Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions - Chapters 8-9a



      Chapter 8 - Influence of Politics and Religion on the Hair and Beard

Speak with respect and honour
Both of the beard and the beard's owner.
Hudibras.

THE FAMOUS DECLARATION of St. Paul, "that long hair was a shame
unto a man," has been made the pretext for many singular
enactments, both of civil and ecclesiastical governments. The
fashion of the hair and the cut of the beard were state questions
in France and England from the establishment of Christianity until
the fifteenth century.

We find, too, that in much earlier times men were not permitted to
do as they liked with their own hair. Alexander the Great thought
that the beards of his soldiery afforded convenient handles for
the enemy to lay hold of, preparatory to cutting off their heads;
and, with the view of depriving them of this advantage, he ordered
the whole of his army to be closely shaven. His notions of
courtesy towards an enemy were quite different from those
entertained by the North American Indians, amongst whom it is held
a point of honour to allow one "chivalrous lock" to grow, that the
foe, in taking the scalp, may have something to catch hold of.

At one time, long hair was the symbol of sovereignty in Europe. We
learn from Gregory of Tours, that, among the successors of Clovis,
it was the exclusive privilege of the royal family to have their
hair long and curled. The nobles, equal to kings in power, would
not shew any inferiority in this respect, and wore not only their
hair, but their beards, of an enormous length. This fashion
lasted, with but slight changes, till the time of Louis the
Debonnaire; but his successors, up to Hugh Capet, wore their hair
short, by way of distinction. Even the serfs had set all
regulation at defiance, and allowed their locks and beards to
grow.

At the time of the invasion of England by William the Conqueror,
the Normans wore their hair very short. Harold, in his progress
towards Hastings, sent forward spies to view the strength and
number of the enemy. They reported, amongst other things, on their
return, that "the host did almost seem to be priests, because they
had all their face and both their lips shaven." The fashion among
the English at the time was to wear the hair long upon the head
and the upper lip, but to shave the chin. When the haughty victors
had divided the broad lands of the Saxon thanes and franklins
among them, when tyranny of every kind was employed to make the
English feel that they were indeed a subdued and broken nation,
the latter encouraged the growth of their hair, that they might
resemble as little as possible their cropped and shaven masters.

This fashion was exceedingly displeasing to the clergy, and
prevailed to a considerable extent in France and Germany. Towards
the end of the eleventh century, it was decreed by the pope, and
zealously supported by the ecclesiastical authorities all over
Europe, that such persons as wore long hair should be
excommunicated while living, and not be prayed for when dead.
William of Malmesbury relates, that the famous St. Wulstan, Bishop
of Worcester, was peculiarly indignant whenever he saw a man with
long hair. He declaimed against the practice as one highly
immoral, criminal, and beastly. He continually carried a small
knife in his pocket, and whenever any body offending in this
respect knelt before him to receive his blessing, he would whip it
out slily, and cut off a handful, and then, throwing it in his
face, tell him to cut off all the rest, or he would go to hell.

But fashion, which at times it is possible to move with a wisp,
stands firm against a lever; and men preferred to run the risk of
damnation to parting with the superfluity of their hair. In the
time of Henry I, Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, found it
necessary to republish the famous decree of excommunication and
outlawry against the offenders; but, as the court itself had begun
to patronize curls, the fulminations of the Church were
unavailing. Henry I and his nobles wore their hair in long
ringlets down their backs and shoulders, and became a scandalum
magnatum in the eyes of the godly. One Serlo, the king's chaplain,
was so grieved in spirit at the impiety of his master, that he
preached a sermon from the well-known text of St. Paul before the
assembled court, in which he drew so dreadful a picture of the
torments that awaited them in the other world, that several of
them burst into tears, and wrung their hair, as if they would have
pulled it out by the roots. Henry himself was observed to weep.
The priest, seeing the impression he had made, determined to
strike while the iron was hot, and pulling a pair of scissors from
his pocket, cut the king's hair in presence of them all. Several
of the principal courtiers consented to do the like, and for a
short time long hair appeared to be going out of fashion. But the
courtiers thought, after the first glow of their penitence had
been cooled by reflection, that the clerical Dalilah had shorn
them of their strength, and, in less than six months, they were as
great sinners as ever.

Anselm, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who had been a monk of Bec,
in Normandy, and who had signalized himself at Rouen by his fierce
opposition to long hair, was still anxious to work a reformation
in this matter. But his pertinacity was far from pleasing to the
king, who had finally made up his mind to wear ringlets. There
were other disputes, of a more serious nature, between them; so
that when the archbishop died, the king was so glad to be rid of
him, that he allowed the see to remain vacant for five years.
Still the cause had other advocates, and every pulpit in the land
resounded with anathemas against that disobedient and long-haired
generation. But all was of no avail. Stowe, in writing of this
period, asserts, on the authority of some more ancient chronicler,
"that men, forgetting their birth, transformed themselves, by the
length of their haires, into the semblance of woman kind;" and
that when their hair decayed from age, or other causes, "they knit
about their heads certain rolls and braidings of false hair." At
last accident turned the tide of fashion. A knight of the court,
who was exceedingly proud of his beauteous locks, dreamed one
night that, as he lay in bed, the devil sprang upon him, and
endeavoured to choke him with his own hair. He started in
affright, and actually found that he had a great quantity of hair
in his mouth. Sorely stricken in conscience, and looking upon the
dream as a warning from heaven, he set about the work of
reformation, and cut off his luxuriant tresses the same night. The
story was soon bruited abroad; of course it was made the most of
by the clergy, and the knight, being a man of influence and
consideration, and the acknowledged leader of the fashion, his
example, aided by priestly exhortations, was very generally
imitated. Men appeared almost as decent as St. Wulstan himself
could have wished, the dream of a dandy having proved more
efficacious than the entreaties of a saint. But, as Stowe informs
us, "scarcely was one year past, when all that thought themselves
courtiers fell into the former vice, and contended with women in
their long haires." Henry, the king, appears to have been quite
uninfluenced by the dreams of others, for even his own would not
induce him a second time to undergo a cropping from priestly
shears. It is said, that he was much troubled at this time by
disagreeable visions. Having offended the Church in this and other
respects, he could get no sound, refreshing sleep, and used to
imagine that he saw all the bishops, abbots, and monks of every
degree, standing around his bed-side, and threatening to belabour
him with their pastoral staves; which sight, we are told, so
frightened him, that he often started naked out of his bed, and
attacked the phantoms sword in hand. Grimbalde, his physician,
who, like most of his fraternity at that day, was an ecclesiastic,
never hinted that his dreams were the result of a bad digestion,
but told him to shave his head, be reconciled to the Church, and
reform himself with alms and prayer. But he would not take this
good advice, and it was not until he had been nearly drowned a
year afterwards, in a violent storm at sea, that he repented of
his evil ways, cut his hair short, and paid proper deference to
the wishes of the clergy.

In France, the thunders of the Vatican with regard to long curly
hair were hardly more respected than in England. Louis VII,
however, was more obedient than his brother-king, and cropped
himself as closely as a monk, to the great sorrow of all the
gallants of his court. His queen, the gay, haughty, and
pleasure-seeking Eleanor of Guienne, never admired him in this
trim, and continually reproached him with imitating, not only the
head-dress, but the asceticism of the monks. From this cause a
coldness arose between them. The lady proving at last unfaithful
to her shaven and indifferent lord, they were divorced, and the
kings of France lost the rich provinces of Guienne and Poitou,
which were her dowry. She soon after bestowed her hand and her
possessions upon Henry Duke of Normandy, afterwards Henry II of
England, and thus gave the English sovereigns that strong footing
in France which was for so many centuries the cause of such long
and bloody wars between the nations.

When the Crusades had drawn all the smart young fellows into
Palestine, the clergy did not find it so difficult to convince the
staid burghers who remained in Europe, of the enormity of long
hair. During the absence of Richard Cœur de Lion, his English
subjects not only cut their hair close, but shaved their faces.
William Fitzosbert, or Long-beard, the great demagogue of that
day, reintroduced among the people who claimed to be of Saxon
origin the fashion of long hair. He did this with the view of
making them as unlike as possible to the citizens and the Normans.
He wore his own beard hanging down to his waist, from whence the
name by which he is best known to posterity.

The Church never shewed itself so great an enemy to the beard as
to long hair on the head. It generally allowed fashion to take its
own course, both with regard to the chin and the upper lip. This
fashion varied continually; for we find that, in little more than
a century after the time of Richard I, when beards were short,
that they had again become so long as to be mentioned in the
famous epigram made by the Scots who visited London in 1327, when
David, son of Robert Bruce, was married to Joan, the sister of
King Edward. This epigram, which was stuck on the church-door of
St. Peter Stangate, ran as follows:

"Long beards heartlesse,
Painted hoods witlesse,
Gray coats gracelesse,
Make England thriftlesse."

When the Emperor Charles V ascended the throne of Spain, he had no
beard. It was not to be expected that the obsequious parasites who
always surround a monarch, could presume to look more virile than
their master. Immediately all the courtiers appeared beardless,
with the exception of such few grave old men as had outgrown the
influence of fashion, and who had determined to die bearded as
they had lived. Sober people in general saw this revolution with
sorrow and alarm, and thought that every manly virtue would be
banished with the beard. It became at the time a common saying,—
"Desde que no hay barba, no hay mas alma."
We have no longer souls since we have lost our beards.

In France also the beard fell into disrepute after the death of
Henry IV, from the mere reason that his successor was too young to
have one. Some of the more immediate friends of the great
Béarnais, and his minister Sully among the rest, refused to part
with their beards, notwithstanding the jeers of the new
generation.

Who does not remember the division of England into the two great
parties of Roundheads and Cavaliers? In those days every species
of vice and iniquity was thought by the Puritans to lurk in the
long curly tresses of the monarchists, while the latter imagined
that their opponents were as destitute of wit, of wisdom, and of
virtue, as they were of hair. A man's locks were the symbol of his
creed, both in politics and religion. The more abundant the hair,
the more scant the faith; and the balder the head, the more
sincere the piety.

But among all the instances of the interference of governments
with men's hair, the most extraordinary, not only for its daring,
but for its success is that of Peter the Great, in 1705. By this
time, fashion had condemned the beard in every other country in
Europe, and with a voice more potent than popes or emperors, had
banished it from civilised society. But this only made the
Russians cling more fondly to their ancient ornament, as a mark to
distinguish them from foreigners, whom they hated. Peter, however,
resolved that they should be shaven. If he had been a man deeply
read in history, he might have hesitated before he attempted so
despotic an attack upon the time-hallowed customs and prejudices
of his countrymen; but he was not. He did not know or consider the
danger of the innovation; he only listened to the promptings of
his own indomitable will, and his fiat went forth, that not only
the army, but all ranks of citizens, from the nobles to the serfs,
should shave their beards. A certain time was given, that people
might get over the first throes of their repugnance, after which
every man who chose to retain his beard was to pay a tax of one
hundred roubles. The priests and the serfs were put on a lower
footing, and allowed to retain theirs upon payment of a copeck
every time they passed the gate of a city. Great discontent
existed in consequence, but the dreadful fate of the Strelitzes
was too recent to be forgotten, and thousands who had the will had
not the courage to revolt. As is well remarked by a writer in the
Encyclopedia Britannica, they thought it wiser to cut off their
beards than to run the risk of incensing a man who would make no
scruple in cutting off their heads. Wiser, too, than the popes and
bishops of a former age, he did not threaten them with eternal
damnation, but made them pay in hard cash the penalty of their
disobedience. For many years, a very considerable revenue was
collected from this source. The collectors gave in receipt for its
payment a small copper coin, struck expressly for the purpose, and
called the borodováia, or "the bearded." On one side it bore the
figure of a nose, mouth, and moustaches, with a long bushy beard,
surmounted by the words, Deuyee Vyeatee, "money received;" the
whole encircled by a wreath, and stamped with the black eagle of
Russia. On the reverse, it bore the date of the year. Every man
who chose to wear a beard was obliged to produce this receipt on
his entry into a town. Those who were refractory, and refused to
pay the tax, were thrown into prison.

Since that day, the rulers of modern Europe have endeavoured to
persuade, rather than to force, in all matters pertaining to
fashion. The Vatican troubles itself no more about beards or
ringlets, and men may become hairy as bears, if such is their
fancy, without fear of excommunication or deprivation of their
political rights. Folly has taken a new start, and cultivates the
moustache.

Even upon this point governments will not let men alone. Religion
as yet has not meddled with it; but perhaps it will; and politics
already influence it considerably. Before the revolution of 1830,
neither the French nor Belgian citizens were remarkable for their
moustaches; but, after that event, there was hardly a shopkeeper
either in Paris or Brussels whose upper lip did not suddenly
become hairy with real or mock moustaches. During a temporary
triumph gained by the Dutch soldiers over the citizens of Louvain,
in October 1830, it became a standing joke against the patriots,
that they shaved their faces clean immediately; and the wits of
the Dutch army asserted, that they had gathered moustaches enough
from the denuded lips of the Belgians to stuff mattresses for all
the sick and wounded in their hospital.

The last folly of this kind is still more recent. In the German
newspapers, of August 1838, appeared an ordonnance, signed by the
king of Bavaria, forbidding civilians, on any pretence whatever,
to wear moustaches, and commanding the police and other
authorities to arrest, and cause to be shaved, the offending
parties. "Strange to say," adds Le Droit, the journal from which
this account is taken, "moustaches disappeared immediately, like
leaves from the trees in autumn; every body made haste to obey the
royal order, and not one person was arrested.

The king of Bavaria, a rhymester of some celebrity, has taken a
good many poetical licences in his time. His licence in this
matter appears neither poetical nor reasonable. It is to be hoped
that he will not take it into his royal head to make his subjects
shave theirs; nothing but that is wanting to complete their
degradation.



      Chapter 9a - The Crusades

They heard, and up they sprung upon the wing
Innumerable. As when the potent rod
Of Amram's son, in Egypt's evil day,
Waved round the coast, up call'd a pitchy cloud
Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind
That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung
Like night, and darken'd all the realm of Nile,
So numberless were they.    *    *    *    *
All in a moment through the gloom were seen
Ten thousand banners rise into the air,
With orient colours waving. With them rose
A forest huge of spears; and thronging helms
Appear'd, and serried shields, in thick array,
Of depth immeasurable.
Paradise Lost

EVERY AGE has its peculiar folly; some scheme, project, or
phantasy into which it plunges, spurred on either by the love of
gain, the necessity of excitement, or the mere force of imitation.
Failing in these, it has some madness, to which it is goaded by
political or religious causes, or both combined. Every one of
these causes influenced the Crusades, and conspired to render them
the most extraordinary instance upon record of the extent to which
popular enthusiasm can be carried. History in her solemn page
informs us, that the Crusaders were but ignorant and savage men,
that their motives were those of bigotry unmitigated, and that
their pathway was one of blood and tears. Romance, on the other
hand, dilates upon their piety and heroism and portrays, in her
most glowing and impassioned hues, their virtue and magnanimity,
the imperishable honour they acquired for themselves, and the
great services they rendered to Christianity. In the following
pages we shall ransack the stores of both, to discover the true
spirit that animated the motley multitude who took up arms in the
service of the coss, leaving history to vouch for facts, but not
disdaining the aid of contemporary poetry and romance to throw
light upon feelings, motives, and opinions.

In order to understand thoroughly the state of public feeling in
Europe at the time when Peter the Hermit preached the holy war, it
will be necessary to go back for many years anterior to that
event. We must make acquaintance with the pilgrims of the eighth,
ninth, and tenth centuries, and learn the tales they told of the
dangers they had passed and the wonders they had seen. Pilgrimages
to the Holy Land seem at first to have been undertaken by
converted Jews, and by Christian devotees of lively imagination,
pining with a natural curiosity to visit the scenes which of all
others were most interesting in their eyes. The pious and the
impious alike flocked to Jerusalem,—the one class to feast their
sight on the scenes hallowed by the life and sufferings of their
Lord, and the other, because it soon became a generally received
opinion, that such a pilgrimage was sufficient to rub off the long
score of sins, however atrocious. Another and very numerous class
of pilgrims were the idle and roving, who visited Palestine then
as the moderns visit Italy or Switzerland now, because it was the
fashion, and because they might please their vanity by retailing,
on their return, the adventures they had met with. But the really
pious formed the great majority. Every year their numbers
increased, until at last they became so numerous as to be called
the "armies of the Lord." Full of enthusiasm, they set the danger
and difficulty of the way at defiance, and lingered with holy
rapture on every scene described by the Evangelists. To them it
was bliss indeed to drink the clear waters of the Jordan, or be
baptized in the same stream where John had baptized the Saviour.
They wandered with awe and pleasure in the purlieus of the Temple,
on the solemn Mount of Olives, or the awful Calvary, where a God
had bled for sinful men. To these pilgrims every object was
precious. Relics were eagerly sought after; flagons of water from
Jordan, or panniers of mould from the hill of the Crucifixion,
were brought home, and sold at extravagant prices to churches and
monasteries. More apocryphical relics, such as the wood of the
true cross, the tears of the Virgin Mary, the hems of her
garments, the toe-nails and hair of the Apostles—even the tents
that Paul had helped to manufacture—were exhibited for sale by the
knavish in Palestine, and brought back to Europe "with wondrous
cost and care." A grove of a hundred oaks would not have furnished
all the wood sold in little morsels as remnants of the true cross;
and the tears of Mary, if collected together, would have filled a
cistern.

For upwards of two hundred years the pilgrims met with no
impediment in Palestine. The enlightened Haroun Al Reschid, and
his more immediate successors, encouraged the stream which brought
so much wealth into Syria, and treated the wayfarers with the
utmost courtesy. The race of Fatemite caliphs,—who, although in
other respects as tolerant, were more distressed for money, or
more unscrupulous in obtaining it, than their predecessors of the
house of Abbas,—imposed a tax of a bezant for each pilgrim that
entered Jerusalem. This was a serious hardship upon the poorer
sort, who had begged their weary way across Europe, and arrived at
the bourne of all their hopes without a coin. A great outcry was
immediately raised, but still the tax was rigorously levied. The
pilgrims unable to pay were compelled to remain at the gate of the
holy city until some rich devotee arriving with his train, paid
the tax and let them in. Robert of Normandy, father of William the
Conqueror, who, in common with many other nobles of the highest
rank, undertook the pilgrimage, found on his arrival scores of
pilgrims at the gate, anxiously expecting his coming to pay the
tax for them. Upon no occasion was such a boon refused.

The sums drawn from this source were a mine of wealth to the
Moslem governors of Palestine, imposed as the tax had been at a
time when pilgrimages had become more numerous than ever. A
strange idea had taken possession of the popular mind at the close
of the tenth and commencement of the eleventh century. It was
universally believed that the end of the world was at hand; that
the thousand years of the Apocalypse were near completion, and
that Jesus Christ would descend upon Jerusalem to judge mankind.
All Christendom was in commotion. A panic terror seized upon the
weak, the credulous, and the guilty, who in those days formed more
than nineteen-twentieths of the population. Forsaking their homes,
kindred, and occupation, they crowded to Jerusalem to await the
coming of the Lord, lightened, as they imagined, of a load of sin
by their weary pilgrimage. To increase the panic, the stars were
observed to fall from heaven, earthquakes to shake the land, and
violent hurricanes to blow down the forests. All these, and more
especially the meteoric phenomena, were looked upon as the
forerunners of the approaching judgments. Not a meteor shot
athwart the horizon that did not fill a district with alarm, and
send away to Jerusalem a score of pilgrims, with staff in hand and
wallet on their back, praying as they went for the remission of
their sins. Men, women, and even children, trudged in droves to
the holy city, in expectation of the day when the heavens would
open, and the Son of God descend in his glory. This extraordinary
delusion, while it augmented the numbers, increased also the
hardships of the pilgrims. Beggars became so numerous on all the
highways between the west of Europe and Constantinople, that the
monks, the great almsgivers upon these occasions, would have
brought starvation within sight of their own doors, if they had
not economised their resources, and left the devotees to shift for
themselves as they could. Hundreds of them were glad to subsist
upon the berries that ripened by the road, who, before this great
flux, might have shared the bread and flesh of the monasteries.

But this was not the greatest of their difficulties. On their
arrival in Jerusalem they found that a sterner race had obtained
possession of the Holy Land. The caliphs of Bagdad had been
succeeded by the harsh Turks of the race of Seljook, who looked
upon the pilgrims with contempt and aversion. The Turks of the
eleventh century were more ferocious and less scrupulous than the
Saracens of the tenth. They were annoyed at the immense number of
pilgrims who overran the country, and still more so because they
shewed no intention of quitting it. The hourly expectation of the
last judgment kept them waiting; and the Turks, apprehensive of
being at last driven from the soil by the swarms that were still
arriving, heaped up difficulties in their way. Persecution of
every kind awaited them. They were plundered, and beaten with
stripes, and kept in suspense for months at the gates of
Jerusalem, unable to pay the golden bezant that was to procure
them admission.

When the first epidemic terror of the day of judgment began to
subside, a few pilgrims ventured to return to Europe, their hearts
big with indignation at the insults they had suffered. Every where
as they passed they related to a sympathising auditory the wrongs
of Christendom. Strange to say, even these recitals increased the
mania for pilgrimage. The greater the dangers of the way, the more
chance that sins of deep dye would be atoned for. Difficulty and
suffering only heightened the merit, and fresh hordes issued from
every town and village, to win favour in the sight of heaven by a
visit to the holy sepulchre. Thus did things continue during the
whole of the eleventh century.

The train that was to explode so fearfully was now laid, and there
wanted but the hand to apply the torch. At last the man appeared
upon the scene. Like all who have ever achieved so great an end,
Peter the Hermit was exactly suited to the age; neither behind it,
nor in advance of it; but acute enough to penetrate its mystery
ere it was discovered by any other. Enthusiastic, chivalrous,
bigoted, and, if not insane, not far removed from insanity, he was
the very prototype of the time. True enthusiasm is always
persevering and always eloquent, and these two qualities were
united in no common degree in the person of this extraordinary
preacher. He was a monk of Amiens, and ere he assumed the hood had
served as a soldier. He is represented as having been ill favoured
and low in stature, but with an eye of surpassing brightness and
intelligence. Having been seized with the mania of the age, he
visited Jerusalem, and remained there till his blood boiled to see
the cruel persecution heaped upon the devotees. On his return home
he shook the world by the eloquent story of their wrongs.

Before entering into any further details of the astounding results
of his preaching, it will be advisable to cast a glance at the
state of the mind of Europe, that we may understand all the better
the causes of his success. First of all, there was the priesthood,
which, exercising as it did the most conspicuous influence upon
the fortunes of society, claims the largest share of attention.
Religion was the ruling idea of that day, and the only civiliser
capable of taming such wolves as then constituted the flock of the
faithful. The clergy were all in all; and though they kept the
popular mind in the most slavish subjection with regard to
religious matters, they furnished it with the means of defence
against all other oppression except their own. In the
ecclesiastical ranks were concentrated all the true piety, all the
learning, all the wisdom of the time; and, as a natural
consequence, a great portion of power, which their very wisdom
perpetually incited them to extend. The people knew nothing of
kings and nobles, except in the way of injuries inflicted. The
first ruled for, or more properly speaking against, the barons,
and the barons only existed to brave the power of the kings, or to
trample with their iron heels upon the neck of prostrate
democracy. The latter had no friend but the clergy, and these,
though they necessarily instilled the superstition from which they
themselves were not exempt, yet taught the cheering doctrine that
all men were equal in the sight of heaven. Thus, while Feudalism
told them they had no rights in this world, Religion told them
they had every right in the next. With this consolation they were
for the time content, for political ideas had as yet taken no
root. When the clergy, for other reasons, recommended the Crusade,
the people joined in it with enthusiasm. The subject of Palestine
filled all minds; the pilgrims' tales of two centuries warmed
every imagination; and when their friends, their guides, and their
instructors preached a war so much in accordance with their own
prejudices and modes of thinking, the enthusiasm rose into a
frenzy.

But while religion inspired the masses, another agent was at work
upon the nobility. These were fierce and lawless; tainted with
every vice, endowed with no virtue, and redeemed by one good
quality alone, that of courage. The only religion they felt was
the religion of fear. That and their overboiling turbulence alike
combined to guide them to the Holy Land. Most of them had sins
enough to answer for. They lived with their hand against every
man; and with no law but their own passions. They set at defiance
the secular power of the clergy, but their hearts quailed at the
awful denunciations of the pulpit with regard to the life to come.
War was the business and the delight of their existence; and when
they were promised remission of all their sins upon the easy
condition of following their favourite bent, is it to be wondered
at that they rushed with enthusiasm to the onslaught, and became
as zealous in the service of the Cross as the great majority of
the people, who were swayed by more purely religious motives?
Fanaticism and the love of battle alike impelled them to the war,
while the kings and princes of Europe had still another motive for
encouraging their zeal. Policy opened their eyes to the great
advantages which would accrue to themselves, by the absence of so
many restless, intriguing, and blood-thirsty men, whose insolence
it required more than the small power of royalty to restrain
within due bounds. Thus every motive was favourable to the
Crusades. Every class of society was alike incited to join or
encourage the war; kings and the clergy by policy, the nobles by
turbulence and the love of dominion, and the people by religious
zeal and the concentrated enthusiasm of two centuries, skilfully
directed by their only instructors.

It was in Palestine itself that Peter the Hermit first conceived
the grand idea of rousing the powers of Christendom to rescue the
Christians of the East from the thraldom of the Mussulmans, and
the sepulchre of Jesus from the rude hands of the infidel. The
subject engrossed his whole mind. Even in the visions of the night
he was full of it. One dream made such an impression upon him,
that he devoutly believed the Saviour of the world himself
appeared before him, and promised him aid and protection in his
holy undertaking. If his zeal had ever wavered before, this was
sufficient to fix it for ever.

Peter, after he had performed all the penances and duties of his
pilgrimage, demanded an interview with Simeon, the Patriarch of
the Greek Church at Jerusalem. Though the latter was a heretic in
Peter's eyes, yet he was still a Christian, and felt as acutely as
himself for the persecutions heaped by the Turks upon the
followers of Jesus. The good prelate entered fully into his views,
and, at his suggestion, wrote letters to the Pope, and to the most
influential monarchs of Christendom, detailing the sorrows of the
faithful, and urging them to take up arms in their defence. Peter
was not a laggard in the work. Taking an affectionate farewell of
the Patriarch, he returned in all haste to Italy. Pope Urban II.
occupied the apostolic chair. It was at that time far from being
an easy seat. His predecessor, Gregory, had bequeathed him a host
of disputes with the Emperor Henry IV. of Germany, and he had made
Philip I. of France his enemy by his strenuous opposition to an
adulterous connexion formed by that monarch. So many dangers
encompassed him about, that the Vatican was no secure abode, and
he had taken refuge in Apulia, under the protection of the
renowned Robert Guiscard. Thither Peter appears to have followed
him, though in what spot their meeting took place is not stated
with any precision by ancient chroniclers or modern historians.
Urban received him most kindly; read, with tears in his eyes, the
epistle from the Patriarch Simeon, and listened to the eloquent
story of the Hermit with an attention which shewed how deeply he
sympathised with the woes of the Christian church. Enthusiasm is
contagious, and the Pope appears to have caught it instantly from
one whose zeal was so unbounded. Giving the Hermit full powers, he
sent him abroad to preach the holy war to all the nations and
potentates of Christendom. The Hermit preached, and countless
thousands answered to his call. France, Germany, and Italy started
at his voice, and prepared for the deliverance of Zion. One of the
early historians of the Crusade, who was himself an eye-witness of
the rapture of Europe,66* describes the personal appearance of the
Hermit at this time. He says, that there appeared to be something
of divine in every thing which he said or did. The people so
highly reverenced him, that they plucked hairs from the mane of
his mule, that they might keep them as relics. While preaching, he
wore in general a woollen tunic, with a dark-coloured mantle,
which fell down to his heels. His arms and feet were bare, and he
ate neither flesh nor bread, supporting himself chiefly upon fish
and wine. "He set out," says the chronicler, "from whence I know
not; but we saw him passing through the towns and villages,
preaching every where, and the people surrounding him in crowds,
loading him with offerings, and celebrating his sanctity with such
great praises that I never remember to have seen such honours
bestowed upon any one." Thus he went on, untired, inflexible, and
full of devotion, communicating his own madness to his hearers,
until Europe was stirred from its very depths.

While the Hermit was appealing with such signal success to the
people, the Pope appealed with as much success to those who were
to become the chiefs and leaders of the expedition. His first step
was to call a council at Placentia, in the autumn of the year
1095. Here, in the assembly of the clergy, the Pope debated the
grand scheme, and gave audience to emissaries who had been sent
from Constantinople by the Emperor of the East to detail the
progress made by the Turks in their design of establishing
themselves in Europe. The clergy were of course unanimous in
support of the Crusade, and the council separated, each individual
member of it being empowered to preach it to his people.

But Italy could not be expected to furnish all the aid required;
and the Pope crossed the Alps to inspire the fierce and powerful
nobility and chivalrous population of Gaul. His boldness in
entering the territory, and placing himself in the power of his
foe, King Philip of France, is not the least surprising feature of
his mission. Some have imagined that cool policy alone actuated
him, while others assert, that it was mere zeal, as warm and as
blind as that of Peter the Hermit. The latter opinion seems to be
the true one. Society did not calculate the consequences of what
it was doing. Every man seemed to act from impulse only; and the
Pope, in throwing himself into the heart of France, acted as much
from impulse as the thousands who responded to his call. A council
was eventually summoned to meet him at Clermont, in Auvergne, to
consider the state of the church, reform abuses, and, above all,
make preparations for the war. It was in the midst of an extremely
cold winter, and the ground was covered with snow. During seven
days the council sat with closed doors, while immense crowds from
all parts of France flocked into the town, in expectation that the
Pope himself would address the people. All the towns and villages
for miles around were filled with the multitude; even the fields
were encumbered with people, who, unable to procure lodging,
pitched their tents under the trees and by the way-side. All the
neighbourhood presented the appearance of a vast camp.

During the seven days' deliberation, a sentence of excommunication
was passed upon King Philip for adultery with Bertrade de
Montfort, Countess of Anjou, and for disobedience to the supreme
authority of the apostolic see. This bold step impressed the
people with reverence for so stern a church, which in the
discharge of its duty shewed itself no respecter of persons. Their
love and their fear were alike increased, and they were prepared
to listen with more intense devotion to the preaching of so
righteous and inflexible a pastor. The great square before the
cathedral church of Clermont became every instant more densely
crowded as the hour drew nigh when the Pope was to address the
populace. Issuing from the church in his frill canonicals,
surrounded by his cardinals and bishops in all the splendour of
Romish ecclesiastical costume, the Pope stood before the populace
on a high scaffolding erected for the occasion, and covered with
scarlet cloth. A brilliant array of bishops and cardinals
surrounded him; and among them, humbler in rank, but more
important in the world's eye, the Hermit Peter, dressed in his
simple and austere habiliments. Historians differ as to whether or
not Peter addressed the crowd, but as all agree that he was
present, it seems reasonable to suppose that he spoke. But it was
the oration of the Pope that was most important. As he lifted up
his hands to ensure attention, every voice immediately became
still. He began by detailing the miseries endured by their
brethren in the Holy Land; how the plains of Palestine were
desolated by the outrageous heathen, who with the sword and the
firebrand carried wailing into the dwellings and flames into the
possessions of the faithful; how Christian wives and daughters
were defiled by pagan lust; how the altars of the true God were
desecrated, and the relics of the saints trodden under foot.
"You," continued the eloquent pontiff, (and Urban the Second was
one of the most eloquent men of the day,) "you, who hear me, and
who have received the true faith, and been endowed by God with
power, and strength, and greatness of soul,—whose ancestors have
been the prop of Christendom, and whose kings have put a barrier
against the progress of the infidel,—I call upon you to wipe off
these impurities from the face of the earth, and lift your
oppressed fellow-christians from the depths into which they have
been trampled. The sepulchre of Christ is possessed by the
heathen, the sacred places dishonoured by their vileness. Oh,
brave knights and faithful people! offspring of invincible
fathers! ye will not degenerate from your ancient renown. Ye will
not be restrained from embarking in this great cause by the tender
ties of wife or little ones, but will remember the words of the
Saviour of the world himself, 'Whosoever loves father and mother
more than me is not worthy of me. Whosoever shall abandon for my
name's sake his house, or his brethren, or his sisters, or his
father, or his mother, or his wife, or his children, or his lands,
shall receive a hundredfold, and shall inherit eternal life.'"

The warmth of the pontiff communicated itself to the crowd, and
the enthusiasm of the people broke out several times ere he
concluded his address. He went on to pourtray, not only the
spiritual but the temporal advantages, that should accrue to those
who took up arms in the service of the Cross. Palestine was, he
said, a land flowing with milk and honey, and precious in the
sight of God, as the scene of the grand events which had saved
mankind. That land, he promised, should be divided among them.
Moreover, they should have full pardon for all their offences,
either against God or man. "Go, then," he added, "in expiation of
your sins; and go assured, that after this world shall have passed
away, imperishable glory shall be yours in the world which is to
come." The enthusiasm was no longer to be restrained, and loud
shouts interrupted the speaker; the people exclaiming as if with
one voice, "Dieu le veult! Dieu le veult!" With great presence of
mind Urban took advantage of the outburst, and as soon as silence
was obtained, continued: "Dear brethren, to-day is shewn forth in
you that which the Lord has said by his evangelist, 'When two or
three are gathered together in my name, there will I be in the
midst of them to bless them.' If the Lord God had not been in your
souls, you would not all have pronounced the same words; or rather
God himself pronounced them by your lips, for it was He that put
them in your hearts. Be they, then, your war-cry in the combat,
for those words came forth from God. Let the army of the Lord when
it rushes upon His enemies shout but that one cry, 'Dieu le veult!
Dieu le veult!' Let whoever is inclined to devote himself to this
holy cause make it a solemn engagement, and bear the cross of the
Lord either on his breast or his brow till he set out, and let him
who is ready to begin his march place the holy emblem on his
shoulders, in memory of that precept of our Saviour, 'He who does
not take up his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.'"

The news of this council spread to the remotest parts of Europe in
an incredibly short space of time. Long before the fleetest
horseman could have brought the intelligence it was known by the
people in distant provinces, a fact which was considered as
nothing less than supernatural. But the subject was in everybody's
mouth, and the minds of men were prepared for the result. The
enthusiastic only asserted what they wished, and the event tallied
with their prediction. This was, however, quite enough in those
days for a miracle, and as a miracle every one regarded it.

For several months after the council of Clermont, France and
Germany presented a singular spectacle. The pious, the fanatic,
the needy, the dissolute, the young and the old, even women and
children, and the halt and lame, enrolled themselves by hundreds.
In every village the clergy were busied in keeping up the
excitement, promising eternal rewards to those who assumed the red
cross, and fulminating the most awful denunciations against all
the worldly-minded who refused or even hesitated. Every debtor who
joined the crusade was freed by the papal edict from the claims of
his creditors; outlaws of every grade were made equal with the
honest upon the same conditions. The property of those who went
was placed under the protection of the church, and St. Paul and
St. Peter themselves were believed to descend from their high
abode, to watch over the chattels of the absent pilgrims. Signs
and portents were seen in the air to increase the fervour of the
multitude. An aurora-borealis of unusual brilliancy appeared, and
thousands of the crusaders came out to gaze upon it, prostrating
themselves upon the earth in adoration. It was thought to be a
sure prognostic of the interposition of the Most High; and a
representation of his armies fighting with and overthrowing the
infidels. Reports of wonders were everywhere rife. A monk had seen
two gigantic warriors on horseback, the one representing a
Christian and the other a Turk, fighting in the sky with flaming
swords, the Christian of course overcoming the Paynim. Myriads of
stars were said to have fallen from heaven, each representing the
fall of a Pagan foe. It was believed at the same time that the
Emperor Charlemagne would rise from the grave, and lead on to
victory the embattled armies of the Lord. A singular feature of
the popular madness was the enthusiasm of the women. Everywhere
they encouraged their lovers and husbands to forsake all things
for the holy war. Many of them burned the sign of the cross upon
their breasts and arms, and coloured the wound with a red dye, as
a lasting memorial of their zeal. Others, still more zealous,
impressed the mark by the same means upon the tender limbs of
young children and infants at the breast.

Guibert de Nogent tells of a monk who made a large incision upon
his forehead in the form of a cross, which he coloured with some
powerful ingredient, telling the people that an angel had done it
when he was asleep. This monk appears to have been more of a rogue
than a fool, for he contrived to fare more sumptuously than any of
his brother pilgrims, upon the strength of his sanctity. The
crusaders everywhere gave him presents of food and money, and he
became quite fat ere he arrived at Jerusalem, notwithstanding the
fatigues of the way. If he had acknowledged in the first place
that he had made the wound himself, he would not have been thought
more holy than his fellows; but the story of the angel was a
clincher.

All those who had property of any description rushed to the mart
to change it into hard cash. Lands and houses could be had for a
quarter of their value, while arms and accoutrements of war rose
in the same proportion. Corn, which had been excessively dear in
anticipation of a year of scarcity, suddenly became plentiful; and
such was the diminution in the value of provisions, that seven
sheep were sold for five deniers.67* The nobles mortgaged their
estates for mere trifles to Jews and unbelievers, or conferred
charters of immunity upon the towns and communes within their
fiefs, for sums which, a few years previously, they would have
rejected with disdain. The farmer endeavoured to sell his plough,
and the artisan his tools, to purchase a sword for the deliverance
of Jerusalem. Women disposed of their trinkets for the same
purpose. During the spring and summer of this year (1096) the
roads teemed with crusaders, all hastening to the towns and
villages appointed as the rendezvous of the district. Some were on
horseback, some in carts, and some came down the rivers in boats
and rafts, bringing their wives and children, all eager to go to
Jerusalem. Very few knew where Jerusalem was. Some thought it
fifty thousand miles away, while others imagined that it was but a
month's journey, while at sight of every town or castle, the
children exclaimed, "Is that Jerusalem ? Is that the city ?"
Parties of knights and nobles might be seen travelling eastward,
and amusing themselves as they went with the knightly diversion of
hawking to lighten the fatigues of the way.

Guibert de Nogent, who did not write from hearsay, but from actual
observation, says, the enthusiasm was so contagious, that when any
one heard the orders of the Pontiff, he went instantly to solicit
his neighbours and friends to join with him in "the way of God,"
for so they called the proposed expedition. The Counts Palatine
were full of the desire to undertake the journey, and all the
inferior knights were animated with the same zeal. Even the poor
caught the flame so ardently, that no one paused to think of the
inadequacy of his means, or to consider whether he ought to yield
up his house and his vine and his fields. Each one set about
selling his property, at as low a price as if he had been held in
some horrible captivity, and sought to pay his ransom without loss
of time. Those who had not determined upon the journey, joked and
laughed at those who were thus disposing of their goods at such
ruinous prices, prophesying that the expedition would be miserable
and their return worse. But they held this language only for a
day. The next, they were suddenly seized with the same frenzy as
the rest. Those who had been loudest in their jeers gave up all
their property for a few crowns, and set out with those they had
so laughed at a few hours before. In most cases the laugh was
turned against them, for when it became known that a man was
hesitating, his more zealous neighbouts sent him a present of a
knitting needle or a distaff, to shew their contempt of him. There
was no resisting this, so that the fear of ridicule contributed
its fair contingent to the armies of the Lord.

Another effect of the crusade was, the religious obedience with
which it inspired the people and the nobility for that singular
institution "The Truce of God." At the commencement of the
eleventh century, the clergy of France, sympathizing for the woes
of the people, but unable to diminish them, by repressing the
rapacity and insolence of the feudal chiefs, endeavoured to
promote universal good-will by the promulgation of the famous
"Peace of God." All who conformed to it bound themselves by oath
not to take revenge for any injury, not to enjoy the fruits of
property usurped from others, nor to use deadly weapons; in reward
of which they would receive remission of all their sins. However
benevolent the intention of this "Peace," it led to nothing but
perjury, and violence reigned as uncontrolled as before. In the
year 1041 another attempt was made to soften the angry passions of
the semi-barbarous chiefs, and the "Truce of God" was solemnly
proclaimed. The truce lasted from the Wednesday evening to the
Monday morning of every week, in which interval it was strictly
forbidden to recur to violence on any pretext, or to seek revenge
for any injury. It was impossible to civilize men by these means;
few even promised to become peaceable for so unconscionable a
period as five days a week; or, if they did, they made ample
amends on the two days left open to them. The truce was afterwards
shortened from the Saturday evening to the Monday morning; but
little or no diminution of violence and bloodshed was the
consequence. At the council of Clermont, Urban II. again solemnly
pro- claimed the truce. So strong was the religious feeling, that
every one hastened to obey. All minor passions disappeared before
the grand passion of crusading; the noble ceased to oppress, the
robber to plunder, and the people to complain; but one idea was in
all hearts, and there seemed to be no room for any other.

The encampments of these heterogeneous multitudes offered a
singular aspect. Those vassals who ranged themselves under the
banners of their lord, erected tents around his castle; while
those who undertook the war on their own account, constructed
booths and huts in the neighbourhood of the towns or villages,
preparatory to their joining some popular leader of the
expedition. The meadows of France were covered with tents. As the
belligerents were to have remission of all their sins on their
arrival in Palestine, hundreds of them gave themselves up to the
most unbounded licentiousness: the courtezan, with the red cross
upon her shoulders, plied her shameless trade with sensual
pilgrims, without scruple on either side: the lover of good cheer
gave loose rein to his appetite, and drunkenness and debauchery
flourished. Their zeal in the service of the Lord was to wipe out
all faults and follies, and they had the same surety of salvation
as the rigid anchorite. This reasoning had charms for the
ignorant, and the sounds of lewd revelry and the voice of prayer
rose at the same instant from the camp.

It is now time to speak of the leaders of the expedition. Great
multitudes ranged themselves under the command of Peter the
Hermit, whom, as the originator, they considered the most
appropriate leader of the war. Others joined the banner of a bold
adventurer, whom history has dignified with no other name than
that of Gautier sans Avoir, or Walter the Pennyless, but who is
represented as having been of noble family, and well skilled in
the art of war. A third multitude from Germany flocked around the
standard of a monk, named Gottschalk, of whom nothing is known,
except that he was a fanatic of the deepest dye. All these bands,
which together are said to have amounted to three hundred thousand
men, women, and children, were composed of the vilest rascality of
Europe. Without discipline, principle, or true courage, they
rushed through the nations like a pestilence, spreading terror and
death wherever they went. The first multitude that set forth was
led by Walter the Pennyless early in the spring of 1096, within a
very few months after the Council of Clermont. Each man of that
irregular host aspired to be his own master: like their nominal
leader, each was poor to penury, and trusted for subsistence on
his journey to the chances of the road. Rolling through Germany
like a tide, they entered Hungary, where, at first, they were
received with some degree of kindness by the people. The latter
had not yet caught sufficient of the fire of enthusiasm to join
the crusade themselves, but were willing enough to forward the
cause by aiding those embarked in it. Unfortunately, this good
understanding did not last long. The swarm were not contented with
food for their necessities, but craved for luxuries also: they
attacked and plundered the dwellings of the country people, and
thought nothing of murder where resistance was offered. On their
arrival before Semlin, the outraged Hungarians collected in large
numbers, and, attacking the rear of the crusading host, slew a
great many of the stragglers, and, taking away their arms and
crosses, affixed them as trophies to the walls of the city. Walter
appears to have been in no mood or condition to make reprisals;
for his army, destructive as a plague of locusts when plunder
urged them on, were useless against any regular attack from a
determined enemy. Their rear continued to be thus harassed by the
wrathful Hungarians until they were fairly out of their territory.
On his entrance into Bulgaria, Walter met with no better fate; the
cities and towns refused to let him pass; the villages denied him
provisions; and the citizens and country people uniting,
slaughtered his followers by hundreds. The progress of the army
was more like a retreat than an advance; but as it was impossible
to stand still, Walter continued his course till he arrived at
Constantinople, with a force which famine and the sword had
diminished to one-third of its original number.

The greater multitude, led by the enthusiastic Hermit, followed
close upon his heels, with a bulky train of baggage, and women and
children, sufficient to form a host of themselves. If it were
possible to find a rabble more vile than the army of Walter the
Pennyless it was that led by Peter the Hermit. Being better
provided with means, they were not reduced to the necessity of
pillage in their progress through Hungary; and had they taken any
other route than that which led through Semlin, might perhaps have
traversed the country without molestation. On their arrival before
that city, their fury was raised at seeing the arms and red
crosses of their predecessors hanging as trophies over the gates.
Their pent-up ferocity exploded at the sight. The city was
tumultuously attacked, and the besiegers entering, not by dint of
bravery, but of superior numbers, it was given up to all the
horrors which follow when Victory, Brutality, and Licentiousness
are linked together. Every evil passion was allowed to revel with
impunity, and revenge, lust, and avarice,—each had its hundred
victims in unhappy Semlin. Any maniac can kindle a conflagration,
but it requires many wise men to put it out. Peter the Hermit had
blown the popular fury into a flame, but to cool it again was
beyond his power. His followers rioted unrestrained, until the
fear of retaliation warned them to desist. When the King of
Hungary was informed of the disasters of Semlin, he marched with a
sufficient force to chastise the Hermit, who at the news broke up
his camp and retreated towards the Morava, a broad and rapid
stream that joins the Danube a few miles to the eastward of
Belgrade. Here a party of indignant Bulgarians awaited him, and so
harassed him as to make the passage of the river a task both of
difficulty and danger. Great numbers of his infatuated followers
perished in the waters, and many fell under the swords of the
Bulgarians. The ancient chronicles do not mention the amount of
the Hermit's loss at this passage, but represent it in general
terms as very great.

At Nissa the Duke of Bulgaria fortified himself, in fear of an
assault; but Peter, having learned a little wisdom from
experience, thought it best to avoid hostilities. He passed three
nights in quietness under the walls, and the duke, not wishing to
exasperate unnecessarily so fierce and rapacious a host, allowed
the townspeople to supply them with provisions. Peter took his
departure peaceably on the following morning, but some German
vagabonds falling behind the main body of the army, set fire to
the mills and house of a Bulgarian, with whom, it appears, they
had had some dispute on the previous evening. The citizens of
Nissa, who had throughout mistrusted the crusaders, and were
prepared for the worst, sallied out immediately, and took signal
vengeance. The spoilers were cut to pieces, and the townspeople
pursuing the Hermit, captured all the women and children who had
lagged in the rear, and a great quantity of baggage. Peter
hereupon turned round and marched back to Nissa, to demand
explanation of the Duke of Bulgaria. The latter fairly stated the
provocation given, and the Hermit could urge nothing in palliation
of so gross an outrage. A negotiation was entered into which
promised to be successful, and the Bulgarians were about to
deliver up the women and children when a party of undisciplined
crusaders, acting solely upon their own suggestion, endeavoured to
scale the walls and seize upon the town. Peter in vain exerted his
authority; the confusion became general, and after a short but
desperate battle, the crusaders threw down their arms and fled in
all directions. Their vast host was completely routed, the
slaughter being so great among them as to be counted, not by
hundreds, but by thousands.

It is said that the Hermit fled from this fatal field to a forest
a few miles from Nissa, abandoned by every human creature. It
would be curious to know whether, after so dire a reverse.

"His enpierced breast
Sharp sorrow did in thousand pieces rive,"

or whether his fiery zeal still rose superior to calamity, and
pictured the eventual triumph of his cause. He, so lately the
leader of a hundred thousand men, was now a solitary skulker in
the forests, liable at every instant to be discovered by some
pursuing Bulgarian, and cut off in mid career. Chance at last
brought him within sight of an eminence where two or three of his
bravest knights had collected five hundred of the stragglers.
These gladly received the Hermit, and a consultation having taken
place, it was resolved to gather together the scattered remnants
of the army. Fires were lighted on the hill, and scouts sent out
in all directions for the fugitives. Horns were sounded at
intervals to make known that friends were near, and before
nightfall the Hermit saw himself at the head of seven thousand
men. During the succeeding day he was joined by twenty thousand
more, and with this miserable remnant of his force he pursued his
route towards Constantinople. The bones of the rest mouldered in
the forests of Bulgaria.

On his arrival at Constantinople, where he found Walter the
Pennyless awaiting him, he was hospitably received by the Emperor
Alexius. It might have been expected that the sad reverses they
had undergone would have taught his followers common prudence;
but, unhappily for them, their turbulence and love of plunder were
not to be restrained. Although they were surrounded by friends, by
whom all their wants were liberally supplied, they could not
refrain from rapine. In vain the Hermit exhorted them to
tranquillity; he possessed no more power over them, in subduing
their passions, than the obscurest soldier of the host, They set
fire to several public buildings in Constantinople, out of pure
mischief, and stripped the lead from the roofs of the churches,
which, they afterwards sold for old metal in the purlieus of the
city. From this time may be dated the aversion which the Emperor
Alexius entertained for the crusaders, and which was afterwards
manifested in all his actions, even when he had to deal with the
chivalrous and more honourable armies which arrived after the
Hermit. He seems to have imagined that the Turks themselves were
enemies less formidable to his power than these outpourings of the
refuse of Europe: he soon found a pretext to hurry them into Asia
Minor. Peter crossed the Bosphorus with Walter, hut the excesses
of his followers were such, that, despairing of accomplishing any
good end by remaining at their head, he left them to themselves,
and returned to Constantinople, on the pretext of making
arrangements with the government of Alexius for a proper supply of
provisions. The crusaders, forgetting that they were in the
enemy's country, and that union, above all things, was desirable,
gave themselves up to dissensions. Violent disputes arose between
the Lombards and Normans, commanded by Walter the Pennyless, and
the Franks and Germans, led out by Peter. The latter separated
themselves from the former, and, choosing for their leader one
Reinaldo, or Reinhold, marched forward, and took possession of the
fortress of Exorogorgon. The Sultan Solimaun was on the alert,
with a superior force. A party of crusaders, which had been
detached from the fort, and stationed at a little distance as an
ambuscade, were surprised and cut to pieces, and Exorogorgon
invested on all sides. The siege was protracted for eight days,
during which the Christians suffered the most acute agony from the
want of water. It is hard to say how long the hope of succour or
the energy of despair would have enabled them to hold out: their
treacherous leader cut the matter short by renouncing the
Christian faith, and delivering up the fort into the hands of the
Sultan. He was followed by two or three of his officers; all the
rest, refusing to become Mahometans, were ruthlessly put to the
sword. Thus perished the last wretched remnant of the vast
multitude which had traversed Europe with Peter the Hermit.

Walter the Pennyless and his multitude met as miserable a fate. On
the news of the disasters of Exorogorgon, they demanded to be led
instantly against the Turks. Walter, who only wanted good soldiers
to have made a good general, was cooler of head, and saw all the
dangers of such a step. His force was wholly insufficient to make
any decisive movement in a country where the enemy was so much
superior, and where, in case of defeat, he had no secure position
to fall back upon; and he therefore expressed his opinion against
advancing until the arrival of reinforcements. This prudent
counsel found no favour: the army loudly expressed their
dissatisfaction at their chief, and prepared to march forward
without him. Upon this, the brave Walter put himself at their
head, and rushed to destruction. Proceeding towards Nice, the
modern Isnik, he was intercepted by the army of the Sultan: a
fierce battle ensued in which the Turks made fearful havoc; out of
twenty-five thousand Christians, twenty-two thousand were slain,
and among them Gautier himself, who fell pierced by seven mortal
wounds. The remaining three thousand retreated upon Civitot, where
they intrenched themselves.

Disgusted as was Peter the Hermit at the excesses of the
multitude, who, at his call, had forsaken Europe, his heart was
moved with grief and pity at their misfortunes. All his former
zeal revived: casting himself at the feet of the Emperor Alexius,
he implored him, with tears in his eyes, to send relief to the few
survivors at Civitot. The Emperor consented, and a force was sent,
which arrived just in time to save them from destruction. The
Turks had beleaguered the place, and the crusaders were reduced to
the last extremity. Negotiations were entered into, and the last
three thousand were conducted in safety to Constantinople. Alexius
had suffered too much by their former excesses to be very desirous
of retaining them in his capital: he therefore caused them all to
be disarmed, and, furnishing each with a sum of money, he sent
them back to their own country.

While these events were taking place, fresh hordes were issuing
from the woods and wilds of Germany, all bent for the Holy Land.
They were commanded by a fanatical priest, named Gottschalk, who,
like Gautier and Peter the Hermit, took his way through Hungary.
History is extremely meagre in her details of the conduct and fate
of this host, which amounted to at least one hundred thousand men.
Robbery and murder seem to have journeyed with them, and the poor
Hungarians were rendered almost desperate by their numbers and
rapacity. Karloman, the king of the country, made a bold effort to
get rid of them; for the resentment of his people had arrived at
such a height, that nothing short of the total extermination of
the crusaders would satisfy them. Gottschalk had to pay the
penalty, not only for the ravages of his own bands, but for those
of the swarms that had come before him. He and his army were
induced, by some means or other, to lay down their arms: the
savage Hungarians, seeing them thus defenceless, set upon them,
and slaughtered them in great numbers. How many escaped their
arrows, we are not informed; but not one of them reached
Palestine.

Other swarms, under nameless leaders, issued from Germany and
France, more brutal and more frantic than any that had preceded
them. Their fanaticism surpassed by far the wildest freaks of the
followers of the Hermit. In bands, varying in numbers from one to
five thousand, they traversed the country in all directions, bent
upon plunder and massacre. They wore the symbol of the crusade
upon their shoulders, but inveighed against the folly of
proceeding to the Holy Land to destroy the Turks, while they left
behind them so many Jews, the still more inveterate enemies of
Christ. They swore fierce vengeance against this unhappy race, and
murdered all the Hebrews they could lay their hands on, first
subjecting them to the most horrible mutilation. According to the
testimony of Albert Aquensis, they lived among each other in the
most shameless profligacy, and their vice was only exceeded by
their superstition. Whenever they were in search of Jews, they
were preceded by a goose and goat, which they believed to be holy,
and animated with divine power to discover the retreats of the
unbelievers. In Germany alone they slaughtered more than a
thousand Jews, notwithstanding all the efforts of the clergy to
save them. So dreadful was the cruelty of their tormentors, that
great numbers of Jews committed self-destruction to avoid falling
into their hands.

Again it fell to the lot of the Hungarians to deliver Europe from
these pests. When there were no more Jews to murder, the bands
collected in one body, and took the old route to the Holy Land, a
route stained with the blood of three hundred thousand who had
gone before, and destined also to receive theirs. The number of
these swarms has never been stated; but so many of them perished
in Hungary, that contemporary writers, despairing of giving any
adequate idea of their multitudes, state that the fields were
actually heaped with their corpses, and that for miles in its
course the waters of the Danube were dyed with their blood. It was
at Mersburg, on the Danube, that the greatest slaughter took
place,—a slaughter so great as to amount almost to extermination.
The Hungarians for a while disputed the passage of the river, but
the crusaders forced their way across, and attacking the city with
the blind courage of madness, succeeded in making a breach in the
walls. At this moment of victory an unaccountable fear came over
them. Throwing down their arms they fled panic-stricken, no one
knew why, and no one knew whither. The Hungarians followed, sword
in hand, and cut them down without remorse, and in such numbers,
that the stream of the Danube is said to have been choked up by
their unburied bodies.

This was the worst paroxysm of the madness of Europe; and this
passed, her chivalry stepped upon the scene. Men of cool heads,
mature plans, and invincible courage stood forward to lead and
direct the grand movement of Europe upon Asia. It is upon these
men that romance has lavished her most admiring epithets, leaving
to the condemnation of history the vileness and brutality of those
who went before. Of these leaders the most distinguished were
Godfrey of Bouillon Duke of Lorraine, and Raymond Count of
Toulouse. Four other chiefs of the royal blood of Europe also
assumed the Cross, and led each his army to the Holy Land: Hugh,
Count of Vermandois, brother of the King of France; Robert, Duke
of Normandy, the elder brother of William Rufus; Robert Count of
Flanders, and Boemund Prince of Tarentum, eldest son of the
celebrated Robert Guiscard. These men were all tinged with the
fanaticism of the age, but none of them acted entirely from
religious motives. They were neither utterly reckless like Gautier
sans Avoir, crazy like Peter the Hermit, nor brutal like
Gottschalk the Monk, but possessed each of these qualities in a
milder form; their valour being tempered by caution, their
religious zeal by worldly views, and their ferocity by the spirit
of chivalry. They saw whither led the torrent of the public will;
and it being neither their wish nor their interest to stem it,
they allowed themselves to be carried with it, in the hope that it
would lead them at last to a haven of aggrandizement. Around them
congregated many minor chiefs, the flower of the nobility of
France and Italy, with some few from Germany, England, and Spain.
It was wisely conjectured that armies so numerous would find a
difficulty in procuring provisions if they all journeyed by the
same road. They, therefore, resolved to separate, Godfrey de
Bouillon proceeding through Hungary and Bulgaria, the Count of
Toulouse through Lombardy and Dalmatia, and the other leaders
through Apulia to Constantinople, where the several divisions were
to reunite. The forces under these leaders have been variously
estimated. The Princess Anna Comnena talks of them as having been
as numerous as the sands on the sea-shore, or the stars in the
firmament. Fulcher of Chartres is more satisfactory, and
exaggerates less magnificently, when he states, that all the
divisions, when they had sat down before Nice in Bithynia,
amounted to one hundred thousand horsemen, and six hundred
thousand men on foot, exclusive of the priests, women and
children. Gibbon is of opinion that this amount is exaggerated;
but thinks the actual numbers did not fall very far short of the
calculation. The Princess Anna afterwards gives the number of
those under Godfrey of Bouillon as eighty thousand foot and horse;
and supposing that each of the other chiefs led an army as
numerous, the total would be near half a million. This must be
over rather than under the mark, as the army of Godfrey of
Bouillon was confessedly the largest when it set out, and suffered
less by the way than any other.

The Count of Vermandois was the first who set foot on the Grecian
territory. On his arrival at Durazzo he was received with every
mark of respect and courtesy by the agents of the Emperor, and his
followers were abundantly supplied with provisions. Suddenly
however, and without cause assigned, the Count was arrested by
order of the Emperor Alexius, and conveyed a close prisoner to
Constantinople. Various motives have been assigned by different
authors as having induced the Emperor to this treacherous and
imprudent proceeding. By every writer he has been condemned for so
flagrant a breach of hospitality and justice. The most probable
reason for his conduct appears to be that suggested by Guibert of
Nogent, who states that Alexius, fearful of the designs of the
crusaders upon his throne, resorted to this extremity in order
afterwards to force the Count to take the oath of allegiance to
him, as the price of his liberation. The example of a prince so
eminent as the brother of the King of France, would, he thought,
be readily followed by the other chiefs of the Crusade. In the
result he was wofully disappointed, as every man deserves to be
who commits positive evil that doubtful good may ensue. But this
line of policy accorded well enough with the narrowmindedness of
the Emperor, who, in the enervating atmosphere of his highly
civilized and luxurious court, dreaded the influx of the hardy and
ambitious warriors of the West, and strove to nibble away by
unworthy means, the power which he had not energy enough to
confront. If danger to himself had existed from the residence of
the chiefs in his dominions, he might easily have averted it, by
the simple means of placing himself at the head of the European
movement, and directing its energies to their avowed object, the
conquest of the Holy Land. But the Emperor, instead of being, as
he might have been, the lord and leader of the Crusades, which he
had himself aided in no inconsiderable degree to suscitate by his
embassies to the Pope, became the slave of men who hated and
despised him. No doubt the barbarous excesses of the followers of
Gautier and Peter the Hermit made him look upon the whole body of
them with disgust, but it was the disgust of a little mind, which
is glad of any excuse to palliate or justify its own irresolution
and love of ease.

Godfrey of Bouillon traversed Hungary in the most quiet and
orderly manner. On his arrival at Mersburg he found the country
strewed with the mangled corpses of the Jew-killers, and demanded
of the King of Hungary for what reason his people had set upon
them. The latter detailed the atrocities they had committed, and
made it so evident to Godfrey that the Hungarians had only acted
in self-defence, that the high-minded leader declared himself
satisfied and passed on, without giving or receiving molestation.
On his arrival at Philippopoli, he was informed for the first time
of the imprisonment of the Count of Vermandois. He immediately
sent messengers to the Emperor, demanding the Count's release, and
threatening, in case of refusal, to lay waste the country with
fire and sword. After waiting a day at Philippopoli he marched on
to Adrianople, where he was met by his messengers returning with
the Emperor's refusal. Godfrey, the bravest and most determined of
the leaders of the Crusade, was not a man to swerve from his word,
and the country was given up to pillage. Alexius here committed
another blunder. No sooner did he learn from dire experience that
the crusader was not an utterer of idle threats, than he consented
to the release of the prisoner. As he had been unjust in the first
instance, he became cowardly in the second, and taught his enemies
(for so the crusaders were forced to consider themselves) a lesson
which they took care to remember to his cost, that they could hope
nothing from his sense of justice, but every thing from his fears.
Godfrey remained encamped for several weeks in the neighbourhood
of Constantinople, to the great annoyance of Alexius, who sought
by every means to extort from him the homage he had extorted from
Vermandois. Sometimes he acted as if at open and declared war with
the crusaders, and sent his troops against them. Sometimes he
refused to supply them with food, and ordered the markets to be
shut against them, while at other times he was all for peace and
goodwill, and sent costly presents to Godfrey. The honest,
straightforward crusader was at last so wearied by his false
kindness, and so pestered by his attacks, that, allowing his
indignation to get the better of his judgment, he gave up the
country around Constantinople to be plundered by his soldiers. For
six days the flames of the farm-houses around struck terror into
the heart of Alexius, but as Godfrey anticipated they convinced
him of his error. Fearing that Constantinople itself would be the
next object of attack, he sent messengers to demand an interview
with Godfrey, offering at the same time to leave his son as a
hostage for his good faith. Godfrey agreed to meet him, and,
whether to put an end to these useless dissensions, or for some
other unexplained reason, he rendered homage to Alexius as his
liege lord. He was thereupon loaded with honours, and, according
to a singular custom of that age, underwent the ceremony of the
"adoption of honour," as son to the Emperor. Godfrey, and his
brother Baudouin de Bouillon, conducted themselves with proper
courtesy on this occasion, but were not able to restrain the
insolence of their followers, who did not conceive themselves
bound to keep any terms with a man so insincere as he had shewn
himself. One barbarous chieftain, Count Robert of Paris, carried
his insolence so far as to seat himself upon the throne, an insult
which Alexius merely resented with a sneer, but which did not
induce him to look with less mistrust upon the hordes that were
still advancing. It is impossible, notwithstanding his treachery,
to avoid feeling some compassion for the Emperor, whose life at
this time was rendered one long scene of misery by the presumption
of the crusaders, and his not altogether groundless fears of the
evil they might inflict upon him, should any untoward circumstance
force the current of their ambition to the conquest of his empire.
His daughter, Anna Comnena, feelingly deplores his state of life
at this time, and a learned German,68* in a recent work, describes
it, on the authority of the Princess, in the following manner:

"To avoid all occasion of offence to the Crusaders, Alexius
complied with all their whims, and their (on many occasions)
unreasonable demands, even at the expense of great bodily
exertion, at a time when he was suffering severely under the gout,
which eventually brought him to his grave. No crusader who desired
an interview with him was refused access: he listened with the
utmost patience to the long-winded harangues which their loquacity
or zeal continually wearied him with: he endured, without
expressing any impatience, the unbecoming and haughty language
which they permitted themselves to employ towards him, and
severely reprimanded his officers when they undertook to defend
the dignity of the Imperial station from these rude assaults; for
he trembled with apprehension at the slightest disputes, lest they
might become the occasion of greater evil. Though the Counts often
appeared before him with trains altogether unsuitable to their
dignity and to his—sometimes with an entire troop, which
completely filled the Royal apartment—the Emperor held his peace.
He listened to them at all hours; he often seated himself on his
throne at day-break to attend to their wishes and requests, and
the evening twilight saw him still in the same place. Very
frequently he could not snatch time to refresh himself with meat
and drink. During many nights he could not obtain any repose, and
was obliged to indulge in an unrefreshing sleep upon his throne,
with his head resting on his hands. Even this slumber was
continually disturbed by the appearance and harangues of some
newly-arrived rude knights. When all the courtiers, wearied out by
the efforts of the day and by night-watching, could no longer keep
themselves on their feet, and sank down exhausted—some upon
benches and others on the floor—Alexius still rallied his strength
to listen with seeming attention to the wearisome chatter of the
Latins, that they might have no occasion or pretext for
discontent. In such a state of fear and anxiety, how could Alexius
comport himself with dignity and like an Emperor?"

Alexius, however, had himself to blame, in a great measure, for
the indignities he suffered: owing to his insincerity, the
crusaders mistrusted him so much, that it became at last a common
saying, that the Turks and Saracens were not such inveterate foes
to the Western or Latin Christians as the Emperor Alexius and the
Greeks.69* It would be needless in this sketch, which does not
profess to be so much a history of the Crusades as of the madness
of Europe, from which they sprang, to detail the various acts of
bribery and intimidation, cajolery and hostility, by which Alexius
contrived to make each of the leaders in succession, as they
arrived, take the oath of allegiance to him as their Suzerain. One
way or another he exacted from each the barren homage on which he
had set his heart, and they were then allowed to proceed into Asia
Minor. One only, Raymond de St. Gilles, Count of Toulouse,
obstinately refused the homage.

Their residence in Constantinople was productive of no good to the
armies of the Cross. Bickerings and contentions on the one hand,
and the influence of a depraved and luxurious court on the other,
destroyed the elasticity of their spirits, and cooled the first
ardour of their enthusiasm. At one time the army of the Count of
Toulouse was on the point of disbanding itself; and, had not their
leader energetically removed them across the Bosphorus, this would
have been the result. Once in Asia, their spirits in some degree
revived, and the presence of danger and difficulty nerved them to
the work they had undertaken. The first operation of the war was
the siege of Nice, to gain possession of which all their efforts
were directed.

Godfrey of Bouillon and the Count of Vermandois were joined under
its walls by each host in succession, as it left Constantinople.
Among the celebrated crusaders who fought at this siege, we find,
besides the leaders already mentioned, the brave and generous
Tancred, whose name and fame have been immortalized in the
Gerusalemme Liberata, the valorous Bishop of Puy, Baldwin,
afterwards King of Jerusalem, and Peter the Hermit, now an almost
solitary soldier, shorn of all the power and influence he had
formerly possessed. Kilij Aslaun, the Sultan of Roum, and chief of
the Seljukian Turks, whose deeds, surrounded by the false halo of
romance, are familiar to the readers of Tasso, under the name of
Soliman, marched to defend this city, but was defeated after
several obstinate engagements, in which the Christians shewed a
degree of heroism that quite astonished him. The Turkish chief had
expected to find a wild undisciplined multitude, like that under
Peter the Hermit, without leaders capable of enforcing obedience;
instead of which he found the most experienced leaders of the age
at the head of armies that had just fanaticism enough to be
ferocious, but not enough to render them ungovernable. In these
engagements, many hundreds fell on both sides; and on both sides
the most revolting barbarity was practised: the crusaders cut off
the heads of the fallen Mussulmans, and sent them in paniers to
Constantinople, as trophies of their victory. After the temporary
defeat of Kilij Aslaun, the siege of Nice was carried on with
redoubled vigour. The Turks defended themselves with the greatest
obstinacy, and discharged shewers of poisoned arrows upon the
crusaders. When any unfortunate wretch was killed under the walls,
they let down iron hooks from above, and drew the body up, which,
after stripping and mutilating, they threw back again at the
besiegers. The latter were well supplied with provisions, and for
six-and-thirty days the siege continued without any relaxation of
the efforts on either side. Many tales are told of the almost
superhuman heroism of the Christian leaders—how one man put a
thousand to flight; and how the arrows of the faithful never
missed their mark. One anecdote of Godfrey of Bouillon, related by
Albert of Aix, is worth recording, not only as shewing the high
opinion entertained of his valour, but as shewing the contagious
credulity of the armies—a credulity which as often led them to the
very verge of defeat, as it incited them to victory. One Turk, of
gigantic stature, took his station day by day on the battlements
of Nice, and, bearing an enormous bow, committed great havoc among
the Christian host. Not a shaft he sped, but bore death upon its
point; and, although the Crusaders aimed repeatedly at his breast,
and he stood in the most exposed position, their arrows fell
harmless at his feet. He seemed to be invulnerable to attack; and
a report was soon spread abroad, that he was no other than the
Arch Fiend himself, and that mortal hand could not prevail against
him. Godfrey of Bouillon, who had no faith in the supernatural
character of the Mussulman, determined, if possible, to put an end
to the dismay which was rapidly paralyzing the exertions of his
best soldiers. Taking a huge cross-bow, he stood forward in front
of the army, to try the steadiness of his hand against the
much-dreaded archer: the shaft was aimed directly at his heart,
and took fatal effect. The Moslem fell amid the groans of the
besieged, and the shouts of Deus adjuva! Deus adjuva! the war-cry
of the besiegers.

At last the crusaders imagined that they had overcome all
obstacles, and were preparing to take possession of the city, when
to their great astonishment they saw the flag of the Emperor
Alexius flying from the battlements. An emissary of the Emperor,
named Faticius or Tatin, had contrived to gain admission with a
body of Greek troops at a point which the crusaders had left
unprotected, and had persuaded the Turks to surrender to him
rather than to the crusading forces. The greatest indignation
prevailed in the army when this stratagem was discovered, and the
soldiers were, with the utmost difficulty, prevented from renewing
the attack and besieging the Greek emissary.

The army, however, continued its march, and by some means or other
was broken into two divisions; some historians say
accidentally,70* while others affirm by mutual consent, and for
the convenience of obtaining provisions on the way.71* The one
division was composed of the forces under Bohemund, Tancred, and
the Duke of Normandy; while the other, which took a route at some
distance on the right, was commanded by Godfrey of Bouillon and
the other chiefs. The Sultan of Roum, who, after his losses at
Nice, had been silently making great efforts to crush the
crusaders at one blow, collected in a very short time all the
multitudinous tribes that owed him allegiance, and with an army
which, according to a moderate calculation, amounted to two
hundred thousand men, chiefly cavalry, he fell upon the first
division of the Christian host in the valley of Dorylaeum. It was
early in the morning of the 1st of July 1097, when the crusaders
saw the first companies of the Turkish horsemen pouring down upon
them from the hills. Bohemund had hardly time to set himself in
order, and transport his sick and helpless to the rear, when the
overwhelming force of the Orientals was upon him. The Christian
army, composed principally of men on foot, gave way on all sides,
and the hoofs of the Turkish steeds, and the poisoned arrows of
their bowmen, mowed them down by hundreds. After having lost the
flower of their chivalry, the Christians retreated upon their
baggage, when a dreadful slaughter took place. Neither women nor
children, nor the sick, were spared. Just as they were reduced to
the last extremity, Godfrey of Bouillon and the Count of Toulouse
made their appearance on the field, and turned the tide of battle.
After an obstinate engagement the Turks fled, and their rich camp
fell into the bands of the enemy. The loss of the crusaders
amounted to about four thousand men, with several chiefs of
renown, among whom were Count Robert of Paris and William the
brother of Tancred. The loss of the Turks, which did not exceed
this number, taught them to pursue a different mode of warfare.
The Sultan was far from being defeated. With his still gigantic
army, he laid waste all the country on either side of the
crusaders. The latter, who were unaware of the tactics of the
enemy, found plenty of provisions in the Turkish camp; but so far
from economizing these resources, they gave themselves up for
several days to the most unbounded extravagance. They soon paid
dearly for their heedlessness. In the ravaged country of Phrygia,
through which they advanced towards Antiochetta, they suffered
dreadfully for want of food for themselves and pasture for their
cattle. Above them was a scorching sun, almost sufficient of
itself to dry up the freshness of the land, a task which the
firebrands of the Sultan had but too surely effected, and water
was not to be had after the first day of their march. The pilgrims
died at the rate of five hundred a-day. The horses of the knights
perished on the road, and the baggage which they had aided to
transport, was either placed upon dogs, sheep, and swine, or
abandoned altogether. In some of the calamities that afterwards
befell them, the Christians gave themselves up to the most
reckless profligacy; but upon this occasion, the dissensions which
prosperity had engendered, were all forgotten. Religion, often
disregarded, arose in the stern presence of misfortune, and
cheered them as they died by the promises of eternal felicity.

At length they reached Antiochetta, where they found water in
abundance, and pastures for their expiring cattle. Plenty once
more surrounded them, and here they pitched their tents. Untaught
by the bitter experience of famine, they again gave themselves up
to luxury and waste.

On the 18th of October they sat down before the strong city of
Antioch, the siege of which, and the events to which it gave rise,
are among the most extraordinary incidents of the Crusade. The
city, which is situated on an eminence, and washed by the river
Orontes, is naturally a very strong position, and the Turkish
garrison were well supplied with provisions to endure a long
siege. In this respect the Christians were also fortunate, but,
unluckily for themselves, unwise. Their force amounted to three
hundred thousand fighting men; and we are informed by Raymond
d'Argilles, that they had so much provision, that they threw away
the greater part of every animal they killed, being so dainty,
that they would only eat particular parts of the beast. So insane
was their extravagance, that in less than ten days famine began to
stare them in the face. After making a fruitless attempt to gain
possession of the city by a coup de main, they, starving
themselves, sat down to starve out the enemy. But with want came a
cooling of enthusiasm. The chiefs began to grow weary of the
expedition. Baldwin had previously detached himself from the main
body of the army, and, proceeding to Edessa, had intrigued himself
into the supreme power in that little principality. The other
leaders were animated with less zeal than heretofore. Stephen of
Chartres and Hugh of Vermandois began to waver, unable to endure
the privations which their own folly and profusion had brought
upon them. Even Peter the Hermit became sick at heart ere all was
over. When the famine had become so urgent that they were reduced
to eat human flesh in the extremity of their hunger, Bohemund and
Robert of Flanders set forth on an expedition to procure a supply.
They were in a slight degree successful; but the relief they
brought was not economized, and in two days they were as destitute
as before. Faticius, the Greek commander and representative of
Alexius, deserted with his division under pretence of seeking for
food, and his example was followed by various bodies of crusaders.

Misery was rife among those who remained, and they strove to
alleviate it by a diligent attention to signs and omens. These,
with extraordinary visions seen by the enthusiastic, alternately
cheered and depressed them according as they foretold the triumph
or pictured the reverses of the Cross. At one time a violent
hurricane arose, levelling great trees with the ground, and
blowing down the tents of the Christian leaders. At another time
an earthquake shook the camp, and was thought to prognosticate
some great impending evil to the cause of Christendom. But a comet
which appeared shortly afterwards, raised them from the
despondency into which they had fallen; their lively imaginations
making it assume the form of a flaming cross leading them on to
victory. Famine was not the least of the evils they endured.
Unwholesome food, and the impure air from the neighbouring
marshes, engendered pestilential diseases, which carried them off
more rapidly than the arrows of the enemy. A thousand of them died
in a day, and it became at last a matter of extreme difficulty to
afford them burial. To add to their misery, each man grew
suspicious of his neighbour; for the camp was infested by Turkish
spies, who conveyed daily to the besieged intelligence of the
movements and distresses of the enemy. With a ferocity, engendered
by despair, Bohemund caused two spies, whom he had detected, to be
roasted alive in presence of the army, and within sight of the
battlements of Antioch. But even this example failed to reduce
their numbers, and the Turks continued to be as well informed as
the Christians themselves of all that was passing in the camp.

The news of the arrival of a reinforcement of soldiers from
Europe, with an abundant stock of provisions, came to cheer them
when reduced to the last extremity. The welcome succour landed at
St. Simeon, the port of Antioch, and about six miles from that
city. Thitherwards the famishing crusaders proceeded in tumultuous
bands, followed by Bohemund and the Count of Toulouse, with strong
detachments of their retainers and vassals, to escort the supplies
in safety to the camp. The garrison of Antioch, forewarned of this
arrival, was on the alert, and a corps of Turkish archers was
despatched to lie in ambuscade among the mountains and intercept
their return. Bohemund, laden with provisions, was encountered in
the rocky passes by the Turkish host. Great numbers of his
followers were slain, and he himself had just time to escape to
the camp with the news of his defeat. Godfrey of Bouillon, the
Duke of Normandy, and the other leaders had heard the rumour of
this battle, and were at that instant preparing for the rescue.
The army was immediately in motion, animated both by zeal and by
hunger, and marched so rapidly as to intercept the victorious
Turks before they had time to reach Antioch with their spoil. A
fierce battle ensued, which lasted from noon till the going down
of the sun. The Christians gained and maintained the advantage,
each man fighting as if upon himself alone had depended the
fortune of the day. Hundreds of Turks perished in the Orontes, and
more than two thousand were left dead upon the field of battle.
All the provision was recaptured and brought in safety to the
camp, whither the crusaders returned singing Allelulia! or
shouting Deus adjuva! Deus adjuva!

This relief lasted for some days, and, had it been duly
economized, would have lasted much longer; but the chiefs had no
authority, and were unable to exercise any control over its
distribution. Famine again approached with rapid strides, and
Stephen Count of Blois, not liking the prospect, withdrew from the
camp, with four thousand of his retainers, and established himself
at Alexandretta. The moral influence of this desertion was highly
prejudicial upon those who remained; and Bohemund, the most
impatient and ambitious of the chiefs, foresaw that, unless
speedily checked, it would lead to the utter failure of the
expedition. It was necessary to act decisively; the army murmured
at the length of the siege, and the Sultan was collecting his
forces to crush them. Against the efforts of the crusaders Antioch
might have held out for months; but treason within effected that,
which courage without might have striven for in vain.

Baghasihan, the Turkish Prince or Emir of Antioch, had under his
command an Armenian of the name of Phirouz, whom he had intrusted
with the defence of a tower on that part of the city wall which
overlooked the passes of the mountains. Bohemund, by means of a
spy who had embraced the Christian religion, and to whom he had
given his own name at baptism, kept up a daily communication with
this captain, and made him the most magnificent promises of
reward, if he would deliver up his post to the Christian knights.
Whether the proposal was first made by Bohemund or by the Armenian
is uncertain, but that a good understanding soon existed between
them, is undoubted; and a night was fixed for the execution of the
project. Bohemund communicated the scheme to Godfrey and the Count
of Toulouse, with the stipulation that, if the city were won, he,
as the soul of the enterprise, should enjoy the dignity of Prince
of Antioch. The other leaders hesitated: ambition and jealousy
prompted them to refuse their aid in furthering the views of the
intriguer. More mature consideration decided them to acquiesce,
and seven hundred of the bravest knights were chosen for the
expedition, the real object of which, for fear of spies, was kept
a profound secret from the rest of the army. When all was ready, a
report was promulgated, that the seven hundred were intended to
form an ambuscade for a division of the Sultan's army, which was
stated to be approaching.

Every thing favoured the treacherous project of the Armenian
captain, who, on his solitary watchtower, received due intimation
of the approach of the crusaders. The night was dark and stormy;
not a star was visible above, and the wind howled so furiously as
to overpower all other sounds: the rain fell in torrents, and the
watchers on the towers adjoining to that of Phirouz could not hear
the tramp of the armed knights for the wind, nor see them for the
obscurity of the night and the dismalness of the weather. When
within shot of the walls, Bohemund sent forward an interpreter to
confer with the Armenian. The latter urged them to make haste, and
seize the favourable interval, as armed men, with lighted torches,
patrolled the battlements every half hour, and at that instant
they had just passed. The chiefs were instantly at the foot of the
wall: Phirouz let down a rope; Bohemund attached it to the end of
a ladder of hides, which was then raised by the Armenian, and held
while the knights mounted. A momentary fear came over the spirits
of the adventurers, and every one hesitated. At last Bohemund,72*
encouraged by Phirouz from above, ascended a few steps on the
ladder, and was followed by Godfrey, Count Robert of Flanders, and
a number of other knights. As they advanced, others pressed
forward, until their weight became too great for the ladder,
which, breaking, precipitated about a dozen of them to the ground,
where they fell one upon the other, making a great clatter with
their heavy coats of mail. For a moment they thought that all was
lost; but the wind made so loud a howling as it swept in fierce
gusts through the mountain gorges—and the Orontes, swollen by the
rain, rushed so noisily along—that the guards heard nothing. The
ladder was easily repaired, and the knights ascended two at a
time, and reached the platform in safety, When sixty of them had
thus ascended, the torch of the coming patrol was seen to gleam at
the angle of the wall. Hiding themselves behind a buttress, they
awaited his coming in breathless silence. As soon as he arrived at
arm's length, he was suddenly seized, and, before he could open
his lips to raise an alarm, the silence of death closed them up
for ever. They next descended rapidly the spiral staircase of the
tower, and, opening the portal, admitted the whole of their
companions. Raymond of Toulouse, who, cognizant of the whole plan,
had been left behind with the main body of the army, heard at this
instant the signal horn, which announced that an entry had been
effected, and, leading on his legions, the town was attacked from
within and without.

Imagination cannot conceive a scene more dreadful than that
presented by the devoted city of Antioch on that night of horror.
The crusaders fought with a blind fury, which fanaticism and
suffering alike incited. Men, women, and children were
indiscriminately slaughtered till the streets ran in gore.
Darkness increased the destruction, for when morning dawned the
crusaders found themselves with their swords at the breasts of
their fellow-soldiers, whom they had mistaken for foes. The
Turkish commander fled, first to the citadel, and that becoming
insecure, to the mountains, whither he was pursued and slain, his
grey head brought back to Antioch as a trophy. At daylight the
massacre ceased, and the crusaders gave themselves up to plunder.
They found gold, and jewels, and silks, and velvets in abundance,
but, of provisions, which were of more importance to them, they
found but little of any kind. Corn was excessively scarce, and
they discovered to their sorrow that in this respect the besieged
had been but little better off than the besiegers.

Before they had time to instal themselves in their new position,
and take the necessary measures for procuring a supply, the city
was invested by the Turks. The Sultan of Persia had raised an
immense army, which he intrusted to the command of Kerbogha, the
Emir of Mosul, with instructions to sweep the Christian locusts
from the face of the land. The Emir effected junction with Kilij
Aslaun, and the two armies surrounded the city. Discouragement
took complete possession of the Christian host, and numbers of
them contrived to elude the vigilance of the besiegers, and escape
to Count Stephen of Blots at Alexandretta, to whom they related
the most exaggerated tales of the misery they had endured, and the
utter hopelessness of continuing the war. Stephen forthwith broke
up his camp and retreated towards Constantinople. On his way he
was met by the Emperor Alexius, at the head of a considerable
force, hastening to take possession of the conquests made by the
Christians in Asia. As soon as he heard of their woeful plight, he
turned back, and proceeded with the Count of Blots to
Constantinople, leaving the remnant of the crusaders to shift for
themselves.

The news of this defection increased the discouragement at
Antioch. All the useless horses of the army had been slain and
eaten, and dogs, cats, and rats were sold at enormous prices. Even
vermin were becoming scarce. With increasing famine came a
pestilence, so that in a short time but sixty thousand remained of
the three hundred thousand that had originally invested Antioch.
But this bitter extremity, while it annihilated the energy of the
host, only served to knit the leaders more firmly together; and
Bohemund, Godfrey, and Tancred swore never to desert the cause as
long as life lasted. The former strove in vain to reanimate the
courage of his followers. They were weary and sick at heart, and
his menaces and promises were alike thrown away. Some of them had
shut themselves up in the houses, and refused to come forth.
Bohemund, to drive them to their duty, set fire to the whole
quarter, and many of them perished in the flames, while the rest
of the army looked on with the utmost indifference. Bohemund,
animated himself by a worldly spirit, did not know the true
character of the crusaders, nor understand the religious madness
which had brought them in such shoals from Europe. A priest, more
clear-sighted, devised a scheme which restored all their
confidence, and inspired them with a courage so wonderful as to
make the poor sixty thousand emaciated, sick, and starving
zealots, put to flight the well-fed and six times as numerous
legions of the Sultan of Persia.

This priest, a native of Provence, was named Peter Barthelemy, and
whether he were a knave or an enthusiast, or both; a principal, or
a tool in the hands of others, will ever remain a matter of doubt.
Certain it is, however, that he was the means of raising the siege
of Antioch, and causing the eventual triumph of the armies of the
Cross. When the strength of the crusaders was completely broken by
their sufferings, and hope had fled from every bosom, Peter came
to Count Raymond of Toulouse, and demanded an interview on matters
of serious moment. He was immediately admitted. He said that, some
weeks previously, at the time the Christians were besieging
Antioch, he was reposing alone in his tent, when he was startled
by the shock of the earthquake, which had so alarmed the whole
host. Through violent terror of the shock he could only ejaculate,
God help me! when turning round he saw two men standing before
him, whom he at once recognized by the halo of glory around them
as beings of another world. One of them appeared to be an aged
man, with reddish hair sprinkled with grey, black eyes, and a long
flowing grey beard. The other was younger, larger, and handsomer,
and had something more divine in his aspect. The elderly man alone
spoke, and informed him that he was the Holy Apostle St. Andrew,
and desired him to seek out the Count Raymond, the Bishop of Puy,
and Raymond of Altopulto, and ask them why the Bishop did not
exhort the people, and sign them with the cross which he bore. The
Apostle then took him, naked in his shirt as he was, and
transported him through the air into the heart of the city of
Antioch, where he led him into the church of St. Peter, at that
time a Saracen mosque. The Apostle made him stop by the pillar
close to the steps by which they ascend on the south side to the
altar, where hung two lamps, which gave out a light brighter than
that of the noonday sun; the younger man, whom he did not at that
time know, standing afar off, near the steps of the altar. The
Apostle then descended into the ground and brought up a lance,
which he gave into his hand, telling him that it was the very
lance that had opened the side whence had flowed the salvation of
the world. With tears of joy he held the holy lance, and implored
the Apostle to allow him to take it away and deliver it into the
hands of Count Raymond. The Apostle refused, and buried the lance
again in the ground, commanding him, when the city was won from
the infidels, to go with twelve chosen men, and dig it up again in
the same place. The Apostle then transported him back to his tent,
and the two vanished from his sight. He had neglected, he said, to
deliver this message, afraid that his wonderful tale would not
obtain credence from men of such high rank. After some days he
again saw the holy vision, as he was gone out of the camp to look
for food. This time the divine eyes of the younger looked
reproachfully upon him. He implored the Apostle to choose some one
else more fitted for the mission, but the Apostle refused, and
smote him with a disorder of the eyes, as a punishment for his
disobedience. With an obstinacy unaccountable even to himself, he
had still delayed. A third time the Apostle and his companion had
appeared to him, as he was in a tent with his master William at
St. Simeon. On that occasion St. Andrew told him to bear his
command to the Count of Toulouse not to bathe in the waters of the
Jordan when he came to it, but to cross over in a boat, clad in a
shirt and breeches of linen, which he should sprinkle with the
sacred waters of the river. These clothes he was afterwards to
preserve along with the holy lance. His master William, although
he could not see the saint, distinctly heard the voice giving
orders to that effect. Again he neglected to execute the
commission, and again the saints appeared to him, when he was at
the port of Mamistra, about to sail for Cyprus, and St. Andrew
threatened him with eternal perdition if he refused longer. Upon
this he made up his mind to divulge all that had been revealed to
him.

The Count of Toulouse, who, in all probability, concocted this
precious tale with the priest, appeared struck with the recital,
and sent immediately for the Bishop of Puy and Raymond of
Altapulto. The Bishop at once expressed his disbelief of the whole
story, and refused to have anything to do in the matter. The Count
of Toulouse, on the contrary, saw abundant motives, if not for
believing, for pretending to believe; and, in the end, he so
impressed upon the mind of the Bishop the advantage that might be
derived from it, in working up the popular mind to its former
excitement, that the latter reluctantly agreed to make search in
due form for the holy weapon. The day after the morrow was fixed
upon for the ceremony, and, in the mean time, Peter was consigned
to the care of Raymond, the Count's chaplain, in order that no
profane curiosity might have an opportunity of cross-examining
him, and putting him to a non-plus.

Twelve devout men were forthwith chosen for the undertaking, among
whom were the Count of Toulouse and his chaplain. They began
digging at sunrise, and continued unwearied till near sunset,
without finding the lance;—they might have dug till this day with
no better success, had not Peter himself sprung into the pit,
praying to God to bring the lance to light, for the strengthening
and victory of his people. Those who hide know where to find; and
so it was with Peter, for both he and the lance found their way
into the hole at the same time. On a sudden, he and Raymond, the
chaplain, beheld its point in the earth, and Raymond, drawing it
forth, kissed it with tears of joy, in sight of the multitude
which had assembled in the church. It was immediately enveloped in
a rich purple cloth, already prepared to receive it, and exhibited
in this state to the faithful, who made the building resound with
their shouts of gladness.

Peter had another vision the same night, and became from that day
forth "dreamer of dreams," in general, to the army. He stated on
the following day, that the Apostle Andrew and "the youth with the
divine aspect" appeared to him again, and directed that the Count
of Toulouse, as a reward for his persevering piety, should carry
the Holy Lance at the head of the army, and that the day on which
it was found should be observed as a solemn festival throughout
Christendom. St. Andrew shewed him, at the same time, the holes in
the feet and hands of his benign companion; and he became
convinced that he stood in the awful presence of THE REDEEMER.

Peter gained so much credit by his visions that dreaming became
contagious. Other monks beside himself were visited by the saints,
who promised victory to the host if it would valiantly hold out to
the last, and crowns of eternal glory to those who fell in the
fight. Two deserters, wearied of the fatigues and privations of
the war, who had stealthily left the camp, suddenly returned, and
seeking Bohemund, told him that they had been met by two
apparitions, who, with great anger, had commanded them to return.
The one of them said, that he recognized his brother, who had been
killed in battle some months before, and that he had a halo of
glory around his head. The other, still more hardy, asserted that
the apparition which had spoken to him was the Saviour himself,
who had promised eternal happiness as his reward if he returned to
his duty, but the pains of eternal fire if he rejected the cross.
No one thought of disbelieving these men. The courage of the army
immediately revived; despondency gave way to hope; every arm grew
strong again, and the pangs of hunger were for a time disregarded.
The enthusiasm which had led them from Europe burned forth once
more as brightly as ever, and they demanded, with loud cries, to
be led against the enemy. The leaders were not unwilling. In a
battle lay their only chance of salvation; and although Godfrey,
Bohemund, and Tancred received the story of the lance with much
suspicion, they were too wise to throw discredit upon an imposture
which bade fair to open the gates of victory.

Peter the Hermit was previously sent to the camp of Kerbogha to
propose that the quarrel between the two religions should be
decided by a chosen number of the bravest soldiers of each army.
Kerbogha turned from him with a look of contempt, and said he
could agree to no proposals from a set of such miserable beggars
and robbers. With this uncourteous answer Peter returned to
Antioch. Preparations were immediately commenced for an attack
upon the enemy: the latter continued to be perfectly well informed
of all the proceedings of the Christian camp. The citadel of
Antioch, which remained in their possession, overlooked the town,
and the commander of the fortress could distinctly see all that
was passing within. On the morning of the 28th of June 1098 a
black flag, hoisted from its highest tower, announced to the
besieging army that the Christians were about to sally forth.

The Moslem leaders knew the sad inroads that famine and disease
had made upon the numbers of the foe: they knew that not above two
hundred of the knights had horses to ride upon, and that the foot
soldiers were sick and emaciated; but they did not know the almost
incredible valour which superstition had infused into their
hearts. The story of the lance they treated with the most supreme
contempt, and, secure of an easy victory, they gave themselves no
trouble in preparing for the onslaught. It is related that
Kerbogha was playing a game at chess, when the black flag on the
citadel gave warning of the enemy's approach, and that, with true
oriental coolness, he insisted upon finishing the game ere he
bestowed any of his attention upon a foe so unworthy. The defeat
of his advanced post of two thousand men aroused him from his
apathy.

The crusaders, after this first victory, advanced joyfully towards
the mountains, hoping to draw the Turks to a place where their
cavalry would be unable to manoeuvre. Their spirits were light and
their courage high, as led on by the Duke of Normandy, Count
Robert of Flanders, and Hugh of Vermandois, they came within sight
of the splendid camp of the enemy. Godfrey of Bouillon and
Adhemar, Bishop of Puy, followed immediately after these leaders,
the latter clad in complete armour, and bearing the Holy Lance
within sight of the whole army: Bohemund and Tancred brought up
the rear.

Kerbogha, aware at last that his enemy was not so despicable, took
vigorous measures to remedy his mistake, and, preparing himself to
meet the Christians in front, he despatched the Sultan Soliman, of
Roum, to attack them in the rear. To conceal this movement, he set
fire to the dried weeds and grass with which the ground was
covered, and Soliman, taking a wide circuit with his cavalry,
succeeded, under cover of the smoke, in making good his position
in the rear. The battle raged furiously in front; the arrows of
the Turks fell thick as hail, and their well-trained squadrons
trod the crusaders under their hoofs like stubble. Still the
affray was doubtful; for the Christians had the advantage of the
ground, and were rapidly gaining upon the enemy, when the
overwhelming forces of Soliman arrived in the rear. Godfrey and
Tancred flew to the rescue of Bohemund, spreading dismay in the
Turkish ranks by their fierce impetuosity. The Bishop of Puy was
left almost alone with the Provencals to oppose the legions
commanded by Kerbogha in person; but the presence of the Holy
Lance made a hero of the meanest soldier in his train. Still,
however, the numbers of the enemy seemed interminable. The
Christians, attacked on every side, began at last to give way, and
the Turks made sure of victory.

At this moment a cry was raised in the Christian host that the
saints were fighting on their side. The battle-field was clear of
the smoke from the burning weeds, which had curled away, and hung
in white clouds of fantastic shape on the brow of the distant
mountains. Some imaginative zealot, seeing this dimly through the
dust of the battle, called out to his fellows, to look at the army
of saints, clothed in white, and riding upon white horses, that
were pouring over the hills to the rescue. All eyes were
immediately turned to the distant smoke; faith was in every heart;
and the old battle-cry, God wills it! God wills it! resounded
through the field, as every soldier, believing that God was
visibly sending His armies to his aid, fought with an energy
unfelt before. A panic seized the Persian and Turkish hosts, and
they gave way in all directions. In vain Kerbogha tried to rally
them. Fear is more contagious than enthusiasm, and they fled over
the mountains like deer pursued by the hounds. The two leaders,
seeing the uselessness of further efforts, fled with the rest; and
that immense army was scattered over Palestine, leaving nearly
seventy thousand of its dead upon the field of battle.

Their magnificent camp fell into the hands of the enemy, with its
rich stores of corn, and its droves of sheep and oxen. Jewels,
gold, and rich velvets in abundance were distributed among the
army. Tancred followed the fugitives over the hills, and reaped as
much plunder as those who had remained in the camp. The way, as
they fled, was covered with valuables, and horses of the finest
breed of Arabia became so plentiful, that every knight of the
Christians was provided with a steed. The crusaders, in this
battle, acknowledge to have lost nearly ten thousand men.

Their return to Antioch was one of joy indeed: the citadel was
surrendered at once, and many of the Turkish garrison embraced the
Christian faith, and the rest were suffered to depart. A solemn
thanksgiving was offered up by the Bishop of Puy, in which the
whole army joined, and the Holy Lance was visited by every
soldier.

The enthusiasm lasted for some days, and the army loudly demanded
to be led forward to Jerusalem, the grand goal of all their
wishes: but none of their leaders was anxious to move;—the more
prudent among them, such as Godfrey and Tancred, for reasons of
expediency; and the more ambitious, such as the Count of Toulouse
and Bohemund, for reasons of self-interest. Violent dissensions
sprang up again between all the chiefs. Raymond of Toulouse, who
was left at Antioch to guard the town, had summoned the citadel to
surrender, as soon as he saw that there was no fear of any attack
upon the part of the Persians; and the other chiefs found, upon
their return, his banner waving on its walls. This had given great
offence to Bohemund, who had stipulated the principality of
Antioch as his reward for winning the town in the first instance.
Godfrey and Tancred supported his claim, and, after a great deal
of bickering, the flag of Raymond was lowered from the tower, and
that of Bohemund hoisted in its stead, who assumed from that time
the title of Prince of Antioch. Raymond, however, persisted in
retaining possession of one of the city gates and its adjacent
towers, which he held for several months, to the great annoyance
of Bohemund and the scandal of the army. The Count became in
consequence extremely unpopular, although his ambition was not a
whit more unreasonable than that of Bohemund himself, nor of
Baldwin, who had taken up his quarters at Edessa, where he
exercised the functions of a petty sovereign.

The fate of Peter Barthelemy deserves to be recorded. Honours and
consideration had come thick upon him after the affair of the
lance, and he consequently felt bound in conscience to continue
the dreams which had made him a personage of so much importance.
The mischief of it was, that like many other liars he had a very
bad memory, and he contrived to make his dreams contradict each
other in the most palpable manner. St. John one night appeared to
him, and told one tale, while, a week after, St. Paul told a
totally different story, and held out hopes quite incompatible
with those of his apostolic brother. The credulity of that age had
a wide maw, and Peter's visions must have been absurd and
outrageous indeed, when the very men who had believed in the lance
refused to swallow any more of his wonders. Bohemund at last, for
the purpose of annoying the Count of Toulouse, challenged poor
Peter to prove the truth of his story of the lance by the fiery
ordeal. Peter could not refuse a trial so common in that age, and
being besides encouraged by the Count and his chaplain, Raymond,
an early day was appointed for the ceremony. The previous night
was spent in prayer and fasting, according to custom, and Peter
came