The Cathedrals of Northern Spain / Their History and Their Architecture; Together with Much of Interest Concerning the Bishops, Rulers and Other Personages Identified with Them

Retablo.—The above remarks hold good here as well, when speaking about the huge and imposing altar-pieces so universally characteristic of Spain.

The eastern wall of the holy chapel in a cathedral is entirely hidden from top to bottom by the retablo, a painted wooden structure resembling a huge honeycomb. It consists of niches flanked by gilded columns. According to the construction of these columns, now Gothic shafts, now Greek or composite, now simple and severe, the period to which the retablo belongs is determined.

Generally pyramidically superimposed, these niches, of the height, breadth, and depth of an average man, contain life-size statues of apostle or saint, painted and decorated by the estofadores in brilliant colours (of course, as they are intended to be seen from a distance!), in which red and blue are predominant, and which produce a gorgeous effect rehaussé by the gilt columns of the niches. (Compare with the{50} Oriental taste of Mudejar work in ceilings or artesonados.)

The whole retablo, in the low reliefs which form the base, and in the statues or groups in the niches, represents graphically the life of the Saviour or the Virgin, of the patron saint or an apostle; some of them are of exquisite execution and of great variety and movement; in others, greater attention has been paid to the decoration of the columns or shafts by original floral garlands, etc. Foment, Juni, and Berruguete are among the most noted retablo sculptors, but space will not permit of a more prolific classification or analysis.

Gold and Silversmiths.—The vessels used on the altar-table, effigies of saints, processional crosses, etc., in beaten gold and silver, are well worth examination. So is also the cathedral treasure, in some cases of an immense value, both artistic and intrinsic. Cloths, woven in coloured silks, gold, and precious stones, are beautiful enough to make any art lover envious.

The central niche of the retablo, immediately above the altar-table, is generally occupied by a massive beaten silver effigy,{51} the artistic value of which is unluckily partially concealed beneath a heap of valuable cloths and jewels.

But where the silversmith's art is purest and most lavishly pronounced is in the sagrarios. These are solid silver carved pyramids about two or three feet high: they represent miniature temples or thrones with shafts or columns supporting arches, windows, pinnacles, and cupolas. In the interior, an effigy of the saint, or the Virgin, etc., to whom the cathedral is dedicated, is to be seen seated on a throne.

In all cases the workmanship of these miniature temples is exquisite, and has brought just fame to Spain's fifteenth and sixteenth century silversmiths.

Ironcraft.—Last to be mentioned, but not least in importance, are the artisans who worked in iron. They brought their trade up to the height of a fine art of universal fame; their artistic window rejas, in the houses and palaces of the rich, are the wonder of all art lovers, and so also are the immense rejas or grilles which close off the high altar and the choir from the transept, or the entrance to chapels from the{52} aisles. Though this art has completely degenerated to-day, nevertheless, a just remark was made in the author's hearing by an Englishman, who said:

"Even to-day, Spaniards are unable to make a bad reja."

The reader's and tourist's attention has been called to the salient artistic points of a Spanish cathedral. They must be examined one by one, and they will be admired; the view of the ensemble will puzzle and amaze him, yet it will be wise for him not to criticize harshly the lack of unity of style. Frequently the choir stalls are ogival, the retablo Renaissance, the rejas plateresque, and the general decoration of columns, etc., of the most lavish grotesque.

This in itself is no sin, neither artistic nor ethical, as long as the religious awe comes home to the Spaniard, for whom these cathedrals are intended. Besides, it is an open question whether the monotony of a pure style be nobler than a luxurious moulding together of all styles. The whole question is, do the different parts harmonize, or do they produce a criard impression.

The answer in all cases is purely personal.{53} Yet, even if unfavourable, the utility of the art demonstration must be borne in mind and considered as well. And as regards the Spaniard, the utility does exist beyond a doubt.

Architectural Styles

Let us now follow the art student in his task. He will determine the different styles, and, to make the matter clearer, he will employ a rhetorical figure:

There is an island in the sea. Huge breakers roar on the beach and dash against the rocky cliffs. Second, third, and fourth breakers of varying strength and energy race with the first, and are in their turn pushed relentlessly on from behind until they ripple in dying surf on the golden sands and boil in white spray in hidden clifts and caves. With the years that roll along the island is shaped according to the will of the waves.

Spain, figuratively speaking, is that island, or a peninsula off the southwestern coast of the Old World, barred from France by the impassable Pyrenees, and forming the link between Africa and Europe: the{54} first stepping-stone for the former in its northern march, the last extremity or the rear-guard of the latter.

The breakers represent the different art movements which, born in countries where compact nations were fighting energetically for an existence and for an ideal, flooded with terrible force the civilized lands of the middle ages, and sought to outdo and conquer their rivals.

These breakers were: from the east, early Christian (both Latin-Lombard and Byzantine); from the north, Gothic; from the south, Arab, or, to be more accurate, Moorish. The first two were advocates of one civilization, the Christian or Occidental; the latter was the propagandist of another, the Neo-Oriental or Mohammedan.

The Renaissance was but a second or third breaker coming from the east, which breathed new life into antiquated constructive and decorative elements by adapting them to a new religion or faith.

Later architectural forms were but the periodical revival or combination of one or another of the already existing elements.

Spain, thanks to her unique position, was the point where all these contradictory waves{55} met in a final endeavour to crush their opponents. In Spain, Byzantine pillars fought against Lombard shafts, and Gothic pinnacles rose haughtily beside the horseshoe arch and the arc brisé. In Spain Christianity grappled with the Islam faith and sent it bleeding back to the wilds of Africa; in Spain the polygon, circle, and square struggled for supremacy and lost their personality in the complex blending of the one with the other, and minarets, cupolas, and spires combined in bizarre fantasy and richness of decoration to serve the ambitions of mighty prelates, fanatic kings, and death-fearing noblemen.

Such is, rhetorically speaking, the history of architecture of Spain. Cathedrals had a cachet of their own, either national (in certain characteristics) or else local. But the elements of which they were composed were foreign. That is, excepting in the case of Spanish-Moorish art.

Moorish art! In the second volume (Southern Spain), the author of these lines will dedicate several paragraphs to the art of the Moors in Spain. Suffice to assert in the present chapter the following statements.{56}

(1) Moorish art in Spain is peculiar to the Arabs who inhabited the peninsula during seven hundred years. Consequently this art, born on Iberian soil, cannot be regarded as foreign.

(2) Much of what is called Moorish art owes its existence to the Christians, to the Muzarabs and Jews who inhabited cities which were dependent upon or belonged to the Moors. In the same way, much of the Oriental taste of the Spanish Christians was inherited from the Moors and received in Spain the generic name of Mudejar.

(3) The art of the Moors, though largely used in Spain, especially in the south, rarely entered into cathedral structures, though often noticeable in churches, cloisters, and in decorative motives.

(4) The Moors learnt more art motives in Spain than they introduced into the country.

These and many other points of interest will have to be neglected in the present chapter. For the cathedrals of the north are (as regards the ideal which brought about their erection) radically opposed to Moorish art.{57}

Prehistoric Roman and Visigothic (?) art are equally unimportant in this study, as neither the one nor the other constructed any Christian temple standing to-day. That is to say, cathedral; for Visigothic or early Latin and Byzantine Romanesque churches do exist in Asturias, and a notable specimen in Venta de Baños. They are peculiarly strange edifices, and it is to be regretted that they are not cathedrals, for their study would be most interesting, not only as regards Iberian art, but above all as regards the history of art in the middle ages. So far, they have been completely neglected, and, unfortunately, are but little known abroad.

Romanesque.—The origin of Romanesque is greatly discussed. Some attribute it to Italy, others to France; others again are of the conviction that all Christian (religious) art previous to the birth of Gothic is Romanesque, etc., etc. The most plausible theory is that the style in question evolved out of the early Latin-Christian (basilique) style, at the same time borrowing many decorative details from the Byzantine-Christian style.{58}

In Spain, pre-Romanesque Christian architecture (or Visigothic) shows decided Byzantine influence, more so, probably, than in any other European country. This peculiarity influences also Romanesque, both early and late. It is not strange, either, considering that an important colony of Bizantinos (Christians) settled in Eastern Andalusia during the Visigothic period.

In the tenth century churches, and in the eleventh cathedrals, commenced to be erected in Northern Spain. Byzantine influence was very marked in the earlier monuments.

Was Romanesque a foreign style? Was it introduced from Italy or France, or was it a natural outcome or evolutionary product of decadent early Christian architecture? In the latter case there is no saying where it evolved, possibly to the north or to the south of the Pyrenees, possibly to the east or to the west of the Alps. What is more, the Pyrenees in those days did not serve as a strict frontier line like to-day; on the contrary, both Navarra and Aragon extended beyond the mountainous wall, and the dukes of Southern France occasionally{59} possessed immense territories and cities to the south of the Pyrenees.

Be that as it may, Romanesque, as a style, first dawned in Spain in the tenth and eleventh centuries. Its birth coincided with that of the popular religious crusade against the Moor who had inhabited the peninsula during four centuries; it coincided also with the great church-erecting period of Northern Spanish history, when the Alfonsos of Castile created bishoprics (to aid them in their political ambitions) as easily as they broke inconvenient treaties and savagely murdered friends, relatives, and foes alike. Consequently, many were the Romanesque cathedrals erected, and though the greater part were destroyed later and replaced by Gothic structures, several fine specimens of the former style are still to be seen.

Needless to say, Romanesque became localized; in other words, it acquired certain characteristics restricted to determined regions. Galician Romanesque and that of Western Castile, for instance, are almost totally different in aspect: the former is exceedingly poetical and possesses carved wall decorations both rich and excellent; the latter is intensely strong and warlike, and{60} the decorations, if employed at all, are Byzantine, or at least Oriental in taste.

Transition.—Many of the cathedrals of Galicia belong, according to several authors, to this period in which Romanesque strength evolved into primitive Gothic or ogival airiness. In another chapter a personal opinion has been emitted denying the accuracy of the above remark.

There is no typical example of Transition in Spain. Ogival changes introduced at a later date into Romanesque churches, a very common occurrence, cannot justify the classification of the buildings as Transition monuments.

Nor is it surprising that such buildings should be lacking in Spain. For Gothic did not evolve from Romanesque in the peninsula, but was introduced from France. A short time after its first appearance it swept all before it, thanks to the Cluny monks, and was exclusively used in church-building. In a strict sense it stands, moreover, to reason that the former (Transition) can only exist there where a new style emerges from an old without being introduced from abroad.{61}

Ogival Art.—The thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries are, properly speaking, those of the great northern art wave which spread rapidly through the peninsula, bending all before its irresistible will. Romanesque churches were destroyed or modified (the introduction of an ambulatory in almost all Romanesque buildings), and new cathedrals sprung up, called into existence by the needs and requirements of a new people, a conquering, Christian people, driving the infidel out of the land, and raising the Holy Cross on the sacred monuments of the Islam religion.

The changements introduced into the new style tended to give it a more severe and defiant exterior appearance than in northern churches,—a scarcity of windows and flying buttresses, timidly pointed arches, and solid towers. Besides, round-headed arches (vaultings and horizontal lines) were indiscriminately used to break the vertical tendency of pure ogival; so also were Byzantine cupolas and domes.

The solemn, cold, and naked cathedral church of Alcalá de Henares is a fine example of the above. Few people would consider it to belong to the same class as the eloquent{62} cathedral of Leon and the no less imposing see of Burgos. Nevertheless, it is, every inch of it, as pure Gothic as the last named, only, it is essentially Spanish, the other two being French; it bears the sombre cachet of the age of Spanish Inquisition, of the fanatic intolerant age of the Catholic kings.

Later Styles.—Toward the end of the fifteenth and the beginning of the sixteenth centuries, Italian Renaissance entered the country and drove Gothic architecture out of the minds of artists and patronizing prelates.

But Italian Renaissance failed to impress the Spaniard, whose character was opposed to that of his Mediterranean cousin; so also was the general aspect of his country different from that of Italy. Consequently, it is not surprising that we should find very few pure Renaissance monuments on the peninsula. On the other hand, Spanish Renaissance—a florid form of the Italian—is frequently to be met with; in its severest form it is called plateresco.

In the times of Philip II., Juan Herrero created his style (Escorial), of which symmetry, grandeur in size, and poverty in{63} decoration were the leading characteristics. The reaction came, however, quickly, and Churriguera introduced the most astounding and theatrical grotesque imaginable.

The later history of Spanish architecture is similar to that of the rest of Europe. As it is, the period which above all interests us here is that reaching from the eleventh to the sixteenth centuries, embracing Romanesque, ogival, and plateresque styles. Of the cathedrals treated of in this volume, all belong to either of the two first named architectural schools, excepting those of Valladolid, Madrid, and, to a certain extent, the new cathedral of Salamanca and that of Segovia.

Mudejar Art.—Previous to the advent of Italian Renaissance in Spain, a new art had been created which was purely national, having been born on the peninsula as the complex product of Christian and Islam elements. This art, known by the generic name of Mudejar, received a mortal blow at the hands of the new Italian art movement. Consequently, the only school which might have been regarded as Spanish, degenerated sadly, sharing the fate of the new-born nation. {64} Rather than a constructive style, the Mudejar or Spanish style is decorative. With admirable variety and profusion it ornamented brick surfaces by covering them with reliefs, either geometrical (Moorish) or Gothic, either sunk into the wall or else the latter cut around the former.

The aspect of these Mudejar buildings is peculiar. In a ruddy plain beneath a dazzling blue sky, these red brick churches gleam thirstily from afar. Shadows play among the reliefs, lending them strength and vigour; the alminar tower stands forth prominently against the sky and contrasts delightfully with the cupola raised on the apse or on the croisée.

Among the finest examples of Mudejar art, must be counted the brilliantly coloured ceilings, such as are to be seen in Alcalá, Toledo, and elsewhere. These artesonados, without being Moorish, are, nevertheless, of a pronounced Oriental taste. A geometrical pattern is carved on the wood of the ceiling and brilliantly painted. Prominent surfaces are preferably golden in hue, and such as are sunk beneath the level are red or blue. The effect is dazzling.

Unluckily, but little attention has been{65} paid out of Spain to Mudejar art, and it is but little known. Even Spanish critics do not agree as to the national significance of this art, and it is a great pity, as unfortunately the country can point to no other art phenomena and claim them to be Spanish. How can it, when the nation had not as yet been born, and, once born, was to die almost simultaneously, like a moth that flies blindly and headlong into an intense flame?

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IV

The first group gradually evolved until Castile absorbed the remaining three kingdoms, and later Andalusia as well; the second and third groups succumbed to the royal house of Aragon.{67}

From an architectural point of view, there are three groups, or even four: Castile, Aragon, the Mediterranean coast-line, and Andalusia. In the last three the Oriental influence is far more pronounced than in the first named.

Further, Spain is divided into nine archbishoprics: four corresponding to Castile (Santiago, Burgos, Valladolid, and Toledo); one to Aragon (Zaragoza); two to the Mediterranean coast (Tarragon and Valencia); and two to Andalusia (Sevilla and Granada).

It was the author's object to preserve as far as possible in the following chapters and in the general subdivision of his work, not only the geographical, but the historical, architectural, and ecclesiastical divisions as well. Better still, he sacrificed the first when incompatible with the latter three.

But—and here the difficulty arose—what title should be chosen for each of the two volumes which were to be dedicated to Spain? Because two volumes were necessary, considering the eighty odd cathedrals to be described.

"Cathedrals of Northern Spain" as opposed to "Cathedrals of Southern Spain"—{68}was one of the titles. "Gothic cathedrals of Spain"—as opposed to "Moorish Cathedrals of Spain"—was another; the latter had to be discarded, as only one Moorish mezquita converted into a Christian temple exists to-day, namely, that of Cordoba.

There remained, therefore, the first title.

The first volume, discarding Navarra and Aragon (in the north), is dedicated to Castile, as well as its four archbishoprics.

The narrow belt of land, running from east to west, from Cuenca to Coria, to the south of the Sierra de Guaderrama, and constituting the archbishopric of Toledo, has been added to the region lying to the north and to the northwest of Madrid.

Moreover, to aid the reader, the present volume has been divided into parts, namely: Galicia, the North, and Castile; the latter has been subdivided into western and eastern, making in all four divisions.

(1) Galicia. Santiago de Campostela is, from an ecclesiastical point of view, all Galicia. Thanks to this spirit, the entire region shows a decided uniformity in the style of its churches, for that of Santiago (Romanesque) served as a pattern or model to be adopted in the remaining sees. The{69} character of the people is no less uniform, and the Celtic inheritance of poetry has drifted into the monuments of the Christian religion.

The episcopal see of Oviedo falls under the jurisdiction of Santiago; the Gothic cathedral shows no Romanesque motives excepting the Camara Sagrada, and has therefore been included in—

(2) The North. With the exception of Oviedo, all the bishoprics in this group fall under the jurisdiction of the Archbishop of Burgos. The two finest Gothic temples in Northern Spain pertain to this group: Burgos and Leon.

There is, however, but little uniformity in this northern region, for Santander and Vitoria have but little in common with the remaining sees.

(3) Western Castile. A certain degree of uniformity is seen to exist among the sees of Western Castile, namely, the warlike appearance of the Byzantine Romanesque edifices. Besides, the use of sandstone and brick is here universal, and the immense plain of Old Castile to the north of the Sierra de Gata, and of Northern Extremadura to the south of the same range, have a peculiar{70} ruddy aspect, dry and Oriental (African?), that is perfectly delightful.

The sees to the north of the mentioned mountain chain belong to Valladolid; those of the south to Toledo.

(4) Eastern Castile extends from Valladolid in the north (archbishopric) to Toledo in the south (archbishopric), from Avila in the west to Sigüenza in the east, and to Cuenca in the extreme southeast of New Castile.

In the middle ages the Christian kings of Asturias (Galicia?) grew more and more powerful, and their territory stretched out to the south and to the east.

On the Miño River, Tuy and Orense were frontier towns, to populate which, bishoprics were erected. To the south of Oviedo, and almost on a line with the two Galician towns, Astorga, Leon and Burgos were strongly fortified, and formed an imaginary line to the north of which ruled Christian monarchs, and to the south Arab emirs.

Burgos at the same time served as fortress-town against the rival kings of Navarra to the north and east; the latter, on the other hand, fortified the Rioja against Castile{71} until at last it fell into the hands of the latter. Then Burgos, no longer a frontier town, grew to be capital of the new-formed kingdom of Castile.

Slowly, but surely, the Arabs moved southwards, followed by the implacable line of Christian fortresses. At one time Valladolid, Palencia, Toro, and Zamora formed this line. When Toledo was conquered it was substituted by Coria, Plasencia, Sigüenza, and, slightly to the north, by Madrid, Avila, Segovia, and Salamanca. At the same time Sigüenza, Segovia, Soria, and Logroño formed another strategic line of fortifications against Aragon, whilst in the west Plasencia, Coria, Toro and Zamora, Tuy, Orense, and Astorga kept the Portuguese from Castilian soil. In the extreme southwest Cuenca, impregnable and highly strategical, looked eastwards and southwards against the Moor, and northwards against the Aragonese.

In all these links of the immense strategical chain which protected Castile from her enemies, the monarchs were cunning enough to erect sees and appoint warrior-bishops. They even donated the new fortress-cities with special privileges or fueros, in virtue{72} of which settlers came from all parts of the country to inhabit and constitute the new municipality.

Such—in gigantic strides—is the story of most of Castile's world-famed cities. In each chapter, dates, anecdotes, and more details are given, with a view to enable the reader to become acquainted not only with the ecclesiastical history of cities like Burgos and Valladolid, but also with the causes which produced the growing importance of each see, as well as its decadence within the last few centuries.

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{74}

PART II

Galicia

{75}

I

According to one of these legends, it would appear that the apostle was persecuted by his great enemy Lupa, a woman of singular beauty whom the ascetic pilgrim had mortally offended. Thanks to certain{76} accessory details, it is possible to assume that Lupa is the symbol of the "God without a name" of Celtic mythology, and it is she who finally venges herself by decapitating the pilgrim saint.

The disciples of St. James laid his corpse in a cart, together with the executioner's axe and the pilgrim's staff. Two wild bulls were then harnessed to the vehicle, and away went cart and saint. As night fell and the moon rose over the vales of Galicia, the weary animals stopped on the summit of a wooded hill in an unknown vale, surrounded by other hillocks likewise covered with foliage and verdure.

The disciples buried the saint, together with axe and staff, and there they left him with the secret of his burial-ground.

This must have happened in the first or second century of the Christian era. Six hundred years later, and one hundred years after the Moors had landed in Andalusia, one Theodosio, Bishop of Iria (Galicia), took a walk one day in his wide domains accompanied by a monk. Together they lost their way and roamed about till night-fall, when they found themselves far from home.{77}

Stars twinkled in the heavens as they do to this day. Being tired, the bishop and his companion dreamt as they walked along—at least it appears so from what followed—and the stars were so many miraculous lights which led the wanderers on and on. At last the stars remained motionless above a wooded hill standing isolated in a beautiful vale. The prelate stopped also, and it occurred to him to dig, for he attributed his dreams to a supernatural miracle. Digging, a coffin was revealed to him, and therein the saintly remains of St. James or Santiago.

Giving thanks to Him who guides all steps, Theodosio returned to Iria, and, by his orders, a primitive basilica was erected some years later on the very spot where the saint had been buried, and in such a manner as to place the high altar just above the coffin. A crypt was then dug out and lined with mosaic, and the coffin, either repaired or renewed, was laid therein,—some say it was visible to the hordes of pilgrims in the tenth and eleventh centuries.

The shrine was then called Santiago de Campostela.—Santiago, which means St.{78} James, and Campostela, field of stars, in memory of the miraculous lights the Bishop of Iria and his companion had perceived whilst sweetly dreaming.

The news of the discovery spread abroad with wonderful rapidity. Monasteries, churches, and inns soon surrounded the basilica, and within a few years a village and then a city (the bishop's see was created previous to 842 A. D.) filled the vale, which barely fifty years earlier had been an undiscovered and savage region.

Throughout the middle ages, from the eleventh to the fifteenth centuries, Santiago de Campostela was the scene of pilgrimages—not to say crusades—to the tomb of St. James. From France, Italy, Germany, and England hundreds and thousands of men, women, and children wandered to the Galician valley, then one of the foci of ecclesiastical significance and industrial activity. The city, despite its local character, wore an international garb, much to the benefit of Galician, even Spanish, arts and literature. It is a pity that so little research has been made concerning these pilgrimages and the influences they brought to bear on the history of the country. A book treating{79} of this subject would be a highly interesting account of one of the most important movements of the middle ages.

The Moors under Almanzor pillaged the city of Santiago in 999; then they retreated southwards, as was their wont. The Norman vikings also visited the sacred vale, attracted thither by the reports of its wealth; but they also retreated, like the waves of the sea when the tide goes out.

After the last Arab invasion, an extemporaneous edifice was erected in place of the shrine which had been demolished. It did not stand long, however, for the Christian kings of Spain, whose dominions were limited to Asturias, Leon, and Galicia, ordered the construction of a building worthy of St. James, who was looked upon as the god of battles, much like St. George in England.

So in 1078 the new cathedral, the present building, was commenced, and, as the story runs, it was built around the then existing basilica, which was left standing until after the vault of the new edifice had been closed.

The history of Spain at this moment helped to increase the religious importance of Santiago. The kingdom of Asturias{80} (Oviedo) had stretched out beyond its limits and died; the Christian nuclei were Galicia, Leon, and Navarra. In these three the power of the noblemen, and consequently of the bishops and archbishops, was greater than it had ever been before. Each was lord or sovereign in his own domains, and fought against his enemies with or without the aid of the infidel Arab armies, which he had no compunction in inviting to help him against his Christian brothers. Now and again a king managed to subdue these aristocratic lords and ecclesiastical prelates, but only for a short time. Besides, nowhere was the independent spirit of the noblemen more accentuated than in Galicia; nowhere were the prelates so rebellious as in Santiago, the Sacred City, and none attained a greater height of personal power and wealth than Diego Galmirez, the first archbishop of Santiago, and one of the most striking and interesting personalities of Spanish history in the twelfth century, to whom Santiago owes much of her glory, and Spain not little of her future history.

The twelfth and thirteenth centuries were thus the period of Santiago's greatest fame and renown. Little by little the central{81} power of the monarchs went southwards to Castile and Andalusia, and little by little Santiago declined and dwindled in importance, until to-day it is one city more of those that have been and are no longer.

For the city's history is that of its cathedral, of its shrine. With the birth of Protestantism and the death of feudal power, both city and cathedral lost their previous importance: they had sprung into life together, and the existence of the one was intricately interwoven with that of the other.

The stranger who visits Santiago to-day does not approach it fervently by the Mount of Joys as did the footsore pilgrims in the middle ages. On the contrary, he steps out of the train and hurries to the cathedral church, which sadly seems to repeat the thoughts of the city itself, or the words of Señor Muguira:

"To-day, what am I? An echo of the joys and pains of hundreds of generations; a distant rumour both confused and undefinable, a last sunbeam fading at evening and dying on the glassy surface of sleeping waters. Never will man learn my secrets, never will he be able to open my granite{82} lips and oblige them to reveal the mysterious past."

As is generally known, the cathedral is a Romanesque building of the eleventh and twelfth centuries mutilated by posterior additions and recent ameliorations (sic). It was begun in 1078, and, though finished about 150 years later, no ogival elements drifted into the construction until long after its completion. As will be seen later on, it served as the model for most of Galicia's cathedrals. On the other hand, it is generally believed to be an imitation—as regards the general disposition—of St. Saturnin in Toulouse: a combatable theory, however, as the churches were contemporaneous.

Seen from the outside, the Cathedral of Santiago lacks harmony; few remains of the primitive structure are to be discovered among the many later-date additions and reforms. The base of the towers and some fine blinded windows, with naïve low reliefs in the semicircular tympanum, will have to be excepted.

The Holy Door—a peculiarly placed apsidal portal on the eastern front—is built up of decorative elements saved from{83} the northern and western façades when they were torn down.

The best portal is the Puerta de la Plateria, opening into the southern arm of the transept. It is, unluckily, depressed and thrown into the background by the cloister walls on the left, and by the Trinity Tower on the right. Nevertheless, both handsome and sober, it can be counted among the finest examples of its kind—pure Romanesque—in Spain, and is rendered even more attractive by the peculiar Galician poetry which inspired its sculptors.

Immediately above the panels of the door, which are covered with twelfth-century metal reliefs, there is a stone plaque or low relief, representing the Passion scene; to the left of it is to be seen a kneeling woman holding a skull in her hand. Evidently it is a weeping, penitent Magdalene. The popular tongue has invented a legend—perhaps a true one—concerning this woman, who is believed to symbolize the adulteress. It appears that a certain hidalgo, discovering his wife's sins, killed her lover by cutting off his head; he then obliged her to kiss and adore the skull twice daily throughout her life,—a rather cruel punishment and a{84} slow torture, quite in accordance with the mystic spirit of the Celts.

The apse of the church, circular in the interior, is squared off on the outside by the addition of chapels. As regards the plateresque northern and western façades, they are out of place, though the former might have passed off elsewhere as a fairly good example of the severe sixteenth-century style.

The general plan of the building is Roman cruciform; the principal nave is high, and contains both choir and high altar; the two aisles are much lower and darker, and terminate behind the high altar in an ambulatory walk. The width of the transept is enormous, and is composed of a nave and two aisles similar in size to those of the body of the church. The croisée is surmounted by a dome, which, though not Romanesque, is certainly an advantageous addition.

Excepting the high altar with its retablo, the choir with its none too beautiful stalls, and the various chapels of little interest and less taste, the general view of the interior is impressively beautiful. The height of the central nave, rendered more elegant{85} by the addition of a handsome Romanesque triforium of round-headed arches, contrasts harmoniously with the sombre aisles, whereas the bareness of the walls—for all mural paintings were washed away by a bigoted prelate somewhere in the fifteenth century—helps to show off to better advantage the rich sculptural decorations, leaf and floral designs on capitals and friezes.

The real wonder of the cathedral is the far-famed Portico de la Gloria, the vestibule or narthex behind the western entrance of the church, and as renowned as its sculptural value is meritorious.

So much has already been written concerning this work of art that really little need be mentioned here. Street, who persuaded the British Government to send a body of artists to take a plaster copy of this strange work, could not help declaring that: "I pronounce this effort of Master Mathews at Santiago to be one of the greatest glories of Christian art."

And so it is. Executed in the true Romanesque period, each column and square inch of surface covered with exquisite decorative designs, elaborated with care and not hastily, as was the habit of later-day{86} artists, the three-vaulted rectangular vestibule between the body of the church and the western extremity where the light streams in through the rose window, is an immense allegory of the Christian religion, of human life, and above all of the mystic, melancholy poetry of Celtic Galicia. Buried in half-lights, this song of stone with the statue of the Trinity and St. James, with the angels blowing their trumpets from the walls, and the virtues and vices of this world symbolized by groups and by persons, is of a sincere poetry that leaves a lasting impression upon the spectator. Life, Faith, and Death, Judgment and Purgatory, Hell and Paradise or Glory, are the motives carved out in stone in this unique narthex, so masterful in the execution, and so vivid in the tale it tells, that we can compare its author to Dante, and call the Portico de la Gloria the "Divina Commedia" of architecture.

At one end there is the figure of a kneeling man, the head almost touching the ground in the body's fervent prostration in front of the group representing Glory, Trinity, and St. James. Is it a twelfth-century pilgrim whom the artist in a moment of realistic enthusiasm has portrayed here, in{87} the act of praying to his Creator and invoking his mercy? Or is it the portrait of the artist, who, even after death, wished to live in the midst of the wonders of his creation? It is not positively known, though it is generally supposed to be Maestro Mateo himself, kneeling in front of his Glory, admiring it as do all visitors, and watching over it as would a mother over her son.

If the chapels which surround the building have been omitted on account of their artistic worthlessness, not the same fate awaits the cloister.

Of a much later date than the cathedral itself, having been constructed in the sixteenth century, it is a late Gothic monument betraying Renaissance additions and mixtures; consequently it is entirely out of place and time here, and does not harmonize with the cathedral. Examined as a detached edifice, it impresses favourably as regards the height and length of the galleries, which show it to be one of the largest cloisters in Spain.

The cathedral's crypt is one of its most peculiar features, and certainly well worth examining better than has been heretofore{88} done. It is reached by a small door behind the high altar (evidently used when the saint's coffin was placed on grand occasions on the altar-table) or by a subterranean gallery leading down from the Portico de la Gloria, a gallery as rich in sculptural decorations as the vestibule itself.

The popular belief in Galicia is that in this crypt the cathedral reflects itself, towers and all, as it would in the limpid surface of a lake. Hardly; and yet the crypt is a nude copy of the ground floor above, with the corresponding naves and aisles and apsidal chapels. The height of the crypt is surprising, the architectural construction is pure Romanesque,—more so than that of the building itself,—and just beneath the high altar the shrine of St. James is situated where it was found in the ninth century.

{89}

II

The Roman conquest saved Brigandtium from being great before her time. For the Latin people were miserable sailors, and gazed with awe into the waves of the Atlantic. For them Brigandtia was the last spot in the world, a dangerous spot, to be shunned. So they left her seated on her{90} beautiful bay beside the Torre de Hercules, and made Lugo their capital.

In the shuffling of bishops and sees in the fifth and sixth centuries, Corunna was forgotten. Unimportant, known only for its castle and its tower, it passed a useless existence, patiently waiting for a change in its favour.

This change came in the fifteenth century as a result of the discovery of America. Since then, and with varying success, the city has grown in importance, until to-day it is the most wealthy and active of Galicia's towns, and one of the largest seaports on Spain's Atlantic coast.

Its history since the sixteenth century is well known, especially to Englishmen, who, whenever their country had a rupture with Spain, were quick in entering Corunna's bay. From here part of the Invincible Armada sailed one day to fight the Saxons and to be destroyed by a tempest; ten years later England returned the challenge with better luck, and her fleets entered the historical bay and burned the town. During the war with Napoleon, General Moore fought the French in the vicinity and lost his life, whereas a few years earlier an English{91} fleet defeated, just outside the bay, a united French and Spanish squadron.

To-day, the old city on the hill looks down upon the new one below; the former is poetic and artistic, the latter is straight-lined, industrial, and modern. Nevertheless, the aspect of the city denies its age, for it is more modern than many cities that are younger. What is more, tradition does not weigh heavily on its brow, and depress its inhabitants, as is the case in Lugo and Tuy and Santiago. The movement on the wharves, the continual coming and going of vessels of all sizes, commerce, industry, and other delights of modern civilization do not give the citizens leisure to ponder over the city's two thousand years, nor to preoccupy themselves about art problems. Moreover, the tourist who has come to Spain to visit Toledo and Sevilla hurries off inland, gladly leaving Corunna's streets to sailors and to merchants.

There are, nevertheless, two churches well worth a visit; one is the Colegiata (supposed to have been a bishopric for a short time in the thirteenth century) or suffragan church, and the other the Church of Santiago. The latter has a fine Romanesque portal{92} of the twelfth century, reminding one in certain decorative details of the Portico de la Gloria in Santiago. The interior of the building consists of one nave or aisle spanned by a daring vault, executed in the early ogival style; doubtless it was originally Romanesque, as is evidently shown by the capitals of the pillars, and was most likely rebuilt after the terrible fire which broke out early in the sixteenth century.

Santa Maria del Campo is the name of the suffragan church dedicated to the Virgin. The church itself was erected to a suffragan of Santiago in 1441. The date of its erection is doubtful, some authors placing it in the twelfth and others in the thirteenth century. Street, whom we can take as an intelligent guide in these matters, calls it a twelfth-century church, contemporaneous with and perhaps even built by the same architect who built that of Santiago de Campostela. Moreover, the mentioned critic affirms this in spite of a doubtful inscription placed in the vault above the choir, which accuses the building of having been completed in 1307.