Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

"Sebastien, we are ashamed of you! Would you sacrifice your birthright for a mess of pottage?"

"What does the señor mean?" asked Sebastien, looking puzzled.

"Have you never heard of Esau?"

"Never, señor. Was he a Spaniard or an Englishman? And was he, too, fond of black-pudding?"

It was impossible to help laughing; but we passed over the question, feeling that a course of Bible history begun on the bridge would come to an untimely end. So we left him to his ignorance and his preference for black-pudding, passed away from the canal, the old bridge and ancient outlines, and climbed about the steep decayed streets. The rain poured through the water-spouts, and every now and then we came in for an unwelcome shower-bath. This highly amused Sebastien, who never enjoyed the fun more than when he himself was victim.

Suddenly we found ourselves confronted by one of those views which come upon one as a revelation of what nature sometimes accomplishes. We had seen nothing equal to it, nothing to resemble it since the days of Segovia. In sunshine the likeness might have been still more striking.

We had passed by a steep descent into the lower part of the town and stood upon the hill side. To our right rose the great collegiate church of La Seo, crowning a massive and majestic rock. Houses stretched far down the slopes, and the church rose above them in magnificent outlines. It was built of yellow greystone that harmonised wonderfully with the grey skies. For the time being these had ceased to weep, and everything was bathed in a thin mist, which rolled and curled about and threw a wonderful romance and glamour over the scene, especially refining and beautifying.

Still below us, on the left, ran the broad river, with its dark, almost blood-red waters flowing swiftly under the high, picturesque bridge. We traced its winding course between deep banks far out into the country; just as we had traced it from the heights of Montserrat, not far off as the eagle flew. Here too everything was veiled in a thin mist.

The rock on which the church stood consisted of a series of hollows, where grew lovely hanging gardens and flowering trees. The church with its striking outlines looked massive enough to defy the ages. It was of the true fourteenth century Catalan type, and took the place of a church that had existed here in the tenth century. Its buttresses are especially large and prominent. The lofty tower stands over the north aisle. Four arched stone ribs crown the steeple, within which a bell is suspended. A fine Romanesque doorway leads into the modern uninteresting cloister. Other fine doorways lead into the interior of the church. Its great size, high and wide, is impressive, but the details are trivial. The capitals of the enormous octagonal columns are poor, and the arches they support, thin and almost contemptible, take immensely from the general effect.

Here also, there was no need to remain long. With the charms of Barcelona cathedral lingering in the mind as a dream and a world's wonder, the collegiate church of Manresa, with all its loftiness and expanse, was cold and lifeless, without sense of beauty or devotion. In its striking situation lies the chief merit of the town.