Blackwoods Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 366, April, 1846

Inexplicable as such contradictory conduct appears to those who "sit at home at ease," and are involved in none of the terrible calamities which draw forth the latent marvels of the human heart, history in every age affords too many examples of its occurrence to permit us to doubt the truth of the narrative. It is well known that during the worst period of the French Revolution, in the massacres in the prisons on Sept. 2, 1792, some of the mob who had literally wearied their arms in hewing down the prisoners let loose from the jails, took a momentary fit of compunction, were seized with pity for some of the victims, and after saving them from their murderers, accompanied them home, and witnessed with tears of joy the meeting between them and their relations. We are not warranted, after such facts have been recorded on authentic evidence in all ages, in asserting that this transient humanity is assumed or hypocritical. The conclusion rather is, that the human mind is so strangely compounded of good and bad principles, and contains so many veins of thought apparently irreconcilable with each other, that scarce any thing can be set down as absolutely impossible, but every alleged fact is to be judged of mainly by the testimony by which it is supported, and its coincidence with what has elsewhere been observed of that strange compound of contradictions, the human heart.

In the events which have been mentioned, the Crusaders were victorious; and the Crescent, in the outset of the contest, waned before the Cross. But it was only for a time that it did so. The situation of Palestine in Asia, constituting it the advanced post as it were of Christendom across the sea, in the regions of Islamism, perpetually exposed it to the attack of the Eastern powers. They were at home, and fought on their own ground, and with their own weapons, in the long contest which followed the first conquest of Palestine; whereas the forces of the Christians required to be transported, at a frightful expense of life, over a hazardous journey of fifteen hundred miles in length, or conveyed by sea at a very heavy cost from Marseilles, Genoa, or Venice. Irresistible in the first onset, the armament of the Christians gradually dwindled away as the first fervour of the Holy Wars subsided, and the interminable nature of the conflict in which they were engaged with the Oriental powers became apparent. It was the same thing as Spain maintaining a transatlantic contest with her South American, or England with her North American colonies. Indeed, the surprising thing, when we consider the exposed situation of the kingdom of Palestine, the smallness of its resources, and the scanty and precarious support it received, after the first burst of the Crusades was over, from the Western powers, is not that it was at last destroyed, but that it existed so long as it did. The prolongation of its life was mainly owing to the extraordinary qualities of one man.

It is hard to say whether the heroism of Richard Cœur de Lion has been most celebrated in Europe or Asia. Like Solomon, Alexander the Great, Haroun El Raschid, Charlemagne, and Napoleon, his fame has taken root as deeply in the East as in the West, among his enemies as his friends; among the followers of Mahomet as the disciples of the Cross. If he is the hero of European romance, – if he is the theme of the Troubadour's song, he is not less celebrated among the descendants of the Saracens; his exploits are not less eagerly chanted in the tents of the children of Ishmael. To this day, when an Arab's steed starts at a bush in the desert, his master asks him if he expects to see Richard issue from the covert. He possessed that surprising personal strength and daring valour which are so highly prized by warriors in all rude periods, and united with those qualities that singleness of heart and bonhommie of disposition, which, not less powerfully in the great, win upon the hearts of men. His chief qualities – those which have given him his deathless fame – undoubtedly were his heroic courage, extraordinary personal strength, and magnanimity of mind. But if his campaigns with Saladin are attentively considered, it will appear that he was also a great general; and that his marvellous successes were as much owing to his conduct as a commander as his prowess as a knight. This is more particularly conspicuous, in the manner in which he conducted his then sorely diminished army on Acre to within sight of Jerusalem, surrounded as it was the whole way by prodigious clouds of Asiatic horse, headed by the redoubtable Saladin. Beyond all doubt he would, but for the defection of Philip Augustus and France, have wrested Palestine from the Infidels, and again planted the Cross on Mount Calvary, despite the whole forces of the East, led by their ablest and most powerful sultans. His grief at not being able to accomplish this glorious object, is well described by Michaud —

"After a month's abode at Bethnopolis, seven leagues from Jerusalem, the Crusaders renewed their complaints, and exclaimed with sadness, 'We shall never go to Jerusalem!' Richard, with heart torn by contending feelings, while he disregarded the clamours of the pilgrims, shared their grief, and was indignant at his own fortune. One day, that his ardour in pursuing the Saracens had led him to the heights of Emmaus, from which he beheld the towers of Jerusalem, he burst into tears at the sight, and, covering his face with his buckler, declared he was unworthy to contemplate the Holy City which his arms could not deliver." —Hist. des Croisades, ii. 399.

As a specimen of the magnitude of the battles fought in this Crusade, we take that of Assur, near Ptolemais —

"Two hundred thousand Mussulmans were drawn up in the plains of Assur, ready to bar the passage of the Christian army, and deliver a decisive battle. No sooner did he perceive the Saracen array, than Richard divided his army into five corps. The Templars formed the first; the warriors of Brittany and Anjou the second; the king, Guy, and the men of Poitou the third; the English and Normans, grouped round the royal standard, the fourth; the Hospitallers the fifth; and behind them marched the archers and javelin men. At three o'clock in the afternoon, the army was all arranged in order of battle, when all at once a multitude of Saracens appeared in rear, who descended from the mountains which the Crusaders had just crossed. Amongst them were Bedouin Arabs, bearing bows and round bucklers; Scythians with long bows, and mounted on tall and powerful horses; Ethiopians of a lofty stature, with their sable visages strangely streaked with white. These troops of barbarians advanced on all sides against the Christian army with the rapidity of lightning. The earth trembled under their horses' feet. The din of their clarions, cymbals, and trumpets, was so prodigious, that the loudest thunder could not have been heard. Men were in their ranks, whose sole business it was to raise frightful cries, and excite the courage of the Mussulman warriors by chanting their national songs. Thus stimulated, their battalions precipitated themselves upon the Crusaders, who were speedily assailed at once in front, both flanks, and rear – enveloped by enemies, say the old chronicles, as the eyelashes surround the EYE. After their arrows and javelins were discharged, the Saracens commenced the attack with the lance, the mace, and the sword. An English chronicle aptly compares them to smiths, and the Crusaders to the anvil on which their hammers rang. Meanwhile, the Franks did not for a moment intermit their march towards Assur, and the Saracens, who sought in vain to shake their steady ranks, called them 'a nation of iron.'

"Richard had renewed his orders for the whole army to remain on the defensive, and not to advance against the enemy till six trumpets sounded – two at the head of the army, two in the centre, two in the rear. This signal was impatiently expected; the barons and knights could bear every thing except the disgrace of remaining thus inactive in presence of an enemy, who without intermission renewed his attacks. Those of the rear-guard had already began to reproach Richard with having forgotten them; they invoked in despair the protection of St George, the patron of the brave. At last some of the bravest and most ardent, forgetting the orders they had received, precipitated themselves on the Saracens. This example soon drew the Hospitallers after them; the contagion spread from rank to rank, and soon the whole Christian army was at blows with the enemy, and the scene of carnage extended from the sea to the mountains. Richard showed himself wherever the Christians had need of his succour; his presence was always followed by the flight of the Turks. So confused was the mêlée, so thick the dust, so vehement the fight, that many of the Crusaders fell by the blows of their comrades, who mistook them for enemies. Torn standards, shivered lances, broken swords, strewed the plain. Such of the combatants as had lost their arms, hid themselves in the bushes, or ascended trees; some, overcome with terror, fled towards the sea, and from the top of the rocks precipitated themselves into its waves.

"Every instant the combat became warmer and more bloody. The whole Christian army was now engaged in the battle, and returning on its steps, the chariot which bore the royal standard was in the thickest of the fight. Ere long, however, the Saracens were unable to sustain the impetuous assault of the Franks. Boha-Eddin, an eyewitness, having quitted the Mussulman centre, which was put to the route, fled to the tent of the Sultan, where he found the Sultan, who was attended only by seventeen Mamelukes. While their enemies fled in this manner, the Christians, hardly able to credit their victory, remained motionless on the field which they had conquered. They were engaged in tending their wounded, and in collecting the arms which lay scattered over the field of battle, when all at once twenty thousand Saracens, whom their chief had rallied, fell upon them. The Crusaders overwhelmed with heat and fatigue, and not expecting to be attacked, showed at first a surprise which bordered on fear. Taki-Eddin, nephew of Saladin, at the head of the bravest enemies, led on the Turks, at the head of whom were seen the Mameluke guard of Saladin, distinguished by their yellow banner. So vehement was their onset, that it ploughed deep into the Crusaders' ranks; and they had need of the presence and example of Richard, before whom no Saracen could stand, and whom the contemporary chronicles compare to a reaper cutting down corn. At the moment when the Christians, again victorious, resumed their march towards Assur, the Mussulmans, impelled by despair, again attacked their rear-guard. Richard, who had twice repulsed the enemy, no sooner heard the outcry, than, followed only by fifteen knights, he flew to the scene of combat, shouting aloud the war-cry of the Christians – 'God protect the Holy Sepulchre!' The bravest followed their king; the Mussulmans were dispersed at the first shock, and their army, then a third time vanquished, would have been totally destroyed, had not night and the forest of Assur sheltered them from the pursuit of the enemy. As it was they lost eight thousand men, including thirty-two of their bravest emirs slain; while the victory did not cost the Christians a thousand men. Among the wounded was Richard himself, who was slightly hurt in the breast. But the victory was prodigious, and if duly improved by the Crusaders, without dissension or defection, would have decided the fate of Palestine and of that Crusade." —Hist. des Croisades, i. 468-471.

These extracts convey a fair idea of M. Michaud's power of description and merits as an historian. He cannot be said to be one of the highest class. He does not belong to the school who aim at elevating history to its loftiest pitch. The antiquarian school never have, and never will do so. The minute observation and prodigious attentions to detail which their habits produce, are inconsistent with extensive vision. The same eye scarcely ever unites the powers of the microscope and the telescope. He has neither the philosophic mind of Guizot, nor the pictorial eye of Gibbon; he neither takes a luminous glance like Robertson, nor sums up the argument of a generation in a page, like Hume. We shall look in vain in his pages for a few words diving into the human heart such as we find in Tacitus, or splendid pictures riveting every future age as in Livy. He is rather an able and animated abridger of the chronicles, than an historian. But in that subordinate, though very important department, his merits are of a very high order. He is faithful, accurate, and learned; he has given a succinct and yet interesting detail, founded entirely on original authority, of the wars of two centuries. Above all, his principles are elevated, his feelings warm, his mind lofty and generous. He is worthy of his subject, for he is entirely free of the grovelling utilitarian spirit, the disgrace and the bane of the age in which he writes. His talents for description are very considerable, as will be apparent from the account we hope to give in a future Number of his highly interesting travels to the principal scenes of the Crusades. It is only to be regretted, that in his anxiety to preserve the fidelity of his narrative, he has so frequently restrained it, and given us rather descriptions of scenes taken from the old chronicles, than such as his own observations and taste could have supplied. But still his work supplies a great desideratum in European literature; and if not the best that could be conceived, is by much the best that has yet appeared on the subject. And it is written in the spirit of the age so finely expressed in the title given by one of the most interesting of the ancient chroniclers to his work —

"Gesta Dei per Francos."7

THE BURDEN OF SION

By Delta

[This Ode, composed by Judas Hallevy bar Samuel, a Spanish Rabbi of the twelfth century, is said to be still recited every year, during the Fast observed in commemoration of the Destruction of Jerusalem. The versifier has been much indebted to a very literal translation, from the original necessarily obscure Spanish of the Rabbi, into excellent French, by Joseph Mainzer, Esq., a gentleman to whom the sacred music of this country is under great and manifold obligations.]

Captive and sorrow-pale, the mournful lotSay, hast thou, Sion, of thy sons forgot?Hast thou forgot the innocent flocks, that layProne on thy sunny banks, or frisk'd in playAmid thy lilied meadows? Wilt thou turnA deaf ear to thy supplicants, who mournDowncast in earth's far corners? Unto theeWildly they turn in their lone misery;For wheresoe'er they rush in their despair,The pitiless Destroyer still is there!Eden of earth! despisest thou the sighsFrom the slave's heart that riseTo thee, amid his fetters – who can dareStill to hope on in his forlorn despair —Whose morn and evening tears for thee fall downLike dews on Hermon's thirsty crown —And who would blessed be in all his ills,Wander'd his feet once more even on thy desert hills!But not is Hope's fair star extinguish'd quiteIn rayless night;And, Sion, as thy fortunes I bewail,Harsh sounds my voice, as of the birds that sailThe stormy dark. Let but that star be mine,And through the tempest tremulously shine;So, when the brooding clouds have overpast,Rejoicing, with the dawn, may come at last,Even as an instrument, whose lively soundMakes the warm blood in every bosom bound,And whose triumphant notes are givenFreely in songs of thanksgiving to Heaven!Bethel! – and as thy name's name leaves my tongue,The very life-drops from my heart are wrung!Thy sanctuary – where, veil'd in mystic light,For ever burning, and for ever bright,Jehovah's awful majesty reposed,And shone for aye heaven's azure gates unclosed —Thy sanctuary! – where from the Eternal flow'dThe radiance of his glory, in whose powerNoonday itself like very darkness show'd,And stars were none at midnight's darkest hour —Thy sanctuary! oh there! oh there! that IMight breathe my troubled soul out, sigh on sigh,There, where thine effluence, Mighty God, was pour'dOn thine Elect, who, kneeling round, adored!Stand off! the place is holy. Know ye not,Of potter's clay the children, that this spotIs sacred to the Everlasting One —The Ruler over heaven, and over earth?Stand off, degraded slaves, devoid of worth!Nor dare profane again, as ye have done,This spot – 'tis holy ground – profane it not!Oh, might I cleave, with raptured wing, the wasteOf the wide air, then, where in splendour lieThy ruins, would my sorrowing spirit haste,Forth to outpour its flood of misery! —There, where thy grandeur owns a dire eclipse,Down to the dust as sank each trembling knee,Unto thy dear soil should I lay my face,Thy very stones in rapture to embrace,And to thy smouldering ashes glue my lips!And how, O Sion! how should I but weep,As on our fathers' tombs I fondly gazed,Or, wistfully, as turn'd mine eyeTo thee, in all thy desolate majesty,Hebron, where rests the mighty one in sleep,And high his pillar of renown was raised!There – in thine atmosphere – 'twere blessednessTo breathe a purer ether. Oh! to meThy dust than perfumes dearer far should be,And down thy rocks the torrent streams should roamWith honey in their foam!Oh, sweet it were – unutterably sweet —Even though with garments rent, and bleeding feet,To wander over the deserted placesWhere once thy princely palaces arose,And 'mid the weeds and wild-flowers mark the traces,Where the ground, yawning in its earthquake throes,The ark of covenant and the cherubimReceived, lest stranger hands, that reek'd the whileWith blood of thine own children, should defileIts heaven-resplendent glory, and bedim:And my dishevell'd locks, in my despair,All madly should I tear;And as I cursed the day that dawn'd in heaven —The day that saw thee to destruction given,Even from my very frenzy should I wringA rough, rude comfort in my sorrowing.What other comfort can I know? Behold,Wild dogs and wolves with hungry snarl contendOver thy prostrate mighty ones; and rendTheir quivering limbs, ere life hath lost its hold.I sicken at the dawn of morn – the noonBrings horror with its brightness; for the dayShows but the desolate plain,Where, feasting on the slain,(Thy princes,) flap and scream the birds of prey!Chalice from Marah's bitterest spring distill'd!Goblet of woe, to overflowing fill'd!Who, quaffing thee, can live? Give me but breath —A single breath – that I once more may seeThe dreary vision. I will think of thee,Colla, once more – of Cliba will I think —Then fearlessly and freely drinkThe cup – the fatal cup – whose dregs are death.Awake thee, Queen of Cities, from thy slumber —Awake thee, Sion! Let the quenchless loveOf worshippers, a number beyond number,A fountain of rejoicing prove.Thy sorrows they bewail, thy wounds they see,And feel them as their own, and mourn for thee!Oh, what were life to them, did Hope not holdHer mirror, to unfoldThat glorious future to their raptured sight,When a new morn shall chase away this night!Even from the dungeon gloom,Their yearning hearts, as from a tomb,Are crying out – are crying out to thee;And, as they bow the kneeBefore the Eternal, every one awaitsThe answer of his prayer, with face toward thy gates.Earth's most celestial region! BabylonThe mighty, the magnificent, to thee,With all the trappings of her bravery on,Seems but a river to the engulfing sea.What are its oracles but lies? 'Tis givenThy prophets only to converse with Heaven —The hidden to reveal, the dark to scan,And be the interpreters of God to man.The idols dumb that erring men invoke,Themselves are vanities, their power is smoke:But, while the heathen's pomp is insecure,Is transient, thine, O Sion! shall endure;For in thy temples, God, the only Lord,Hath been, and still delights to be, adored.Blessed are they, who, by their love,Themselves thy veritable children prove!Yea! blessed they who cleaveTo thee, with faithful hearts, and scorn to leave!Come shall the day – and come it may full soon —When thou, more splendid than the moon,Shalt rise; and, triumphing o'er night,Turn ebon darkness into silver light:The glory of thy brightness shall be shedAround each faithful head:Rising from thy long trance, earth shall beholdThee loftier yet, and lovelier than of old;And portion'd with the saints in bliss shall beAll who, through weal and woe, were ever true to thee!

RHYMED HEXAMETERS AND PENTAMETERS

[This species of versification, consisting of rhymed Hexameter and Pentameter lines, we do not remember to have seen before attempted, and we now offer it as a literary curiosity. It is, perhaps, subject to the objection that applies against painted statuary, as combining embellishments of a character not altogether consistent, and not adding to the beauty of the result. But we are not without a feeling that some additional pleasure is thus conveyed to the mind. The experiment, of course, is scarcely possible, except in quatrains of an epigrammatic structure. But the examples are selected from the most miscellaneous sources that readily occurred.]

HIS OWN EPITAPHBy EnniusAdspicite, O cives! senis Ennii imagini' formam;Hic vostrum panxit maxuma facta patrum.Nemo me lacrumis decoret, nec funera fletuFaxit. Cur? volito vivu' per ora virûm.See, O citizens! here old Ennius's image presented,Who to your forefathers' deeds gave their own glory again.Honour me not with your tears; by none let my death be lamented:Why? still in every mouth living I flit among men.ON GELLIAFrom MartialAmissum non flet, cum sola est, Gellia patrem;Si quis adest, jussæ prosiliunt lacrymæ.Non dolet hic, quisquis laudari, Gellia, quærit;Ille dolet verè qui sine teste dolet.Gellia, when she's alone, doesn't weep the death of her father;But, if a visitor comes, tears at her bidding appear.Gellia, they do not mourn who are melted by vanity rather;They are true mourners who weep when not a witness is near.TO CECILIANUSFrom MartialNullus in urbe fuit totâ qui tangere velletUxorem gratis, Cæciliane, tuam,Dum licuit: sed nunc positis custodibus ingensAgmen amatorum est. Ingeniosus homo es.Nobody, Cecilianus, e'er thought of your wife (she's so ugly!)When she could gratis be seen, when she was easily won.Now that, with locks and with guards you pretend to secure her so snugly,Crowds of gallants flock around: faith, it is cleverly done.ON A BEE INCLOSED IN AMBERFrom MartialEt latet et lucet Phaëthontide condita guttâ,Ut videatur apis nectare clausa suo.Dignum tantorum pretium tulit illa laborum:Credibile est ipsam sic voluisse mori.Lucid the bee lurks here, bright amber her beauty inclosing!As in the nectar she made seems the fair insect to lie.Worthy reward she has gain'd, after such busy labours reposing:Well we might deem that herself thus would be willing to die.

THE SURVEYOR'S TALE

Good resolutions are, like glass, manufactured for the purpose of being broken. Immediately after my marriage, I registered in the books of my conscience a very considerable vow against any future interference with the railway system. The Biggleswades had turned out so well, that I thought it unsafe to pursue my fortune any further. The incipient gambler, I am told, always gains, through the assistance of a nameless personage who shuffles the cards a great deal oftener than many materialists suppose. Nevertheless, there is always a day of retribution.

I wish I had adhered to my original orthodox determination. During the whole period of the honeymoon, I remained blameless as to shares. Uncle Scripio relinquished the suggestion of "dodges" in despair. He was, as usual, brimful of projects, making money by the thousand, and bearing or bulling, as the case might be, with genuine American enthusiasm. I believe he thought me a fool for remaining so easily contented, and very soon manifested no further symptom of his consciousness of my existence than by transmitting me regularly a copy of the Railway Gazette, with some mysterious pencil-markings at the list of prices, which I presume he intended for my guidance in the case of an alteration of sentiment. For some time I never looked at them. When a man is newly married, he has a great many other things to think of. Mary had a decided genius for furniture, and used to pester me perpetually with damask curtains, carved-wood chairs, gilt lamps, and a whole wilderness of household paraphernalia, about which, in common courtesy, I was compelled to affect an interest. Now, to a man like myself, who never had any fancy for upholstery, this sort of thing is very tiresome. My wife might have furnished the drawingroom after the pattern of the Cham of Tartary's for any thing I cared, provided she had left me in due ignorance of the proceeding; but I was not allowed to escape so comfortably. I looked over carpet patterns and fancy papers innumerable, mused upon all manner of bell-pulls, and gave judgment between conflicting rugs, until the task became such a nuisance, that I was fain to take refuge in the sacred sanctuary of my club. Young women should be particularly careful against boring an accommodating spouse. Of all places in the world, a club is the surest focus of speculation. You meet gentlemen there who hold stock in every line in the kingdom – directors, committeemen, and even crack engineers. I defy you to continue an altogether uninterested auditor of the fascinating intelligence of Mammon. In less than a week my vow was broken, and a new liaison commenced with the treacherous Delilah of scrip. As nine-tenths of my readers have been playing the same identical game towards the close of last year, it would be idle to recount to them the various vicissitudes of the market. It is a sore subject with most of us – a regular undeniable case of "infandum regina." The only comfort is, that our fingers were simultaneously burned.