of the New England colonists during the intercolonial wars.  Their northern frontier covering two hundred miles of unprotected territory was constantly open to the incursions of the French from Canada and their Indian allies, to appease whom the French organized their raids.  And yet, so deeply implanted was this ideal of self-reliance that New England scarcely thought of asking aid of the mother country and would have protested to the last against the permanent establishment of a military garrison within her limits.  For a period extending over fifty years, New England protected her own borders.  She felt the terrors of savage warfare in its most sanguinary forms.  And yet, uncomplaining, she taxed herself to repel the invaders.  The people loved their own independence too much to part with it, even for the sake of peace, prosperity, and security.  At a later date, unknown to the mother country, they raised and equipped from their own young men and at their own expense, the punitive expedition that, in the face of seemingly certain defeat, captured the French fortress at Louisburg, and gave to English military annals one of its most brilliant victories.  To get the pupil to live through these struggles, to feel the impetus of idealism upon conduct, to appreciate what that almost forgotten half-century of conflict meant to the development of our national character, would be to realize the greatest value that colonial history can have for its students.  It lays bare the source of that strength which made New England preeminent in the Revolution, and which has placed the mint mark of New England idealism upon the coin of American character.  Could a pupil who has lived vicariously through such experiences as these easily forsake principle for policy?

A newspaper cartoon published a year or so ago, gives some notion of the danger that we are now facing of losing that idealism upon which our country was founded.  The cartoon represents the signing of the Declaration of Independence.  The worthies are standing about the table dressed in the knee breeches and flowing coats of the day, with wigs conventionally powdered and that stately bearing which characterizes the typical historical painting.  John Hancock is seated at the table prepared to make his name immortal.  A figure, however, has just appeared in the doorway.  It is the cartoonist’s conventional conception of the modern Captain of Industry.  His silk hat is on the back of his head as if he had just come from his office as fast as his forty-horse-power automobile could carry him.  His portly form shows evidences of intense excitement.  He is holding his hand aloft to stay the proceedings, while from his lips comes the stage whisper:  “Gentlemen, stop!  You will hurt business!” What would those old New England fathers think, could they know that such a conception may be taken as representing a well-recognized tendency of the present day?  And remember, too, that those old heroes had something of a passion for trade themselves.