From The Cosmopolitan.

HUNTING DOWN THE PLAGUE.

as

Hunting down the plague is a ghastly business. The circumstances and details of the pursuit could hardly be more redolent of horror and loathsomeness. There is something sacred, too, in these noisome abysses of human misery, and a certain callousness must be acquired in order to deal with them effectively. The daily series of visits is accomplished as rapidly and with as little forewarning as may be, so as to give the people no time to put themselves on guard. The personnel of the visiting party includes doctors, male and female, civil and military officers, and interested civilians, with a fringe of police and attendants to keep order and to effect removals, destroy bedding and clothing, and apply whitewash, orders may be given. The visitors meet with every kind of evasion and passive opposition. Their aim, of course, is to get at the sick and the dead and to put the former in the hospitals and the latter wherever they will do the least harm; the aim of the people is to hide both dead and dying by every device that ingenuity or desperation suggests. It is probable that the hiders are successful four times where the seekers are once. The occasions on which deceptions are detected give a notion of the multitude that remain unknown. The effort to check the plague is like fighting in deep water to save a man resolved to drown himself. The labor is enormous, the issue well-nigh hopeless; but the English never relax; they make good their claim to be the best rulers in the world. After the exhaustion of each day's work they "tub," dress and meet at the club; they discuss the work and the prospects with grim cheerfulness, and next day at dawn are out and at it LIVING AGE. 753

VOL. XV.

once more. Now and then one or other of them drops and is seen no more. Little is said about him; the work goes on just the same. Duty is the AngloIndian's god.

I shall not give a detailed account of what I saw; there was a monotony underlying it all; the experiences of one day resembled those of another; the vein of revoltingness ran through them all. Sometimes the accompanying crowd seemed amused; sometimes they seemed alarmed; sometimes angry; in general, they did what they could, or dared, to impede and mislead the work

ers.

A house was marked down for visitation in the midst of the Bazaar. You could not see anything of it from the street; it was screened by other houses; but it was large enough to contain six hundred people. It was built round an interior court, perhaps five-and-twenty feet square; the four walls inclosing it went staggering upward, story above story, so that we seemed to stand at the bottom of a well. But what a well! The place, even here beneath the open sky, smelt like a cesspool. The ground under foot was boggy and foul; it was composed of dung and rotten matter of all kinds, and upon investigation proved to extend downward to a depth of no less than five feet. This huge and festering mass of coagulated filth had been accumulating unchecked, deep down in that pit of human habitations, for fifty years past. The heat, quite apart from the poison of the atmosphere was stifling and intolerable; there could never be any movement of air in this place, nor could the sunlight penetrate its hideous depths. But the windows of three-score living-rooms opened upon it, and this was the atmosphere which the inhabitants drew into

their lungs day and night. Daniel in the den of lions escaped unscathed; but the miracle would have seemed greater had he passed a night in this pit of hell. The people who crept and peeped about the place assured us that sickness of any kind was quite unknown in this savory retreat. At the same time they admitted that several families were at the moment on a visit to their friends in the country, and had locked up their apartments. Hereupon orders were given to inspect the house from top to bottom, and to break open all closed doors unless keys were promptly forthcoming. Policemen had already been stationed at the exits of the building to prevent unauthorized escapes.

It was all kindly done; but that noise of forcing locks and breaking doors had a cruel and hostile effect. The beneficent objects in view were explicitly set forth, but the thronging brown faces listened with expressions of helpless incredulity or hopeless resignation. They believed that within the velvet scabbard was hidden a scimitar of steel.

The harvest of disease and death reaped in that single house was terribly large. Every room entered was dark, and the breath that came from it was unbreathable. Some were empty; three contained each but a single occupanttwo were dead and one was dying. In one room, at the end of a stifling and lightless corridor, down which we had groped and stumbled, feeling along the filthy walls for possible doors, we found a mother and her baby locked in and left to die alone. The woman was barely able to move, but with her last strength she covered with a fold of her sari the body of her infant, lest it should be seen and taken away from her. There was no food or water in the room; there was a number of rats, all dead. The floor was uneven with the compacted grease, rubbish, and excrementitious filth of years, and in the dull flash of the lantern there could be discerned an obscure scuttling of obscene insects, disturbed at their banquet.

Now, the family and neighbors of this mother and her child had complacently

locked them up there in the darkness and horror to die a lingering and tortured death; they had done so with the victims' full privity and consent, and the reason was that both parties to the transaction preferred such an end to accepting the light, air, cleanliness and devoted nursing which the government offered them. If caste, superstition and ignorance can bring the descendants of a mighty race to this, what lower depth remains for them? And is this the ultimate goal of our clever contemporary Theosophists? One wishes the Mahatmas would come to Bombay and demonstrate to these turgid English how much better than Christianity is the esoteric doctrine.

A locked room, which had been declared by inmates of the house to be empty, was forcibly entered. It was pitch-dark, but the effluvium that came out of it, and a stirring within, showed that it was inhabited. Our lantern had gone out, and had been sent to be refilled. "How many are here?" demanded the leader of the party. "Nine, sahib," was the answer out of the darkness, after a pause. "Are there any sick?" "None, sahib," "Stand up against the wall that I may count you." There was a shuffling of feet, and our eyes, now partly accustomed to the darkness, could dimly discern a range of figures. The inspector stepped toward them, and laid his hand upon the breast of one after another. There were nine. We might have passed on; but at this moment the lantern was brought up. The inspector took it and threw its light along the group. "That man is sick!" he exclaimed after a moment, pointing to a drooping shape that was being obviously supported by those next to him. The suspected one was brought out and examined. He was not sick, but dead, and had been so for some hours.

For the other case I cannot personally vouch. A room was opened and half-adozen persons were discovered squatting in a circle on the floor, absorbed in a cheerful game of cards. A light, consisting of a strand of some vegetable substance burning in a pannikin of oil,

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.

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,

From St. Nicholas.

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.

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.

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.

A BALLAD OF 'SIXTY-THREE. Oh, Greencastle streets where a stream of steel

With the slanted muskets the soldiers bore,

And the scared earth muttered and shook to feel

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, apronwise,

With the flag she loved and her brothers died for.

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

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.

street's Corps;

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.

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

Through the fresh green June to the shock infernal,

To the hell of the shell and the plunging shot,

And the charge that has won them a name eternal.

And she left at last, as she hid her face, There had lain at the root of her childish

daring

A trust in the men of her own brave race, And a secret faith in the foe's forbear

ing.