Yes, even in Spain, immortality
has already crowned the head of Moore; - Spain, the land of
oblivion, where the Guadalete {16} flows.
CHAPTER XXVII
Compostella - Rey Romero - The Treasure-seeker - Hopeful Project - The
Church of Refuge - Hidden Riches - The Canon - Spirit of Localism - The
Leper - Bones of St. James.
At the commencement of August, I found myself at St. James of
Compostella. To this place I travelled from Coruna with the
courier or weekly post, who was escorted by a strong party of
soldiers, in consequence of the distracted state of the country,
which was overrun with banditti. From Coruna to St. James, the
distance is but ten leagues; the journey, however, endured for a
day and a half. It was a pleasant one, through a most beautiful
country, with a rich variety of hill and dale; the road was in many
places shaded with various kinds of trees clad in most luxuriant
foliage. Hundreds of travellers, both on foot and on horseback,
availed themselves of the security which the escort afforded: the
dread of banditti was strong. During the journey two or three
alarms were given; we, however, reached Saint James without having
been attacked.
Saint James stands on a pleasant level amidst mountains: the most
extraordinary of these is a conical hill, called the Pico Sacro, or
Sacred Peak, connected with which are many wonderful legends. A
beautiful old town is Saint James, containing about twenty thousand
inhabitants. Time has been when, with the single exception of
Rome, it was the most celebrated resort of pilgrims in the world;
its cathedral being said to contain the bones of Saint James the
elder, the child of the thunder, who, according to the legend of
the Romish church, first preached the Gospel in Spain. Its glory,
however, as a place of pilgrimage is rapidly passing away.
The cathedral, though a work of various periods, and exhibiting
various styles of architecture, is a majestic venerable pile, in
every respect calculated to excite awe and admiration; indeed, it
is almost impossible to walk its long dusky aisles, and hear the
solemn music and the noble chanting, and inhale the incense of the
mighty censers, which are at times swung so high by machinery as to
smite the vaulted roof, whilst gigantic tapers glitter here and
there amongst the gloom, from the shrine of many a saint, before
which the worshippers are kneeling, breathing forth their prayers
and petitions for help, love, and mercy, and entertain a doubt that
we are treading the floor of a house where God delighteth to dwell.
Yet the Lord is distant from that house; he hears not, he sees not,
or if he do, it is with anger. What availeth that solemn music,
that noble chanting, that incense of sweet savour? What availeth
kneeling before that grand altar of silver, surmounted by that
figure with its silver hat and breast-plate, the emblem of one who,
though an apostle and confessor, was at best an unprofitable
servant? What availeth hoping for remission of sin by trusting in
the merits of one who possessed none, or by paying homage to others
who were born and nurtured in sin, and who alone, by the exercise
of a lively faith granted from above, could hope to preserve
themselves from the wrath of the Almighty?
Rise from your knees, ye children of Compostella, or if ye bend,
let it be to the Almighty alone, and no longer on the eve of your
patron's day address him in the following strain, however sublime
it may sound:
"Thou shield of that faith which in Spain we revere,
Thou scourge of each foeman who dares to draw near;
Whom the Son of that God who the elements tames,
Called child of the thunder, immortal Saint James!
"From the blessed asylum of glory intense,
Upon us thy sovereign influence dispense;
And list to the praises our gratitude aims
To offer up worthily, mighty Saint James.
"To thee fervent thanks Spain shall ever outpour;
In thy name though she glory, she glories yet more
In thy thrice-hallowed corse, which the sanctuary claims
Of high Compostella, O, blessed Saint James.
"When heathen impiety, loathsome and dread,
With a chaos of darkness our Spain overspread,
Thou wast the first light which dispell'd with its flames
The hell-born obscurity, glorious Saint James!
"And when terrible wars had nigh wasted our force,
All bright 'midst the battle we saw thee on horse,
Fierce scattering the hosts, whom their fury proclaims
To be warriors of Islam, victorious Saint James.
"Beneath thy direction, stretch'd prone at thy feet,
With hearts low and humble, this day we intreat
Thou wilt strengthen the hope which enlivens our frames,
The hope of thy favour and presence, Saint James.
"Then praise to the Son and the Father above,
And to that Holy Spirit which springs from their love;
To that bright emanation whose vividness shames
The sun's burst of splendour, and praise to Saint James."
At Saint James I met with a kind and cordial coadjutor in my
biblical labours in the bookseller of the place, Rey Romero, a man
of about sixty. This excellent individual, who was both wealthy
and respected, took up the matter with an enthusiasm which
doubtless emanated from on high, losing no opportunity of
recommending my book to those who entered his shop, which was in
the Azabacheria, and was a very splendid and commodious
establishment. In many instances, when the peasants of the
neighbourhood came with an intention of purchasing some of the
foolish popular story-books of Spain, he persuaded them to carry
home Testaments instead, assuring them that the sacred volume was a
better, more instructive, and even far more entertaining book than
those they came in quest of.
