A WORD TO SEVENTY-EIGHT.

To discover what are all the latent psychological causes of Seventy-seven's present imbroglio in reference to Class Day, will require the skill of some future writer who has brought the historical method down to a finer point of "coldness" than I can now boast of; but this is certain, that the rock of mutual mistrust and obstinacy they split on is still in existence for the next class to be shattered on, and it behooves Seventy-eight, if she wishes to keep up this time-honored custom of our fathers, to take warning. Already there is noticeable among men who hold a prominent position, both in the class and in the Faculty, an attempt to chill all ardor on this subject, with the hope that, being an unnecessary if not childish practice, unworthy of the consideration of men of mature judgment, Class Day, once the brightest day in the student's calendar, will eventually die out.

Of course individual opinion will not much influence the sentiment of the whole class in one direction or another, but there are some men, of whom I profess to be one, who would seriously lament to see this day done away with, fittingly commemorating as it does, in both jollity and seriousness, the successful termination of a laborious course of four years, in some cases five or more.

This is a day when, in listening to the poet's and the orator's words, petty feelings of inequality, of jealousies, are forgotten and buried, when one more band is woven which firmly binds, in the dearest friendship, men who otherwise would hardly know one another.

The good old days when, if I may trust tradition, a cask containing a quantity of good cheer from a neighboring distillery (Medford, so saith the legend) was set up in the middle of the Yard, where the weary and footsore might refresh body and soul, are gone. "Cultchar" did this, and probably to excessively great development of the aesthetic on one side and too little on the other, much of the present obfuscation is due. From some quarters, now that the deed is done, much unavailing regret is heard in Seventy-seven. But never yet, as far as I have been able to ascertain, has any amount of lamentation succeeded in transferring the milk, once spilt, into the pitcher again. It now remains for seventy-eight to say whether more milk is to be spilt next year.