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hung from the wall, throwing a deep shadow over the faces of three of the group. One does not expect a man stricken with plague to take part in a game of cards; but the practiced eye of one of the visitors marked something constrained in the attitude of one of the players; he seemed too deeply absorbed in the game. In truth, he was the subject of the game, not a participant in it. When the light was thrown up on his face, it showed the awful features of a stark and rotting corpse.

From "The Horrors of the Plague in Bombay." its music is barbarous-so barbarous By Julian Hawthorne.

that it has but one note? Aiter all, it is the music of the soldier, whether it comes from the metal kettle-drums glittering as they swing in the sun at the head of close columns of helmeted men, or from the tom-tom of savage tepees amidst the cold snows and dark days of Northern winters, or amidst cactus-covered desert sands glowing with the fierce heat of tropic suns. Soldiers and warriors all, be they red or white, love its fierce alarum, and not one will die the less bravely for the dreams that the drummers and their drums have conjured up.

From St. Nicholas.

Every one has at some time in life felt something within him stir in sympathy with the drum. If one has ever heard it in the furious beating of the "rally," when ranks are broken, and regiments are fading away under fire, it is something to remember through life-forever. Perhaps it sets to glowing that spark of heroism or savagery latent in every human breast, and the spark that bursts forth into flame when men grapple hand-to-hand for home and liberty. What matters it if, as musicians say,

THE PASSING OF THE DRUM.

Truly, then, can it be wondered that after generations of such experiences in real war, we regret to give up the drum, at whose magic touch such changes can be wrought? Could the beating of a gong (more barbarous yet than the drum), the ringing of a bell, or can even the piercing notes of the bugle, quite fill its place, and bring that same suppressed though exhilarated excitement and readiness for action to those who know its power? I fear not.

There is in the notes of the drum something unlike any other music in the world. How it sets the heart to throbbing and the blood to coursing through the veins, as it falls upon the ear! To what stirring scenes has its beating been the prelude, and what unspeakable sights have men seen within the sound of its rollings!

In its music there is something that sweeps away the sluggishness of everyday life, and gives a feeling that is akin to inspiration. No matter whether it be the long roll, breathing alarm as it is beaten by startled drummers in the stillness of the night, or the softer beats when the snares are muffled and men march with arms reversed and bowed heads behind the bier of a comrade who has left the ranks forever, the voice of the drum speaks to the heart and thrills it with courage or sorrow.

The glory of the drum is passing away. Of all the regular soldiers today, the Marines are the last to keep a drum-corps as their field music.

After a thousand years' service as the most warlike instrument in the armies of Europe and America, the drum must now take a secondary part; and with it will soon go the bayonet and the sword, those heroic relics of the days when the ranks of foemen advanced to look into one another's eyes before firing, or waited for the inspiring roll of the drum to urge them to battle.

The drum will soon sound its own requiem. With muffled snares and arms reversed, let us sadly and sorrowfully follow it to the grave, where with bended knee we reverently lay upon it the laurel wreath of fame. The last volley rings out its farewell tribute, and the bugle sounds the soldiers' last "good-night!"

From "The Last of the Drums." By Con Marrast Perkins, U. S. M. C.

From The Atlantic Monthly. THE UNIVERSITY PROBLEM IN AMERICA When we turn from Oxford and Jowett to the university problem in America, our first impression, maybe, is of the total dissimilarity of conditions, and of the hopelessness of deriving any lessons from English experience. Yet the American reader of Jowett's biography will be singularly irresponsive if it does not prompt some consideration of the functions of the university in this country. In what I have left to say, I shall confine myself to Harvard, with which alone, among American universities, I have any intimate acquaintance.

The peculiarity in the position of Harvard is that while the professorial ideal has definitely triumphed among the teaching body, the tutorial ideal is still cherished by the "constituency." Most of the professors care first of all for the advancement of science and scholarship; they prefer lectures to large audiences to the catechetical instruction of multiplied "sections," and they would leave students free to attend lectures or neglect them, at their own peril; they would pick out the abler men, and initiate them into the processes of investigation in small "research courses" or "seminaries;" and, to be perfectly frank, they are not greatly interested in the ordinary undergraduate. On the other hand, the university constituency-represented, as I am told, by the overseers-insists that the ordinary undergraduate shall be "looked after;" that he shall not be allowed to "waste his time;" that he shall be "pulled up" by frequent examinations, and forced to do a certain minimum of work, whether he wants to or not. The result of this pressure has been the establishment of an elaborate machinery of periodical examination, the carrying on of a vaster book-keeping for the registration of attendance and of grades than was ever before seen at any university, and the appointment of a legion of junior instructors and assistants, to whom is assigned the drudgery of reading examination-books and conducting

"conferences."

So far as the professors are concerned, the arrangement is as favorable as can reasonably be expected. Of course they are all bound to lecture, and to lecture several times a week; they exercise a general supervision over the labors of their assistants; they guide the studies of advanced students; they conduct the examinations for honors and for higher degrees; they carry on a ceaseless correspondence; and each of them sits upon a couple of committees. But they are not absolutely compelled to undertake much drudging work in the way of instruction, and if they are careful of their time they can manage to find leisure for their own researches. As soon as "a course" gets large, a benevolent corporation will provide an assistant. The day is past when they were obliged, in the phrase of Lowell, "to double the parts of professor and tutor."

But the soil of America is not as propitious as one could wish to the plant of academic leisure. It is a bustling atmosphere; and a professor needs some strength of mind to resist the temptation to be everlastingly "doing" something obvious. The sacred reserves of time and energy need to be jealously guarded; and there is more than one direction from which they are threatened. University administration occupies what would seem an unduly large number of men and an unduly large amount of time; it is worth while considering whether more executive authority should not be given to the deans. Then there is the never ending stream of legislation, or rather, of legislative discussion. I must confess that when I have listened, week after week, to faculty debates, the phrase of Mark Pattison about Oxford has sometimes rung in my ears: "the tone as of a lively municipal borough." It would be unjust to apply it; for, after all, the measures under debate have been of farreaching importance. Yet if any means could be devised to hasten the progress of business, it would be a welcome saving of time. Still another danger is the pecuniary temptation-hardly resistible by weak human nature-to repeat college lectures to the women students of

Radcliffe. That some amount of repetition will do no harm to teachers of certain temperaments and in certain subjects may well be allowed, but that it is sometimes likely to exhaust the nervous energy which might better be devoted to other things can hardly be denied. The present Radcliffe system, to be sure, is but a makeshift, and an unsatisfactory one.

The instructors and assistants, on their part, have little to grumble at, if they, in their turn, are wise in the use of their time. It is with them, usually, but a few years of drudgery, on the way to higher positions in Harvard or elsewhere; and it is well that a man should bear the yoke in his youth. Let him remember that his promotion will depend largely upon his showing the ability to do Independent work; let him take care not to be so absorbed in the duties of his temporary position as to fail to produce some little bit of scholarly or scientific achievement for himself. I have occasionally thought that the university accepts the labors of men in the lower grades of the service with a rather stepmotherly disregard for their futures. From "Jowett and the University Ideal." By W. J. Ashley.

From Scribner's Magazine.
GREENCASTLE JENNY.

The bands were blaring "The Bonny Blue

Flag,"

And the banners borne were a motley

many;

And watching the grey column wind and
drag

Was a slip of a girl-we'll call her
Jenny.

As she leaned and looked with a loyal
shame

At the steady flow of the steely river:
Till a storm grew black in the hazel eyes
Time had not tamed, nor a lover sighed
for:

And she ran and she girded her, apron-
wise,

With the flag she loved and her brothers
died for.

A slip of a girl-what need her name? With her cheeks aflame and her lips aquiver,

Out of the doorway they saw her start
(Pickett's Virginians were marching
through),

The hot little foolish hero-heart

Armored with stars and the sacred blue.
Clutching the folds of red and white
Stood she and bearded those ranks of
theirs,

Shouting shrilly with all her might,
"Come and take it, the man that dares!"

Pickett's Virginians were passing through;
Supple as steel and brown as leather,
Rusty and dusty of hat and shoe,

A BALLAD OF 'SIXTY-THREE.

Oh, Greencastle streets where a stream of So they cheered for the flag they fought With the generous glow of the stubborn fighter,

steel

With the slanted muskets the soldiers
bore,
And the scared earth muttered and shook
to feel

Loving the brave as the brave man ought,
And never a finger was raised to fright
her:

The tramp and the rumble of Long- So they marched, though they knew it not,
street's Corps;
Through the fresh green June to the
shock infernal,

To the hell of the shell and the plunging

Wonted to hunger and war and weather;
Peerless, fearless, an army's flower!

Sterner soldiers the world saw never,
Marching lightly, that summer hour,

To death and failure and fame forever.

Rose from the rippling ranks a cheer;

Pickett saluted, with bold eyes beaming,
Sweeping his hat like a cavalier,

With his tawny locks in the warm wind
streaming.

Fierce little Jenny! her courage fell,
As the firm lines flickered with friendly
laughter,
And Greencastle streets gave back the yell
That Gettysburg slopes gave back soon
after.

shot,

And the charge that has won them a
name eternal.

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A child rarely, if ever, speaks of its fantastic fears. We must fall back upon our own memories if we would study this aspect of the childish mind. And so, encouraged by the example of the good ladies in "Cranford," who whisperingly confessed, the one a secret horror of Eyes, the other a life-long dread of being caught by her "last leg" as she got into bed, I recount some of the vividly remembered terrors under which I myself once trembled in silence. For, I repeat, the child does not speak of these things, which to his own soberer judgment seem unreasonable and even preposterous.

Once, as a very little child, I was for some reason alone in a wide treeless place in the country. I suppose I was in reality not far from the house, but there seemed to me an endless expanse around. As I looked about me I suddenly became conscious of the overpowering immensity of the sky and its awful unbroken blueness. A crushing horror and dread seemed to pin me to the ground. I stood, a shuddering mite of a girl, alone under that stupendous weight of blue, feeling that it might descend and swallow me up. I have forgotten everything but that,-how I came there, how I got away; but I know now the precise shade of the terrible intense blue that seemed to be engulfing me.

I should mention that I was a city

child and unused to an unobstructed view of the heavens.

Standing out as distinctly in my memory as the day on which I first became vividly conscious of the sky is another day when, whether for the first time or not I do not know, another form of fear seized upon me.

I was a little older then, I think, but how old I do not remember.

I was in an unused up-stairs room in my own home, sitting upon the floor and sailing a little paper boat in a basin. In the water I had put scraps of paper of various shapes and sizes to represent sea-monsters. I had amused myself, for a long time, blowing the boat about and pretending that the passengers were afraid of the whales and sea-serpents, when suddenly it went down,-why, I could not explain. It seemed to me that it was "coming true," -the sea, the ship, the sea-monsters; that I might be overpowered by the horror-haunted waters then and there; and I fled panic-stricken.

I think there must have been in my mind a half-belief that there was a latent life in all inanimate things. I know I had a general dread of things "coming to life" or turning to other things.

Springing, I think, from the same attitude of mind toward the inanimate world was a rooted dread which I had that some day when I was alone with a rocking-chair it should all at once begin to rock. This, I early decided, I positively could not stand.

None of these terrors, it may be remarked, had to do primarily with my personal safety. It was horror rather than fear which possessed me in contemplating these imaginary lapses of the laws of nature. Even a fancy which haunted me that some day my bath-tub might suddenly turn into a narrow, infinitely deep dependency of the ocean is hardly an exception. The dreadfulness of the mere idea of a bottomless pit of dark water with seaserpents in it opening in one's floor outweighed all personal considerations. From "The Fantastic Terrors of Childhood." By Annie Steger Winston.

From Harper's Magazine. THE REPUBLIC OR NOTHING. No one really doubts the adequacy of the republic to any imaginable emergency; or if there is here and there one whose heart misgives him, he has nothing to suggest in place of it. In a completer sense than we always realize, it is the republic or nothing for us. In the same completer sense, there is no past for us; there is only a future. Something that is still untried may serve our turn, but nothing that has been tried and failed will serve our turn. If we think, what for us is almost unthinkable, the end of the republic, we think chaos. Our minds cannot conceive of the rise of the nation from such a downfall in any prosperous shape of oligarchy or monarchy; we can only grope in the unexplored regions beyond the republic for some yet more vital democracy, or equality, or fraternity, to save us from the ruin into which our own recreancy may have plunged us.

Love of the republic with us is something like royalty in the subjects of a king, but it is loyalty to the ideal of humanity, not to some man, self-elected prince in the past, and perpetuated in his descendants through the abeyance of common sense. It is not the effect of any such affirmation as loyalty is constantly making; it is the result of that wary and calculated assent by which alone republics can exist. We may not think the republic is the best thing that can ever be, but we feel that it is the best we can have for the present; and that anything better must be something more rather than something less of it.

We see that the republic measurably exists wherever any sort of popular check is put upon the will of the ruler; and we think it more becoming reasonable men to choose their prince than to let his ancestors choose him; we regard an election, grotesque and vulgar and imperfect though the process often is, as a civic event; and we regard a parturition, though surrounded by all the dignity of state, as a domestic event, not logically of political significance, and comparatively inadequate as an ex

pression of the popular will in the choice of a prince. Our opinion and our usage in this matter are what mainly distinguish us from such monarchical republics as England, Italy, Sweden, Belgium, and Holland; and with all our diffidence we cannot help thinking that, as compared with ours, their way of choosing a ruler is of the quality of comic opera, though, in its order, we look upon the birth of a fellow-being as a most serious and respectable incident. Where the republic does not exist at all, as in China and Russia and Turkey, or as in Germany, where it exists so feebly and passively that any violent impulse of the prince may annul it, we find indefinitely greater cause for satisfaction with our own democratic republic. So far as the peoples of these countries acquiesce in their several despotisms, they appear to us immature; so far as the English, Italians, Swedes, Dutch, and Belgians limit their respective republics by the birth-choice of a prince, they seem to us not fully responsive to the different sorts of revolutions which called their republics, like our own, into being. Even the elective French republic, where the outlawed titles of nobility are still permitted social currency, strikes us as retarded in its fulfilment of the democratic destiny. But we make excuses for France, as we do for England, Italy, Belgium, Sweden, and Holland, though we cannot help seeing our own advantage in these respects over republics which are each in some things freer than our own.

We believe that the republic as we have it is, upon the whole, the best form of government in the world; but we no longer deny that other peoples have the republic because they have hereditary princes. We believe that the republic as we have it, and the yet more fully developed republic as we shall have it, is the destined form of government for all nations, but we are no longer eager to thrust our happiness upon them; and we do not expect them at once to prefer our happiness when it is quite within their reach. We perceive that in none of these free states called kingdoms is the divine right of kings recog

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