St. Mark's Church and the Doge's Palace, it would have been more in keeping. There is a broad, ample, open space in front of it, so that you command a full satisfactory view from a sufficient distance, uninterrupted. The first time I saw it, I came upon it suddenly and unexpectedly, on turning a corner in the street, as if it had sprung from the earth before me like an exhalation, and it instantly reminded me, with its multitudinous white spires and images, of the very imaginative reference to it by Wordsworth in his poem on an eclipse of the Sun. This is one of the most exquisitely beautiful compositions in all the volumes of this great Poet, and the measure in which it is written is most melodious and perfect.

But Fancy, with the speed of fire,
Hath fled to Milan's loftiest spire,
And there alights, mid that aerial host
Of figures human and divine,
White as the snows of Appenine
Indurated by frost.

Awe-stricken she beholds the array

That guards the Temple night and day;

Angels she sees, that might from heaven have flown;

And Virgin Saints, who not in vain

Have striven by purity to gain

The beatific crown.

Far-stretching files, concentric rings,
Each narrowing above each ;-the wings,
The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips,
The starry zone of sovereign height,

All steeped in this portentous light,
All suffering dim eclipse.

Look now abroad at evening from this starry zone, over the horizon around you. The sun is sinking towards the Mediterranean, and the long snowy ranges of the Alps on one side, and the Appenines on the other, are burning with almost crimson radiance. The City and the vast luxuriant plains lie beneath you. Can the human imagination conceive a sight more glorious, than those distant flashing mountains, ascending pile after pile, chain behind chain, whiter and more brilliant into the heavens? How

immense and magnificent the ranges commanded from this centre! From this pinnacle of art in Italy could we fly "with the speed of fire" to that of nature on Mont Blanc, it seems as if the change from Time into Eternity would hardly be greater. Yet it is little more than three days since we were in the midst of those snows, that in this setting sun blaze like the walls of heaven. And now we long to be there again. The sight of such mountains makes the Cathedral dwindle, makes you feel as if, while Art can indeed be beautiful, there is nothing but Nature that can be truly sublime. Now we turn again upon the marble tower, along its wilderness of spires and statues. How admirably the sculptures are finished! Half way up the grand spire, you have the best view of them, more than four thousand in all, though not all at once visible. The immense size of the building, and its innumerable recesses, admit of their distribution in such a way, that you would not dream there were more than five hundred in all.

The structure is indeed a master-piece of gorgeous art, and in speaking of it Wordsworth observes that "the selection and arrangements of the figures are exquisitely fitted to support the religion of the country in the imaginations and feelings of the spectator." But does the piety of the people, does the religion of the Cross, as well as the religion of the country, increase and strengthen by the beauty of such gorgeous churches? It has been remarked that the age of great architectural splendor in churches is also an age of decline in spiritual worship. The beauty and glory of the form are far more considered than the indwelling spirit. Take Wordsworth's words as a definition, and call the Romish Cathedral a series of figures selected and arranged to support the religion of the country, and you have a most accurate description. Whether the satire were intended, or the writer was unconscious of it, makes but little difference. It is the religio loci, and not the preaching of the gospel, for which these great edifices were destined; it is the half paganized system of superstition, instead of the gospel, for which they are best adapted.

This magnificent pile, when Lanfranc undertook to rebuild it, was styled a Church for the Mother of God, and on her account the people brought their offerings. Then afterwards did the fierce Galeazzo Visconti take up the work of rebuilding, in order to ex

piate his great crimes. Then another uneasy sinner, on his deathbed, paid, for the same purpose, the enormous expiatory gift of 280,000 crowns. After all this, Napoleon took up the work, as a matter of imperial taste, splendor, and ambition, and nearly fin ished it. So, though it has been centuries in building, no man can be said to have put a stone in it out of love; it is all the work not of Faith, but of Superstition; so that, instead of regarding these Gothic architectural piles as the consequence or proof of a sense of religion in the Middle Ages, or as the natural growth or expression of a devout spirit, they must rather be considered as the price paid by an age of superstition, for a vast insurance on the world to come. It is not the gospel in a believing heart, but the Law acting on a guilty conscience, that has reared such structures. So, though some of them are a great material Epic, full of beauty and grandeur, yet they cannot be considered as a true product of the gospel, or of a simple religious spirit, any more than the Iliad of Homer itself.

If they were religious edifices, then ought the ceremonies of religion in them to be of such august simplicity and grandeur, so free from mere human artifice, so superior to all superstition, so shaped and imbued by the spirit of the gospel, that every man on entering might feel irresistibly that it is the gospel. But, as Wordsworth says, it is the religion of the country. You are made to feel that while there is a great deal of worship in the Roman Catholic religion, there is very little religion in the Roman Catholic worship. You are compelled to make this distinction, by observing the round of superstitious ceremonies, and studying the crowds kneeling before the multitudinous altars, pictures, effigies and images.

As to the effect of the gospel of Christ, preached simply, plainly, boldly, fervently, amidst all this power of superstition, I believe it would be irresistible. The hearts of the Italians are human hearts, as good naturally, as any other hearts in the world, and perfectly accessible. Doubtless God will yet raise up native preachers of the Cross among them, who will be as successful as Paul ever was at Rome. He whose grace kindles the fire in such hearts can keep it burning, can make it spread like the summer lightning from cloud to cloud. No conclave of Inquisitors can stop

The word of God shall "yet Italy, and when it does, then Perdition (and I leave it with

it, no persecution can put it out. have free course and be glorified" in will that Man of Sin, that Son of my readers according to their own pleasure to say who or what he is) be consumed by the Spirit of the Lord's mouth, and destroyed by the brightness of his coming.

CHAPTER XLV.

Silvio Pellico, and the Bible in Italy.

MILAN was the city of one of Silvio Pellico's prisons. What a touching account he gives of the power of the Bible over him! The time is hastening, when it shall no longer be a strange book in Italy, nor its doctrines hidden. For six or seven days Silvio had been in a state of doubt, prayerlessness, and almost desperation. Yet he sang with a pretended merriment, and sought to amuse himself with foolish pleasantries. My Bible," he says, was covered with dust. One of the children of the jailor said to me one day, while caressing me, 'Since you have left off reading in that villain of a book, it seems to me you are not so sad as before.'" Silvio had been putting on a forced gaiety.

"It seems to you?" said he.

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"I took my Bible, brushed away the dust with a pocket-handkerchief, and opening it at hazard, my eyes fell upon these words. And he said to his disciples, It is impossible but that offences will come, but wo to that man by whom the offence cometh. It were better for him that a millstone were cast about his neck, and he thrown into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones.'

"Struck with meeting these words, I was ashamed that this little child should have perceived, by the dust with which my Bible was covered, that I read it no more, and that he should have supposed that I had become more sociable and pleasant by forgetting God. I was completely desolate at having so scandalized him. You little rogue, said I, with a caressing reproof, this is not a villain book, and during the several days that I have neglected to read in it, I am become much worse. My singing that you have heard is only a force-put, and my ill humor, which I try to drive