A.C. 106.

In the year of Rome 646, Cepio, a man so covetous of wealth as to think both peculation and sacrilege justifiable in the pursuit of it, was sent into Transalpine Gaul. This general commenced his operations by attacking Tolosa, now Toulouse. The Roman garrison had been placed in irons. Cepio was admitted by treachery into the city, which he delivered up to pillage. Nothing was spared, sacred or profane; all became the prey of the soldiery. It is said that the consul’s share of the booty amounted to nearly two millions sterling, principally taken from the temples. It is to be remembered, when we feel astonished at this amount of wealth, that Tolosa was an ancient and very flourishing city, by its position connected with Greece, and sharing considerably in the Mediterranean trade. Notwithstanding its favourable position for commerce, during the last eight hundred years, Toulouse has been more celebrated for its love of the arts and its patronage of the Belles Lettres than for its industrial or trading enterprise. Historians held out the sacrilegious plunder of Cepio as a lesson to other conquerors; for they say he was punished in a striking manner: the Romans were defeated everywhere, and the life of Cepio proved such a continuous series of disasters, that when a man was unfortunate, it became a proverb to say he had “Aurum Tolosanum” (he was possessed of Toulouse gold).

SECOND SIEGE, A.D. 1217.

The next siege of Toulouse is connected with one of the blackest pages in human history, the horrid war, or crusade as it is termed, against the Albigeois. The licentiousness of the clergy and the barefaced venality and ambition of the hierarchy led people to look with jealousy at the doctrines by which these men supported their influence; and the consequence necessarily was, that many seceded from the Church, and formed sects, or shades of belief, according to their intelligence, or perhaps passions. This, in fact, was the commencement of the Reformation, which, though kept under by the power of the Church, silently but unceasingly worked its way, till the ostentatious extravagance of Leo X. and the exasperated genius of Luther, nearly three hundred years after, brought it to a head. The rich provinces of the south of France were the first melancholy scenes of the series of persecutions, under the name of a religion of peace, which have since, in wars, assassinations, and autos-da-fÈ, in dungeons and inquisitions, tortures and the stake, disgraced humanity.

Raymond, count of Toulouse, was the richest prince in Europe when Innocent III. set on the dogs of rapine, by preaching a crusade against him and his beautiful country. In the crusades to the Holy Land many more had been attracted by the fabulous accounts of the riches of the East, than by any care about the redemption of the holy places, so, in this European crusade, the wealth of Toulouse was the principal incentive to the adventurers who flocked to the plunder. At that period, individual enterprise was perhaps stronger than at any other: a prince of Lorraine had become king of Jerusalem; a high-sounding title, though barren of everything but care: a few Norman knights had made themselves masters of Sicily and of part of the south of Italy: William of Normandy, and his wonderful success, were not forgotten; so that, directly there was a chance of territorial plunder, particularly under the sanction of the Church, the unscrupulous, restless, needy spirits of the age were all roused to action, and eager to obtain the first prize. One of the worst of this class, Simon de Montfort, was the leader of this infamous league. A French author describing him, says, “he would have been the hero of his age, if he had not been ambitious, barbarous, perfidious, and revengeful.” Plutarch would never have introduced the word hero, as in any way compatible with such a character. And here we take leave to warn our young readers against the partiality they may conceive for Simon de Montfort, earl of Leicester, who figured in the reign of our Henry III., from reading a pleasing tale by Mr. James. His De Montfort is a fiction, the real man was of the same character as his father; he was an adventurer, and his quarry was England, as Toulouse had been that of his predecessor.

In vain Count Raymond, the sovereign of the unfortunate Albigeois, endeavoured to defend them; he was crushed beneath the same anathema, and was obliged to fly before De Montfort. Subdued, a wanderer, and a proscribed heretic, the count was reduced to the most deplorable condition, and abandoned Toulouse to the conqueror. The Toulousians gave up their city very unwillingly. Suffering under the odious yoke, they recalled their ancient master. Montfort, informed of this revolution, hastened to the scene of action, came to the walls, and endeavoured to enter by the Nalbonnais Castle. But he there found intrepid warriors and impregnable fortifications. Finding his first attack, from which he had expected much, fail, he commenced the siege in form; he fought several bloody battles, made many terrible assaults, and spared neither fatigue nor stratagem for more than four months. But he made himself master of the place by means of a horrible piece of treachery, devised and executed by Bishop Foulquet. The latter proposed to all the inhabitants, in the name of the God of peace, to go forth and meet De Montfort, for the purpose of coming to terms. That atrocious commander received them at the head of his knights, and made prisoners of most of them. The war, however, continued with various success, and Toulouse was again in the hands of the inhabitants. Whilst besieging it, this scourge was removed by a death he merited. An enormous stone, cast from a mangonel, and aimed by a woman, struck him senseless to the earth. He was borne to his tent, and expired almost immediately. Thus, like Pyrrhus, perished the ever infamous Simon de Montfort, by an ignoble missile, launched by a woman.

Count Raymond, who was very aged, shortly after died, and the priests refused his body sepulture: his coffin remained for many years outside the door of a church. His toleration was his principal crime in the eyes of his clerical persecutors; a great part of his misfortunes may be attributed to the weakness of his character, but far more to the attractions held out to unscrupulous adventurers by his wealth. When we come to the siege of BÉziers, we shall again have to turn to this horrible page of history.