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gence, appears. He stops studying the figures of the carpet, kicks over his block castle and goes to the window and sees other figures, more or less like himself, moving in opposite directions with outstretched arms, all hurrying towards some unseen and unknown goal. As he watches this procession, the air of what as hitherto been his cage grown oppressive. He wants to get out. He wants to see what is beyond the turning in the road. He wants to climb the hill behind the house and see where the red of the sunset really comes from. His desires, multifarious as they may seem, are few. His aspiration to rise in life is limited by the height of a bird's nest, and his longing to get somewhere, is bounded by the first good trout brook. Genus Pueri for the next decade is not unlike other animals in growth, except that there develop in him certain forms of thinking bacteria which do not, however, reach any alarming proportions and are seldom considered dangerous. He learns some of the maxims for self-preservation by a few hard fought fistic encounters with others of the genus, which result more or less to his disfigurement; he learns that he is not lord of creation, at least not in an individual sense. By chance he wanders into his father's library and finds to his surprise that the world has had a past. That it did not bloom into freshness with his begetting and bids fair to endure sometime after his allotted three-score years and ten. Another thing is brought to his recognition as he handles the books of his father's library, which is that every one of the genus of the past have been reaching after something. He finds the theologian traversing the road from Rome to reason in search of happiness. He finds the poet, the novelist, the painter, the sculptorand the statesman begging for fame. He finds that not a few have been getters of dollars. He finds that the impulse of our day is a strife for the "wherewith," and so he reads industriously the current topics in his father's magazines on how to succeed. As told by the great financiers, who have incidentally risen from canal drivers to railroad presidents, and from office boys to bond-holders.

He begins to think that his fitting school education is a loss of time as most of the great men of the day have not familiarized themselves with the arts. At least, nothing more than in a few hours between the blowing of the whistle and their bed time, which, as the autobiographer says, was prolonged into the vigils of the night until the tallow dip had sputtered and gone out, or the log-wood had burned low. He is deeply impressed by the natural ability which they possessed, and concerning which they never tire of telling of how, when they arrived at the metropolis, or some town which they have since made a metropolis, they walked proudly up the streets with all their earthly possessions packed loosely in an extension grip and took the first work which came to their hands. Then he reads of the transitional period, when, by dint of hard work and studious frugality, they are in a position to dictate the terms and duration of bonds about to be issued by the Secretary of Treasury. The boy subscribes freely to magazines for the promulgation of fiscal talent.

This is the period in the life of the genus pueri when he is inclined to think unduly of himself. It is a disease characteristic of the genus and for which there has been found no preventative or immediate cure. Like the mumps and the measles, it is well to have it early in life, that there may be no aftermath of chronic effects. A diagnosis shows the patient to have certain hallucinations regarding time, place and a general fitness of things. The fever reaches its most ridiculous height at his high school graduation. He stands, as he thinks, on a pinnacle of his own greatness, and with his right arm extended at an angle of forty-five degrees, he tells gray-headed men and matrons the dangers which beset our government. “Our government, which reaches from the pine clad coast of Maine to the sands of the Samoan Island. From the snow banks of Alaska to the palms of Porto Rico.” The boy makes an eloquent appeal to his classmates to step into the breach to save Americans from themselves, and to place our government, that government wrought and shaped as it was, in the fierce fires of oppression, beyond the avariciousness of the few. We must, he says, feel for the great pulse of society and adjust our endeavors to that heart beat, and he ends with a burst of shooting similes and a shower of fireworks. The boy descends barely touching the floor. The mother is morally certain that it is only a matter of a little while when her boy will be delivering an inaugural address at the capital. Great aunts and fourth cousins give him a sympathetic hand and back away. He is satisfied that he has sounded the depth of knowledge. He has dipped in classic lore and finds that the book of human wisdom is but a reiteration of the platitudes spoken a thousand years ago, and he centers his thoughts upon his own career. He laughs at the futility of the beaten path trod by his fathers. He longs at once to rise into the king's highway, a free lancer and to hew a royal road to success, forgetful of the Achimedian maxim that there is no royal road. Then some good Samaritan comes along, some one who has dreamed the same dreams and seen the same fair visions, whose blood was once hot with the fire of youth. The Samaritan touches the boy on the shoulder and speaks to him from the wealth of his own experience, shows him his mimicry, points to the shallowness of his conceptions, and tells him that he must learn to feel and act for himself. This he has only latent powers, and that he must enter generous conflict with broader minds. The boy gets a new conception, and if you please, goes to college. An entirely new world is opened to him and he grasps at the fleeting phantoms of his former greatness.

He is some time in getting acclimated to the new life. It is some time before he learns that the college catalogue does not tell everything and that college life is something more than proscribed courses, examinations and class days. The college, above everything else, instills in him a public spiritedness and esprit de coeur. It teaches him a larger faith in mankind, and he is willing to do and dare for it. He is no longer bound by the narrow limits of his own selfish interests, and become in part his brother's keeper. If an epitome of what his mater says to him at his time of leaving, were to be made, it would be this:

“Be, and continue poor, my son, while others around you grow rich by fraud and disloyalty. Be without place and power, while others beg their way upward. Bear the pains of disappointed hopes, while others gain the accomplishment of theirs by flattery. Forego the gracious pressure of the hand for which others cringe and crawl; wrap yourself in your own virtue, seek a friend and your daily bread, and if you have in such a course grown gray with unbleached honor, bless God and die." Members of the Class of 1901, Progenitors of a New Century:

It is perhaps fitting that we speak of ourselves. We have stood shoulder to shoulder for four years, and we have been most of the time on the firing line, too. We have pitched our tents on the camping ground of the enemy and we have been good messmates, willing to live and let live. Mater Tufts has offered to us the best that there is of her. She has tried to lead us into more peaceful paths and into greener valleys. She has disclosed to us some of the higher motives which should actuate our being. She has made us look in upon ourselves. Some of the tasks which she has set for us have been trying, even exacting; oftentimes we have not been able to see the why and wherefore of things. And if the class orator were to leave one thing with you it would be a desire on your part, as individual men and women of the class, to give back something of yourselves in payment. It is the honorable man who pays, if he can, an out-lawed debt. The debt you owe cannot be collected except on your voluntary wish.

Will this class join hands with the supporters of this college in some material way? We have yet to begin anew. We, in all probability cannot give anything more than a good word for possibly twenty years to come, but there should come a time when out of the fullness of the heart, out of the gratitude of loving memory we should meet our obligations.


Within recent years there has been a strongly emphasized tendency in economic thought, which, if it continues, will make the present period a landmark in the history of the science. This tendency we may designate as the ethical reaction. From the days of Aristotle down to the middle of the eighteenth century, economic ideas were embodied chiefly in ethical treatises. But the so-called classical school of the eighteenth century developed the science of economics upon entirely new lines. Instead of being a department of ethics, economics came to be viewed solely as a branch of political philosophy. During the century and a half since then, moral problems have been virtually excluded from economic considerations,—not necessarily always antagonized, but none the less ignored. The tendency at present manifesting itself, represents, accordingly, a set of ideas that finds no authoritative parallel short of one hundred and fifty years ago; before this time there is a long period when economic ideas were, like many others, decidedly degenerate. A movement therefore to re-introduce ethical elements into economic problems is clearly in the nature of a reaction.

The primary object of the political economy, as distinguished from the older ethical economy, was to foster industrial activity, not by public regulation, but by complete relief from interference. The immediate effect of this let-alone policy was a marvellous expansion of industry, such as the world had never seen. Moreover, under the impulse of this quickening of industrial energy, economic doctrine became for the first time a scientific system. In appearance at least, where morals had failed to interpret, a key to economic riddles had been found in politics, or statesmanship. Men's ideas of what ought to be, were too dissimilar, and above all, too utopian, too visionary and too revolutionary, to produce

*Abstract of essay read in Goddard Chapel, June 19, 1901, by William Hyde Price.

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