ral of the Saracens, to propose to him a single combat or a general battle. His proud message was contemptuously received by Kerbogha, and the Christian envoys made a hasty retreat, to escape violence from the incensed Mussulmans. The chiefs of the Crusaders prepared for battle on the morrow. The heralds and the priests ran through the streets to animate the soldiers; the night was passed in prayer and devotion; and the last grain of flour in the city was used for the celebration of the mass.

At length day rose on this scene of warlike devotion. The wounded Raymond was left to keep in check the garrison of the citadel, and the rest of the army poured through the city gates into the plain. The sacred lance was borne by Raymond of Agiles. At the head of the army a portion of the clergy walked in procession, chanting the martial psalm, Let God rise, and let his enemies be scattered.' The bishops and priests who remained in the city, surrounded by the women and children, blessed from the ramparts the arms of the Christian host; and the neighbouring mountains rang with the war-cry of the Crusaders-Dieu le veut!-Dieu le veut!' As they advanced into the plain, most of the knights and barons on foot, and many of the soldiers in rags, they seemed like an army of skeletons, so famine-struck were they all. The whole plain and mountain-slopes on the north bank of the Orontes were covered with the Mussulman battalions, among which that of Kerbogha, says an old writer, appeared like an inaccessible mountain.' But the enthusiasm of the Crusaders set odds at defiance; the exultation of victory already filled them as they advanced against the enemy. Two thousand Saracens, left to guard the passage of the bridge of Antioch, were cut to pieces by the Count of Vermandois. The fugitives carried the alarm to the tent of their general, who was then playing at chess. Starting from his false security, Kerbogha beheld a black flag displayed from the citadel of Antioch (the preconcerted signal of the advance of the Crusaders); and ordering the instant beheadal of a deserter, who had announced the approaching surrender of the Christians, he immediately set about issuing orders for the battle.

Having forced the passage of the Orontes, the Crusaders advanced down its right bank against the Mussulman host, which was drawn up partly on the slopes of the mountains, and partly in the plain, stretching from their base to the river. The Christian army was wrought up to the highest pitch of enthusiasm: the most common Occurrences seemed to them prodigies announcing the triumph of their arms. A globe of fire which, after traversing the heavens, had burst over the Mussulman camp, seemed to them a foresign of victory: a gentle and refreshing rain, which fell as they were leaving Antioch, was in their eyes a fresh proof of the favour of Heaven: a strong wind, which aided the flight of their darts, and impeded those of the Saracens, seemed to them the wind of Divine wrath rising to disperse the infidels. The army marched against the enemy in the best order. A profound silence reigned in the plain, which everywhere glittered with the armour of the Christians. No sound was heard in the ranks but the voice of the chiefs, the hymns of the priests, and the exhortations of Adhemar.

Of a sudden the Saracens commenced the attack. They discharged a flight of arrows, and with barbaric cries bore down upon the Crusaders. But despite their impetuous onset, their right wing, under the emir of Jerusalem, was repulsed, and driven back in disorder. Godfrey experienced greater resistance from their left wing, which rested on the mountains; but it, too, was at length shaken, and confusion spread through the ranks. At this moment, when the troops of Kerbogha were giving way on all sides, Kilidj - Arslan, the sultan of Nice, who had advanced unseen on the reverse slopes of the mountains, suddenly burst upon the rear of the Christian army, and threatened to cut in pieces the reserve under Bohemond. The Crusaders, who combated on foot, could not withstand the first shock of the Saracen horse. Hugo the Great, apprised of Bohemond's danger, abandoned the pursuit of the fugitives, and hastened back

to support the reserve. The combat was renewed with fresh fury. Kilidj-Arslan, who had to avenge his former defeat at Dorislaus, and the loss of his states, fought like a lion at the head of his troops. A squadron of three thousand Saracen cavaliers, all bristling with steel, armed with ponderous maces, carried disorder and terror into the Christian ranks. The standard of the Count of Vermandois was taken and retaken, covered with the blood of Crusaders and infidels. Godfrey and Tancred, who flew to the succour of Hugo and Bohemond, signalised their strength and prowess by the slaughter of numbers of the Mussulmans. But the sultan of Nice, whom no reverses could daunt, still bore up stoutly against the shock of the Christians. When the battle was at its hottest, he ordered lighted firebrands to be thrown among the heath and dry herbage that covered the plain. Soon a conflagration rose, which surrounded the Christians with whirlwinds of flame and smoke. For a moment their ranks were shaken; they no longer saw or heard their chiefs. Victory seemed on the point of slipping from the grasp of the Crusaders, and Kilidj - Arslan already congratulated himself on the success of his stratagem.

ron.

Then, say the historians, a squadron was seen descending from the summits of the mountains, preceded by three knights clothed in white, and covered with dazzling armour. Behold,' cried the Bishop Adhemar, the celestial aid which was promised you! Heaven declares for the Christians! The holy martyrs St George, Demetrius, and Theodore, are come to combat along with us.' Forthwith the eyes of all were turned upon the celestial squadNew ardour filled the hearts of the Crusaders, who were persuaded that God himself came to their aid; the war-cry, Dieu le veut!' rose again as loudly as at first. The women and children, assembled on the walls of Antioch, by their cries stimulated the courage of the Crusaders; the priests ran through the ranks with uplifted hands, thanking God for the succour which he sent to the Christian army. The charge again sounded along the line; every Crusader becomes a hero; nothing can withstand their impetuous onset. In a moment the Saracen ranks are shaken; they no longer fight, but in disorder. In vain they strive to rally behind the bed of a torrent, and on a height, where their clarions and trumpets sound the assembly. The Count de Vermandois, quickly following up his success, assails them in their new position, and drives them from it in utter confusion. Broken and discomfited, they now only look for safety in flight. The banks of the Orontes, the woods, the plains, the mountains, are covered with fugitives flying in wild disorder, and abandoning arms and baggage to the conquerors.

Kerbogha made his escape to the Euphrates, escorted by a few faithful followers. Tancred, and some others, mounting the steeds of the vanquished, pursued till nightfall the sultans of Aleppo and Damascus, the emir of Jerusalem, and the broken squadrons of the Saracens. The victorious Crusaders set fire to the intrenchments behind which the Mussulman infantry had taken refuge, and great numbers of the infidels perished in the flames. Such was the battle of Antioch, in which the Saracens left 100,000 dead on the field, while the Christians lost only 4000.

When the danger was past, the holy lance began to lose its miraculous influence over the troops. It remained in the keeping of Raymond and his Provençals, and the offerings which it brought to them as its guardians soon excited the jealousy of the rest of the army. Doubts were raised as to its genuineness, and Arnauld and the Normans especially distinguished themselves by their vehement outcry against it. In vain miracles in its favour were got up by its supporters: nothing could silence its opponents, and discord rose to an alarming height in the army. At last Barthelemy, carried away by his fanaticism and the applause of his adherents, announced his intention of submitting to the ordeal by fire. In a moment calm was restored in the camp. The pilgrims who followed the Christian army were invited to witness the ordeal, and the host of the Crusaders ranged themselves in a circle round the place of trial. On the appointed

day (it was a holy Friday), a large pile of olive branches was raised in the middle of the vast plain. The flames already rose to a great height, when the spectators saw Barthelemy approach, accompanied by priests, who advanced in silence, barefoot, and clothed in their sacerdotal robes. Covered with a simple tunic, the priest of Marseilles carried the holy lance, decked with waving flaglets. When he had approached to within a few paces of the flaming pile, one of the principal clergy pronounced in a loud voice these words-If this man has seen Jesus Christ face to face, and if St Andrew has revealed to him the divine lance, let him pass uninjured through the flames; if, on the contrary, he has been guilty of falsehood, let him be consumed, with the lance which he carries in his hands.' At these words all the assistants bowed, and replied together, 'Let God's will be done!' Barthelemy threw himself on his knees, took Heaven to witness as to the truth of all he had said, and recommending himself to the prayers of the clergy, rushed amid the flaming pile, through which an opening of two feet had been left for his passage.

For a moment he was hid from sight amid the flames. Many pilgrims began to bewail him as lost, when they saw him reappear on the side opposite to that where he had entered. He was immediately surrounded by an eager crowd, who wished to touch his garments, and who exclaimed it was a miracle. But the object of their veneration had received mortal injury. He was borne dying into the tent of the Count of Toulouse, where he expired a few days after, protesting to the last his innocence and his veracity. He was buried on the spot where the pile had been raised. Raymond and the Provençals persisted in regarding him as an apostle and a martyr; but the great majority of the pilgrims acquiesced in the judgment of God,' and the holy lance, from that

day forward, ceased to work miracles.

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

THE FRENCH AGONY.

AT the time when we write-nearly four weeks before the day on which the present sheet appears-France is under the agony of a revolution, one of the immediate effects of which is, by the extinction of confidence, to disorganise the whole industrial system of the country, and put large masses of the people out of relation to their usual means of subsistence. The private suffering from this cause must be very great, and it is difficult to see where and how it is to end. What ought to be the conduct of England on the occasion? May she allowably exult in the distresses of a country which too often has expressed jealous and hostile feelings towards herself? May she even congratulate herself on that embarrassment which promises to make her neighbour for some time to come little able to act as an enemy to other states? We would hope that those who feel thus will be few, and that the bulk of our community will rather be disposed to compassionate the unhappy case of the French, and to show that they do so. Now seems to be the time for attempting to convince that people that England bears no malice towards them, and would much rather be regarded as their friend than their enemy. The French, let us remember, are now only in a new crisis of the transition which they have been obliged to make from the heartless despotism of their ancient monarchy, to such liberal institutions as we ourselves possess. For nearly sixty years has this transition been in progress, and how much the country has suffered in that time need not be particularised. The case is precisely that which was our own in the seventeenth century. Had we then had a predecessor in the realisation of free institutions, and had that state acted sympathisingly in the midst of some such agony as that of the Remonstrance, or the treaty of Uxbridge, or even the settlement of the crown on William and Mary, how pleasingly must we have felt it!-how apt would such conduct have been to wipe out past offences, and induce bonds of fraternal alliance

and peace! It would be well if, while forced in conscience to condemn many of their particular acts, we could truly and earnestly sympathise with the French in the distresses which they have almost involuntarily brought upon themselves. Let there be no levity in our remarks, much less any ill-considered reproaches; but let them see that our only interference is that of the benevolent social feelings, and that the first wish of our hearts is a good deliverance from their troubles. Such at least is, in our judgment, the duty of England on this occasion, under the constraint of the highest laws of our moral nature. The consequences are of inferior importance to the performance of the duty; but human nature can never perhaps be too impressively told that as we sow we must reap.

RELIEF FOR INDIGENT GENTLEWOMEN.

6

Among the many distressing visions of penury which meet our attention, one of the most distressing is that of the poor elderly female who has seen better days.' We can scarcely rank it amongst those which come broadly under public notice: it is more apt to shrink from the gaze of the world, and only to be discovered by accident by those who make it their duty to search into the nooks and crannies of our complicated social structure. Scarcely any one, however, can have failed to become acquainted more or less with some particular cases of the reduced gentlewoman; not always, alas! to be pictured as one sustaining neat and clean appearances in some poor lodging, and now and then even presenting herself at the tables of her old acquaintances, but often as the helpless bedrid creature, drawing out an attenuated existence on some miserable pittance, and dependent for half her living, and all the nursing she requires, on some sempstress niece, or old servant scarcely more vigorous than herself. For such persons, the ordinary charities of the country, whether those established by law, or those which spring from special voluntary benevolence, are of no avail, being destined for totally different objects. There is therefore scarcely any groan more hopeless than theirs; in no cases is the exigency of need more overmatched by obstructions to its relief-the chief of these being the delicacy which forbids asking.

A sense of the need which everywhere exists for charity meeting this peculiar form of wretchedness, induces us to advert to an institution having that end in view, which has been in operation for about a year in Edinburgh. It assumes the name of the ⚫ Benevolent Fund for the Relief of Indigent Gentlewomen of Scotland above Fifty Years of Age, and Unmarried.' The mechanism for collecting funds very appropriately consists for the most part of ladies; the annual subscription (inclusive of donations) being half-a-crown. Thus L.1265 have been collected in the first year. It may also be remarked as a peculiar feature, that about one half of the established clergy of the country have inte rested themselves in the collection of subscriptions. The expenses attending the starting of the society have absorbed a larger proportion of the results than was to have been expected; but nevertheless, sums varying from L.5 to L.10 have been given to 154 applicants. We find in the first annual report some brief anonymous memoranda of a selection of the cases, showing the age, parentage, other resources, and general condition of the poor ladies who have been selected for the society's charity-thus: 74; landed proprietor; about L.8; quite blind; occasional aid from friends not related to her; no relations able or willing to support her.' 60; lieutenant royal navy; 3s. a week; nearly blind; weak in intellect; often without food or fire; no relatives.' 60; clergyman; subsistence only from knitting; no relatives. 76; merchant; taught a school till 75 years old; L.5 or L.6; incapacitated by age for labour.' 51; captain in army; L.6; Queen's bounty; almost constantly bedridden; gets a little assistance from a poor niece, who supports her own mother and two sisters by teaching.' These are short and simple

annals, but how much do they reveal! The report says very modestly, The relief, coming to them, as it did, at an inclement season of the year, was most welcome, and in many instances served to provide them with necessaries much required. The aid was in almost all cases administered through the ladies' own pastors, and the gratitude of all was unbounded. Some of the openings of the hearts of the poor destitute ladies to their ministers, when receiving from them the wel | come allowances, were most touching.'

We would hope that a fund calculated to be so serviceable in the mitigating of human misery, will continue to be well supported, and will also not be allowed to remain an example unhonoured by imitation in other portions of the empire.

THE CHARACTER OF COSTUME. ALL who have exercised even a superficial degree of observation, must be aware how much their estimation of a stranger is influenced by the habiliments of his outward man. The garnishing of a bonnet, or the pattern of a vest, can give curious hints on biography; and Beau Brummell's maxim, that a man was esteemed according to the set of his shirt-collar,' is not without some experimental truth. Look out on a city thoroughfare, saunter along a fashionable promenade, enter a place of public assembly, and see what varieties of character present themselves to the mind through the different combinations of silk, woollen, and cotton fabrics which form the staple of British apparel. Almost involuntarily a spectator will discover and classify the accurate and inflexible in small ways, who would wage war for the size of a button or the position of a pin; the jumbled and disorderly, whose lives stumble on from one casualty to another; the strivers after effect and show; the servants of unembellished utility; the creatures of milliners, yea, and those of tailors also, who live only from the fashion; and the few who use the fashions of life, yet are not subject to any of them. It is not possible that impressions thus received could be always correct: there are a thousand petty influences that operate on the clothing as well as the conduct of humanity, but they are generally entertained in lieu of something more certain; and those who will not go as far as character, occasionally inquire of beaver and broad cloth regarding the wearer's profession; not only where it has appropriated some peculiar mode, as in the cases of clergy and military men, but in the less conspicuous vocations, where the matter is left entirely to individual selection. Thus poets and Blues were believed to be recognisable in the days of our grandfathers, and some still pretend to discern the insignia of those orders. We once heard a railway clerk assert that he never was mistaken in schoolmasters or commercial travellers; and among the anecdotes of the French Revolution, is one concerning a countess who attempted to make her escape from the Temple in the disguise of a charwoman, but was detected by the aristocratic fashion in which she wore a washed-out cotton shawl. How were they dressed?' is a universal inquiry; and the whole body of writers in travels, fiction, and history, seem aware of the fact, and describe the attire of their principal characters with minutia worthy of the Court Circular. Nor is the idea of its importance unfounded. An old author remarks, that it is not Quakers', millers', and bakers' boys alone that are distinguished by the cut and colour of their garments; but individuals, nations, and times, because the habit of clothing is one of the great particularities of man, which, if it be not common to all men, is shared in by no other animal; and like the handwriting, or fashion of speech, it serveth to denote somewhat of his proper personality. The truth of these observations is strikingly illustrated by a gallery of old family pictures, or those portraits of sovereigns and celebrated persons which exhibit the costume of the ages in which they flourished; and it is an amusing, yet not uninstructive

study, to trace the coincidence that exists between the character of each succeeding century and the fashion of its garments, from almost the dawn of our national history to the reign of Victoria. In this respect costume furnishes the most obvious signs of the times, in which the beholder may read their moral and mental character, even as the picture-lovers of some future generation will speculate on the books of beauty, the fashionable magazines, and, should any be preserved, the photographic portraits of our own day. The earliest account of British costume is given us by Julius Cæsar and his contemporaries, according to whom it consisted of a beard, reaching to the breast like a tangled mane; a mantle which descended almost to the knee, made of the hide of a brindled cow, with the hair worn outwards, and fastened in front with a pin of bone or a long thorn; a shield composed of wickerwork; a brazen javelin, and the greater part of the body painted dark-blue, or some say green, the breast and arms being punctured with the figures of plants and animals, like the tattooing of the South Sea isles. This primitive fashion naturally represents a land covered with primeval forests, the resort of the bear and the bison; huts constructed of wattles and mud, and thatched with heath and fern; gatherings for rude Pagan rites round the solitary cromlech, or in that puzzle of antiquaries-the circle of Stonehenge; and a savage veneration for the Druid and the mistletoe.

How the belles of Britain were arrayed in Cæsar's time we are not informed, but the progress of civilisation may be traced by the dress of the celebrated Queen Boadicea, who lived more than a century later, as described by a Roman historian on a state occasion: her light hair fell down her shoulders; she wore a torque, or twisted collar of gold; a tunic of several colours, all in folds; and over it, fastened by a fibula, or brooch, a robe of coarse stuff. We also gather from some remnants of old Celtic poetry that at the same period the dress of the Druid was a long white robe, as an emblem of purity; that of the bards a blue one; and the professors of medicine and astronomy, which appear to have been curiously connected in the minds of our Celtic ancestors, were distinguished by a garment of green, because it was the garment of nature; while those who aspired to unite the honours of those three vocations to their names, wore variegated dresses of the three colours-blue, green, and white.

Pliny tells us that these divers-coloured garments were made of a fabric called braccæ, composed of fine wool, woven in cheques, and evidently synonymous with the Scottish tartan. Several Roman writers add, that of this chequered cloth the many-coloured tunic of Boadicea, and the entire dress of her most distinguished warriors, were formed. From their description of the latter, it appears to have exactly resembled the costume of a Highland chief, with kilt, plaid, and dirk ; wanting only the plumed bonnet, and the tasseled sporan or purse. These were the additions of aftertimes, which came with the pibroch, the fiery cross, and the black mail, to the Celts of our northern mountains; but the days of which we speak were those of the plaided warriors, encountering the cuirassed and Latin-talking legions of Rome-the days of the hewing down of old oak woods-the building of those Roman forts and cities whose ruins and burial urns are turned up by modern excavation. It is curious to consider that the chequered cloth, which was now regarded by the Romans as a savage dress, had once (if a modern and well-supported theory be true) been the costume of a large part of the earth, including the countries afterwards inhabited by the Romans; and that, after surviving eighteen centuries in one corner of the island of Britain, it has come again to be a favourite wear over regions far beyond the bounds of the Scottish Highlands, as if the first fancy of the European races with respect to clothing had involved some peculiar felicity, which was sure to rekindle their affections on its being brought again before their notice. True it is the chequered braccæ, in