Cathedral Cities of Spain — Text and Context
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For Cathedral Cities of Spain — Text and Context, the stored edition analysis reports 57,894 words, 4 hr 12 min estimated reading time, and 7 detected text sections.
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Read the Text
as second only to Cordova, to which city it became subject when Abdurrhaman established the Western Kalifate there in the year 756.
San Ferdinand, King of Leon and Castile, pushed his conquests far south and Seville succumbed to the force of his arms in 1248.
Seville is the most fascinating city in Spain. It is still Moorish in a way. Its houses are built on the Eastern plan with _patios_, their roofs are flat and many have that charming accessory, the _miradore_. Its streets are narrow and winding, pushed out from a common centre with no particular plan. It is Andalusian and behind the times. Triana, the gipsy suburb, is full of interest. The Cathedral, though of late and therefore not particularly good Gothic, is, on account of its great size, the most impressive in the whole country. The Alcázar, once more a royal residence, vies with Granada's Alhambra in beauty; and as a mercantile port, sixty miles from the estuary, Seville ranks second to none in Southern Spain.
The Cathedral stands third in point of size if the ground space is alone considered, after St. Peter's at Rome and the Mesquita at Cordova. The proportions of the lofty nave, one hundred feet in height, are so good that it appears really much higher. The columns of the double aisles break up the two hundred and sixty feet of its width and add much to the solemn dignity of the vast interior, enhanced greatly by the height of the vaulting above the spectator. Standing anywhere in the Cathedral I felt that there was a roof above my head, but it seemed lost in space. And this is the great characteristic of Seville's Cathedral, _i.e._, space.
The _coro_ is railed off from the crossing by a simple iron-gilt _reja_. The _silleria_, by Sanchez, Dancart, and Guillier are very fine and took seventy years to execute. Between the _coro_ and Capilla Mayor, in Holy Week the great bronze candlestick, twenty-five feet high, a fine specimen of sixteenth-century work, is placed alight. When the _Misere_ is chanted during service, twelve of its thirteen candles are put out, one by one, indicating the desertion of Christ by his apostles. The thirteenth left burning symbolises the Virgin, faithful to the end. From this single light all the other candles in the Cathedral are lit.
The _reja_ of the Capilla Mayor is a grand example of an iron-gilt screen, and with those to the north and south, is due to the talent of the Dominican, Francisco de Salamanca.
The fine Gothic _retablo_ of the High Altar surpasses all others in Spain in size and elaboration of detail. It was designed by Dancart and many artists were employed in its execution. When the sun finds his way through the magnificent coloured glass of the windows between noon and three o'clock, and glints across it, few "interior" subjects surpass the beautiful effect on this fine piece of work.
In front of the High Altar at the feast of Corpus Christi and on three other occasions, the _Seises's_ dance takes place. This strange ceremony is performed by chorister boys who dance a sort of minuet with castanets. Their costume is of the time of Philip III., _i.e._, 1630, and they wear plumed hats. Of the numerous chapels the most interesting is the Capilla Real. It possesses a staff of clergy all to itself. Begun in 1514 by Martin de Gainza, it was finished fifty years later. Over the High Altar is the almost life-size figure of the Virgin de los Reyes, given by St. Louis of France to San Ferdinand. Its hair is of spun gold and its numerous vestments are marvellous examples of early embroidery. The throne on which the Virgin is seated is a thirteenth-century piece of silver work, with the arms of Castile and Leon, San Ferdinand's two kingdoms. Before it lies the King himself in a silver shrine. Three times a year, in May, August and November, a great military Mass takes place before this royal shrine, when the garrison of Seville marches through the chapel and colours are lowered in front of the altar. In the vault beneath are the coffins of Pedro the Cruel and Maria Padilla his mistress, the only living being who was humanly treated by this scourge of Spain. Their three sons rest close to them.
On the north and south sides of this remarkable chapel, within arched recesses, are the sarcophagi of Beatrice of Swabia and Alfonso the Learned. They are covered with cloth of gold emblazoned with coats-of-arms. A crown and sceptre rest on the cushion which lies on each tomb. In the dim light, high above and beyond mortal reach rest these two--it is very impressive.
W. W. Collins, R.I., opens his account of Spanish cathedral cities with a preface that frames religion as the unifying force of a nation otherwise divided by regional differences. He traces the evolution of ecclesiastical architecture from ninth-century Asturian churches through Romanesque and Gothic styles, linking each phase to the Moorish retreat. The author’s dual role as writer and illustrator shapes the narrative: he frequently notes where he set up his easel, and his observations are those of a painter attuned to light, texture, and composition.
A Painter’s Eye for Place
Collins writes as a working artist, and his prose often reads like a sketchbook. In Salamanca, he confesses that he wandered to a rocky promontory not for the view but “to get away from the stenches and filth of the town.” He describes flies settling on his colour box and paper, and beggars with “horrible sores.” Yet he admits that such squalor was “part and parcel of my dream” of Spain. This candor about discomfort—and the romance he finds despite it—distinguishes his travelogue from more sanitized accounts. His descriptions of Avila’s walls, “forty feet high, twelve thick, with eighty-six defensive towers,” are precise, as if measuring for a drawing. The visual details are never generic: granite slabs “set end upwards,” a plaza where bullfights once took place, a lane where suicides are marked by red chalk crosses.
History Told Through Stone and Ritual
Collins weaves historical episodes into his architectural descriptions, often with a storyteller’s flair. In Avila, he recounts the 1465 deposition of King Enrique IV, whose effigy was dragged from the city, crowned, then kicked about in a “game of ‘socker.’” The anecdote is vivid but unattributed; Collins does not cite a source, presenting it as local lore. Similarly, he notes that Avila’s walls were built under the supervision of “a Frenchman and an Italian, Florian de Pituenga and Cassandro,” a detail that suggests archival research or guidebook consultation. His method is associative: a building prompts a story, and the story deepens the sense of place. He does not attempt a systematic history but selects episodes that resonate with the physical remains.
Sensory Immersion and Unvarnished Observation
Collins’s narrative is unusually frank about the unpleasant aspects of travel. In Salamanca, he complains of “stenches and filth” and compares the flies to the plague of Egypt. He describes the “desert created by the French at the south-west angle of the city,” a reference to urban destruction during the Peninsular War. Yet he also finds beauty: the “chirrigueresque façade” of the Ayuntamiento, the “fine Plaza” where bullfights once occurred. His willingness to record both the sublime and the repellent gives his account a documentary quality. He does not romanticize poverty or decay; instead, he treats them as facts to be noted alongside architectural details. This balance between aesthetic appreciation and gritty realism is a consistent thread.
The Authorial Voice: Confessional and Self-Aware
Collins frequently inserts himself into the narrative, not as a heroic traveler but as a fallible observer. He admits to smoking his pipe on a suicide-haunted cliff, and confesses that his motive was “inglorious”—to escape the city’s stench. This self-deprecating tone humanizes the guidebook genre. He also acknowledges the limits of his knowledge: when describing the crosses on the wall, he says “on inquiry I was told” rather than asserting fact. His prose is conversational, with phrases like “I do not think that anywhere” and “I can now appreciate fully.” These touches create intimacy, as if the reader is walking beside him. Yet he never loses sight of his purpose: to document the cathedrals and cities of Spain with an artist’s precision.
Collins’s work rewards readers who enjoy a blend of architectural description, personal anecdote, and unvarnished travelogue. His painterly eye and willingness to record discomfort alongside beauty make this a distinctive period piece. Approach it as a companion to the illustrations—the text and images were designed together—and as a window into how an early twentieth-century British artist experienced Spain’s monumental heritage.
Years among these shelves taught me that Cathedral Cities of Spain and At home with the Patagonians — Reading Notes share a patient stillness—both are travellers’ accounts content to sit with foreign quiet, watching customs unfold without hurry. One catches sunlight on stone, the other dust on pampas, yet each whispers of belonging where one is a stranger.
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