Pope Urban was ready to fan this flame, and the panting multitude were by his holy and supreme power absolved from the weight of all past offences as well as all those they should ever commit, if they would prosecute with zeal this holy war.
The worst of sinners, robbers and assassins, over whose hardened hearts there still lingered the dying glow of the internal fire of conscience, or before whose sin-distempered vision ever flittered the phantoms of past transgressions, rejoiced to say avaunt for ever, to the ghosts of their departed crimes, and feel an assurance of no future retribution for their dark deeds of horror. A new field for rapine and adventure opened before them, and they rushed impetuously on to the combat. Many, who had led a life of more retired wickedness and grown grey in sin were glad to seize a hope of salvation even on the borders of eternity, and tottered along with the vast concourse.
Rich and poor, young and old, with fervid zeal embraced the means of future happiness beyond the grave. And the vast territory through which these soldiers of the Cross wended their way was whitened with the bones of the self sacrificed.
Even after the great champion Godfrey de Bouillon, had gained the prize, and enjoyed a regal rank of one short year’s duration, he had to surrender his earthly throne to his holiness at Rome, and content himself like his followers with the hopes of a kingdom in the unseen world.
Vain would be the effort to count the victims of religious enthusiasm; of the attempts to appease the great unseen essence of human life; to propitiate the favor of that Power, which, as it has called into being, can also summon his creatures from their earthly tenements, and dispose of their spirits, as seemeth best to his sovereign will.
But holy wars, and sin-atoning pilgrimages, are not confined to the followers of the Cross.
Wherever the Cresent glitters on the dome, or the muezzin proclaims the ezan from the pointed minaré; wherever throughout the vast dominions of the Mussulmans, resounds the cry Allah Ikber! Allah Ikber! are the countless votaries of the religion of Mohammed, ready to arise from their peaceful homes, and perform the sacred journey to the shrine of their faith, the holy temple at Mecca. And year after year, do the pilgrims trace a wearisome way through desert plains and scorching heats, to the spot where they may roll off the burden of self-condemnation, and kiss the all-atoning stone, which has been the heirloom to mortality, since the foundation of the world.
Although throngs of Mussulman pilgrims yearly visit the holy city of Mecca, but few Europeans have left the impress of their footsteps upon its soil.
What millions of human beings, nothing intimidated by deserts, mountains, and all sorts of hardships, have paid their devotions to this shrine! The great have visited it with pomp, and all its train of luxury and display; the grasping spirit of trade, has summoned merchants from all parts of the East. The learned and wise, of times that were, and times that are, have on the same occasion, collecting the productions of genius, sought a mart for literature and renown. Sultanas, and ladies of high and noble rank, have changed their silken couches for wandering homes through the desert.
Old age has tottered thither staff in hand, and poverty has never failed to swell the concourse with its numberless train. The vast multitude, hundreds of thousands of every rank and profession, crying “La Illah! Il-Allah! Mohammed Ressoul Ullah!” every year people the silent wastes of sand with the buzz of human voices, as they toil along their weary way to the holy city of Mecca.