Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

"With one exception," we ventured modestly to observe.

"Which is that?" cried the old priest, evidently sharpening his weapon of warfare—the tongue that did him such good suit and service.

"Your cathedral is a gem of the very first water," we said. "It throws one into a dream from which one might almost wish not to awaken; but it is not equal to Barcelona."

The old priest put his hand to his forehead and looked depressed.

"You are right," he said; "I cannot contradict you. But then Barcelona is beyond comparison." Here he brightened again. "Let me tell you the difference. Barcelona was never built by men; it was the work of angels. It is a dream-building that came down from the skies, and some day it will disappear into the skies again. And then here we shall reign supreme. With all its beauty and splendour and charm, there is nothing here to suggest angel master-builders; it is a dream-fabric if you will, but essentially the work of man: firm and strong and substantial, lasting through the ages. In the days of the Goths there was another building on this very spot. The Moors came and it was turned into a mosque; and when Alonza the Warrior re-took the city the church was reconstructed. This was early in the twelfth century. Here the kings of Aragon were crowned with pomp and ceremony, and here our most important councils have been held. Now come and look at our Moorish tiles."

And again, without pause in his talk, and without ceremony, he led the way. We could only willingly follow through the lovely forest of pillars, crossing one aisle after another, sharing his enthusiasm. We had the whole church to ourselves. The people of Zaragoza seemed too busy to trouble themselves about dreams of architecture.

"Look again," said the old priest, as we stood outside in front of the north wall. "These tiles are very beautiful and remarkable. They are undoubtedly Moorish; the work of Moorish craftsmen. Do you observe the fineness of the colours, the rich deep blue that contrasts so well with the emerald green? You would think the effect of so much colour would be garish, but on the contrary it is quiet and subdued, with great dignity about it. This is quite the oldest part of the exterior. One can only regret that the whole was not tiled, for then we should have possessed a unique building with which to challenge the world. You see there are still evidences of an earlier church than this," and he pointed to certain remains which were unmistakably Romanesque: in the lower part of the apse, the buttresses and in one of the windows.

"And there," said the old priest, pointing to an immense building, "is the Bishop's palace, which was sacked and ruined by the French in that terrible war. Since that day much that was interesting in Zaragoza has disappeared; but heaven be praised, we have still our cathedral, and as long as we have that, the rest matters little. And now I must wish you good-morning. It is my hour for breakfast—a very frugal meal with me, consisting chiefly of eggs and sweet herbs. Ah, señor," with a round gurgling laugh, "I see what you are thinking—that eggs and sweet herbs never developed this rotundity of person. You are wrong. I fast twice in the week; I never touch anything stronger than coffee; I have only two simple meals a day; and yet you see how prodigal nature is in her dealings with me. You doubt me? Come with me. I live at a stone's throw. You shall see my abode and interrogate my old housekeeper, and you will hear how she corroborates my tale."

He led the way, this singular old priest, whom we found not only appreciating the beautiful, but brimming over with humour: one of those delightfully simple, self-unconscious men, who are all sympathy and amiability. We could but follow: down a small narrow street into a quaint sort of cul-de-sac, where we came upon an exquisite trace of Old Zaragoza.

A small fifteenth-century house, with a quaint Gothic doorway, and a window guarded by magnificent iron-work. Touching a hidden spring, this door opened and admitted us into a panelled passage that apparently had not been touched for centuries. Then he turned into a wonderful old room, black with panelled oak, some of which was vigorously and splendidly carved.