In a quiet plebeian quarter, remote from the bustle of the city, surrounded by a wide piazza and a pleasant grove of lime-trees, stands the old basilica of St. Ambrogio. It is reached in a few minutes from the Duomo by the S. Vittore tram. This church, architecturally and historically, ranks first among all in Milan. The Duomo, foreign in material and bastard in style, cannot compare in interest with this grand product of the Lombard soil and the Lombard spirit. The story of St. Ambrogio reaches back through the long centuries of Milan’s modern and mediÆval life to the time of the saintly Doctor himself. It was in 386 that St. Ambrose founded it beside the already existing basilica FaustÆ. Here he buried, in the place which he had prepared for himself, the bodies of the martyr saints Protasio and Gervasio, whose resting-place had been revealed to him just at the crisis of his struggle with the Empress. Two men of marvellous stature such as the first age bore, so he describes the bodies in a letter to his sister Marcellina. We carried them, as the evening was falling, to the basilica FaustÆ.... The following day we removed them to the church which they call Ambrosianam. They were laid beneath the altar, where Christ is offered up, and Ambrose commanded that when his own time came he should be buried in all humility beside them upon their left hand.

The church was dedicated to the martyrs. Nevertheless, it continued to be called the Basilica Ambrosiana according to the fashion of that day, when the churches were called after their founders, as for example the Basilica FaustÆ, otherwise S. Vittore in Cielo d’Oro, the Basilica Porciana, also dedicated to S. Vittore, and the Basilica Paulina, or SS. Felix and Nabor. To later centuries it has become unalterably Sant Ambrogio.

Being in a peculiar sense the church of the patron saint and protector of the Milanese people, the basilica held from the first a very prominent place in the life of the Ambrosian city. Here the Primates gathered their suffragans to those synods and provincial councils, in which in the days of ecclesiastical rule the affairs of North Italy were decided. The foundation of a monastery of the powerful Benedictine Order in connection with the church, in 783, added to its importance. The archbishops of the reviving See of Milan, in the ninth century, restored it and bestowed upon it the utmost honour and reverence, endowing it with great riches. Here Otho the Great was crowned King of Italy by Archbishop Walperto in 961, and from that time, whenever a coronation took place in Milan, it was performed in St. Ambrogio. Perhaps the curious privilege which the city enjoyed, of keeping all sovereigns excluded from its precincts, was the reason why the Cathedral church was never chosen for the ceremony. In 1186, Frederick Barbarossa was present here when with immense splendour Henry of Suabia wedded Constance of Sicily, the Constance who is moon-arrested in Dante’s Paradise, because of her supposed inconstancy to monastic vows, though the old tale of her being dragged from a convent to marry the Emperor’s son has been proved a fable.

During the factious age of liberty St. Ambrogio was the church in which the popular party gathered, to seek the sanction and protection of the patron saint and to discuss their affairs, being shut out from the Duomo by the Archbishop and the aristocratic party. Here the short-lived reconciliation of 1258, called the Pace di St. Ambrogio, was completed and sworn to before the Altar with great solemnity by the representatives of both factions.

In St. Ambrogio Henry of Luxemburg, the looked-for peacemaker, was crowned in 1311, with his consort, Margaret of Brabant, in the presence of all the great nobles of Italy and characters conspicuous in the history of the time. A strange and somewhat ominous circumstance of this occasion was that the crown always used for the coronation of the Kings of Italy—which had become, though only shortly before this time, known as the Iron Crown—was missing. With the rest of the treasure of the Cathedral of Monza—where it was kept then, as to-day—it had been pawned by the Torriani.^[8] So a new iron crown, in the form of a laurel wreath, was forged to encircle the brow of Henry VII. The newly anointed monarch created two hundred knights in the church, the first upon whom he laid his sword being Matteo Visconte. From this time the ceremony of knighting was customarily performed in St. Ambrogio, and later on those who received the dignity there were called the Knights of St. Ambrogio.

It was in St. Ambrogio that Gian Galeazzo Visconte, newly created Duke of Milan, knelt before the altar while the Archbishop of Milan and a splendid array of prelates chanted hymns and offices in celebration of his elevation to the ducal dignity, in the presence of princes and ambassadors from all the States of Italy and Europe. Here, in 1477, the young Republicans who had sworn to avenge the wrongs of their city upon the tyrant Galeazzo Maria Sforza, bowed themselves before the image of the Saint, patron of the Milanese liberties, and besought his blessing upon their enterprise. In the sixteenth century St. Ambrogio was the goal of the pathetic penitential processions which used to wind their way from the Duomo day after day during the visitations of the plague and the persecutions by the Spaniards.

The Basilica as we see it now shows no trace, it need hardly be said, of the church which Ambrose himself built. But it still contains his bones. An interesting proof of his actual burial there beside the two martyrs, according to his directions, was the discovery, in 1864, beneath the High Altar, of two cavities of unequal size, the larger in the middle, the smaller on its left hand, evidently burial-places. There were no bodies in them, but the remains of the three saints were found in a sepulchre of porphyry above the cavities. It was known that they had been removed and laid in one tomb together by Archbishop Angilberto in the ninth century, probably at the time when the floor of the sanctuary was raised and the golden altar set up. The church appears to have been completely rebuilt at this time by Angilberto (824-859) and Ansperto (868-881), after the instalment of the Benedictines, in order to suit it to the requirements of monastic ritual. Angilberto had the main part built, it is supposed, and Ansperto added the atrium—Atria vicinas struxit et ante fores,—as is recorded in the lengthy epitaph of the said prelate inscribed above his tomb on the south side of the nave.

But the noble building of to-day, with its grand forecourt, or atrium, is almost certainly not the ninth century church of Angilberto and Ansperto, but a reconstruction on the same lines in the eleventh or early twelfth century. The date of St. Ambrogio has been a much-disputed point, and some authorities still cherish the theory that it is in the main the ninth century building, and as such, the prototype of all the many churches of the Romanesque style scattered throughout Europe. But the advanced system of vaulting, and the compound form of the pillars, as seen in St. Ambrogio, are said not to appear in other Italian churches until a good deal later than the ninth century—later, in fact, than in more northern countries. If the Basilica be of this early date, it must have remained for two hundred years a solitary example of a splendid style of architecture which had arrived at completeness without leaving any traces of preliminary stages. There are many tenth and eleventh century churches, however, which show what would naturally seem the early and undeveloped stages of the style, which is in favour of the belief held by most of the writers on the subject, that St. Ambrogio follows rather than precedes them in date, and stands at the zenith and not at the dawn of Romanesque architecture. The style of most of the decorative sculpture on the building also points to a later origin.^[9]

There is no actual record, it is true, of a restoration in the eleventh or twelfth century, but the patriotism and fervour of vitality which animated the Milanese in that epoch, and brought them into conflict with Barbarossa, may well have induced them to rebuild and beautify this church, which, being the resting-place of their Patron, was to them as the sanctuary of their liberties. Italian enthusiasm has always memorialised itself in brick and stone, and, moreover, in the twelfth century architecture was the only art in which they could fully express themselves. Not only in Milan, but throughout Lombardy, the churches of this period are a grand and enduring testimony to the great era of the Italian Communes, and in St. Ambrogio, queen if not mother of them all,^[10] surely we have before us the noblest artistic embodiment of the spirit which produced the Lombard League.

The outward form of the church—the large Romanesque style—is in keeping with that great patriotic thought and resolve. It is essentially of the soil. The grand curves of the arches, the massive pillars, the sense of space and freedom seem the proper expression of the mediÆval Lombard character, in their union of Latin breadth and clearness with the picturesque ruggedness, and the rich effects of light and shade of Northern building. Above all, the material—brick and stone, that fortunate combination which produces such glory and enchantment of colour—is peculiarly Lombard. The effect of it in St. Ambrogio is most beautiful and satisfying. Even the newness of much of the brick at the present time—crude evidence of restoration—cannot destroy the charm.

The atrium or forecourt is surrounded on three sides by arcades supported on massive pillars. It is rather later in date than the faÇade of the church, which rises up in a wide gable, pierced with lofty round-headed openings above the shadow of the narthex or portico, triple-arched, which forms the eastern side of the atrium. On either hand of the church rises a campanile of characteristic Lombard type. The lower one is the Monks’ Tower, and dates from the eighth or ninth century. It is probably the first thing which the Benedictines built on entering into possession of the church in 783, bells being a necessity of the monastic ritual. The tall tower on the left, which, with its ornamental arcading and delicate ribs of brick and stone, shows an advance of some centuries on the simplicity of the older one, was built in 1128 by Archbishop Anselmo for the Canons, to vindicate the ancient rights of these, the original servants and custodians of the basilica, against the encroaching monks, who are said to have pulled down the pre-existing belfry of the secular priests. The struggles between these two bodies of secular and regular clergy, established side by side and sharing the privilege of serving the church, were very fierce and continuous through the Middle Ages. The monks are long gone now, and the Canons remain in peaceful possession of the altars and of the quiet courts and shrunken cloisters of the old place. Both towers have been restored in recent times. The atrium and faÇade have also been restored, but show more vestiges of the original work. In the fantastic sculptured imagery which ornaments the capitals of the great columns, in the curling foliage patterns of the friezes on archivolts and architraves, in the endless knots and intricate web of the ribbed stems upon the lintels and jambs and columns of the great middle doorway, in the grotesque beasts and human creatures which course up pillars, or writhe round capitals, we see the hand of the twelfth century craftsman still shaping the stone into the forms of religious symbolism, but expressing also his own satiric and pessimistic views of life, of nature ever at war with itself, and at the same time beginning to subordinate spiritual ideas to a desire for decorative effect. The attempts seen here at representing human figures are still of the rudest and most primitive, as for example the figure—perhaps Salome—dancing, while another plays the lyre, on a capital to the left of the middle door, the Adam and Eve (?) on either side of the Tree on one of the middle capitals of the narthex, the huntsman standing triumphant above a crowd of horned beasts—symbolic of the victory of the human over the animal nature. But many of the capitals are purely fanciful and decorative; the grotesque creatures writhe into graceful and symmetric designs, and that sort of flat-ribbed cord that appears so constantly, and in its endless windings is emblematic of eternity, is led into graceful curves and develops into leaves and stems which, growing bolder and freer, become finally beautiful foliage designs with masks and grotesques that seem to herald the Renaissance. This more advanced decoration is probably thirteenth century. Some fragments of the more archaic ornament, especially round the middle doorway, which has the appearance of being pieced together in places, seem to be survivals of an earlier existence of the church, which were embodied in the twelfth century reconstruction—the symbolic Lion of St. Mark, for example, and the Abbot’s Cross on a column on the right hand, which belongs perhaps to the period of the rebuilding for the monks. The name of Adam Magister, inscribed round a slender column on the left of the door, upside down, is no doubt that of the architect or sculptor of the present or some former phase of the building.

The walls of the atrium and round the doorways of the church show everywhere traces of fresco paintings of various periods, from Byzantine to Giottesque and the fifteenth century Lombard school, carefully uncovered in recent times, but all hopelessly ruined. The two large half-obliterated scenes in chiaroscuro on either side, at right angles to the front wall of the church, have been attributed tentatively to the little-known painter, Zenale. They represent the story of St. Ambrose and St. Augustine. That on the right hand, which is the least spoilt, shows three devotees kneeling before St. Ambrose, who are supposed to be the three successive dukes, Francesco, Galeazzo Maria, and Gian Galeazzo Sforza. On the left of the principal door, supported on four columns, is the sarcophagus of the humanist, Pier Candido Decembrio (died 1477), secretary and biographer of Duke Filippo Maria, and of his successor, Francesco Sforza. It is a graceful Renaissance work, perhaps by the Lombard sculptor, Tommaso da Cazzaniga,^[11] and has bas-reliefs on the front, showing the Virgin, with Decembrio kneeling before her protected by St. Ambrose, and the journey of Tobias and the Angel, signifying the soul’s journey into eternity. A very archaic bas-relief representing St. Ambrose, with the triple-thonged scourge in his hand, is on the wall beyond the left-hand door. The atrium is a museum of sculpture of many periods. Here are monuments and shields of mediÆval and Renaissance days—tombstones cast out from this and neighbouring churches—the broken original of the carven beasts over the right-hand door, and various unburied fragments of that dead Roman world which underlies Milan.

The great wooden door of the church, carved all over with small scenes, and of very ancient origin, has lost its interest by a too complete restoration. An unrestored fragment which is kept in the Archivio Capitolare has been pronounced to be of the time of Theodosius.

The interior of the basilica has the same noble effect of largeness, dignity, and repose as the atrium. In the solemn obscurity and devout silence one becomes aware of massive arches and deep vaulting, of great spaces and dim, far-off recesses, of rich colour and gilding, of grotesque forms and wreathing serpentine stems in the pallid stone of capitals and pulpit and screen. The careful restoration of half a century ago has repaired as much as possible the mishandlings which the church suffered from the zeal of Carlo Borromeo, and again two hundred years later, though the modern decoration of the cupola cannot be admired. We now see the Lombard basilica in its twelfth century form, with a great central nave of four bays, and side aisles with matronei—galleries for the women—above them, an essential feature of a Romanesque church. The nave is roofed with cross vaults springing from enormous pilasters, except the last bay before the choir, which opens up into a lofty cupola, whence a circumscribed light pours down from a circle of windows high up, illuminating the beautiful canopy of the High Altar beneath. This cupola, carried up to a height not in accord with the rest of the church, is a thirteenth century restoration, following a disastrous fall of the roof of this part in 1196.

The eastern portion of the basilica, which has three apses, is a survival of the ninth century building. The apses do not exactly correspond in direction with the later built body of the church, as is easily seen in looking up from the nave to the central apse. That they belong to the church built for the monks, and not to an earlier basilica, as their obvious priority to the rest of the building has led the supporters of the ninth century theory to suppose, is shown by there being three apses, and by the prolongation of the space in front of them for the choir, to accommodate the monks, who needed a place apart from the people for their special functions. In a very early basilica there would be but one apse, and it would start from the nave. The sanctuary is raised a few steps above the level of the nave, and in its midst, conspicuous and alone as it should be, beneath the noble curves of arch and cupola rises the four-sided canopy of the High Altar, upon four antique columns of red porphyry, glowing with deep colour and gilding against the rich darkness of the great mosaic in the tribune behind. The decoration of the canopy is of stucco. Moulded upon the flat pediments above the semicircular arches are gilded figures in relief against a background of deep blue; on the front, facing into the nave, Christ enthroned, giving the keys to Peter, and the law to Paul; on the back St. Ambrogio, protected by an angel behind him, stands between SS. Gervasio and Protasio, who present to him two kneeling Benedictine monks, one of whom holds in his hands a model of the canopy, and is thought to be Abbot Gaudenzio, appointed head of the monastery in 835; on the left side Madonna, with the Dove of the Holy Spirit on her head, is standing between two kneeling princesses, who lift their hands in supplication to her; on the right is St. Ambrogio and two princes, who also kneel and seem to beseech him. The friezes and bands of ornamentation are exceedingly rich, and very beautiful in design. At the corners are eagles, with their wings spread and fish between their claws. The canopy is an early thirteenth century restoration of a pre-existing one produced by Byzantine artists, probably in the time of Archbishop Angilberto, and wrecked by the fall of the cupola in 1196, little but the columns and the capitals surviving. The new work kept the Byzantine character of the old—the rigidity of the figures, the conventionalised draperies, the sacred symbols, though the spirit of a later age is visible in a certain rude attempt to give life to the heads.

Beneath the canopy the treasure which it was built to shelter still stands, the famous golden altar of Archbishop Angilberto. This altar is the largest and perhaps the most beautiful example known of the goldsmith’s art in the Carlovingian period. It is kept enclosed in a massive case, and a fee of five francs must be paid to the sacristan to see it. On St. Ambrose’s Day only is it uncovered to public view. The front of the altar is entirely faced with plates of fine gold divided into panels by borders of exquisite mosaic of enamel, and gold filigree work of delicate and various design, enriched with thickly-set gems, rubies, opals, sapphires, topaz and turquoise, cats’-eyes and every sort of strange-hued stone, some of great size, and edged with pearls. The panels are filled with figures in relief. In the middle, in a panel of oval form is Christ, with a jewelled halo, enthroned amid stars formed of precious stones. Around Him are the four Evangelic Beasts and the Apostles, three and three together. On either side are scenes from the Gospel story. The Resurrection, Ascension and Pentecost are sixteenth century restorations, quite out of keeping with the archaic character of the rest. The back and sides of the altar are of silver and of silver-gilt. On each of the sides there is a Greek cross of gold filigree set with gems and bordered with exquisite enamel, and around are figures of saints and angels, SS. Ambrose, Simpliciano, Gervasio and Protasio appearing on the right side, and on the left SS. Martin, Nabor, Nazario and Magno, the three latter being Milanese martyrs in the time of Diocletian and Decius. The back is divided into panels like the front, but in the middle there are four medallions. The two upper ones contain figures of the angels Michael and Gabriel. The two below are of great interest, as evidence of the origin and antiquity of the altar. In one is shown St. Ambrose crowning Angilberto, who has a halo of rectangular form, which signifies that he was living at the time of the representation; he offers a model of the altar to the Saint. The names Sanctus Ambrosius and Dominus Angilbertus are inscribed beside them. In the companion medallion we see Ambrose again, crowning Volvinus magister phaber (Master Volvinus the Smith), as the inscription describes him, the German artificer whom the Archbishop charged to make this altar, art at that time being far more advanced beyond the Alps than in Italy. The panels contain scenes from the legend of St. Ambrose; the Saint as a babe in the cradle attracting a swarm of bees by his honeyed mouth; journeying on horseback into Liguria, where he was prefect; flying at full gallop from Milan to avoid being Bishop, and admonished by a voice from on high to return; being baptized and ordained Bishop; celebrating Mass, while a cleric touches him on the back, showing how, as the legend relates, sleep has fallen on him and he is being transported in a vision to Tours, where in another panel he is represented laying the dead St. Martin in his tomb; again he appears preaching, inspired by an angel; treading beside the altar on the gouty foot of a bystander and healing it; seeing Christ in a dream, who announces to him his approaching death; offering his body to God as he dies; lastly, his dead body is being carried to Heaven by angels. These reliefs are very reminiscent of classic forms and have a surprising grace and freedom for the period. The representations of St. Ambrose’s story in particular are full of life and vigour, and show much beauty of composition and modelling, though they betray the era of their origin in certain awkwardnesses of proportion and grotesque attitudes. Here and there cameos of exquisite and evidently antique workmanship are let into the borders, and gems with Greek words cut in them; but perhaps the greatest beauty of all is the enamel—just beginning at that time to be used extensively in decorative art—and the delicate designs in which it is composed.

This gorgeous jewelled work, flashing out beneath the splendour of the canopy, seems to gather into a point all the glory of this rich interior. From the choir, which is raised several steps above the sanctuary, one can get a complete view of the mosaic decoration of the apse, a grand and imposing composition, with a colossal figure of Christ enthroned in the centre, lifting His hand in benediction, and on either side of Him SS. Gervasio and Protasio, and the Archangels Michael and Gabriel above. The names of the two martyrs are written beside them, letter beneath letter. Under the central figure there are three medallions; S. Satiro, brother of St. Ambrose, in the centre, and S. Marcellina, their sister, and S. Candida to right and left. The sides of the composition depict the story related by S. Gregory of Tours about St. Ambrose and represented on the altar; how he fell into a trance as he celebrated Mass and was rapt in spirit to Tours, where he performed the burial rite over the body of S. Martin. This mosaic is of the twelfth century, and though it follows the Byzantine style in arrangement and general treatment, it shows a tendency to abandon the old rigid conventions for the sake of more life and expression in the attitudes and draperies of the figures, and so sacrifices something of the decorative effect. The colour is very sombre, lacking the richness and glow of the best mosaic.

There is a marble episcopal seat of the ninth century in the choir. The stalls are very beautiful. Some are of the fourteenth century, as is also the triple seat on the right hand of the altar; the other stalls date from 1507. The designs carved upon them—trees and foliage, with small figures of men and animals, a peasant gathering grapes, a neglectful swineherd munching acorns, while the pig climbs the tree to reach some for itself, a man and a bear facing each other with comical hesitation beneath a tree, and other rustic scenes—are very graceful and delicate, and show a Renaissance spirit of gaiety.

The richly sculptured pulpit carries us back again to the earlier ages of the church. It is a very late twelfth century restoration of the pre-existing pulpit, which was ruined by the fall of the roof in 1196. An inscription on the side facing down the nave records that Guglielmus de Pomo, Superstes—chief priest or superior of the church—caused this and many other works to be done. It rests partly upon a Christian sarcophagus of the fifth or sixth century, and partly upon columns. The cover of the sarcophagus is crowded with figures in bas-relief, among which appear the effigies of the unknown couple, apparently of high rank, buried in it. On the side facing into the middle of the church, Christ is represented, seated among the Prophets, and on the other side He appears with the Apostles. Abraham sacrificing Isaac is the subject sculptured on one end, Elijah ascending in the chariot of fire on the other. These sculptures of the late Roman age, showing the decadence of a developed style, contrast strangely with the exuberant twelfth century decoration upon the other parts of the structure—ornamental borders and friezes with the characteristic curling stems that enmesh strange animals in endless pursuit of one another, innocent creatures, stags and hares chased by savage-fanged beasts, birds and grotesque humans forming caryatids, an ass playing the lyre, an eagle pecked by another bird, etc. Art has died and been born again in the interval between the old and the late work. In the twelfth century sculpture we see the wild rush of a new life, vigorous, cruel and merry, but at the same time penetrated by the pessimistic consciousness of youth. The difficulty of the sculptor in dealing with human figures is shown by the absurdly childish way in which the little scenes of Adam and Eve’s history, in the spaces beneath the arches, are represented. On the parapet of the pulpit at the back a Christian feast is sculptured.

The crypt beneath the choir was originally built in the ninth century, but is now completely modern. Descending into it you may look into the hallowed recess, where in an ornate silver shrine of very recent date lie the bodies of St. Ambrose and of the twin martyrs, Gervasio and Protasio, still beneath the high altar, where long ago the great bishop willed to lie.

Beside the door leading into the crypt, on the north side, there is a fresco, by Borgognone, of the Child Jesus among the elders in the Temple, and being found by His Mother. The sweet seriousness and devoutness of the painter are charmingly shown in this painting; the colour, warmer and gayer than he often uses, seems a forecast of his famous pupil Luini. A painting on the wall opposite of Madonna with Saints, placed so much in the dark that little can be distinguished in it except its unmistakable Lombard character, has been attributed to Zenale, but without sufficient evidence.

A chapel on the south side of the church leads to the small sanctuary which is all that remains of the Basilica FaustÆ, or San Vittore in Cielo d’Oro, afterwards dedicated to S. Satiro, who was buried there in 379 by his brother St. Ambrose. The present chapel, restored in 1859, is the easternmost bay of the original church, which was probably rebuilt in the eighth century. The deep cupola is covered with gold mosaic, with a figure of San Vittore in the centre, whence the name San Vittore in Cielo d’Oro. The Evangelic Beasts are represented round the cupola, and on the walls below are stiff figures of bishops and saints of the Milanese Church. These mosaics are fifth century, but have been restored.

A chapel lower down on this side of the church is frescoed with the legend of St. George, by Lanino, a follower of Gaudenzio Ferrari. Near a side door further down still is a painting, in very bad condition, attributed to Ferrari—Christ bearing the Cross, with the Three Maries—and some late and inferior frescoes of the same school. A coloured stucco image of St. Ambrose, of the eleventh century, done from a portrait of him taken from life, as the inscription informs us, is to be seen on the wall nearer the west end. Beneath it is the stone sarcophagus of Archbishop Ansperto, and the famous epitaph referring to the building of the atrium. On the north wall, opposite, a relic of the pagan past is placed over the door leading into the belfry, a bas-relief of the Vintage, exquisitely decorative and gay. It is supposed to be a vestige of a Temple of Bacchus, which, according to tradition, stood upon the site of this church and was swept away by Ambrose. The last chapel on this side is the baptistery, and here is a fresco by Borgognone over the altar—the Risen Christ between two Angels. The long, slender figure of the Christ, graceful but nerveless, the general expression of pensiveness and sweetness, the colour no longer grey and pallid, as in his earlier pictures, but rich and harmonious, are very characteristic of this artist in his late period.

Two columns standing in the nave are surmounted, one by a serpent of bronze, the other by the cross. The serpent, if we may believe the eleventh century chronicler Landolfo, is that very one which Moses set up in the wilderness, and was brought in the writer’s own day from Constantinople by Archbishop Arnolfo, who had gone thither to seek the hand of the Emperor’s daughter for Otho III., and to whom the Greeks, who owned the sacred treasure, had presented it. Women used to bring their sick children to the column to be healed by the serpent.

In the Sacristy of the Canons may be seen some beautiful illuminated books, the most precious of which is the famous Missal of Gian Galeazzo Visconte, of the late fourteenth century, which commemorates the coronation of that prince as first Duke of Milan. It is exquisitely illuminated, in clear brilliant colour, by a Lombard miniaturist, Annovello da Imbonate. The front page depicts the scene of the coronation; a beautiful composition in which the Duke appears kneeling in crimson robe and ermine at the feet of the imperial legate, with his subjects gathered below. In the ornamental border the emblems of the Visconti are introduced; the snake, the dog chained beneath a tree, the dove with the motto, A bon droit, etc. There are other pages fully miniatured with scenes of Gian Galeazzo’s career. Among several Corali of the late fifteenth or early sixteenth century, there are two with very fine and delicate miniatures, attributed to Borgognone and suggestive of that painter in the sentiment and pose of the figures.

The Teca degli Innocenti, a silver casket of the late fifteenth century, containing relics of the Innocents, and very elaborately decorated with bas-reliefs of the Massacre, and other New Testament scenes, is kept in the sacristy, and also a silver pax, called Filippo Maria Visconte’s, with a bas-relief of the Dead Christ, of Lombard workmanship; a fifteenth century ostensory, of beautiful Gothic form, and a processional cross, given by S. Carlo to the church, but of earlier date.

A door on the north side of the church leads into the canonica, and one steps out from the grand old Lombard basilica into a beautiful portico of the Renaissance period. Lodovico il Moro intended to raise here a stately residence for the Canons. He charged Bramante of Urbino with the work, but the much occupied architect had little time to devote to it, and it dragged on, so that only this one side of the cloister, and that unfinished, was built before the Moro’s fall put an end to all his ambitious schemes. This fragment, at once so noble and so graceful in its proportions, and showing a fine and restrained taste in the capitals, is almost certainly of Bramante’s design, which is more than can be said of most of the work attributed to him in this city. The delicious putti, in every charming pose, and plastic as life itself, which decorate the labels upon the arches, show the development of Italian art in the three centuries which divide them from the grotesque sculptures in the church. How interesting, too, the contrast between the treatment of arch and pillar, of brick and stone, by the learned and sophisticated Quattrocentist, and the same forms, the same materials in the hands of the rude, vigorous, and deeply religious generation which built the church. The cloister, in its incompleteness, leaning up against the old basilica, monument of democratic fervour and strength, is a poignant relic of the aristocratic and exclusive ideas of the Renaissance, and of the incomparable grace and joyousness of their brief reign in Milan. The profiles of the two presiding spirits of that moment, Lodovico and Beatrice, are moulded on either side of the doorway by a mediocre Lombard sculptor of the Renaissance period.

A quaint chimney, upon the house facing the cloister, is an interesting example of a type once common in Milan, and still often seen in the neighbouring towns.

Adjoining the basilica is the old convent, now a military hospital, with two fine cloisters, designed, it is thought, by Bramante.

Among the lime-trees on the piazza, near the church on the north side, stands an antique column, a relic of some pagan building, either the Roman temple, which is supposed to have preceded the basilica, or of a summer palace of the emperors, which stood beside it. An ingenious thirteenth century chronicler, one Daniele, in an imaginary description of the coronation of the mediÆval kings in St. Ambrogio, makes this column play an important part in the ceremony. The King must swear the oath outside the church, where a marble column stands.... He must kiss the said column, because as the column is upright, so must the judgment of the sovereign be upright. A more faithful account of the ritual at the coronations is given by the tenth century chronicler, Landolfo the Elder.