Europe, excited the Emperor's admiration as he looked from the Beffroi upon its spacious squares, its broad streets, its towers and steeples, and he asked the cruel Alva, who was advising him to raze it to the ground, “Combien il falloit de peaux d'Espagne pour fain un gant de cette grandeur ?”* The insurrection which provoked the anger of the monarch, was caused by the demand of Charles for an enormous subsidy to carry on the war against France. The "men of Ghent" put their city in a state of defense, and secretly made overtures to Francis I, who treacherously disclosed the secret to the Emperor. Great was the consternation of the citizens when Charles approached with a large army, and messengers were dispatched to sue for pardon. The pomp of the imperial entry into the rebellious city was not calculated to allay the apprehensions of the inhabitants. For six hours the stately procession moved on. Cardinals, archbishops, and other ecclesiastical dignitaries surrounded the Emperor, who was attended by barons, dukes, princes, and Knights of the Golden Fleece, arrayed in rich and costly furs, with chains of gold and bonnets adorned with precious stones, while ten thousand fully armed soldiers formed the body-guard. It was the hour of triumph for the despotic power over the democratic principle whose upheavings produced continual agitation in these Flemish towns. Sixty thousand strangers, with their fifteen thousand horses, passed on in solemn procession, and were quartered in the terror-stricken city of Ghent. A mouth of fearful suspense ensued, and none knew when the uplifted arm was to strike the blow. At length the imperial pleasure was made known. Nineteen of the ringleaders were beheaded, and then in a public assembly sentence was pronounced. All public property was confiscated, the charters and privileges of the town annulled, and the senators and burghers, clothed in black robes, were to kneel before the Emperor. His last decree was most humbling to the pride of the "men of Ghent." On the 5th of May, 1540, the streets were alive with troops needed to overawe the indignant people, before whom passed a procession in humiliating contrast with the pompous pageant they had witnessed four months before. No prancing steeds nor gleaming weapons, no insignia of ecclesiastical pomp and power, no knightly orders, no costly furs or jewels; but burghers and senators in sack *How many skins of Spanish leather would it take to make such a glove? In the French Gand, Ghent was the same sound as gant, glove. cloth, and a hundred citizens in linen sheets with uncovered heads, and halters around their necks, walking with downcast eyes through the streets of their own fair city. The Emperor, with the Queen Regent by his side, with crown and scepter and stately retinue of prelates and nobles, sat on his throne to wait their coming, and while they kneeled in the dust before him, uttering words of contrition and supplication amid groans and tears of rage and shame, he graciously granted them pardon, in consequence of the suggestion of the Queen Regent that Ghent was his native city. Unlike the infant Hercules, who strangled the serpents in his cradle, the infant baptized at St. Bavon's in the font encircled by the serpent, sent its venomous and deadly sting to the heart of the town that welcomed his birth. A citadel was built to overawe the turbulent "men of Ghent," and eight hundred houses in the ancient quarter of St. Bavon were removed to give place to its rising walls, which afterward inclosed in their sullen gloom the noble prisoners, Counts Egmont and Horn. In 1570 this fortress was bravely defended by the Spaniards against the towns-people who, under the Prince of Orange, were endeavoring to throw off the Spanish yoke. Three thousand "men of Ghent," wearing white shirts over their clothes to distinguish them, attempted to take the citadel by assault; but finding the ladders too short, they prepared to renew the attack the next morning, when the Spaniards sent to capitulate. Terms of capitulation were granted, and the Senora Mondragon, who had commanded in the absence of her husband, marched at the head of one hundred and fifty men and a number of women and children, the sole remains of the garrison who had so bravely defended the citadel. When the States General ordered it to be leveled to the ground, the citizens, with their wives and children, worked with a right good will in destroying this stronghold of tyranny, the ruins of which may still be discerned from the Beffroi. Leaving the tall tower which spoke so eloquently of the past-recalling the Emperor standing on the summit, and the "men of Ghent" clustering around its base, summoned by Roland's iron tongue to deeds of daring, we stopped in a store filled with ancient relics, old china, carved wood-work of rich dark oak, and other objects of interest tastefully arranged. The Hotel de Ville next attracted our attention. Situated on the corner of a street, it has two facades of different styles of architecture. The one built in 1482, in the Muesco-Gothic style, is very handsome and rich in its details; the other, erected more than a hundred years afterward, has three rows of pillars piled one above another. Here Mary of Burgundy, in mourning garments, with flowing hair and streaming eyes, presented herself before the enraged burghers, who were about to behead Imbrecourt and Hugonet, envoys from the states, who had, in obedience to her instructions, entered into secret negotiations with the French king against the "Great Privilege," the charter of the liberties of Ghent. Youth, rank, beauty, and grief appealed in vain, and the rapid trial was followed by the swift execution. More memorable was the assembly in 1576, when, just two hundred years before the Declaration of Independence by our national Congress, the representatives of Holland and Belgium met in this town-hall to issue their protest against the odious tyranny of Philip II, and with solemn deliberation to affix their names to the celebrated "Pacification of Ghent." ders, known among her subjects as the "Black Lady." The cannon, which perpetuates her dark memory, is of hammered iron, and is the largest in the world-being eighteen feet long, ten and a half in circumference, its bore two and a half feet in diameter, and weighing thirty-four thousand pounds. Made in the days of Philip the Good, it was used by the Gantors at the siege of Oudenarde, 1382. We then went to St. Michael's Church, where we saw Vandyck's celebrated picture of the Crucifixion, which is very impressive. The soldier who pierced the side of the Savior is mounted on a magnificent gray horse, which is again introduced by the artist in his picture of Charles V at Florence. This picture hangs in the left transept, and next to it is a fine modern painting of the proving of the true cross in its healing a sick woman. Kneeling in the foreground, the hands clasped in grateful adoration, is the Empress Helena, in whom the painter has given a sweet portrait of Josephine. In the opposite transept are also two modern pictures of great merit-the Annunciation and the Assumption of the Virgin. In the latter the Madonna is borne upward by cherubs and angels; in the former her attitude is remarkably graceful, as she listens with a modest but joyful expression to the wondrous announcement of the angel. Her robe is of blue, with white about her neck, and she stands in a broad ray of light from the heavens. We passed the fish market, on the brown stone portal of which is sculptured Neptune, and two rivers under the forms of old men-while the dropping of water is imitated in the stone; the fruit and vegetable market held in the open squares; and "La Grande Boucherie," the meat Not far from the Hotel de Ville is the Marche de Vendrede, the Friday market-the forum of ancient Ghent, and associated with many stormy scenes in its history. How many vivid pictures of the past are called up by this ancient square! The pomp and splendor with which the counts of Flanders were here inaugurated the rallying of the guilds around their standards upon any invasion of their rights-the gathering, in the year 1300, of valiant men, led by John Breydel to the "Battle of Spurs" at Comtrai, whence they brought seven hundred spurs, as trophies of their prowess, from the defeated nobles of France-the fierce civic broil, when the faction of the weavers, led by Jacques Van Artevelde, the brewer of Ghent, encountered the fullers, and fifteen hundred corpses were left on the square-market of the town. and the proclamation, forty years afterward, of Philip, son of Jacques Van Artevelde, as Rueward, or Protector, of Flanders. Later still this ancient square was lighted up by the baleful fires of the Inquisition, demanding their hecatombs of human victims. The lofty column, erected in the year 1600, in the center of the square, to the memory of Charles V, was leveled by the French in 1794, to give place to the tree of liberty. The Friday market is thus called from the linen market held there on that day. On an enormous iron ring are exposed the pieces of linen, which, having been found defective, are confiscated by the authorities and given to the hospitals. In a little street running out of this famous square is a cannon of the fourteenth century called "Mad Margery," after a countess of Flan Near this, in the Place St. Pharailde, still stands an old turreted gateway, called the Oudeberg, or Graeven Kasteel, a relic of the castle of the counts of Flanders, built in 868 by Baldwin of the Iron Arm. In 1338 it was the residence of Edward III and Queen Philippa, who here gave birth to John of Gaunt, or Ghent, afterward Duke of Lancaster. An intimate alliance existed at this time between the "men of Ghent" and the English, cemented by mutual interest; the Flemish needing the wool of England for their cloths, and the English needing the stout arms of the Flemings in their wars with the French. Edward III called Jacques Van Artevelde "my dear gossip," and was induced by him to place the lilies of France on the shield of England; and Philippa stood godmother to his son Philip. Van Artevelde paid dearly for this royal intimacy. After being for ten years the idol of the people, who were led captive by his talents, his courage, and his eloquence, he "set them of Gaunt on fire" by his wishing them to set aside the counts of Flanders and acknowledge Edward, the Black Prince, as their sovereign. On returning from his conference with Edward he was slain by the angry citizens in his own house, which was situated in the Padden Hock-Toad's Corner. One more incident well claims a place in the chronicles of Ghent. It was the eventful marriage, celebrated with great splendor in 1477, of the Grand Duke Maximilian to Mary of Burgundy, heiress of Charles the Bold, which brought the Low Countries under the sway of the House of Austria, and prepared the way for some of the darkest scenes of history. We entered the Church of St. Nicholas, the oldest in the city, and hung with the coats of arms of the nobles who have passed away. We saw the house in which Louis XVIII resided while he was in Ghent, the convent of the Dominicans, and the university, the finest public building in the town, founded by William I, King of Holland, in 1816, and attended by about three hundred and fifty students. Ghent is a most picturesque town, with its quaint old houses, their carved fronts and fantastic gables rising stepwise, and ornamented with scrolls. Its shape is somewhat triangular. It is entered by seven gates, and it lies on the rivers Scheldt and Lys, whose numerous branches intersect it with canals, over which are thrown eighty bridges. Steps are placed at convenient distances, which the people descend to wash their feet or their linen, as the occasion may require. The tall smoking chimneys of Ghent attest the presence of commercial activity. The manufacture of cotton yarn was introduced in the beginning of this century, and in 1819 the spinning jennies and high-pressure engines, brought from England, gave additional stimulus to this branch of industry. When united to France in 1804, Ghent was considered by Napoleon the chief manufacturing town, after Lyons and Florence. In 1834 there was in Ghent two hundred and fifty looms worked by steam, and 19,000 workmen employed in the cotton manufactures. We went to the door of the Beguinage, but it was only 5 o'clock, and the sisterhood were not to be assembled till seven, so we walked to a promenade along the Coupure, a canal cut in 1758 to unite the Lys with the Bruges canal. It looked most inviting, deeply shaded as it is by four rows of fine trees, and dismissing our guide we seated ourselves on a stone bench and ate some cherries which we had bought by the way. We sat for more than an hour in this cool and refreshing shade; preparing ourselves for a visit to Bruges on the morrow by a diligent perusal of Murray's faithful and admirable description, and watching the movements of some boys who were plunging a pitchfork into the ground, and then gently moving it for a long time. I could not imagine what they were doing, and I fancied it some Flemish game, that I might introduce to the notice of American boys. I was quite disappointed when, on a nearer approach, I found that the little boys were getting worms for fishing-the stirring of the pitchfork driving them out of the ground. One little fellow had his sabot-wooden shoefilled with them. We walked along the canal and crossed a bridge, which led us into the grounds of the Society of St. George, where we watched the flight of arrows that some gentlemen were shooting far, far above a very high pole, on the top of which was fixed a wooden bird for a mark. This shooting with a cross-bow is a favorite amusement throughout the country. Near the Coupure is the Maison de Force-the celebrated prison of Ghent, which was approved by Howard, and which has served as a model for similar buildings in Europe and America. It is a perfect octagon, with the steeple of the prison church rising in the center, and the number of prisoners is fifteen hundred. It was begun under the auspices of Maria Theresa, but completed by the care and munificence of William I, King of Holland. We readily found our way to the Beguinage, which is almost a little town by itself, surrounded by a moat and wall, and with its streets, squares, and houses. It was founded in 1234, and is the only large nunnery that survived the suppression of convents by Joseph II. We crossed the drawbridge, and entering the church found that the service had already begun. About six hundred sisters, covered with ample white linen vails, concealing all the person but the hands that held the rosary, were kneeling on cushions. At some distance before the high altar stood a smaller one, on which was an image of the Virgin, dressed in pink satin, embroidered in gold tinsel, a work-bag hanging on the arm, while one hand held a scepter and the other a white satin ribbon, a wreath of painted flowers encircling her. Five or six sisters in the choir sang the "Salut," till, at the end of half an hour, one of the Beguines rang the bell by a rope hanging in the hall, and the "six hundred" stretched out their arms and held them extended for one or two minutes, when, taking off their vails and folding them up, they placed them on their heads, and pinning up their long black cloth dresses before and behind, they left the church. We followed them and observed two of them kneeling before a painful image of the Savior with a reed in his hand, and red spots, marks of the scourging, equally distributed over his body. Quietly the sisters entered the doors of their houses, small and venerable, with the names of their patron saints instead of their own inscribed on the door. Many of them are women of rank and wealth who leave their fortunes to the order, which, throughout Belgium, numbers 6,000. Bound by no vow, it is their boast that no Beguine ever returns to the world. They devote themselves to works of charity and benevolence, paying especial attention to the care of the sick. On returning to our hotel we took tea in a pleasant room, overlooking the spacious garden of an aristocratic mansion, where some children were playing on the banks of the canal, by which it was bounded. The deep, full tones of the bell pealed forth-that sound which, in olden time, called to their meals the forty thousand weavers, who trod the streets in such serried ranks that no draw-bridge could be lifted after the first note of the bell, and children were ordered to be taken within doors, lest they should be trampled under foot. One would listen now in vain for the steady tramp of that vast multitude; but sweet music came soothingly and dreamily from the military band on the "Place d'Armes," as in the calm repose of evening we hung up in the halls of memory pleasant pictures of the old town, its cheerful streets, its shaded squares, and its nooks and corners where still peep out the sharp roofs, curious chimneys, quaint gables, and mullioned windows, characteristic of the gloomy old homes of the "men of Ghent." THE DEAD. BY EMILY C. HUNTINGTON. which falls with the night-shadows, because no dreams are haunting it, and because they wake from it in the shadowless sunlight of eternity? A little child, almost a babe in years, was written motherless. The father, with heart well-nigh sinking with its pain, took the child in his arms and carried him to the room where the lost one lay in her pale beauty. For a moment the little one gazed silently upon her, then lifting his radiant face exclaimed earnestly, "Beautiful mamma!" The father folded the little artless comforter closer to his heart and murmured softly, "Ay, beautiful-lovely in life, and surely far more lovely now that 'the light of immortal beauty silently covers her face." " Yes, call them beautiful-our beautiful dead. Think of them always as at rest with the blessed. Think of the white robes and the tuneful harps; of the spirit wreaths bound about their shadowless brows. Think of the hands that bore the cross so wearily here, now lifted before the great white throne; of the voice that trembled with its tearful pleading, now full and clear swelling the chantings in the upper temple's choir. Think how the feet that faltered and bled along a rough and darkened way, now tread the streets of that golden city where they have no need of the sun nor of the moon, for the Lord is the light thereof. Mother! is there a household name that was once upon thy lips like this very breath, but now is only uttered with tears and trembling, so saddening it has grown with its visions of the churchyard marbles? Is the cradle empty, mother? Did the little hand waste and stiffen and slip slowly away from thy clasp; and the little waxen limbs, so tenderly folded away from the cold, are they crumbling under the daisies? Have you seen the quivering eyes upturned to your face as if pleading with you to save your baby from its agony? Ah! yes; and the baby is dead nowdead, and all the living seem not half so dear as "the little hindering thing" that is gone. Yet "it is well with the child." The little wandering lamb is safe within the fold, instead of crossing HY should we only link our dead to thoughts these bleak and wintery moors of life. Lay the never surround them as we do the living with the light of beautiful fancies and sweet imaginings? Why should we turn shuddering away from the thought of those whose memory, when living, was a cherished thing, because the hand of the Merciful has given his beloved sleep? Are they not beautiful, those quiet forms? Is there not peace upon their pale brows and on their stirless lips? Lie not the hands lightly over the bosom, and is the slumber less happy than that breast, there will be no Cross for them to bear; close the waxen lids over the eyes that will never look upon sorrow; kiss the dear lips that never learned to syllable our earthly words, and say thankfully, "Ah! the blessed baby! it has gone to the beautiful dead." Gone hence! Gone to the deathless land! Why do we call this green earth, all dotted as it is with graves, "the land of the living?" Why do we say of our beloved, they are still in the land of the living, while they wander here where sweetest anthems die away in sobbings low? Ah! they who reach that "land of the living," go no more out forever. There is a city whose inhabitants shall not say, I am sick; there is a land over whose flowers the shadow of the destroyer never falls, "and there is no night there." They are there, our beautiful, our blessed dead, and in the hereafter, when the sun of our little life goes down behind the mountains of eternity, we shall join them in that land of the living, and when the sea is past it will matter not how mournfully its billows once moaned upon the shore. THE BLUES. BY H. F. GOULD. WHENEVER You feel an attack of the blues, Your troubles are coming to pass! They'll put a man out of his head and his shoes, You 're shrinking, and quaking, With all you 've on earth dropping through; Your servants are lazy, Your children, destruction to you! The market is passing, your ships on the deep, For there'll be no making hay. Your funds are fast sinking, Your enviers winking, Your debtor your presence eschews; Your menial pertly, And ingrates your kindness abuse. Your wealth-though you've millions secure as the poles Is melting and passing like dew; Your storehouse is empty, your purse full of holes, Your agent's untrusty, Your creditor crusty, The lawyer 'll grow big on your loss: Deep subtilties weaving, To change your fine gold into dross! You're sick; no one cares for you, body or soul; No eye your deep malady sees; The doctor makes charges, but can 't make you whole; Your flesh-though you 're weighing Is dwindling you down to a shade! When dreamless you 're sleeping, Where low your poor head must be laid. * A venerable gentleman who lived in the early home of the writer, being subject to frequent attacks of hypochondriac depression, became, at such times as the fit was on him, possessed of the monomaniac notion, that his lower limbs were vitrified, when he assumed a melancholy, appealing expression, and a stiff, careful gait, as if afraid of breaking down. The earth's hard and sterile, the skies o'er it frown, The whole world is suddenly turned upside down; May show you the beam on And let him not find you The ninny to swing in his noose! But turn a new leaf; vanquish SELF on the spot; And learn, that what makes the dire crook in your lot, Go look at your neighbor, Who lives by his labor, That sweetens his rest and his board! His heart warm and wealthy In gold that no coffers can hoard. His household are happy as birds of the spring; While peacefully trusting his Maker and King Would clouds pending o'er him All nature's is lending A lamp for him, brighter than day. O gird up your spirit, life's end to fulfill, But what is it winning? And, what are you seeking for more? Each querulous murmur But shows one infirmer, And leaves his state worse than before. Look high to the hills, that your prize may be won; Go bathe in the River of Light from the Sun Spring up from your glooming, And clear the black Slough of Despond! Mend no one's condition For time, or the shore that 's beyond. To glorify God, was the purpose sublime, For which-as a being august He sent you to work back your passage from time, His gem, sparkling up through the dust. And though you now grovel In this clayey hovel, Its clefts breathe in whispers of love; AN epigram is like a bee, a thing |