A Corner of Spain

by Walter Wood

From joy to joy and noise to noise the Santiagoan arrives at darkness, and at nine o'clock the rockets, bursting from a dozen mortars, open a brilliant display of fireworks in front of the holy basilica, accompanied by coloured illuminations of the principal buildings and the crash of bells, the shouts and laughter of the crowds and the music of the bands. St. James's Eve ends in a chorus of mirth and music, and the holiday-makers have scarcely time to recover from the excitement of the day before they are called upon to renew it.

Twenty-one mortars fired in the Plaza del Hospital at seven o'clock in the morning begin the festivities of St. James's Day. Simultaneously with the crashing of the rockets all the bands in the city burst into music. Two hours later the mayor, the civil governor, the members of the corporation, and the other principal local officials go to the holy basilica, where they join the procession round the cathedral and hear Mass between the choir and the high altar, where the civil governor occupies a seat as the king's representative.

By this time the cathedral, vast though it is, can scarcely hold the crowds who throng the nave and transepts. The cardinal celebrates the Mass, at which the giant censer is used; and a solemn feature of the performance is the ascent of the steps of the high altar by the civil governor, who, kneeling, offers in the name of the king a thousand escudos of gold, equal to £400, an annual gift from the monarch, at the same time pronouncing a fervent prayer, which his Eminence answers. When the present King of Spain visited Santiago he personally discharged this interesting task. Mass being finished, the cardinal pronounces the Papal blessing, and to all who have officially shared in the ceremony beautiful bouquets of flowers are given. Then follows an old and remarkable act in the performance at the high altar, before the holy Apostle, of a dance by the giants. During the afternoon both giants and dwarfs—gigantes y cabezudos—show themselves in the streets and public squares, accompanied by bands and crowds of Santiago's populace and country people.

In the evening, when the celebrations at the cathedral are ended, a procession of virgins leaves the Church of Santa Clara and enters the basilica by the northern door, which is known as the Gate of Jet, and there the cardinal, accompanied by all the dignitaries of the church, receives them.

For these two days in July each year Santiago surrenders itself to revelry and enjoyment; then the city resumes its peaceful, yet always bright and interesting, life. The people have had their giants and dwarfs, bands of music and mortars, celebrations in the cathedral and their bells, and have shown that in spite of all their woes and burdens they still know how to live.

Not the least pronounced feature of the festival has been the bells of Santiago. Some of them seem to be always ringing. There are the calls to early Mass at six in the morning, and the summonses to other forms of worship throughout the day; and whenever a procession passes a church the bells clang out and mingle with the bursting of the rockets. Some of the bells are mellow and melodious, but others are like the ringing of a raucous hotel gong. There is no music or method in them; a small boy is stationed by the bells—you can see him at his noisy work—and he hammers at his task, performing it with extra frenzy when service-time is reached.

In the cathedral the bell-ringer and his family live near the belfry, to be ready to answer any special call, to ring a peal or sound an alarm, for the fire-bell is at the mother church; and there are other special bells, such as that which is rung only when a canon of the cathedral dies. One of the largest of the bells of Santiago was struck not long ago by lightning and was cracked. The crevice is still visible, though attempts have been made to fill it up with other metal. The bell dropped from its support to the stonework inside the balustrade, and there remains, out of action.

Pilgrims of old reached Santiago by the way of blood and tears, for roads were bad and shoes and sandals vanished on the weary journeys. Nowadays pilgrims travel speedily and comfortably, and organised bands set out for Spain's Jerusalem to see its wonders and enjoy its charms. In 1909, for the first time in nearly four centuries, an English band of pilgrims, headed by the Archbishop of Westminster, visited Galicia, by the Booth Line, under the guidance of the Catholic Association, and their banner is suspended in the cloisters of the holy city's minster, while on many of their walls at home are hung the coveted certificates of pilgrimage.

Modern pilgrims may visit and revisit the cathedral; and they may also wander at will about the city, visiting the old Inquisition, near the Alameda, now used for business purposes, and soon, perhaps, to be converted into an hotel, the Archæological Museum, formerly the old Convent of San Clemente, the vast Seminary, the Town Hall, the Royal Hospital, built four centuries ago for the accommodation of pilgrims, the cattle market, and the city's lesser churches, the most astonishing of which is the Colegiata de Sar, famous for its leaning columns and twisted look. The palace adjoins the cathedral. It is an unassuming building, and the audience chamber, where I had the privilege of an interview with Cardinal Herrera y de la Iglesia, makes no pretence to splendour. The Cardinal is deeply interested in the visits to Santiago of foreigners, and spoke with enthusiasm of the excellent effect of journeys to the city. Proud of its wonderful past, he is alive to the necessity of modern improvements in some respects, and doubtless some of these will be carried out without in any way affecting the city's fascination. The Museum contains many of the ancient remains of Galicia, and in the Inquisition, seldom visited or mentioned, there are relics of the torture days; the Seminary bears signs of the visit of the French under Soult in 1809, when they raided the cathedral treasures and bore off something like half a ton of precious metal-ware; and in the Hospital you may see the well-kept wards, the beautiful and extensive cloisters, and the little ancient chapel. Strange though it may seem to English people, yet you may stroll unchallenged through the wards, and see how well cared for are Galicia's sick and ailing. The Royal Hospital at Santiago claims to be amongst the very first of Spain's healing institutions. Even in November, when I visited it, there was warm sunshine in which the patients could sit or lie—different indeed from the dreary deluges of rain with which, as my home letters told me, England, and particularly London, was afflicted. I know that when, near Mondariz, I was lying on the bank of a clear stream on the hot sand, in a flood of sunshine, idly throwing pebbles in the rushing water, and watching the peasant women crossing and recrossing an old bridge near me, my countrymen in England, whose southern shore was only two days' sail away, were shivering in steely blasts and maligning the land of their nativity. I know, too, that in such unromantic and inclement weather at home, I was seated on a green hillock to the south of Spain's Jerusalem, smoking and watching the hot sun glint on Santiago's gilded crosses. In such a place you may rest and muse and gaze towards the city, which is one of the most alluring in all Christendom.

Fascinating though Santiago is by day, yet its charms are not so subtle then as at night, when the day's work is done and the people are walking in the open air they love so well. There is no wheeled traffic in the streets—only an occasional bullock-cart or diligence is encountered—and the long, broad flags, with their wide crevices, worn smooth by generations of men and women and children, re-echo the footsteps of the pedestrians. The arc-lamps accentuate the quaintness of the thoroughfares, and electric bulbs show up the strange interiors of the little shops.