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?
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