Thus looking on you as ye stand before me,
Mine eye can single out full many a man
Who lacks but opportunity to shine

As great and glorious as the chiefs that fell.
But lo! the Earl is mercifully minded!
And surely if we, rather than revenge

The slaughter of our bravest, cry them shame,
And fall upon our knees, and say we've sinned,
Then will my lord the Earl have mercy on us,
And pardon us our letch for liberty!

What pardon it shall be, if we know not,

Yet Ypres, Courtray, Grammont, Bruges, they know;

For never can those towns forget the day

When by the hangman's hands five hundred men,
The bravest of each guild, were done to death

In those base butcheries that he called pardons.

And did it seal their pardons, all this blood?
Had they the Earl's good love from that time forth?
Oh, Sirs! look round you lest ye be deceived;
Forgiveness may be spoken with the tongue,
Forgiveness may be written with the pen,

But think not that the parchment and mouth pardon
Will e'er eject old hatreds from the heart.
There's that betwixt you been which men remember
Till they forget themselves, till all's forgot,
Till the deep sleep falls on them in that bed
From which no morrow's mischief knocks them up.
There's that betwixt you been which you yourselves,
Should ye forget, would then not be yourselves;
For must it not be thought some base men's souls
Have ta'en the seats of yours and turned you out,
If in the coldness of a craven heart

Ye should forgive this bloody-minded man

For all his black and murderous monstrous crimes?
Think of your mariners, three hundred men,
After long absence in the Indian seas
Upon their peaceful homeward voyage bound,
And now all dangers conquered, as they thought,
Warping the vessels up their native stream,
Their wives and children waiting them at home
In joy, with festal preparation made,

Think of these mariners, their eyes torn out,

Their hands chopped off, turned staggering into Ghent, To meet the blasted eyesight of their friends!

And was not this the Earl? 'Twas none but he,
No Hauterive of them all had dared to do it,
Save at the express instance of the Earl.

And now what asks he? Pardon me, Sir knights;
[To GRUTT and BETTE.

I had forgotten, looking back and back
From felony to felony foregoing,

This present civil message which ye bring;
Three hundred citizens to be surrendered

Up to that mercy which I tell you of

That mercy which your mariners proved - which steeped
Courtray and Ypres, Grammont, Bruges, in blood!
Three hundred citizens, a secret list,

No man knows who- not one can say he's safe-
Not one of you so humble but that still
The malice of some secret enemy

May whisper him to death—and hark-look to it!
Have some of you seemed braver than your fellows,
Their courage is their surest condemnation;
They are marked men - and not a man stands here
But may be so. Your pardon, Sirs, again;

[To GRUTT and BETTE.
You are the pickers and the choosers here,
And doubtless you're all safe, ye think-ha! ha!
But we have picked and chosen, too, Sir knights.
What was the law for I made yesterday -
What is it you that would deliver up
Three hundred citizens to certain death?

Ho! Van den Bosch! have at these traitors hah [Stabbs GRUTT, who falls. Van den Bosch-Die, treasonable dog- is that enough? Down, felon, and plot treacheries in hell. [Stabbs BETTE. The White Hoods draw their swords, with loud cries of" Treason,"

"Artevelde," "Ghent," and "The Chaperons Blancs." A citizen of the other party, who in the former part of the scene had unfurled the Earl's banner, now throws it down and flies; several others are following him, and the aldermen and deans, some of whom had been dropping off towards the end of ARTEVELDE's speech, now quit the platform with precipitation. VAN AESWYN is crossed by VAN DEN BOSCH. Van den Bosch aiming a blow at him]

Die thou, too, traitor.

Artevelde [warding it off]-Van den Bosch, forbear;

Up with your weapons, White Hoods; no more blood.
Those only are the guilty who lie here.

Let no more blood be spilt on pain of death.
Sirs, ye have naught to fear; I say, stand fast;
No man shall harm you; if he does, he dies.
Stand fast, or if ye go, take this word with you,
Philip van Artevelde is friend with all;

There's no man lives within the walls of Ghent
But Artevelde will look to him and his,

And suffer none to plunder or molest him.

Haste, Van den Bosch! by Heaven they run like lizards!
Take they not heart the sooner, by St. Paul
They'll fly the city, and that cripples us.
Haste with thy company to the west wards,
And see thou that no violence be done

Amongst the weavers and the fullers - stay

And any that betake themselves to pillage

Hang without stint and hark begone-yet stay;
Shut the west gate, postern, and wicket too,

And catch my Lord of Occo where you can.

Stay on thy life let no man's house be plundered.
Van den Bosch -

That is not to my mind; but what of that?
Thou'st played the game right boldly, and for me,
My oath of homage binds me to thee.

Artevelde

Thou to thy errand then, and I myself

Well,

Will go from street to street through all the town,
To reassure the citizens; that done

I'll meet thee here again. Form, White Hoods, form;
Range ten abreast; I'm coming down amongst you.
You Floris, Leefdale, Sphanghen, mount ye here,
And bear me down these bodies. Now, set forth.

The white hoods, by whose shouts of "Artevelde for Ghent" the latter part of the scene has been frequently interrupted, now join in a cry of triumph, and carry him off on their shoulders.

TWO WOMEN.

BY NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

[NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS, an American editor and author, was born at Portland, Me., January 20, 1806. He founded and conducted the American Monthly Magazine until it merged in the New York Mirror, of which he became associate editor in 1831. He traveled extensively in Europe and the

The Intercessor for the Fallen