The Pilgrim to Compostella

Prelude.

" Tell us a story, old Robin Gray!
This merry Christmas time:
We are all in our glory, so tell us a story,
Either in prose, or in rhyme.

" Open your budget, old Robin Gray!
We very well know it is full:
Come! out with a murder, . . a Goblin, . . a Ghost
Or a tale of a Cock and a Bull!"

" I have no tale, of a Cock and a Bull,
My good little women and men;
But 'twill do as well, perhaps, if I tell
A tale of a Cock and a Hen

Introduction.

You have all of you heard of St. James for Spain,
As one of the Champions Seven,
Who, having been good Knights on Earth,
"Became Hermits and Saints in Heaven.

Their history once was in good repute,
And so it ought to be still; .
Little friends, I dare say you have read it:
And if not, why I hope you will.

Of this St. James that book proclaims
Great actions manifold:
But more amazing are the things
Which of him in Spain are told.

How once a ship, of marble made,
Came sailing o'er the sea,
Wherein his headless corpse was laid.
Perfumed with sanctity.

And how, though then he had no head,
He afterwards had two;
Which both work'd miracles so well.
That it was not possible to tell

The false one from the true.
"Whereby my little friends, we see
That an original may sometimes be
No better than its fac-simile;

A useful truth I trow,
Which picture buyers won't believe.
But which dealers know.

Young Connoisseurs who will be!
Remember I say this, . .
For your benefit hereafter, . .
In a parenthesis.

And not to interrupt
The order of narration,
This warning shall be printed
By way of annotation.

And how he used to fight the Moors
Upon a milk-white charger:
Large tales of him the Spaniards tell,
Munchausen tells no larger.

But in their cause of latter years
He has not been so hearty:
For that he never struck a stroke is plain,
When our Duke, in many a hard campaign,
Be&t the French armies out of Spain,

And conquered Bonaparte.
Yet still they worship him in Spain,
And believe in him with might and main:

Santiago there they call him:
And if any one there should doubt these tales.
They've an Inquisition to maul him.

At Compostella in his Church
His body and one head
Have been for some eight hundred years
By Pilgrims visited.

Old scores might there be clean rubb'd off;
And tickets there were given
To clear all toll gates on the way
Between the Churchyard and Heaven.

Some went for payment of a vow
In time of trouble made;
And some who found that pilgrimage
Was a pleasant sort of trade.

And some, I trow, because it was
"Believed, as well as said,
That all, who in their mortal stage
Did not perform this pilgrimage,

Must make it when they were dead; —
Some upon penance for their sins,
In person, or by attorney:
And some who were, or had been sick;
And some who thought to cheat Old Nick;

And some who liked the journey:
Which well- they might when ways were safe;
And therefore rich and poor
Went in that age on pilgrimage.

As folks now make a tour.
The poor with scrip, the rich with purse.
They took their chance for better for worse

From many a foreign land.
With a scallop-shell in the hat for badge.
And a Pilgrim's staff in hand.

Something there is, the which to leave
. "-5 Untold would not be well.
Relating to the Pilgrim's staff,
And to the scallop-shell.

For the scallop shows in a coat of arms,
That of the bearer's line
Some one, in former days, hath been
To Santiago's shrine.

And the staff was bored and holed for those
Who on a flute could play,
And thus the merry Pilgrim had
His music on the way.

The Legend. Part I.

Once on a time three Pilgrims true,
Being Father and Mother and Son,
For pure devotion to the Saint,
This pilgrimage begun.

Their names, little friends, I am sorry to say,
In none of my books can I find;
But the son, if you please, we'll call Pierre,
What the parents were call'd, never mind.

From France they came, in which fair land
They were people of good renown;
And they took up their lodging one night on the way
In La Calzada town.

Now, if poor Pilgrims they had been,
And had lodged in the Hospice instead of the Inn,
My good little women and men.
Why then you never would have heard,
This tale of the Cock and the Hen!

For the Innkeepers they had a daughter,
Sad to say, who was just such another
As Potiphar's daughter, I think, would have been
If she follow'd the ways of her mother.

This wicked woman to our Pierre
Behaved like Potiphar's wife;
And, because she fail'd to win his love,
She resolved to take his life.

So she packed up a silver cup
In his wallet privily:
And then, as soon as they were gone,
She raised a hue and cry.

The Pilgrims were overtaken:
The people gathered round.
Their wallets were search'd, and in Pierre's
The silver cup was found.

They dragg'd him before the Alcayde;
A hasty J was was he:
" The theft," he said, " was plain and proved.

And hang'd the thief must be." '
So to the gallows our poor Pierre
Was hurried instantly.

If I should now relate
The piteous lamentation.
Which for their son these parents made.
My little friends, I am afraid
You'd weep at the relation.

But Pierre in Santiago still
His constant faith profess'd;
When to the gallows he was led,
"Twas a short way to Heaven," he said,
" Though not the pleasantest."

And from their pilgrimage he charged
His parents not to cease.
Saying that unless they promised this,
He could not be hang'd in peace.

They promised it 'with heavy hearts;
Pierre then, therewith content,
Was hang'd: and they upon their way
To Compostella went.

Part II.

Four weeks they travelled painfully,
They paid their vows, and then
To La Calzada's fatal town
Did they come back again.

The Mother would not be withheld.
But go she must to see
Where her poor Pierre was left to hang
Upon the gallows tree.

Oh tale most marvellous to hear,
Most marvellous to tell!
Eight weeks had he been hanging there,
And yet was alive and well!

Mother," said he, " I am glad you're return'd,
Though I cannot complain that I'm tired,
And my neck does not ache in the least.

The Sun has not scorch'd me by day,
The Moon has not chilled me by night;
And the winds have but help'd me to swing,
As if in a dream of delight.

" Go you to the Alcayde,
That hasty Judge unjust:
Tell him Santiago has saved me,
And take me down he must!"

Now, you most know the Alcayde,
Not thinking himself a great sinner,
Just then at table had sat down.
About to begin his dinner.

His knife was raised to carve,
The dish before him then:
Two roasted fowls were laid therein;
That very morning they had been
A Cock and his faithful Hen.

In came the Mother wild with joy;
A miracle!" she cried;
But that most hasty Judge unjust
Repell'd her in his pride.

Think not," quoth he, '' to tales like this
That I should give belief!
Santiago never would bestow
His miracles, full well I know.

On a Frenchman and a thief." c
And pointing to the Fowls, o'er which
He held his ready knife.
As easily might I believe
These birds should come to life!"

The good Saint would not let him thus
The Mother's true tale withstand;
So up rose the Fowls in the dish,
And down dropp'd the knife from his hand.

The Cock would have crow'd if he could;
To cackle the Hen had a wish;
And they both slipp'd about in the gravy
Before they got out of the dish. t
And when each would have open'd its eyes,
For the purpose of looking about then,
They saw they had no eyes to open.

And that there was no seeing without them.
All this was to them a great wonder;
They stagger'd and reel'd on the table;
And either to guess where they were,
Or what was their plight, or how they came there,
Alas! they were wholly unable:

Because, you must know, that that morning,
A thing which they thought very hard.
The Cook had cut off their heads.
And thrown them away in the yard.

The Hen would have prank'd up her feathers,
But plucking had sadly deformed her;
And for want of them she would have shivered with cold,
If the roasting she had had not warm'd her.

And the Cock felt exceedingly queer;
He thought it a very odd thing
That his head and his voice were he did not know where,
And his gizzard tuck'd under his wing.

The gizzard got into its place,
But how Santiago knows best:
And so, by the help of the Saint,
Did the liver and all the rest.

The heads saw their way to the bodies,
In they came from the yard without check,
And each took its own proper station,
To the very great joy of the neck.

And in flew the feathers, like snow in a shower,
For they all became white on the way;
And the Cock and the Hen in a trice were refledged,
And then who so happy as they!

Cluck! cluck! cried the Hen right merrily then,
The Cock his clarion blew,
Full glad was he to hear again
His own cock-a-doo-del-doo!

" A Miracle! a miracle!"
The people shouted, as they might well,
When the news went through the town;
And every child and woman and man
Took up tlie cry, and away they ran
To see Pierre taken down.

They made a famous procession;
My good little women and men,

Part IV.

Such a sight was never seen before.
And I think will never again.
Santiago's Image, large as life.
Went first with banners and drum and fife

And next, as was most meet,
The twice-born Cock and Hen were borne
Along the thronging street.

Perch'd on a cross-pole hoisted high,
They were raised in sight of the crowd;
And, when the people set up a cry,
The Hen she cluck'd in sympathy,
And the Cock he crow'd aloud.

And became they very well knew for why
They were carried in such solemnity.
And saw the Saint and his banners before 'em.
They behaved with the greatest propriety.

And most correct decorum.
The Knife, which had cut off their heads that morn.
Still red with their innocent blood, was borne.

The scullion boy he earned it;
And the Skewers also made a part of the show,
With which they were trussed for the spit. m
The Cook in triumph bore that Spit

As high as he was able;
And the Dish was display'd wherein they were laid
When they had been served at table.

With eager faith the crowd prest round;
There was a scramble of women and men
For who should dip a finger-tip
In the blessed Gravy then.

Next went the Alcayde, beating his breast,
Crying aloud like a man distrest,
And amazed at the loss of his dinner,
To the very great joy of the neck.
" Santiago! Santiago!
Have mercy on me a sinner!"

And lifting oftentimes his hands
Towards the Cock and Hen,
" Orate pro nobis!" devoutly he cried,
And as devoutly the people replied,
Whenever he said it, Amen!"

The Father and Mother were last in the train;
Rejoicingly they came,
And extolled, with tears of gratitude,
Santiago's glorious name.
So, with all honors that might be,

Part III.

They gently unhang'd Pierre;
No hurt or harm had he sustain'd.
But, to make the wonder clear,
A deep black halter-mark remain'd
Just under his left ear.

And now, my little listening dears,
With open months and open ears,
Like a rhymer whose only art is
That of telling a plain unvarnish'd tale.

To let you know, I must not fail,
What became of all the parties.
Pierre went on to Compostella
To finish his pilgrimage:
His Parents went back with him joyfully;
After which they returned to their own country
And there, I believe, that all the three
Lived to a good old age.

For the gallows on which Pierre
Sc happily had swung,
It was resolved that never more
On it should man be hung.

To the Church it was transplanted,
As ancient books declare;
And the people in commotion,
With an uproar of devotion,
Set it up for a relic there.

What became of the halter I know not,
Because the old books show not;
But we may suppose and hope.
That the City presented Pierre
With that interesting rope.

For in his family, and this
The Corporation knew,
It rightly would be valued more
Than any cordon bleu.

The Innkeeper's wicked daughter
Confess'd what she had done,
So they put her in a Convent,
And she was made a Nun.

The Alcayde had been so frighten'd,
That he never ate fowls again;
And he always pull'd off his hat
When he saw a Cock and Hen.
Wherever he sat at table
Not an egg might there be placed:
And he never even muster'd courage for a custard,
Though garlic tempted him to taste
Of an omelet now and then.

But always after such a transgression
He hasten'd away to make confession;

And not till he had confess'd,
And the Priest had absolved him, did he feel
1 His conscience and stomach at rest.

The twice-born Birds to the Pilgrim's Church,
As by miracle consecrated,
Were given; and there unto the Saint
They were publicly dedicated.

At their dedication the Corporation
A fund for their keep supplied.
And, after following the Saint and his banners.
This Cock and Hen were so changed in their manners
That the Priests were edified.

Gentle as any turtle dove,
Saint Cock became all meekness and love

Most dutiful of wives,
Saint Hen she never peck'd again,
So they led happy lives.

The ways of ordinary fowls
You must know they had clean forsaken.

And if every cock and hen in Spain
Had their example taken,
Why then ... the Spaniards would have had
No eggs to eat with bacon.

These blessed Fowls, at seven years end,
In the odour of sanctity died:
They were carefully pluck'd, and then
They were buried, side by side.

And lest the fact should be forgotten,
(Which would have been a pity,)
"Twas decreed, in honor of their worth,
That a Cock and Hen should be borne thenceforth
In the arms of that ancient City.

Two eggs Saint Hen had laid, no more;
The chicken were her delight;
A Cock and Hen they proved,
And both, like their parents, were virtuous and white.

The last act of the holy Hen
Was to rear this precious brood; and, when

Saint Cock and she were dead,
This couple, as the lawful heirs.
Succeeded in their stead.

They also lived seven years.
And they laid eggs but two;
From which two milk-white chicken
To Cock and Henhood grew:
And always their posterity
The self-same course pursue.

Not one of these eggs ever addled,
(With wonder be it spoken!)
Not one of them ever was lost.
Not one of them ever was broken.

Sacred they are; neither magpie, nor rat,
Snake, weasel, nor martin approaching them
And woe to the irreverent wretch
Who should even dream of poaching them!

Thus then is this great miracle
Continued to this day;
And to their Church all Pilgrims go,
When they are on the way;

And some of the feathers are given them;
For which they always pay.
No price is set upon them,
And this leaves all persons at ease;

The Poor give as much as they can,
The Rich as much as they please. t
But that the more they give the better,
Is very well understood;
Seeing whatever is thus disposed of,
Is for their own souls' good;

For Santiago will always
Befriend his true believers;
And the money is for him, the Priests
Being only his receivers.

To make the miracle the more.
Of these feathers there is always store,
And all are genuine too;
All of the original Cock and Hen,
Which the Priests will swear is true.

Thousands a thousand times told have bought them,
And if myriads and tens of myriads sought them,
They would still find some to buy;
For however great were the demand,
So great would be the supply.

And if any of you, my small friends,
Should visit those parts, I dare say
You will bring away some of the feathers
And think of old Robin Gray.