which shortly after terminated in the capture of Ptolemais, and the
final expulsion of the Christians from the shores of Palestine.
Melancholy, however, as are the features of that eventful story, it
excites a deeper emotion than the triumphant storm of Constantinople by
the champions of the Cross. St Louis was unfortunate, but he was so in a
noble cause; he preserved the purity of his character, the dignity of
his mission, equally amidst the arrows of the Egyptians on the banks of
the Nile, as in the death-bestrodden shores of the Lybian Desert. There
is nothing more sublime in history than the death of this truly
saint-like prince, amidst his weeping followers. England reappeared with
lustre in the last glare of the flames of the crusades, before they sunk
for ever; the blood of the Plantagenets proved worthy of itself. Prince
Edward again erected the banner of victory before the walls of Acre, and
his heroic consort, who sucked the poison of the assassin from his
wounds, has passed, like Belisarius or Coeur de Lion, into the
immortal shrine of romance. Awful was the catastrophe in which the
tragedy terminated; and the storm of Acre, and slaughter of thirty
thousand of the Faithful, while it finally expelled the Christians from
the Holy Land, awakened the European powers, when too late, to a sense
of the ruinous effect of those divisions which had permitted the
vanguard of Christendom, the bulwark of the faith, to languish and
perish, after an heroic resistance, on the shores of Asia.
Nor was it long before the disastrous consequences of these divisions
appeared, and it was made manifest, even to the most inconsiderate, what
dangers had been averted from the shores of Europe, by the contest which
had so long fixed the struggle on those of Asia. The dreadful arms of
the Mahometans, no longer restrained by the lances of the Crusaders,
appeared in menacing, and apparently irresistible strength, on the
shores of the Mediterranean. Empire after empire sank beneath their
strokes. Constantinople, and with it the empire of the East, yielded to
the arms of Mahomet II.; Rhodes, with its spacious ramparts and
well-defended bastions, to those of Solyman the Magnificent; Malta, the
key to the Mediterranean, was only saved by the almost superhuman valour
of its devoted knights; Hungary was overrun; Vienna besieged; and the
death of Solyman alone prevented him from realizing his threat, of
stabling his steed at the high altar of St Peter's. The glorious victory
of Lepanto, the raising of the siege of Vienna by John Sobieski, only
preserved, at distant intervals, Christendom from subjugation, and
possibly the faith of the gospel from extinction on the earth. A
consideration of these dangers may illustrate of what incalculable
service the Crusades were to the cause of true religion and
civilization, by fixing the contest for two centuries in Asia, when it
was most to be dreaded in Europe; and permitting the strength of
Christendom to grow, during that long period, till, when it was
seriously assailed in its own home, it was able to defend itself. It may
show us what we owe to the valour of those devoted champions of the
Cross, who struggled with the might of Islamism when "it was strongest,
and ruled it when it was wildest;" and teach us to look with
thankfulness on the dispensations of that over-ruling Providence, which
causes even the most vehement and apparently extravagant passions of the
human mind to minister to the final good of humanity.
For a long period after their termination, the Crusades were regarded by
the world, and treated by historians, as the mere ebullition of frenzied
fanaticism--as a useless and deplorable effusion of human blood. It may
be conceived with what satisfaction these views were received by
Voltaire, and the whole sceptical writers of France, and how completely,
in consequence, they deluded more than one generation. Robertson was the
first who pointed out some of the important consequences which the
Crusades had on the structure of society, and progress of improvement in
modern Europe. Guizot and Sismondi have followed in the same track; and
the truths they have unfolded are so evident, that they have received
the unanimous concurrence of all thinking persons. Certain it is, that
so vast a migration of men, so prodigious a heave of the human race,
could not have taken place without producing the most important effects.
Few as were the warriors who returned from the Holy Wars, in comparison
of those who set out, they brought back with them many of the most
important acquisitions of time and value, and arts of the East. The
terrace cultivation of Tuscany, the invaluable irrigation of Lombardy,
date from the Crusades: it was from the warriors or pilgrims that
returned from the Holy Land, that the incomparable silk and velvet
manufactures, and delicate jewellery of Venice and Genoa, took their
rise. Nor were the consequences less material on those who remained
behind, and did not share in the immediate fruits of Oriental
enterprise. Immense was the impulse communicated to Europe by the
prodigious migration. It dispelled prejudice, by bringing distant
improvement before the eyes; awakened activity, by exhibiting to the
senses the effects of foreign enterprise; it drew forth and expended
long accumulated capital; the fitting out so vast a host of warriors
stimulated labour, as the wars of the French Revolution did those of the
European states six centuries afterwards. The feudal aristocracy never
recovered the shock given to their power by the destruction of many
families, and the overwhelming debts fastened on others, by these costly
and protracted contests. Great part of the prosperity, freedom, and
happiness which have since prevailed in the principal European
monarchies, is to be ascribed to the Crusades. So great an intermingling
of the different faiths and races of mankind, never takes place without
producing lasting and beneficial consequences.
These views have been amply illustrated by the philosophic historians
of modern times. But there is another effect of far more importance than
them all put together, which has not yet attracted the attention it
deserves, because the opposite set of evils are only beginning now to
rise into general and formidable activity. This is the fixing the mind,
and still more the heart of Europe, for so long a period, on _generous
and disinterested objects_. Whoever has attentively considered the
constitution of human nature as he feels it in himself, or has observed
it in others,--whether as shown in the private society with which he has
mingled, or the public concerns of nations he has observed,--will at
once admit that SELFISHNESS is its greatest bane. It is at once the
source of individual degradation and of public ruin. He knew the human
heart well who prescribed as the first of social duties, "to love our
neighbour as ourself." Of what incalculable importance was it, then, to
have the mind of Europe, during so many generations, withdrawn from
selfish considerations, emancipated from the sway of individual desire,
and devoted to objects of generous or spiritual ambition! The passion of
the Crusades may have been wild, extravagant, irrational, but it was
noble, disinterested, and heroic. It was founded on the sacrifice of
self to duty; not on the sacrifice, so common in later times, of duty to
self. In the individuals engaged in the Holy Wars, doubtless, there was
the usual proportion of human selfishness and passion. Certainly they
had not all the self-control of St Anthony, or the self-denial of St
Jerome. But this is the case with all great movements. The principle
which moved the general mind was grand and generous. It first severed
war from the passion of lust or revenge, and the thirst for plunder on
which it had hitherto been founded, and based it on the generous and
disinterested object of rescuing the Holy Sepulchre. Courage was
sanctified, because it was exerted in a noble cause: even bloodshed
became excusable, for it was done to stop the shedding of blood. The
noble and heroic feelings which have taken such hold of the mind of
modern Europe, and distinguish it from any other age or quarter of the
globe, have mainly arisen from the profound emotions awakened by the
mingling of the passions of chivalry with the aspirations of devotion
during the Crusades. The sacrifice of several millions of men, however
dreadful an evil, was a transient and slight calamity, when set against
the incalculable effect of communicating such feelings to their
descendants, and stamping them for ever upon the race of Japhet,
destined to people and subdue the world.
Look at the mottoes on the seals of our older nobility, which date from
the era of the Crusades, or the ages succeeding it, when their heroic
spirit was not yet extinct, and you will see the clearest demonstration
of what was the spirit of these memorable contests. They are all founded
on the sacrifice of self to duty, of interest to devotion, of life to
love. There is little to be seen there about industry amassing wealth,
or prudence averting calamity; but much about honour despising danger,
and life sacrificed to duty. In an utilitarian or commercial age, such
principles may appear extravagant or romantic; but it is from such
extravagant romance that all the greatness of modern Europe has taken
its rise. We cannot emancipate ourselves from their influence: a
fountain of generous thoughts in every elevated bosom is perpetually
gushing forth, from the ideas which have come down to us from the Holy
Wars. They live in our romances, in our tragedies, in our poetry, in our
language, in our hearts. Of what use are such feelings, say the
partisans of utility? "Of what use," answers Madame De Stael, "is the
Apollo Belvidere, or the poetry of Milton; the paintings of Raphael, or
the strains of Handel? Of what use is the rose or the eglantine; the
colours of autumn, or the setting of the sun?" And yet what object ever
moved the heart as they have done, and ever will do? Of what use is all
that is sublime or beautiful in nature, if not to the soul itself? The
interest taken in such objects attests the dignity of that being which
is immortal and invisible, and which is ever more strongly moved by
whatever speaks to its immortal and invisible nature, than by all the
cares of present existence.
When such is the magnificence and interest of the subject of the
Crusades, it is surprising that no historian has yet appeared in Great
Britain who has done justice to the theme. Yet unquestionably none has
even approached it. Mill's history is the only one in our language which
treats of the subject otherwise than as a branch of general history; and
though his work is trustworthy and authentic, it is destitute of the
chief qualities requisite for the successful prosecution of so great an
undertaking. It is--a rare fault in history--a great deal too short. It
is not in two thin octavo volumes that the annals of the conflict of
Europe and Asia for two centuries is to be given. It is little more than
an abridgement, for the use of young persons, of what the real history
should be. It may be true, but it is dull; and dulness is an
unpardonable fault in any historian, especially one who had such a
subject whereon to exert his powers. The inimitable episode of Gibbon on
the storming of Constantinople by the Crusaders, is written in a very
different style: the truths of history, and the colours of poetry, are
there blended in the happiest proportions together. There is a fragment
affording, _so far as description goes_, a perfect model of what the
history of the Crusades should be; what in the hands of genius it will
one day become. But it is a model _only_ so far as description goes.
Gibbon had greater powers as an historian than any modern writer who
ever approached the subject; but he had not the elevated soul requisite
for the highest branches of his art, and which was most of all called
for in the annalist of the Crusades. He was destitute of enlightened
principle; he was without true philosophy; he had the eye of painting,
and the _powers_, but not the _soul_ of poetry in his mind. He had not
moral courage sufficient to withstand the irreligious fanaticism of his
age. He was benevolent; but his aspirations never reached the highest
interests of humanity,--humane, but "his humanity ever slumbered where
women were ravished, or Christians persecuted."[6]
Passion and reason in equal proportions, it has been well observed, form
energy. With equal truth, and for a similar reason, it may be said, that
intellect and imagination in equal proportions form history. It is the
want of the last quality which is in general fatal to the persons who
adventure on that great but difficult branch of composition. It in every
age sends ninety-nine hundreds of historical works down the gulf of
time. Industry and accuracy are so evidently and indisputably requisite
in the outset of historical composition, that men forget that genius and
taste are required for its completion. They see that the edifice must be
reared of blocks cut out of the quarry; and they fix their attention on
the quarriers who loosen them from the rock, without considering that
the soul of Phidias or Michael Angelo is required to arrange them in the
due proportion in the immortal structure. What makes great and durable
works of history so rare is, that they alone, perhaps, of any other
production, require for their formation a combination of the most
opposite qualities of the human mind, qualities which only are found
united in a very few individuals in any age. Industry and genius,
passion and perseverance, enthusiasm and caution, vehemence and
prudence, ardour and self-control, the fire of poetry, the coldness of
prose, the eye of painting, the patience of calculation, dramatic power,
philosophic thought, are all called for in the annalist of human events.
Mr Fox had a clear perception of what history should be, when he placed
it _next to poetry in the fine arts, and before oratory_. Eloquence is
but a fragment of what is enfolded in its mighty arms. Military genius
ministers only to its more brilliant scenes. Mere ardour, or poetic
imagination, will prove wholly insufficient; they will be deterred at
the very threshold of the undertaking by the toil with which it is
attended, and turn aside into the more inviting paths of poetry and
romance. The labour of writing the "Life of Napoleon" killed Sir Walter
Scott. Industry and intellectual power, if unaided by more attractive
qualities, will equally fail of success; they will produce a respectable
work, valuable as a book of reference, which will slumber in forgotten
obscurity in our libraries. The combination of the two is requisite to
lasting fame, to general and durable success. What is necessary in an
historian, as in the _elite_ of an army, is not the desultory fire of
light troops, nor the ordinary steadiness of common soldiers, but the
regulated ardour, the burning but yet restrained enthusiasm, which,
trained by discipline, taught by experience, keeps itself under control
till the proper moment for action arrives, and then sweeps, at the voice
of its leader, with "the ocean's mighty swing" on the foe.
MICHAUD is, in many respects, an historian peculiarly qualified for the
great undertaking which he has accomplished, of giving a full and
accurate, yet graphic history of the Crusades. He belongs to the
elevated class in thought; he is far removed, indeed, from the
utilitarian school of modern days. Deeply imbued with the romantic and
chivalrous ideas of the olden time, a devout Catholic as well as a
sincere Christian, he brought to the annals of the Holy Wars a profound
admiration for their heroism, a deep respect for their
disinterestedness, a graphic eye for their delineation, a sincere
sympathy with their devotion. With the fervour of a warrior, he has
narrated the long and eventful story of their victories and defeats;
with the devotion of a pilgrim, visited the scenes of their glories and
their sufferings. Not content with giving to the world six large octavos
for the narrative of their glory, he has published six other volumes,
containing his travels to all the scenes on the shores of the
Mediterranean which have been rendered memorable by their exploits. It
is hard to say which is most interesting. They mutually reflect and
throw light on each other: for in the History we see at every step the
graphic eye of the traveller; in the Travels we meet in every page with
the knowledge and associations of the historian.
Michaud, as might be expected from his turn of mind and favourite
studies, belongs to the romantic or picturesque school of French
historians; that school of which, with himself, Barante, Michelet, and
the two Thierrys are the great ornaments. He is far from being destitute
of philosophical penetration, and many of his articles in that
astonishing repertory of learning and ability, the _Biographie
Universelle_, demonstrate that he is fully abreast of all the ideas and
information of his age. But in his history of the Crusades, he thought,
and thought rightly, that the great object was to give a faithful
picture of the events and ideas of the time, without any attempt to
paraphrase them into the language or thoughts of subsequent ages. The
world had had enough of the flippant _persiflage_ with which Voltaire
had treated the most heroic efforts and tragic disasters of the human
race. Philosophic historians had got into discredit from the rash
conclusions and unfounded pretensions of the greater part of their
number; though the philosophy of history can never cease to be one of
the noblest subjects of human thought. To guard against the error into
which they had fallen, the romantic historians recurred with anxious
industry to the original and contemporary annals of their events, and
discarded every thing from their narrative which was not found to be
supported by such unquestionable authority. In thought, they endeavoured
to reflect, as in a mirror, the ideas of the age of which they treated,
rather than see it through their own: in narrative or description, they
rather availed themselves of the materials, how scanty soever, collected
by eyewitnesses, in preference to eking out the picture by imaginary
additions, and the richer colouring of subsequent ages. This is the
great characteristic of the graphic or picturesque school of French
history; and there can be no question that in regard to the first
requisite of history, trustworthiness, and the subordinate but also
highly important object, of rendering the narrative interesting, it is a
very great improvement, alike upon the tedious narrative of former
learning, or the provoking pretensions of more recent philosophy.
Justice can never be done to the actions or thoughts of former times,
unless the former are narrated from the accounts of eyewitnesses, and
with the fervour which they alone can feel--the latter in the very
words, as much as possible, employed by the speakers on the occasions.
Nor will imagination ever produce any thing so interesting as the
features which actually presented themselves at the moment to the
observer. Every painter knows the superior value of sketches, however
slight, made on the spot, to the most laboured subsequent reminiscences.
But while this is perfectly true on the one hand, it is equally clear on
the other, that this recurrence to ancient and contemporary authority
must be for the facts, events, and outline of the story only; and that
the filling up must be done by the hand of the artist who is engaged in
producing the complete work. If this is not done, history ceases to be
one of the fine arts. It degenerates into a mere collection of
chronicles, records, and ballads, without any connecting link to unite,
or any regulating mind to arrange them. History then loses the place
assigned it by Mr Fox, next to poetry and before oratory; it becomes
nothing more than a magazine of antiquarian lore. Such a magazine may be
interesting to antiquaries; it may be valuable to the learned in
ecclesiastical disputes, or the curious in genealogy or family records;
but these interests are of a very partial and transient description. It
will never generally fascinate the human race. Nothing ever has, or ever
can do so, but such annals as, independent of local or family interest,
or antiquarian curiosity, are permanently attractive by the grandeur and
interest of the events they recount, and the elegance or pathos of the
language in which they are delivered. Such are the histories of
Herodotus and Thucydides, the annals of Sallust and Tacitus, the
narratives of Homer, Livy, and Gibbon. If instead of aiming at producing
one uniform work of this description, flowing from the same pen, couched
in the same style, reflecting the same mind, the historian presents his
readers with a collection of quotations from chronicles, state papers,
or _jejune_ annalists, he has entirely lost sight of the principles of
his art. He has not made a picture, but merely put together a collection
of original sketches; he has not built a temple, but only piled together
the unfinished blocks of which it was to be composed.
This is the great fault into which Barante, Sismondi, and Michelet have
fallen. In their anxiety to be faithful, they have sometimes become
tedious; in their desire to recount nothing that was not true, they have
narrated much that was neither material nor interesting. Barante, in
particular, has utterly ruined his otherwise highly interesting history
of the Dukes of Burgundy by this error. We have bulls of the Popes,
marriage-contracts, feudal charters, treaties of alliance, and other
similar instruments, quoted _ad longum_ in the text of the history, till
no one but an enthusiastic antiquary or half-cracked genealogist can go
on with the work. The same mistake is painfully conspicuous in
Sismondi's _Histoire des Francais_. Fifteen out of his valuable thirty
volumes are taken up with quotations from public records or instruments.
It is impossible to conceive a greater mistake, in a composition which
is intended not merely for learned men or antiquaries, but for the great
body of ordinary readers. The authors of these works are so immersed in
their own ideas and researches, they are so enamoured of their favourite
antiquities, that they forget that the world in general is far from
sharing their enthusiasm, and that many things, which to them are of the
highest possible interest and importance, seem to the great bulk of
readers immaterial or tedious. The two Thierrys have, in a great
measure, avoided this fatal error; for, though their narratives are as
much based on original and contemporary authorities as any histories can
be, the quotations are usually given in an abbreviated form in the
notes, and the text is, in general, an unbroken narrative, in their own
perspicuous and graphic language. Thence, in a great measure, the
popularity and interest of their works. Michaud indulges more in
lengthened quotations in his text from the old chronicles, or their mere
paraphrases into his own language; their frequency is the great defect
of his valuable history. But the variety and interest of the subjects
render this mosaic species of composition more excusable, and less
repugnant to good taste, in the account of the Crusades, than it would
be, perhaps, in the annals of any other human transactions.
As a specimen of our author's powers and style of description, we
subjoin a translation of the animated narrative he gives from the old
historians of the famous battle of Dorislaus, which first subjected the
coasts of Asia Minor to the arms of the Crusaders.