We made a mistake in not staying at Monza, a very ancient city containing, amongst other interesting buildings, a cathedral, founded by Queen Teodolinda in the sixth century, and a Broletto, or town hall, attributed to Frederic Barbarossa. We arrived at Milan early in the afternoon, and immediately drove to our hotel, through one of the magnificent gates which guard the approaches to the city. On entering this, the first great Italian city which we had seen, many thoughts crowded into our minds. Here we were in a country the very cradle of European art, where through all times, even down to the present, art seems a vital necessity to the people. In other lands art has been an ornament or a luxury, but in Italy it seems to enter into the very life of the inhabitants, and nothing seems to have been able to wean them from their devotion to the beautiful creations of the hand of man. We find them revelling in art when foreign armies were overunning the country and decimating the population. We find it under tyranny and oppression of the most galling description—surrounded by acts of horror and infamy of the most despicable kind. We find it often in combination with ignorance and folly that are simply contemptible. We find it existing when liberty was utterly suppressed. Thus during all the Middle Ages and the period of the Renaissance, whether the Italians were slaves or free, whether they were conquered or victorious, whether they were united or divided, still this marvellous spirit of art seems to have pervaded everything from their religion down to the most ordinary acts of everyday life. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF MILAN CATHEDRAL.] Another thought which naturally suggests itself on entering Milan is that of the two noble characters whose lives stand out like brilliant meteors amongst the gloom, horror, wickedness, and folly, which stain so much of her history. We refer to her two Archbishops—St. Ambrose, the light and glory of her early history; and Charles Borromeo, the bright star which illumined her deepest gloom. And one cannot help thinking of the good and great man pursuing his mission of charity amongst the sick and dying of the plague-stricken city. Our first thought was to find our way to the cathedral, the second largest Gothic church in Europe, about which probably more has been written, and a greater number of conflicting opinions as to its merit expressed, than about any building in the world, with the exception of St. Peter’s, Rome. As it is impossible to say anything new about this wonderful cathedral, we shall principally confine our remarks to our own individual impressions and opinions.