, surprise follows surprise.  Saint Ambrogio is one of these.  The moment you get inside you are interested, statues of costly marble, silver shrines, columns of marble, vast and numerous.  One of the great sights is the splendid facing of the altar, which is a marvellous display of the goldsmiths’ art.  A fee of five francs must be paid to see it, the front of the altar is of rich plates of gold, the back and sides are of silver, all richly enamelled and set with precious stones, the golden front is in three divisions, each contains smaller compartments; in the centre one are nine containing the emblems of the four Evangelists and the twelve Apostles.  The transfiguration is also clearly seen amongst them.  On one side are to be seen eight angels bearing vials, on the other side are the four archangels—Michael, Gabriel, Raphael and Uriel.  But the back is quite as full of interest; like the front it consists of three grand compartments, and these are divided into similar tablets.  On one of the first is seen a swarm of bees buzzing around the head of a sleeping child.  The legend, when explained, tells us that when St. Ambrose was born in the year 340 A.D., a swarm of bees were thus seen around the head of the infant while in his cradle while lying in the palace of his father, and as no harm followed, it was said to be an omen of his future eloquence and power.  He was chosen Bishop of Milan in the year 375 A.D.  Other emblems, indeed they are too numerous to mention.  On the right side of the nave is a large serpent of brass.  Tradition states it is the serpent of brass which was set up in the wilderness for the serpent-bitten Israelites to look upon and live.  Tradition is not always truth.  In the centre of the choir is a curious marble throne, called the chair of St. Ambrose, its appearance is very ancient, it is decorated with figures of lions and strange carvings.  We left this interesting sanctum as we had left other churches—impressed, instructed and grieved.  The Brera Picture Gallery or Museum is also well worth a visit.  It originally belonged to the Umiliate Order of Jesuits.  It is of immense size, and its frescoes are simply magnificent.  Amongst them I may name “The Virgin and Child, with St. John and the Lamb”; three girls playing a game then called “hot cockles”; “A youth riding on a white horse”; “Child seated amongst vines and grapes”; “The Virgin and St. Joseph proceeding to their marriage at the Temple”; two minstrels, such as usually accompany wedding parties; “The martyrdom of St. Sebastian;” “The Israelites preparing to leave Egypt”; “The Prophet Habakkuk awakened by the Angel”; “Three cupids with musical instruments.”  I believe there are thirteen rooms all full of the finest works of arts to be found anywhere out of Rome.  The botanical gardens are not, to my mind, equal even to our own in this country.  The Grand Hospital of Milan is well worth looking at from the outside, built in the year 1456.  The first stone was laid by Antonia Filarte.  As you enter the great gateway, a very fine quadrangle appears in view, and there is a double colonnade of arches, twenty-one on one side and nineteen on the other.  I was told that over thirty thousand patients passed through this hospital every year.  It can accommodate at once about five thousand people.  Monuments abound outside that have been raised to the memory of the principal benefactors.  The theatres of Milan are really palaces of beauty; indeed, I learn that Milan is known by the magnificence of its theatres.  The principal one is La Scala.  It is said to be the largest and the best arranged of any in Italy, It is capable of holding three thousand six hundred spectators easily.  There are forty-one boxes in each row.  We did not go inside as our time was fully taken up with other scenes and places.  There is a Church of England, or rather services rendered by a clergyman of the Church of England.  The Protestants in Milan are very few.  There are several Free Church services conducted in the city, but the buildings are not of any special character.  From observation I should say four-fifths of the inhabitants are Roman Catholics.  The city has now a population of over four hundred thousand.  We visited a good many parts of this beautiful busy city.  It has some very fine squares, some noble monuments, some pretty gardens; also shops of all kinds, and goods may be had at reasonable prices.  We secured some small mementoes that were not very difficult to pack and carry away.  After a few days stay we agreed to move on.  So packing once again, and settling up our accounts, and tipping the waiters (it is unpardonable to leave without doing this), our luggage was once more on the ’bus, and we were lumbering along to the railway station, now to make our way to Como, and so on to Lucerne through the great St. Gothard tunnel.  We had only a little while to wait, and our train came in with a roar and a hiss.  A few minutes and we have left behind us one of the sights that will linger long with us.  “The Cathedral of Milan,” for some distance we could see it behind us, and in front of us snow-clad mountains some twenty miles away, our interest deepened as we proceeded, for the beauties nature’s bounteous hand has spread all over Italy is one continual surprise and joy.  In less than an hour our train steamed into the station at Como.  This is not a large place, but looks very pretty as it nestles in quite an amphitheatre of hills.  Como was the home of Pliny, and it is said to have been a very fashionable resort at the time of the Cæsars.  In the middle ages it became an independent republic, and for a long time held its own against the large city of Milan.  It is now a very prosperous little town, and it is said rivals Lyons in some respects for its beautiful production of silks.  It is surrounded by Olive yards and Orange groves, and near by is the beautiful lake of Como.  This is one of the most beautiful of all lakes of lovely Italy we have seen, and we had seen several from our carriage windows, and it was only from this point we could gaze upon this scene of loveliness.  Time did not permit us to leave the train to explore and to enjoy.  We could see its blue waters shimmering under a warm glow of sunshine.  The surroundings are very interesting and beautiful, the eye does not grow weary in tracing the outline of the hills which surround it.  I do not wonder at the Psalmist saying: “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.”  Psalm 121.  For surely earth cannot present, nor unassisted reason fancy or conceive an object more profoundly significant of Divine Majesty than these hills clothed in their vestures at the top, by everlasting snow.  In their presence “There is silence deep as death, and the boldest hold their breath.”  The slopes of the hills are covered with a very lovely verdure of green, intersected here and there by glens.  On one side there are crags and precipices, under whose shelter the vine hangs in bright green festoons.  The Olive tree also is in good evidence, as shown by its gnarled and knotted stem; Orchards and fine Chestnut trees in rich profusion.  Passing along we see the white foam of a waterfall as it shines amongst the verdure or leaps over the rocky crags and comes dashing and splashing down the hillside.  Further on we see the little white houses dotting the hillsides, as if they grew out of the same.  Then a single arch of a bridge that spans a small ravine and unites one little cluster of houses with another, giving interest to the whole surroundings.  In another hour and a half we were steaming into beautiful Lugano.

CHAPTER XIII

Lugano: The river Tessin and its bridge of ten arches: Bellinzono: Entrance to the great St. Gothard Tunnel: Andermatt Station: St. Bernard’s Hospice: The Devil’s Bridge: The Wood Cutter at Work: William Tell’s Chapel: His story: Entrance to Lucerne: Our Hotel: Our visit to the mountain top of Sonnenberg, etc.

Our stay at Lugano was only for a few minutes, it looks very much like the town of Buxton, in Derbyshire, “Peakland.”  The houses are built of stone, the streets are white and clean looking.  It has a population of about 7,000, and has a little trade in silks, leather, hats, and some shoes.  It is an important railway depot, as it stands very near the frontier, dividing Italy and Switzerland.  The Roman Catholics have a very fine church, and, as an accessory, a very extensive nunnery.  The river Tessin runs near and the town is protected by a very large dam, nearly a mile long.  We crossed this river as we left for Lucerne, over a fine granite bridge of ten arches and something like seven hundred feet long.  As we left behind us this pretty little town, we were soon recompensed by ever changing scenery that no pen can fully describe.

About an hour brought us to another stopping place, Bellinzono.  From here we run side by side with the river Ticino, a very fine river, and here began to ascend rapidly towards the Alps and the great tunnel of St. Gothard, which is the largest in the world, and by a long way the most costly.  On our way we had a good view of Monte San Salvatore, some three thousand feet high, and beautifully covered with green vegetation right to the summit, and its sides are dotted over with little white homesteads, they look very pretty in the distance.  We soon reached the entrance to the great tunnel, which is a marvel of engineering skill.  It is built in corkscrew fashion.  As we proceeded into the darkness, in about ten minutes or less we came into daylight for a few seconds and found we were about two hundred feet above the little church we had passed a few minutes before.  Again we plunged into darkness, again we emerge into daylight, only to find the church is now about six hundred feet below us, and this is repeated, we see the church five times and ultimately we reach the top, about seven thousand feet above sea level.  I think the station is called Andermatt.  Here we stopped for a little while, we bought some postcards with views of the tunnel and of some of the scenery about here.  The cold was intense, the air very rarified.  Not far from here is a Hospice where the dogs, the great St. Bernard dogs are kept for the purpose of protecting the mountain pass.  Before the railway was made there was a road that was passable with guides and mules, though, not unfrequently, storms would overtake the party and they would get lost in the snow, or some venturesome individual would go very near the edge of the precipice, and, as the snow hung over considerably, with his weight it would break loose and cause an avalanche of snow to fall, which would take the whole party into the gulf below, sometimes two or three thousand feet.  At other times, overtaken by terrible snowstorms, the party and guide would lose their way, and so get buried in the drifts.  On such nights the monks of the hospice would go out with the dogs and listen for cries of help.  It is stated that scores have been saved from being frozen to death by the great St. Bernard dogs.  After leaving Andermatt, we again pierced the mountain in this great tunnel, now we began to descend.  Coming into daylight the sight that met our view was simply enchanting, we were right on the top of the Alps and could see the great peaks and the lesser mountains covered with eternal snow.  Down we descended to Wassen, here we crossed a foaming cataract (by an iron bridge) that had cut for itself a deep gorge in the side of the mountain.  A little further we crossed what has come to be called “The Devil’s Bridge.”  This is in the midst of scenery of the wildest nature imagination can conceive.  Why it is called by such a name I don’t know, only the awful desolation of the place, the awe inspiring grandeur of the cliffs, the terrible roar of the river one hundred feet below, and the shrieking of the wild wind, aptly called by the natives, “Hutshelm,” or “hat rogue.”  Certainly it is an eerie, creepy sensation that steals over you as you pass.  On we glide, now through narrow rocky defiles, then crossing chasms of great depths, as we did so we leaned out of the windows and tried to guess the depth of the yawning gulf beneath us.  It made us dizzy to look down.  Proceeding, we came into the pine zone, and the black forests of these lovely pine trees seemed to be stuck on their mountain shelves as if staring at us and saying: “Why do you come uninvited into this quiet sanctuary of nature, too deep, too awful to be trodden by man?”  Passing along we discovered the woodcutters were clearing out the pine trees on their mountain heights.  To fell the trees the men seemed to be chained or roped on the rocky precipices, and the trees, when cut down, fall upon wires ingeniously hung from trees or large posts fastened in the mountain side and reaching for a distance of two or three miles.  We saw the trunks of trees sliding along and down these wires as fast as our train was running.  We were not long before we came to the Lake of Uri, which may be said to be out of the mountain ranges, and just by there we saw the Chapel, erected at a very early date, and re-built in 1880, to the memory of Switzerland’s great hero, William Tell.

He was famous as a crossbowman, could shoot an arrow with great precision.  The Canton in which he was born and lived was partly, if not entirely, under Austrian rule of that time, and so imperious was Gesler, the Governor, that he demanded of his people that when his hat was hung up in the market place of the town, every one passing should doff his hat and bow to it.  William Tell refused to be so humiliated, and, as the result of his refusal, he was arrested, and it was demanded of him to shoot through an apple placed on the head of his only child, a boy of ten, at a distance of fifty yards.  This, Tell accomplished without injury to his son; he, however, declared in his own mind the next arrow should go into the heart of Gesler, the tyrant.  Tell, however, was not liberated, but was being taken a prisoner to the castle across this lake.  While crossing, a very sudden squall arose, threatening to upset the boat which had Gesler and his prisoner Tell on board.  So severe was the storm that Tell was liberated from his chains and asked to take an oar, it was known that he was a clever oarsman.  Tell saw his opportunity, he ran the boat on the rocks, then leaping out he pushed the boat off into the lake again.  Gesler, however, managed to land, but he fell to the arrow of Tell who had watched and waited for him for some time.  To be relieved of so imperious a Governor was to constitute Tell an hero, hence the keeping his memory green by building a chapel; he is also commemorated in song as well as in story.  Tell sings:

“Ye crags and peaks, I’m with you once again!I hold to you the hands you first beheld,To show they still are free.  Methinks I hearA spirit in your echoes answer me,And bid your tenant welcome to his homeAgain!  Oh! sacred forms, how proud you look!How high you lift your heads unto the sky;How huge you are! how mighty and how free,Ye are the things that tower, that shine, whose smileMakes glad—whose frown is terrible—whose formsRobed or unrobed, do all the impress wearOf awe divine.  Ye guards of liberty,I’m with you once again!  I call to youWith all my voice, I hold my hands to youTo show they still are free, I rush to youAs though I could embrace you!  Scaling yon heightI saw an eagle near its browO’er the abyss: his proud expanded wingsLay calm and motionless upon the air,As if he floated there without their aid,By the sole act of his unlorded will,I bent my bow, yet kept he rounding stillHis airy circle, as if in great delight.The death that threatened him, he knew it not,I could not shoot!—’Twas liberty,I turned my bow aside and let him soar away.

Passing along we were on the side of the lovely lake of Lucerne, and as it was after seven o’clock as we rounded the hillside, and passed the rocky precipices of the hills we could see the twinkling lights of the town some two miles away.  We steamed into a beautiful station, I think Lucerne station, for beauty, for comfort, and arrangement, is the best we have seen on our lengthy tour.  We alighted from the carriage on to a lovely platform.  Porters in attendance, our luggage conveyed most expeditiously to the ’bus of the Hotel de L’Europe, and soon we were bowling along to that very delightful hotel.  We found the place all that could be desired by the most scrupulous.  We had an excellent bedroom, clean, dry and comfortable.  Our luggage disposed of, a wash and brush, and away we go to enjoy a splendid table-de-hote.  We did justice, I am sure, to the good things so abundantly provided, for there was no stint, no lack of variety, and served with great delicacy and tact.  We were not long after we had had dessert before we began to feel we needed Nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep, and to bed we went.  Seeing the nets for the mosquitoes were hanging on, we examined the room as far as we could and we came to the conclusion the room was void of the troublesome creatures.  Sleep fell upon us sound and refreshing, when we awoke we found we had been the victims of the evil creatures, for we were both bitten in one or more places.  Still, as the Yorkshire man said, “It mud a bin war.”  We arose refreshed, and were anxious to see the Rigi mountain, and the still more popular Pilatus.  First we drew the blinds, stepped out on to the balcony, we found a lovely garden under our window.  It was beautifully laid out with flower beds and gravel walks.  We stood and gazed, seeming to doubt if it was real, that we were really on earth.  Could it be the Garden of Eden?  It is like an exquisite dream.  The scene seems to thrill like the sweetest chords of music.  The hotel is like a palace, such lovely roses, charming walks, sculpture and vases on all sides, broad flights of stone steps leading in and out of the grounds to the hotel, and around the grounds massive trees with all manner of names.  The Lake of Lucerne, just peeping through the trees, and the mountain ranges beyond, peak above peak covered with their snow white mantle made the scene entrancing.  After we had tired our eyes with looking on the lovely landscape we went to enjoy our dejeuner of fish, fowl, bacon, eggs and coffee.  We left our hotel for the first visit into the lovely town of Lucerne.  It is not a large town but well built and kept very clean.  The accommodation for getting about is good, by tram or ’bus or cab, and not too expensive.  We soon found ourselves in the centre of an industry of silk and cotton works, making all kinds of fancy articles of ladies’ wear and of the very finest materials.  Young girls sitting in the shop fronts, and, indeed, in the doorway, plying their needles and crocheting hooks.  A large number are employed in this branch of industry.  Also the shops for toys were strangely attractive, chiefly made of wood by the mountaineers, while waiting for parties.  The Swiss guide lives in the rocky regions, has a cow or two, and two or three goats, and is prepared to be used as a guide, or he fills in his time with making boxes of all sizes and shapes, pipes, animals of various kinds, indeed, almost anything you can imagine he can carve out of wood, with his knife.  Time is not very valuable, so he works away until he has completed his work, which finds its way into the shops and so, finally, gets to England, France or Germany, as a toy for boys’ or girls’ amusement.  We soon found our way to the front of the Lake of Lucerne.  It is a charming lake, the colour is simply indescribable, it is neither blue nor green, but a lovely tint made up of both.  As we looked across this beautiful water we could see orchards and meadows sloping right down to the water’s brink.  Straight in front stood the mighty mountain called the Rigi.  As we stood awe struck with delight to watch the vapours chased away by the coming sun and the rugged face of the mountain laid bare in all its grandeur and power, the sun shed its glow over rock and tree, and the stony monarch seemed to salute you with a smile.  On the other side, that is at our right hand, old Pilatus, rugged and bare, seemed to look down upon the lake with a frown, and between the two giant mountains we could see the wondrous Alps, peak upon peak in a wonderful variety, clad in their mantle of eternal snow.  And now above us and around us is the sunshine of, to us, unusual brilliancy and a sky of faultless blue, not a single cloud to be seen anywhere.  The picture is one that will never fade from our memories.  It will enter into our life to remain a constant joy to think of.