Then, with a gurgling moan, like the sound in the throat of

the dying,

Came back her voice, that, rising, fluttered, through wild

incoherence,

Into a terrible shriek that stopped my heart while she answered:

'Sold me? sold me? sold And you promised to give

me my freedom!—

Promised me, for the sake of our little boy in Saint Louis! What will you say to our boy, when he cries for me there in

Saint Louis ?

What will you say to our God?—Ah, you have been joking! I see it!

No! God! God! He shall hear it,—and all of the angels in

heaven,

Even the devils in hell!-and none will believe when they

hear it!

Sold me!'-Fell her voice with a thrilling wail, and in silence

Down she sank on the deck, and covered her face with her fingers.'

In his story a moment the pilot paused, while we listened To the salute of a boat, that, rounding the point of an island, Flamed toward us with fires that seemed to burn from the

waters,

Stately and vast and swift, and borne on the heart of the

current.

Then, with the mighty voice of a giant challenged to battle, Rose the responsive whistle, and all the echoes of island, Swamp-land, glade, and brake replied with a myriad clamor, Like wild birds that are suddenly startled from slumber at midnight;

Then were at peace once more, and we heard the harsh cries of the peacocks

Perched on a tree by a cabin door, where the white-headed settler's

White-headed children stood to look at the boat as it passed

them,

Passed them so near that we heard their happy talk and their

laughter.

Softly the sunset had faded, and now on the eastern horizon Hung like a tear in the sky, the beautiful star of the evening.

Still with his back to us standing, the pilot went on with his story:

"Instantly, all the people, with looks of reproach and compassion,

Flocked round the prostrate woman. The children cried,

and their mothers

Hugged them tight to their breasts; but the gambler said to the captain,

Put me off there at the town that lies round the bend of the river.

Here, you! rise at once, and be ready now to go with me.' Roughly he seized the woman's arm and strove to uplift her. She-she seemed not to heed him, but rose like one that is

dreaming,

Slid from his grasp, and fleetly mounted the steps of the gangway,

Up to the hurricane-deck, in silence, without lamentation, Straight to the stern of the boat, where the wheel was, she ran, and the people

Followed her fast till she turned and stood at bay for a moment,

Looking them in the face, and in the face of the gambler. Not one to save her,—not one of all the compassionate people!

Not one to save her, of all the pitying angels in heaven!
Not one bolt of God to strike him dead there before her!
Wildly she waved him back, we waiting in silence and
horror.

Over the swarthy face of the gambler a pallor of passion

Passed, like a gleam of lightning over the west in the nighttime.

White, she stood, and mute, till he put forth his hand to

secure her;

Then she turned and leaped, - in mid-air fluttered

a

Down, there, whirling, fell, like a broken-winged bird from

a tree-top,

Down on the cruel wheel, that caught her, and hurled her, and crushed her,

And in the foaming water plunged her, and hid her forever.'

Still with his back to us all the pilot stood, but we heard him

Swallowing hard, as he pulled the bell-rope to stop her. Then, turning,

"This is the place where it happened," brokenly whispered the pilot.

Somehow, I never like to go by here alone in the nighttime."

Darkly the Mississippi flowed by the town that lay in the

starlight,

Cheerful with lamps.

the engines,

Below we could hear them reversing

And the great boat glided up to the shore like a giant

exhausted.

Heavily sighed her pipes. Broad over the swamps to the

eastward

Shone the full moon, and turned our far-trembling wake into

silver.

All was serene and calm, but the odorous breath of the

willows

Smote like the subtle breath of an infinite sorrow upon us.

AN APPEAL TO THE PEOPLE

By JOHN BRIGHT, Statesman. Born at Greenbank, England, 1811; died in London, 1889.

Selections from two speeches on Reform: the first delivered at Birmingham, England, August 27, 1866; the second at London, England, December 4, 1866. See 'Speeches by John Bright," published by Macmillan & Company, London and New York. By permission of the publishers.

Our opponents have charged us with being the promoters of a dangerous excitement. They have the effrontery to say that I am the friend of public disorder. I am one of the people. Surely, if there be one thing in a free country more clear than another, it is, that any one of the people may speak openly to the people. If I speak to the people of their rights, and indicate to them the way to secure them, if I speak of their danger to the monopolists of power, -am I not a wise counsellor, both to the people and to their rulers ?

Suppose I stood at the foot of Vesuvius, or Ætna, and, seeing a hamlet or a homestead planted on its slope, I said to the dwellers in that hamlet, or in that homestead, “You see that vapor which ascends from the summit of the mountain. That vapor may become a dense, black smoke, that will obscure the sky. You see the trickling of lava from the crevices in the side of the mountain. That trickling of lava may become a river of fire. You hear that muttering in the bowels of the mountain. That muttering may become a bellowing thunder, the voice of a violent convulsion, that may shake half a continent. You know that at your feet is

the grave of great cities, for which there is no resurrection, as histories tell us that dynasties and aristocracies have passed away, and their names have been known no more forever.

If I say this to the dwellers upon the slope of the mountain, and if there comes hereafter a catastrophe which makes the world to shudder, am I responsible for that catastrophe ?

I did not build the mountain, or fill it with explosive materials. I merely warned the men that were in danger. So, now, it is not I who am stimulating men to the violent pursuit of their acknowledged constitutional rights.

The class which has hitherto ruled in this country has failed miserably. It revels in power and wealth, whilst at its feet, a terrible peril for its future, lies the multitude which it has neglected. If a class has failed, let us try the nation.

That is our faith, that is our purpose, that is our cry. Let us try the nation. This it is which has called together these countless numbers of the people to demand a change; and from these gatherings, sublime in their vastness and their resolution, I think I see, as it were, above the hill-tops of time, the glimmerings of the dawn of a better and a nobler day for the country and for the people that I love so well.

A TRIBUTE TO GENERAL SHERMAN

By HORACE PORTER, Brigadier-General, Lecturer, Author; United States Ambassador to France, 1897-. Born in Huntington, Penn., 1837.

From a speech at a banquet of the New England Society in the City of New York, Dec. 22, 1891. See New York Tribune, Dec. 23, 1891.

In speaking of the sons of New England sires, I know that one name is uppermost in all minds here to-night-the name of one who added new luster to the fame of his distinguished ancestors. The members of your society, like the nation at large, found themselves within the shadow of a profound grief, and oppressed by a sense of sadness akin to the sorrow of a personal bereavement, as they stood with uncovered heads beside the bier of William T. Sherman; when the echo of his guns gave place to the tolling of cathedral-bells; when the flag of his country, which had never been lowered in his presence, dropped to half-mast, as if conscious that his strong arm was no longer there to hold it to the peak; when he passed from the living here to join the other living, commonly called the dead. We shall never