fedeli defunti." Close by were five or six young folks under the care of an elder sister apparently. Were they praying for departed parents? Many had books of devotions, and as the early beams of the sun glanced through the windows, high in the nave roofs, on the figure of the Saviour on the Cross, one was reminded of the lines

"Hold thou thy cross before my eyes,"

and of the still holier lines-"My house shall be called of all nations a house of prayer." Such a congregation I had not seen anywhere, save some years ago in the Madeleine in Paris-a congregation of the poor, the very poor, and yet without a beggar. There was no preaching. Nothing but silent prayer, and the silent performance of priestly functions. It did strike me, as it has often done before, that Protestants make churches churches too much much houses of preaching. Can we not open them for prayer alone at certain hours? Very few of a similar class to those I saw before me would go to any church. or chapel in England. Returning to my inn, I passed through the market. Ah, then, I saw it was not what in Scotland is called the "Lord's Day," although called “Dominica” here. The gardeners were busy unloading their produce, the poultry women plucking their fowls, the retail dealers shouting their wares on sale. I stepped in to the church of the Protomartyr, in the midst of this bustle, and found some scores at prayer, many evidently dressed ready for market duties. What strange contradictions!

High Mass at Milan Cathedral is not to be seen every day by me, so I returned. so I returned. By ten o'clock three-fourths of the shops were open; flower girls

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offered to decorate us; newspaper boys would have us au fait with current events. Cabmen were ready to drive us, and even that curse to any country, the lottery keeper, was tempting the passer-by. Inside the church we found a crowd round the high altar, and the two grand circular pulpits, the like of which are not in England. They form part of two of the immense pillars, abound in basso-relievos, and are supported by caryatides. The altar is of gilt bronze, the choir stalls of carved oak, and over the altar is the "holy nail," whatever that may mean. The service is long, the incensing frequent, the priests numerous, the singing nothing to boast of, but the half hour sermon on "the broad road and the narrow way," was said, by a Warrington lady who understands Italian, to be simple. We could all see it was earnest. Men and women stood in some cases all the time. Perhaps he was a favourite preacher. Certainly he was not so lively as a priest we heard in the Cathedral at Naples, nor so moving as Mr. Jones of Naples, or Signor Sciarelli of Rome. In retiring we saw the sun spot in the church floor, by which the astronomers of the Brera show that it is noon.

The caffés as we passed were beginning to be crowded. In one we saw billiard tables surrounded with players; hundreds having refreshments in the open air, and a general movement towards the parks, and finally the theatres. Can the human brain ever cool down under such excitement? Does a saunter into the Cathedral, opera-glass in hand, or even the occupation of a chair, price one penny, (there are few if any seats,) bring the mind of man back from the regions of finance, literature, or trade, and fix it on the Great Unseen? We fear that the continental

mind is like the troubled sea, which cannot rest. Coffee, tobacco, the public garden, the picture gallery, the promenade, the theatre,-such is the routine of continental life. I returned to the inn to meditate on the passage-"After the way which they call heresy, so worship I the God of my fathers."

MILAN, April 22nd.-We have had a glorious morning. At seven o'clock we commenced the ascent of the 412 steps which lead to the top of the Cathedral. The steps are not steep, and again and again we come to resting places. 158 steps of marble stairs lead to the roof proper. Here the statues and bas-reliefs are like a gallery of sculpture. The roof is formed of slabs of marble, and well protected, so there is no fear while you survey the "landscape o'er." Adam and Eve are there in coll marble to welcome each son and daughter. Napokon the First, too, is on one of "the greatest naves." But "excelsior" is our motto, and we mount till the great cupola is reached, and then there is a view of a mighty city at your feetimmense plains, mountains perhaps 100 miles off, covered with snow, while vines in tens of thousands are at your feet. Higher than we can reach is a pyramid holding a copper statue of Holidam. It is the highest of 136 others. The statue of Omodes, the architect, is here also. The streets of Milan before us are narrow, and the passengers puny mortals; for we are looking down from a height greater than St. Paul's, or the Great Pyramid of Egypt. The sight is

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well worth the climb. With an opera glass we examine the statues, which can be seen no way else, -and each is a perfect figure, fit for the library, the gallery, or the entrance hall.

Later on we visit the church of St. Marino, where is the fresco of Leonardo da Vinci's great work, the "Last Supper"-known by cast, paintings, and sculptured work. It is in a dirty small hall, fast being eaten away by damp, but borne up in its misfortunes by numerous painters trying to render the original truly on their canvas. A visit to the local Colosseum, and a drive for five miles round the walls of Milan, end our pleasant visit. The drive is unique and continuous. We examine each gate. We pass under many thousand chestnut trees without a break, and see hundreds of thousands of vines trellised from tree to tree, ready for budding in due season. Milan ought to have its 250,000 inhabitants healthy. They have a grand cordon against disease. Time forbade me to visit the Ambrosian Library, rich in books and MSS., the Natural History Museum, and many other places. But time I did find to visit the Church of St. Ambrose, perhaps the oldest in Italy. It is a fine plain building, carrying you back to the fourth century, St. Ambrose having consecrated it in 387. There is no myth about this. On the walls of the cloisters are some scores of frescoes, broken slabs, tombs, and monuments, as hoary as any in old Rome. Inside all is simple and chaste, but the masons and carpenters restoring the altar interfere with our view. There is the marble chair, dating from the second century, in which a saint, well known in Church history, sat. There are the cypress doors which he shut in the face of King Theodore. Yonder marble pulpit may well be the