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halberds like those which are usually shouldered by those theatrical
supernumeraries, who never can get off the stage fast enough, and
who may be generally observed to linger in the enemy’s camp after
the open country, held by the opposite forces, has been split up the
middle by a convulsion of Nature.
I got upon the border of the green carpet, in company with a
great many other gentlemen attired in black (no other passport is
necessary), and stood there, at my ease, during the performance of
mass. The singers were in a crib of wire-work (like a large meat-safe
or bird-cage) in one corner; and sung most atrociously. All about the
green carpet there was a slowly-moving crowd of people: talking to
each other: staring at the Pope through eye-glasses: defrauding one
another, in moments of partial curiosity, out of precarious seats on
the bases of pillars: and grinning hideously at the ladies. Dotted here
and there were little knots of friars (Francescani, or Cappuccini, in
their coarse brown dresses and peaked hoods), making a strange
contrast to the gaudy ecclesiastics of higher degree, and having their
humility gratified to the utmost, by being shouldered about, and
elbowed right and left, on all sides. Some of these had muddy
sandals and umbrellas, and stained garments: having trudged in
from the country. The faces of the greater part were as coarse and
heavy as their dress; their dogged, stupid, monotonous stare at all
the glory and splendour having something in it half miserable, and
half ridiculous.
Upon the green carpet itself, and gathered round the altar, was a
perfect army of cardinals and priests, in red, gold, purple, violet,
white, and fine linen. Stragglers from these went to and fro among
the crowd, conversing two and two, or giving and receiving
introductions, and exchanging salutations; other functionaries in
black gowns, and other functionaries in court dresses, were similarly
engaged. In the midst of all these, and stealthy Jesuits creeping in
and out, and the extreme restlessness of the Youth of England, who
were perpetually wandering about, some few steady persons in
black cassocks, who had knelt down with their faces to the wall, and
were poring over their missals, became, unintentionally, a sort of
human man-traps, and with their own devout legs tripped up other
people’s by the dozen.
There was a great pile of candles lying down on the floor near
me, which a very old man in a rusty black gown with an open-work
tippet, like a summer ornament for a fire-place in tissue paper, made
himself very busy in dispensing to all the ecclesiastics: one apiece.
They loitered about with these for some time, under their arms like
walking-sticks, or in their hands like truncheons. At a certain period
of the ceremony, however, each carried his candle up to the Pope,
laid it across his two knees to be blessed, took it back again, and
filed off. This was done in a very attenuated procession, as you may
suppose, and occupied a long time. Not because it takes long to
bless a candle through and through, but because there were so
many candles to be blessed. At last they were all blessed, and then
they were all lighted; and then the Pope was taken up, chair and all,
and carried round the church....
On Easter Sunday, as well as on the preceding Thursday, the
Pope bestows his benediction on the people from the balcony in
front of St. Peter’s. This Easter Sunday was a day so bright and blue:
so cloudless, balmy, wonderfully bright: that all the previous bad
weather vanished from the recollection in a moment. I had seen the
Thursday’s benediction dropping damply on some hundreds of
umbrellas, but there was not a sparkle then in all the hundred
fountains of Rome—such fountains as they are!—and, on this
Sunday morning, they were running diamonds. The miles of
miserable streets through which we drove (compelled to a certain
course by the Pope’s dragoons: the Roman police on such occasions)
were so full of colour, that nothing in them was capable of wearing a
faded aspect. The common people came out in their gayest dresses;
the richer people in their smartest vehicles; Cardinals rattled to the
church of the Poor Fisherman in their state carriages; shabby
magnificence flaunted its threadbare liveries and tarnished cocked-
hats in the sun; and every coach in Rome was put in requisition for
the Great Piazza of St. Peter’s.
 One hundred and fifty thousand people were there at least! Yet
there was ample room. How many carriages were there I don’t
know; yet there was room for them too, and to spare. The great
steps of the church were densely crowded. There were many of the
Contadini, from Albano (who delight in red), in that part of the
square, and the mingling of bright colours in the crowd was
beautiful. Below the steps the troops were ranged. In the
magnificent proportions of the place, they looked like a bed of
flowers. Sulky Romans, lively peasants from the neighbouring
country, groups of pilgrims from distant parts of Italy, sight-seeing
foreigners of all nations, made a murmur in the clear air, like so
many insects; and high above them all, plashing and bubbling, and
making rainbow colours in the light, the two delicious fountains
welled and tumbled bountifully.
A kind of bright carpet was hung over the front of the balcony;
and the sides of the great window were bedecked with crimson
drapery. An awning was stretched, too, over the top, to screen the
old man from the hot rays of the sun. As noon approached, all eyes
were turned up to this window. In due time the chair was seen
approaching to the front, with the gigantic fans of peacock’s feathers
close behind. The doll within it (for the balcony is very high) then
rose up, and stretched out its tiny arms, while all the male
spectators in the square uncovered, and some, but not by any
means the greater part, kneeled down. The guns upon the ramparts
of the Castle of St. Angelo proclaimed, next moment, that the
benediction was given; drums beat; trumpets sounded; arms
clashed; and the great mass below, suddenly breaking into smaller
heaps, and scattering here and there in rills, was stirred like party-
coloured sand....
But, when the night came on, without a cloud to dim the full
moon, what a sight it was to see the Great Square full once more,
and the whole church, from the cross to the ground, lighted with
innumerable lanterns, tracing out the architecture, and winking and
shining all round the colonnade of the Piazza. And what a sense of
exultation, joy, delight, it was, when the great bell struck half past
seven—on the instant—to behold one bright red mass of fire soar
gallantly from the top of the cupola to the extremest summit of the
cross, and, the moment it leaped into its place, become the signal of
a bursting out of countless lights, as great, and red, and blazing as
itself, from every part of the gigantic church; so that every cornice,
capital, and smallest ornament of stone expressed itself in fire: and
the black, solid groundwork of the enormous dome seemed to grow
transparent as an egg-shell!
A train of gunpowder, an electric chain—nothing could be fired
more suddenly and swiftly than this second illumination: and when
we had got away, and gone upon a distant height, and looked
toward it two hours afterward, there it still stood, shining and
glittering in the calm night like a jewel! Not a line of its proportions
wanting; not an angle blunted; not an atom of its radiance lost.

Pictures from Italy (London, 1845).

 THE CATHEDRAL OF STRASBURG.
VICTOR HUGO.

I ARRIVED in Nancy Sunday evening at seven o’clock; at eight the

diligence started again. Was I more fatigued? Was the road better?
The fact is I propped myself on the braces of the conveyance and
slept. Thus I arrived in Phalsbourg.
I woke up about four o’clock in the morning. A cool breeze blew
upon my face and the carriage was going down the incline at a
gallop, for we were descending the famous Saverne.
It was one of the most beautiful impressions of my life. The rain
had ceased, the mists had been blown to the four winds, and the
crescent moon slipped rapidly through the clouds and sailed freely
through the azure space like a barque on a little lake. A breeze
which came from the Rhine made the trees, which bordered the
road, tremble. From time to time they waved aside and permitted
me to see an indistinct and frightful abyss: in the foreground, a
forest beneath which the mountain disappeared; below, immense
plains, meandering streams glittering like streaks of lightning; and in
the background a dark, indistinct, and heavy line—the Black Forest—
a magical panorama beheld by moonlight. Such incomplete visions
have, perhaps, more distinction than any others. They are dreams
which one can look upon and feel. I knew that my eyes rested upon
France, Germany, and Switzerland, Strasburg with its spire, the Black
Forest with its mountains, and the Rhine with its windings; I
searched for everything and I saw nothing. I have never experienced
a more extraordinary sensation. Add to that the hour, the journey,
the horses dashing down the precipice, the violent noise of the
wheels, the rattling of the windows, the frequent passage through
dark woods, the breath of the morning upon the mountains, a gentle
murmur heard through the valleys, and the beauty of the sky, and
you will understand what I felt. Day is amazing in this valley; night is
fascinating.
The descent took a quarter of an hour. Half an hour later came
the twilight of morning; at my left the dawn quickened the lower
sky, a group of white houses with black roofs became visible on the
summit of a hill, the blue of day began to overflow the horizon,
several peasants passed by going to their vines, a clear, cold, and
violet light struggled with the ashy glimmer of the moon, the
constellations paled, two of the Pleiades were lost to sight, the three
horses in our chariot descended rapidly towards their stable with its
blue doors, it was cold and I was frozen, for it had become
necessary to open the windows. A moment afterwards the sun rose,
and the first thing it showed to me was the village notary shaving at
a broken mirror under a red calico curtain.
A league further on the peasants became more picturesque and
the waggons magnificent; I counted in one thirteen mules harnessed
far apart by long chains. You felt you were approaching Strasburg,
the old German city.
Galloping furiously, we traversed Wasselonne, a long narrow
trench of houses strangled in the last gorge of the Vosges by the
side of Strasburg. There I caught a glimpse of one façade of the
Cathedral, surmounted by three round and pointed towers in
juxtaposition, which the movement of the diligence brought before
my vision brusquely and then took it away, jolting it about as if it
were a scene in the theatre.
Suddenly, at a turn in the road the mist lifted and I saw the
Münster. It was six o’clock in the morning. The enormous Cathedral,
which is the highest building that the hand of man has made since
the great Pyramid, was clearly defined against a background of dark
mountains whose forms were magnificent and whose valleys were
flooded with sunshine. The work of God made for man and the work
of man made for God, the mountain and the Cathedral contesting for
grandeur. I have never seen anything more imposing.
Yesterday I visited the Cathedral. The Münster is truly a marvel.
The doors of the church are beautiful, particularly the Roman porch,
the façade contains some superb figures on horseback, the rose-
window is beautifully cut, and the entire face of the Cathedral is a
poem, wisely composed. But the real triumph of the Cathedral is the
spire. It is a true tiara of stone with its crown and its cross. It is a
prodigy of grandeur and delicacy. I have seen Chartres, and I have
seen Antwerp, but Strasburg pleases me best.
 THE CATHEDRAL OF STRASBURG.

The church has never been finished. The apse, miserably

mutilated, has been restored according to that imbecile, the Cardinal
de Rohan, of the necklace fame. It is hideous. The window they
have selected is like a modern carpet. It is ignoble. The other
windows, with the exception of some added panes, are beautiful,
notably the great rose-window. All the church is shamefully
whitewashed; some of the sculptures have been restored with some
little taste. This Cathedral has been affected by all styles. The pulpit
is a little construction of the Fifteenth Century, of florid Gothic of a
design and style that are ravishing. Unfortunately they have gilded it
in the most stupid manner. The baptismal font is of the same period
and is restored in a superior manner. It is a vase surrounded by
foliage in sculpture, the most marvellous in the world. In a dark
chapel at the side there are two tombs. One, of a bishop of the time
of Louis V., is of that formidable character which Gothic architecture
always expresses. The sepulchre is in two floors. The bishop, in
pontifical robes and with his mitre on his head, is lying in his bed
under a canopy; he is sleeping. Above and on the foot of the bed in
the shadow, you perceive an enormous stone in which two
enormous iron rings are imbedded; that is the lid of the tomb. You
see nothing more. The architects of the Sixteenth Century showed
you the corpse (you remember the tombs of Brou?); those of the
Fourteenth concealed it: that is even more terrifying. Nothing could
be more sinister than these two rings....
The tomb of which I have spoken is in the left arm of the cross.
In the right arm there is a chapel, which scaffolding prevented me
from seeing. At the side of this chapel runs a balustrade of the
Fifteenth Century, leaning against a wall. A sculptured and painted
figure leans against this balustrade and seems to be admiring a pillar
surrounded by statues placed one over the other, which is directly
opposite and which has a marvellous effect. Tradition says that this
figure represents the first architect of the Münster—Erwyn von
Steinbach....
I did not see the famous astronomical clock, which is in the nave
and which is a charming little building of the Sixteenth Century. They
were restoring it and it was covered with a scaffolding of boards.
 After having seen the church, I made the ascent of the steeple.
You know my taste for perpendicular trips. I was very careful not to
miss the highest spire in the world. The Münster of Strasburg is
nearly five hundred feet high. It belongs to the family of spires
which are open-worked stairways.
It is delightful to wind about in that monstrous mass of stone,
filled with air and light hollowed out like a joujou de Dieppe, a
lantern as well as a pyramid, which vibrates and palpitates with
every breath of the wind. I mounted as far as the vertical stairs. As I
went up I met a visitor who was descending, pale and trembling,
and half-carried by the guide. There is, however, no danger. The
danger begins where I stopped, where the spire, properly so-called,
begins. Four open-worked spiral stairways, corresponding to the four
vertical towers, unroll in an entanglement of delicate, slender, and
beautifully-worked stone, supported by the spire, every angle of
which it follows, winding until it reaches the crown at about thirty
feet from the lantern surmounted by a cross which forms the summit
of the bell-tower. The steps of these stairways are very steep and
very narrow, and become narrower and narrower as you ascend,
until there is barely ledge enough on which to place your foot.
In this way you have to climb a hundred feet which brings you
four hundred feet above the street. There are no hand-rails, or such
slight ones that they are not worth speaking about. The entrance to
this stairway is closed by an iron grille. They will not open this grille
without a special permission from the Mayor of Strasburg, and
nobody is allowed to ascend it unless accompanied by two workmen
of the roof, who tie a rope around your body, the end of which they
fasten, in proportion as you ascend, to the various iron bars which
bind the mullions. Only a week ago three German women, a mother
and her two daughters, made this ascent. Nobody but the workmen
of the roof, who repair the bell-tower, are allowed to go beyond the
lantern. Here there is not even a stairway, but only a simple iron
ladder.
 From where I stopped the view was wonderful. Strasburg lies at
your feet,—the old town with its dentellated gables, and its large
roofs encumbered with chimneys, and its towers and churches—as
picturesque as any town of Flanders. The Ill and the Rhine, two
lovely rivers, enliven this dark mass with their plashing waters, so
clear and green. Beyond the walls, as far as the eye can reach,
stretches an immense country richly wooded and dotted with
villages. The Rhine, which flows within a league of the town, winds
through the landscape. In walking around this bell-tower you see
three chains of mountains—the ridges of the Black Forest on the
north, the Vosges on the west, and the Alps in the centre....
The sun willingly makes a festival for those who are upon great
heights. At the moment I reached the top of the Münster, it suddenly
scattered the clouds, with which the sky had been covered all day,
and turned the smoke of the city and all the mists of the valley to
rosy flames, while it showered a golden rain on Saverne, whose
magnificent slope I saw twelve leagues towards the horizon, through
the most resplendent haze. Behind me a large cloud dropped rain
upon the Rhine; the gentle hum of the town was brought to me by
some puffs of wind; the bells echoed from a hundred villages; some
little red and white fleas, which were really a herd of cattle, grazed
in the meadow to the right; other little blue and red fleas, which
were really gunners, performed field-exercise in the polygon to the
left; a black beetle, which was the diligence, crawled along the road
to Metz; and to the north on the brow of the hill the castle of the
Grand Duke of Baden sparkled in a flash of light like a precious
stone. I went from one tower to another, looking by turns upon
France, Switzerland, and Germany, all illuminated by the same ray of
sunlight.
Each tower looks upon a different country.
Descending, I stopped for a few moments at one of the high
doors of the tower-stairway. On either side of this door are the stone
effigies of the two architects of the Münster. These two great poets
are represented as kneeling and looking behind them upward as if
they were lost in astonishment at the height of their work. I put
myself in the same posture and remained thus for several minutes.
At the platform they made me write my name in a book; after which
I went away.

Le Rhin (Paris, 1842).

 THE SHWAY DAGOHN.
GWENDOLIN TRENCH GASCOIGNE.

THE “Shway Dagohn” at Rangoon, or Golden Pagoda, is one of the

most ancient and venerated shrines which exists, and it certainly
should hold a high place among the beautiful and artistic
monuments of the world, for it is exquisite in design and form. Its
proportions and height are simply magnificent; wide at the base, it
shoots up 370 feet, tapering gradually away until crowned by its airy
golden Htee, or umbrella-shaped roof. This delicate little structure is
studded profusely with precious stones and hung round with scores
of tiny gold and jewelled bells, which, when swung lightly by the soft
breeze, give out the tenderest and most mystic of melodies. The
Htee was the gift of King Mindohn-Min, and it is said to have cost
the enormous sum of fifty thousand pounds.
The great pagoda is believed by the faithful to have been
erected in 588 B. C.; but for many centuries previous to that date
the spot where the pagoda now stands was held sacred, as the relics
of three preceding Buddhas were discovered there when the two
Talaing brothers (the founders of the Great Pagoda) brought the
eight holy hairs of Buddha to the Thehngoothara Hill, the spot where
the pagoda now stands. Shway Yoe (Mr. Scott) says that it also
possesses in the Tapanahteik, or relic chamber, of the pagoda the
drinking cup of Kaukkathan, the “thengan,” or robe, of Gawnagohng,
and the “toungway,” or staff, of Kathapah. It is therefore so holy that
pilgrims visit this shrine from far countries, such as Siam, and even
the Corea. The height of the pagoda was originally only twenty-
seven feet, but it has attained its present proportions by being
constantly encased in bricks. It is a marvellously striking structure,
raising up its delicate, glittering head from among a wondrous
company of profusely carved shrines and small temples, whose
colour and cunning workmanship make fit attendants to this
stupendous monument.
It is always a delight to one’s eyes to gaze upon its glittering
spire, always a fairy study of artistic enchantment; but perhaps if it
has a moment when it seems clothed with peculiar and almost
ethereal, mystic attraction, it is in the early morning light, when the
air has been bathed by dewdrops and is of crystal clearness, and
when that scorching Eastern sun has only just begun to send forth
his burning rays. I would say go and gaze on the pagoda at the
awakening hour, standing there on the last spur of the Pegu Hills,
and framed by a luxuriant tropical bower of foliage. The light
scintillates and glistens like a myriad of diamonds upon its golden
surface, and the dreamy beauty of its glorious personality seems to
strike one dumb with deep, unspoken reverence and admiration.
Nestling on one side of it are a number of Pohn-gyee Kyoung
(monasteries) and rest-houses for pilgrims. All these are quaint,
carved, and gilded edifices from which you see endless yellow-robed
monks issuing. The monasteries situated at the foot of the great
pagoda seem peculiarly harmonious, as if they would seek protection
and shekel beneath the wing of their great mother church.
The pagoda itself is approached on four sides by long flights of
steps, but the southern is the principal entrance and that most
frequented. At the base of this stand two gigantic lions made of
brick and plastered over, and also decorated with coloured paint;
their office is to guard the sacred place from nats (evil spirits) and
demons, the fear of which seems ever to haunt the Burman’s mind
and be a perpetual and endless torment to him. From this entrance
the steps of the pagoda rise up and are enclosed by a series of
beautifully carved teak roofs, supported by wood and masonry
pillars. There are several quaint frescoes of Buddha and saints
depicted upon the ceiling of these roofs, but the steps which they
cover are very rugged and irregular. It is, indeed, a pilgrimage to
ascend them, although the foreigner is allowed to retain his shoes.
The faithful, of course, leave theirs at the foot of the steps.
The entrance to the pagoda inspires one with a maze of
conflicting emotions as one stands before it; joy, sorrow, pity,
wonder, admiration follow so quickly upon each other that they
mingle into an indescribable sense of bewilderment. The first sight of
the entrance is gorgeous, full of Eastern colour and charm; and then
sorrow and horror fill one’s heart, as one’s eyes fall suddenly upon
the rows of lepers who line the way to the holy place. Each is a
terrible, gruesome sight, a mass of ghastly corruption and disease,
and each holds out with maimed, distorted hands a little tin vessel
for your alms.

THE SHWAY DAGOHN.

 Why should Providence allow so awful an affliction as leprosy to
fall upon His creatures? Could any crime, however heinous, be foul
enough for such a punishment? These are the thoughts that flit
through your brain; and then, as you pass on, wonder takes their
place at the quaint beauty of the edifice, and lastly intense and wild
admiration takes entire possession of you, and all is forgotten in the
glorious nearness of the great Golden Pagoda.
On either side of the rugged steps there are rows of most
picturesque little stalls, at which are sold endless offerings to be
made to Buddha—flowers of every shade and hue, fruit, glowing
bunches of yellow plantains and pepia, candles, wondrous little
paper devices and flags, and, lastly, the gold leaf, which the faithful
delight to place upon the beloved pagoda. It is looked upon as a
great act of merit to expend money in thus decorating the much
loved and venerated shrine....
As you mount slowly up the steep uneven steps of the pagoda,
turn for a moment and glance back at the scene. It is a pagoda
feast, and the place is crowded with the faithful from all parts, who
have come from far and near to present offerings and perform their
religious observances. It is an entrancing picture, a marvel of colour
and picturesqueness—see, the stalls are laid out with their brightest
wares, and the crowd is becoming greater every moment. Look at
that group of laughing girls, they have donned their most brilliant
tamehns, and dainty shawls, and the flowers in their hair are
arranged with infinite coquettishness; behind them are coming a
dazzling company of young men in pasohs of every indescribable
shade; perchance they are the lovers of the girls whom they are
following so eagerly, and they are bearing fruit and flowers to
present to Buddha. Beyond them again are some yellow-robed Pohn-
gyees; they are supposed to shade their eyes from looking upon
women with their large lotus-shaped fans, but to-day they are
gazing about them more than is permitted, and are casting covert
glances of admiration on some of those dainty little maidens. Behind
them again are a white-robed company, they are nuns, and their
shroud-like garments flow around them in long graceful folds. Their
hair is cut short, and they have not so joyous an expression upon
their faces as the rest of the community, and they toil up the steep
steps a trifle wearily. Behind them again are a little toddling group of
children, with their little hands full of bright glowing flowers and
fruits.
Shall we follow in the crowd and see where the steps lead? It is
a wondrous study, the effects of light and shade; look at that
sunbeam glinting in through the roof and laying golden fingers on
the Pohn-gyees’ yellow robes, and turning the soft-hued fluttering
silks into brilliant luminous spots of light.
At last we have arrived at the summit! Let us pause and take
breath morally and physically before walking round the great open-
paved space in the centre of which rises the great and glorious
pagoda. There it stands towering up and up, as though it would fain
touch the blue heaven; it is surrounded by a galaxy of smaller
pagodas, which seem to be clustering lovingly near their great high
priest; around these again are large carved kneeling elephants, and
deep urn-shaped vessels, which are placed there to receive the
offerings of food brought to Buddha. The crows and the pariah dogs
which haunt the place will soon demolish these devout offerings, and
grow fat upon them as their appearance testifies; but this, curiously,
does not seem in the least to annoy the giver. He has no objection to
seeing a fat crow or a mangy dog gorging itself upon his offering, as
the feeding of any animal is an act of merit, which is the one thing
of importance to a Burman. The more acts of merit that he can
accomplish in this life, the more rapid his incarnations will be in the
next.
There are draped about the small golden pagodas and round the
base of the large one endless quaint pieces of woven silk; these are
offerings from women, and must be completed in one night without
a break.
On the outer circle of this large paved space are a multitude of
shrines, enclosing hundreds of images of Buddha. You behold
Buddha standing, you behold him sitting, you behold him reclining;
you see him large, you see him small, you see him medium size; you
see him in brass, in wood, in stone, and in marble. Many of these
statues are simply replicas of each other, but some differ slightly,
though the cast of features is always the same, a placid, amiable,
benign countenance, with very long lobes to the ears, which in
Burmah are supposed to indicate the great truthfulness of the
person who possesses them. Most of the images have suspended
over them the royal white umbrella, which was one of the emblems
of Burma, and only used in Thebaw’s time to cover Buddha, the
king, and the lord white elephant.

Among Pagodas and Fair Ladies (London, 1896).

 THE CATHEDRAL OF SIENA.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.

QUITTING the Palazzo, and threading narrow streets, paved with

brick and overshadowed with huge empty palaces, we reach the
highest of the three hills on which Siena stands, and see before us
the Duomo. This church is the most purely Gothic of all Italian
cathedrals designed by national architects. Together with that of
Orvieto, it stands to show what the unassisted genius of the Italians
could produce, when under the empire of mediæval Christianity and
before the advent of the neopagan spirit. It is built wholly of marble,
and overlaid, inside and out, with florid ornaments of exquisite
beauty. There are no flying buttresses, no pinnacles, no deep and
fretted doorways, such as form the charm of French and English
architecture; but instead of this, the lines of party-coloured marbles,
the scrolls and wreaths of foliage, the mosaics and the frescoes
which meet the eye in every direction, satisfy our sense of variety,
producing most agreeable combinations of blending hues and
harmoniously connected forms. The chief fault which offends against
our Northern taste is the predominance of horizontal lines, both in
the construction of the façade, and also in the internal decoration.
This single fact sufficiently proves that the Italians had never seized
the true idea of Gothic or aspiring architecture. But, allowing for this
original defect, we feel that the Cathedral of Siena combines
solemnity and splendour to a degree almost unrivalled. Its dome is
another point in which the instinct of Italian architects has led them
to adhere to the genius of their ancestral art rather than to follow
the principles of Gothic design. The dome is Etruscan and Roman,
native to the soil, and only by a kind of violence adapted to the
character of pointed architecture. Yet the builders of Siena have
shown what a glorious element of beauty might have been added to
our Northern cathedrals, had the idea of infinity which our ancestors
expressed by long continuous lines, by complexities of interwoven
aisles, and by multitudinous aspiring pinnacles, been carried out into
vast spaces of aërial cupolas, completing and embracing and
covering the whole like heaven. The Duomo, as it now stands, forms
only part of a vast original design. On entering we are amazed to
hear that this church, which looks so large, from the beauty of its
proportions, the intricacy of its ornaments, and the interlacing of its
columns, is but the transept of the old building lengthened a little,
and surmounted by a cupola and campanile. Yet such is the fact.
Soon after its commencement a plague swept over Italy, nearly
depopulated Siena, and reduced the town to penury for want of
men. The Cathedral, which, had it been accomplished, would have
surpassed all Gothic churches south of the Alps, remained a ruin. A
fragment of the nave still stands, enabling us to judge of its extent.
The eastern wall joins what was to have been the transept,
measuring the mighty space which would have been enclosed by
marble vaults and columns delicately wrought. The sculpture on the
eastern door shows with what magnificence the Sienese designed to
ornament this portion of their temple; while the southern façade
rears itself aloft above the town, like those high arches which testify
to the past splendour of Glastonbury Abbey; but the sun streams
through the broken windows, and the walls are encumbered with
hovels and stables and the refuse of surrounding streets. One most
remarkable feature of the internal decoration is a line of heads of the
Popes carried all round the church above the lower arches. Larger
than life, white solemn faces, they lean, each from his separate
niche, crowned with the triple tiara, and labelled with the name he
bore. Their accumulated majesty brings the whole past history of the
Church into the presence of its living members. A bishop walking up
the nave of Siena must feel as a Roman felt among the waxen
images of ancestors renowned in council or in war. Of course these
portraits are imaginary for the most part; but the artists have
contrived to vary their features and expression with great skill.
 CATHEDRAL OF SIENA

Not less peculiar to Siena is the pavement of the Cathedral. It is

inlaid with a kind of tarsia work in stone, not unlike that which Baron
Triqueti used in his “Marmor Homericum”—less elaborately
decorative, but even more artistic and subordinate to architectural
effect than the baron’s mosaic. Some of these compositions are as
old as the cathedral; others are the work of Beccafumi and his
scholars. They represent, in the liberal spirit of mediæval
Christianity, the history of the Church before the Incarnation.
Hermes Trismegistus and the Sibyls meet us at the doorway: in the
body of the church we find the mighty deeds of the old Jewish
heroes—of Moses and Samson and Joshua and Judith.
Independently of the artistic beauty of the designs, of the skill with
which men and horses are drawn in the most difficult attitudes, of
the dignity of some single figures, and of the vigour and simplicity of
the larger compositions, a special interest attaches to this pavement
in connection with the twelfth canto of the “Purgatorio.” Did Dante
ever tread these stones and meditate upon their sculptured
histories? That is what we cannot say; but we read how he
journeyed through the plain of Purgatory with eyes intent upon its
storied floor, how “morti i morti, e i vivi parean vivi,” how he saw
“Nimrod at the foot of his great work, confounded, gazing at the
people who were proud with him.” The strong and simple outlines of
the pavement correspond to the few words of the poet. Bending
over these pictures and trying to learn their lesson, with the thought
of Dante in our mind, the tones of an organ, singularly sweet and
mellow, fall upon our ears, and we remember how he heard the Te
Deum sung within the gateway of repentance.

Sketches in Italy and Greece (London, 1874).

 THE TOWN HALL OF LOUVAIN.
GRANT ALLEN.

LOUVAIN IS in a certain sense the mother city of Brussels. Standing

on its own little navigable river, the Dyle, it was, till the end of the
Fourteenth Century, the capital of the Counts and of the Duchy of
Brabant. It had a large population of weavers, engaged in the cloth
trade. Here, as elsewhere, the weavers formed the chief bulwark of
freedom in the population. In 1378, however, after a popular rising,
Duke Wenseslaus besieged and conquered the city; and the
tyrannical sway of the nobles, whom he re-introduced, aided by the
rise of Ghent, or later, of Antwerp, drove away trade from the city.
Many of the weavers emigrated to Holland and England, where they
helped to establish the woollen industry....
As you emerge from the station, you come upon a small Place,
adorned with a statue (by Geefs) of Sylvain van de Weyer, a
revolutionary of 1830, and long Belgian minister to England. Take
the long straight street up which the statue looks. This leads direct
to the Grand’ Place, the centre of the town, whence the chief streets
radiate in every direction, the ground-plan recalling that of a Roman
city.
 TOWN HALL OF LOUVAIN

The principal building in the Grand’ Place is the Hôtel de Ville,

standing out with three sides visible from the Place, and probably
the finest civic building in Belgium. It is of very florid late-Gothic
architecture, between 1448 and 1463. Begin first with the left
façade, exhibiting three main storeys, with handsome Gothic
windows. Above come a gallery, and then a gable-end, flanked by
octagonal turrets, and bearing a similar turret on its summit. In this
centre of the gable is a little projecting balcony of the kind so
common on Belgic civic buildings. The architecture of the niches and
turrets is of very fine florid Gothic, in better taste than that at Ghent
of nearly the same period. The statues which fill the niches are
modern. Those of the first storey represent personages of
importance in the local history of the city; those of the second, the
various mediæval guilds or trades; those of the third, the Counts of
Louvain and Dukes of Brabant of all ages. The bosses or corbels
which support the statues, are carved with scriptural scenes in high
relief. I give the subjects of a few (beginning Left): the reader must
decipher the remainder for himself. The Court of Heaven: The Fall of
the Angels into the visible Jaws of Hell: Adam and Eve in the
Garden: The Expulsion from Paradise: The Death of Abel, with
quaint rabbits escaping: The Drunkenness of Noah: Abraham and
Lot: etc.
The main façade has an entrance staircase, and two portals in
the centre, above which are figures of St. Peter (Left) and Our Lady
and Child (Right), the former in compliment to the patron of the
church opposite. This façade has three storeys, decorated with
Gothic windows, and capped by a gallery parapet, above which rises
the high-pitched roof, broken by several quaint small windows. At
either end are the turrets of the gable, with steps to ascend them.
The rows of statues represent as before (in four tiers), persons of
local distinction, mediæval guilds and the Princes who have ruled
Brabant and Louvain. Here again the sculptures beneath the bosses
should be closely inspected. Among the most conspicuous are the
Golden Calf, the Institution of Sacrifices in the Tabernacle, Balaam’s
Ass, Susannah and the Elders, etc.
The gable-end to the Right, ill seen from the narrow street,
resembles in its features the one opposite it, but this façade is even
finer than the others.
 The best general view is obtained from the door of St. Pierre, or
near either corner of the Place directly opposite.

Cities of Belgium (London, 1897).

 THE CATHEDRAL OF SEVILLE.
EDMONDO DE AMICIS.

THE Cathedral of Seville is isolated in the centre of a large square,

yet its grandeur may be measured by a single glance. I immediately
thought of the famous phrase in the decree uttered by the Chapter
of the primitive church on July 8, 1401, regarding the building of the
new Cathedral: “Let us build a monument which shall cause posterity
to think we must have been mad.” These reverend canons did not
fail in their intention. But to fully appreciate this we must enter. The
exterior of the Cathedral is imposing and magnificent; but less so
than the interior. There is no façade: a high wall encloses the
building like a fortress. It is useless to turn and gaze upon it, for you
will never succeed in impressing a single outline upon your mind,
which, like the introduction to a book, will give you a clear idea of
the work; you admire and you exclaim more than once: “It is
immense!” but you are not satisfied; and you hasten to enter the
church, hoping that you may receive there a more complete
sentiment of admiration.
On entering you are stunned, you feel as if you are lost in an
abyss; and for several moments you can only let your glance wander
over these immense curves in this immense space to assure yourself
that your eyes and your imagination are not deceiving you. Then you
approach a column, measure it, and contemplate the others from a
distance: they are as large as towers and yet they seem so slender
that you tremble to think they support the edifice. With a rapid
glance you look at them from pavement to ceiling and it seems as if
you could almost count the moments that it takes the eye to rise
with them. There are five naves, each one of which might constitute
a church. In the central one another cathedral could easily lift its
high head surmounted by a cupola and bell-tower. Altogether there
are sixty-eight vaults, so bold that it seems to you they expand and
rise very slowly while you are looking at them. Everything in this
Cathedral is enormous. The principal altar, placed in the centre of
the great nave, is so high that it almost touches the vaulted ceiling,
and seems to be an altar constructed for giant priests to whose
knees only would ordinary altars reach; the paschal candle seems
like the mast of a ship; and the bronze candlestick which holds it, is
a museum of sculpture and carving which would in itself repay a
day’s visit. The chapels are worthy of the church, for in them are
lavished the chefs d’œuvre of sixty-seven sculptors and thirty-eight
painters. Montanes, Zurbaran, Murillo, Valdes, Herrera, Boldan,
Roelas, and Campaña have left there a thousand immortal traces of
their hands. St. Ferdinand’s Chapel, containing the sepulchres of this
king and of his wife Beatrice, of Alphonso the Wise, the celebrated
minister Florida Blanca, and other illustrious personages, is one of
the richest and most beautiful. The body of King Ferdinand, who
delivered Seville from the dominion of the Arabs, clothed in his
military dress, with the crown and the royal mantle, reposes in a
crystal casket covered with a veil. On one side is the sword which he
carried on the day of his entrance into Seville; and on the other his
staff, the symbol of command. In this same chapel a little ivory wand
which the king carried to the wars, and other relics of great value
are preserved. In the other chapels there are large marble altars,
Gothic tombs and statues in stone, in wood and silver, enclosed in
large caskets of silver with their bodies and hands covered with
diamonds and rubies; and some marvellous pictures, which,
unfortunately, the feeble light, falling from the high windows, does
not illuminate sufficiently to let the admirer see their entire beauty.
 THE CATHEDRAL OF SEVILLE.

But after a detailed examination of these chapels, paintings, and

sculptures, you always return to admire the Cathedral’s grand, and,
if I may be allowed to say it, formidable aspect. After having glanced
towards those giddy heights, the eye and mind are fatigued by the
effort. And the abundant images correspond to the grandeur of the
basilica; immense angels and monstrous heads of cherubim with
wings as large as the sails of a ship and enormous floating mantles
of blue. The impression that this Cathedral produces is entirely
religious, but it is not sad; it creates a feeling which carries the mind
into the infinite space and silence where Leopardi’s thoughts were
plunged; it creates a sentiment full of desire and boldness; it
produces that shiver which is experienced at the brink of a precipice,
—that distress and confusion of great thoughts, that divine terror of
the infinite....
 It is needless to speak of the Feasts of Holy Week: they are
famous throughout the world, and people from all parts of Europe
still flock to them.
But the most curious privilege of the Cathedral of Seville is the
dance de los seises, which is performed every evening at twilight for
eight consecutive days after the Feast of Corpus Domini.
As I found myself in Seville at this time I went to see it. From
what I had heard I expected a scandalous pasquinade, and I
entered the church quite ready to be indignant at the profanation of
a holy place. The church was dark; only the large altar was
illuminated, and a crowd of women kneeled before it. Several priests
were sitting to the right and left of the altar. At a signal given by one
of the priests, sweet music from violins broke the profound silence of
the church, and two rows of children moved forward in the steps of
a contre-danse, and began to separate, interlace, break away, and
again unite with a thousand graceful turnings; then everybody
joined in a melodious and charming hymn which resounded in the
vast Cathedral like a choir of angels’ voices; and in the next moment
they began to accompany their dance and song with castanets. No
religious ceremony ever touched me like this. It is out of the
question to describe the effect produced by these little voices under
the immense vaults, these little creatures at the foot of this
enormous altar, this modest and almost humble dance, this antique
costume, this kneeling multitude, and the surrounding darkness. I
went out of the church with as serene a soul as if I had been
praying....
The famous Giralda of the Cathedral of Seville is an ancient
Arabian tower, constructed, according to tradition, in the year one
thousand, on the plan of the architect Huevar, the inventor of
algebra; it was modified in its upper part after the expulsion of the
Moors and converted into a Christian bell-tower, yet it has always
preserved its Arabian air and has always been prouder of the
vanished standard of the conquered race than the Cross which the
victors have placed upon it. This monument produces a novel