It made me shudder. Yet lying there
under the very roof his hands had builded, that reclining figure was
immensely impressive.
The work--the work, in light and strength and glory stands; but the
skilled and cunning workman is brought low, and lies cold and silent.
The crowded and glorious, almost living cathedral--the richly bedecked
body dismantled, deserted, dead. Was ever contrast so wide or
suggestive? The white, shining arches and pinnacles, up-pointing in
architectural splendor. The architect lies under them prone,
unconscious, decaying. The beautiful windows, all storied in colors
almost supernatural, and telling their histories and honoring their
place. But the temple of the Cardinal's soul is in ruins, the windows
are broken, and its day is darkness and mold.
So, silent he lies in his house, surrounded by his faithful, whose
cries and lamentations he hears not, his cold hands clasped, his dead
face uncovered, as though looking above its high vaulted roof.
I seemed to see again the bedizened skeleton of old St. Carlo Borromeo
in the crypt of the Cathedral of Milan, as lying in his coffin of
glass, his bones all bleached and dressed. But the careless throngs go
thoughtlessly, noisily on. Some weep, some laugh, and Thursday, the day
of sepulture, comes.
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