A Corner of Spain

by Walter Wood

CHAPTER III
SPAIN'S JERUSALEM

"Now about that time Herod the King put forth his hand to afflict certain of the church. And he killed James the brother of John with the sword."

That is the Gospel story of the death of St. James the Greater, son of Zebedee, in whose memory the city of Santiago was founded, and who remains the patron saint of Spain's Jerusalem. Tradition has it that St. James journeyed through Spain and preached the Gospel; while another story states that after he was beheaded by Herod his remains were taken to Galicia, and buried at the place on which the cathedral of Santiago stands.

The saint's sepulchre was not known till the ninth century, when it was revealed to a pious bishop, Theodomir of Iria, by a star of wondrous brilliance. At that time Santiago did not exist; but the marvel of the prelate's discovery spread throughout Spain, and wrought so powerfully upon the reigning monarch, Alonso II., that he commanded the immediate building of a chapel on the site of the grave. The structure was begun, but so amazing was the enthusiasm with which the holy discovery was hailed that the original design of a mere chapel developed into a scheme for a cathedral, and the building was consecrated at the end of the ninth century.

News travelled laggardly in those far-distant days, yet while the cathedral was being built devout believers everywhere became acquainted with the tidings of the bishop's vision, and pilgrims hastened to pay tribute to the holy tomb. From every country in Europe the faithful travelled by horse or on foot, many of them spending months on the journey. Countless thousands worshipped at the shrine and returned to their homes; unnumbered thousands perished on the way to Santiago or back; while multitudes who reached the holy city never left it, for accommodation was limited, and pestilence swept off the pilgrims ruthlessly. At times the crowds were so enormous that the cathedral had to remain open day and night, so that they could find resting-places on its extensive floors. The primitive medical and sanitary appliances and remedies of the day were used to ward off disease, and a great censer was kept burning to purify the vitiated air of the cathedral.

Santiago is a city of romance, and my own first sight of it was memorable. A night-watchman, cloaked and leaning on his gleaming pike, watched us as we stepped from the rickety diligence which had jolted us from the railway station to the Hotel Suizo, near the cathedral, and within a stone's throw of the university. It was nearly midnight, and there was driving rain, which ran in torrents down the crooked, narrow, flagged thoroughfares which serve as streets. At the station the oil-lamps dimly shone on the swimming platforms and gloomily illuminated the big bare room in which a statuesque pair of Civil Guards leaned on their rifles and the Customs officers and passengers mixed confusedly. There was an emigrant returned from South America with a ponderous trunk to open and examine. When it was passed the huge box was hoisted on to the head of a woman, and the emigrant's wife having been loaded up with miscellaneous articles, the triumphant man sallied forth, bearing no heavier burden than his umbrella.

From the oil-lamped station we drove into the mediæval streets, lit by electricity, and as the bells began to chime the midnight hour the sereno strolled away on his rounds and the diligence disgorged the travellers, peasants, Civil Guards, and human oddments, who had clambered into and outside it. Bells were chiming as I entered Santiago; they rang, it seemed, throughout the night, and at daybreak clanged to summon worshippers to early Mass. The population numbers less than thirty thousand, yet there are forty-six churches, containing nearly three hundred altars, with thirty-six religious and kindred institutions. If priests and churches make a city good, then Santiago must be a veritable holy of holies.

There are many wonderful and fascinating buildings in this Jerusalem of Spain, but the glory of them all is that vast structure whose twin towers rise serenely to the blue sky, and whose golden crosses burn and glitter in the sunshine. Not an hour or a day, but many hours and many days must be spent in the majestic minster before its beauties can be adequately realised. Many books and innumerable articles have been written about it, but the greatest book of all is that marvellous work entitled "Historia de la Santa A. M. Iglesia de Compostela." The author is a canon, Antonio López Ferreiro, who has already produced thirteen volumes of his monumental undertaking, and is to complete his task with a fourteenth. A dozen years will have been needed for the publication, which will surely almost rank in time to come with Matteo's masterpiece, the Gate of Glory.