The cholera has its home proper in India, and breeds in the Bengal lowlands after the rainy season, which closes in the fall. Its ravages are most pronounced in the month of December, but cases are quite frequent the whole year round. During my second year’s sojourn in India it was very violent in December, but I would scarcely have known of it at all if my official duties had not made it incumbent on me to report from the board of health of India to that of the United States at Washington. Now and then I was reminded of the existence of the malady by the sudden deaths of my acquaintances. On three different occasions I enjoyed a pleasant evening entertainment in company with a number of friends, one of whom was not only dead, but even buried before the next morning.

Although India is ravaged by different deadly diseases, especially a kind of fever of which people die after one or two days’ sickness; still, disease and death are scarcely ever mentioned among Anglo-Indians. They don’t like to talk about such unpleasant things. A friend is suddenly and unexpectedly snatched away from social circles, but his death is seldom or never mentioned, just as if a secret and united agreement of taciturnity had been entered into by the survivors. Once I was invited to dine at the table d’hote of the officers at the military station Dum-Dum, a few miles from Calcutta. I drove out there in the evening, and at eight o’clock I had dinner in company with about forty officers, the majority of whom belonged to the Scotch frontier regiment. Col. Chapman, one of the party, was a jolly old Scotch warrior and Lieut.-Col. Hill was my host. After a splendid dinner such as India alone can offer, the company grouped themselves around several whist-tables according to the custom in the higher circles among the English. Col. Chapman was my partner, and we parted company at one o’clock. I accompanied Lieut.-Col. Hill to his villa, and retired for the night. At eight o’clock the next morning he entered my room with the sad news that he was just returning from the funeral of Col. Chapman. The stern old warrior who returned unscathed from twenty battle-fields was attacked by the cholera at two o’clock, died at four o’clock, and was buried at six o’clock. Such is life in India.

At the foot of the Himalayas is a very extensive territory called Teraj. Its soil is very fertile and adapted for tea culture. The whole territory is covered with timber, bushes and other plants, which, with the exception of certain cultivated portions, form an impenetrable jungle, affording a natural resort for tigers, leopards, and other wild beasts. The lofty mountains and the dense jungles shut out the sun, and the whole region is full of poisonous vapors which are never dispelled. It would be almost certain death for an European to live there for any length of time, and it is customary even in passing through the country on the railway train to take double doses of quinine as a precaution. The fever and cholera which are thus generated in the jungles and spread through the rice fields cause terrible ravages, not only among the Europeans, but also among the natives. Medical science has done a great deal to mitigate this evil, and the cholera, at least, has been carefully studied and controlled by the medical department of the Anglo-Indian army, so at present the malady is not feared so much as might be expected. The germs of the disease consist of microbes, which are carried in swarms by the wind. If such a pestiferous current of air strikes a place where soldiers are stationed, they are immediately ordered to break camp, and in a few hours the whole force is marching at a right angle with the wind, and after a day’s march and a night’s bivouac the physicians are generally able to tell whether the troops are out of the cholera district or not. If not, the march is continued day after day, always at a right angle with that of the preceding day, until the air contains no more cholera microbes.

Old officers of the army told me that they had seen the cholera pass over one part of the camp attacking every fourth man on one side of the camp street without touching a single one on the other. It is claimed that the fear and anxiety caused by this dreadful malady are even more dangerous than the disease itself.

One day while sitting at my breakfast table I received a message from the University hospital that an American sailor was very anxious to see me before he died. I immediately drove over there and was met at the entrance by the president, Dr. J. M. Coates, but when I arrived in the cholera apartment the man had just died. A sister of mercy was present at his death-bed, and had promised to carry his last message to me, which consisted in a greeting of love and a few trinkets to be sent to his mother in the state of Maine. There was a large apartment filled with cholera patients. Many of the native patients were visited by their friends and relatives; for the Hindoos do not entertain any fear of death, but rather court it, believing that a death caused by a contagious disease or a poisonous snake is simply a dispensation of Providence by which they are called away to a better life.

As an illustration of this fact I mention the following incident: One day while I was inspecting an American vessel a Hindoo laborer fell overboard, and a Norwegian sailor plunged into the water and saved him. After being brought safely on the deck the Hindoo became so angry at the Norwegian that he could have killed him, simply because he had prevented his entering paradise. Such occurrences are quite frequent.

I mentioned that I met a sister of mercy at the death-bed of an American cholera patient in the hospital. I cannot neglect this opportunity to express my heartfelt gratitude to these noble women, the modern nuns of the Catholic church. I have seen them in the dens of degradation and wretchedness in the American cities, among the sick, wounded and dying soldiers on the battle-fields of the South; I have seen them in an Arabian sea-port, searching for poverty-stricken travelers, among the cholera patients and among the unfortunate inmates of the prisons of India, always performing the same angelic duty, helping the poor, tending the sick, and comforting the despondent. Of course I am no Catholic, nor is it my intention to defend the Catholic faith; but I wish to acknowledge my appreciation of and pay my respect to the noble work which the priests and nuns of that church are carrying on among the lowly and erring members of our race.

The Hindoos are the most polite and clever people I ever saw. Their manners are exquisitely fine; no rudeness, no profanity, no intemperance is to be found among them, not even among the lowest classes. As has been said already, the higher classes are exceedingly polished and cleanly; all treat their parents and old people with marked respect. I shall narrate a few incidents to illustrate this: Shortly after my arrival in Calcutta I became acquainted with the two Princes Tagore, especially the younger of them. They are titled princes, and enormously rich. They have many palaces, hundreds of secretaries, workingmen, servants, and pensioners, and, as is the custom among the Hindoos, whose families are governed according to the principles of patriarchal life, they all live together and get their support from the common property. I visited them several times, but mostly the younger prince who was at that time about forty-five years old, and a great admirer of America. Although a man of that age and rank he never talked in the presence of his elder brother until the latter had by a word or a nod signified that he was allowed to speak. A son is never allowed to talk in the presence of his father until the latter has finished. The eldest member of the family is its highest ruler, and even the Princes Tagore would never take any important steps before obtaining the consent of their aged mother.

Many prominent Hindoos and Mohammedans, some of whom were native rulers, came and visited me, before they invited me to their great fÊtes. One of the frequent visitors was Dr. L. N. Maitra, a Brahmin of the highest class, and one of the most intelligent and clever men I met in India. He used to sit with me for hours, telling about the life, history and religion of the Hindoos. Having become acquainted with each other by several months’ intercourse, one day he sat a long while at my house as if absorbed in deep thought, and when he was ready to leave he asked if I would allow him to recite a Hindoo proverb in Sanskrit. In doing this he proved himself to be a fine elocutionist, and it seemed to me that I had never heard more music in prose, although I could not, of course, understand a single word of it.