"GHOSTLY FUTURITIES."

"WHAT year did you say it was?"

"The year 2000 of the Christian Era." I was standing in the middle of a ten-acre lot, around which were a number of buildings, one or two of which had a painfully familiar look, as if they were the ghosts of former friends. My interlocutor was a young man of eighteen or so, elegantly attired in a suit of white cloth of a peculiar texture. On his right sleeve was what I at once recognized as a Tabular View, on his left a College Directory, on the back of his coat was the seal of Harvard in crimson; he wore a cap on which appeared the number 2004. From this last, and from his general expression, I judged him a Freshman.

"This is, then, Harvard College?" I said, with a sigh. My friend replied in the affirmative, and added, "As you seem a stranger here, perhaps I may be of assistance to you, if you desire to see the college. This is Sever, one of our oldest buildings," he said, with pardonable pride.

"What, may I ask, is the cause of this excitement?"

"They are," replied the Freshman, "electing an instructor for Greek 2."

"Who are?"

"The students, of course. Come in, and perhaps you will understand our system better."

We entered a large room, at the upper end of which was the ballot-counting-machine. On the walls were numerous placards: "VOTE FOR NAVICULA, THE STUDENTS' FRIEND." "REGULAR SOPHOMORE NOMINATION, W. J. ALBUS," &C. I began to realize that things had changed. "You elect your instructors, then?" I inquired.

"Certainly."

"But who governs the College?"

"The Legislature, now in session in the Capitol," he said, pointing across the street. "The House sits in Memorial, and the Senate in Sanders. The traditional name of the Legislature is 'The Harvard Union.' A very interesting paper was read last night before the Historical Society on the origin of this title."

"Have you a press?"

"Certainly; the Mirror and Radiator, dailies; the Abdicate, which is the official publication of the two Houses; and the Crimson, a literary magazine of a hundred pages or so. The Radiator is conducted by the Faculty, and every morning's issue contains a full set of ponies for the day's work."

"But how do they manage the memorizing in French 2?"

"Oh, that is very simple. Each man carries a phonograph in his pocket."

"Ah, I see."

While thus conversing we had reached a large granite building, connected with which was one of the most important stations of the elevated railway which ran around the Yard.

"This," said my Freshman, "is the College Chapel."

"Do you have voluntary prayers?"

The Freshman smiled. "No," he said, "the Faculty petition for it every year; but the Legislature has so far refused to grant them the indulgence."

"How long has this railroad been here?"

"More than half a century; we hope to have one to Boston in three or four years."

As he spoke we entered a handsome edifice and left the elevator at the third floor. In a gorgeously furnished room was a gentleman reclining on a red velvet sofa.

"This," said the Freshman, "is the Dean."

The Dean, on hearing himself mentioned, looked up from his novel and smiled affably. "Be seated, gentlemen," said he. "What will you take?" We took, and passed out. Not far from the Deanery was a five-story brick ice-house. In one end of this was confined an unhappy creature, loaded with chains. He sat on the remains of a dead and gone steam-radiator. Near by stood a tall clock which counted the hours of his captivity, except when he neglected to wind it up.

I shrank back in terror, saying, "Who is this miserable man?" And the Freshman replied, "He is officially known as the Borsair, a term whose derivation the Philological Society have not yet determined. Some twenty years ago he headed an insurrection of Janitors, or Janissaries, - there is an historical doubt. They were temporarily successful; but they enacted such an oppressive system of legislation that a counter-revolution was started, and on its success the Janissaries were banished and the Borsair imprisoned for life."

As we were leaving the prison a sudden thought flashed upon me. I asked the Freshman whether the ancient records were still preserved and were accessible. He thereupon conducted me to a building near the Dean's residence, and showed me a large and somewhat complicated machine.

"Write your question on a piece of paper and drop it into the hopper," he said, "and the automatico-phonographic attachment will answer."

So I wrote, "Did S. J. Tilden, 1883, receive a condition in Sophomore Themes?" A noise of confused rumbling and rattling came from the interior of the machine. Then a bell sounded, and the phonograph began, "He -" But here, alas, I awoke.