THE MONASTERY, MONSERRAT.
Further up, the crest is formed by the jagged teeth of the Saw. Here are a myriad points and aiguilles clustering in groups of pinnacles tapering like the fingers of a man’s hand; further, a whole multitude of rocky excrescences which have been and can be equally compared to rough-hewn chessmen in battle array, or to chessmen strewn carelessly over the board, some standing up sharp and erect, some fallen prostrate and broken. The grand rugged scenery is softened and toned down by a most wonderful profusion of vegetation, consisting of box, ilex, myrtle, ivy, heather, laurel, and other evergreens; which, growing in every crack and crevice where they can possibly find a hold, and flourishing at all seasons, transform this mountain into a marvel of grey and green.
The walk from the Monastery to the summit occupies about three hours, and is one of the most remarkable to be found in Europe. The path is narrow, but it has been planned with consummate artistic skill. It winds over a broad area among and around the various crags and stone seracs, onwards and ever upwards until it ends, at last, at the highest point. Sometimes it leads through a narrow valley walled in on both sides by wild sentinels of rock, again through creeping masses of myrtle, ivy, and jessamine, or under bowers of ilex and box. And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, you have attained to the apparently inaccessible summit, and you stand on the brink of precipices and overlook Monserrat spread out beneath like an enormous Medusa, its thousands of tentacles raised aloft on every side, enclosing deep abysses whose terribleness is mitigated by a lining of perpetual green. Beyond lies the sun-backed, flowerless plain, through which silver rivers turn and return on their journey to the sea. To the north, distant but clearly defined against the blue background of sky, a line of snowy Pyrenees smile coolness down upon the torrid lowlands; while to the east, beyond the hazy suggestion of Barcelona, a glittering silver rim of sea wafts inland the softest of noonday breezes.
On the East Coast.
THE AQUEDUCT, TARRAGONA.
MONSERRAT, according to the guide books, may be hurriedly visited from Barcelona by means of a return ticket for the day; but one can imagine few persons who would be content with so hasty an inspection of one of the most remarkable sights in Spain. One returns from the mountain to Barcelona with one’s mind crowded with wonderful sights, and one’s senses stirred with a new idea of the beautiful. Where shall one look, one asks oneself, for its equal? But Spain is full of spots of almost dazzling beauty. Within a hundred miles to the southward, following the coast-line, is situated Tarragona. To know Tarragona is to love her, for her natural self first, her oak forests, soft verdure and park-like land, then for her treasures of infinitely beautiful architectural work; and again for her simple kindness and good fellowship, her gorgeous colouring, her brilliant sky, her gorgeous sunsets, and her outlook over the long sweep of rich country, rock-bound coast and glinting sea. Here is another of Spain’s many abodes of loveliness—a paradise of far-reaching plains, dotted with villages and homesteads, coloured with rich gardens, orange-groves and vineyards, and shaded by a rich fringe of olive and fir trees, that lose themselves against the distant rich brown hills. And on the other side the fertile plain slopes gently down to the ancient pine woods, beyond which lie the fringe of yellow sands and dark green ocean.
Tarragona has her records too, and a history among the most ancient in the kingdom. She once boasted her million of inhabitants, her government, her luxury, and her art. The Phœnicians made the town a maritime settlement, the Romans made it an imperial city, the Goths selected it as their capital. The Moors “made of the city a heap,” and the ruins remained uninhabited for four centuries. She can point to her grand Cyclopean walls and gateways, her Phœnician well, her so-called “tomb” of the Scipio, her amphitheatre, her Capital, and her Roman aqueduct striding across the valley, and seemingly defying time to destroy it.
