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ural order, and thus awakens sympathy, and creates an emotional response.

The true secret of assimilation and of truthfulness of experience is the identification with acts or events. This we do by holding the scenes and situations definitely before our minds. The ideas live and the events move; "ideal presence" dominates experience and determines the expression.

THE THREE FISHERS.

THREE fishers went sailing out into the West

Out into the West as the sun went down ;

Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,

And the children stood watching them out of the town:

For men must work, and women must weep;
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;

And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown.

But men must work, and women must weep,

Though storms be sudden and waters deep,

And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are watching and wringing their hands
For those who will never come back to the town:

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Possibly the simplest illustration of man's identification of himself with an ideal scene, or with what has been called "ideal presence," may be found in a familiar story, such as "Paul Revere's Ride." The word "good-night" may be spoken in a hundred different ways, according to the conception of the mind, or the experience felt in the heart. The truthful rendering in this particular instance depends upon the conception of night, the danger, the patriotic endeavor, the resolution, and the pledge of the two men to each other which initiated a revolution. We then, with these elements in mind, observe the muffled oar, and each centre of atten

tion in succession. The intense feeling awakened makes the "Somerset " seem a phantom ship and its masts and spars the bars of a prison.

In the same way we wander with Revere's friend Newman, sharing his anxiety and discovering the "muster of men," "the sound of arms," and "the tread of the grenadier." We do not think consciously perhaps of what kind of a man he was, or imitate his conceivable actions; but we put ourselves in his place.

An imaginative atmosphere surrounds us in climbing the ladder. At one point fancy may so realize the churchyard and the whole scene below, that we are led to an objective representation of the wind's whisper "all is well." In this, however, there is danger of losing the central grasp of the situation, and passing to an identification with a mere accident. The movements of the central events and of passion must dominate the reader through successive steps.

So of Paul Revere on the other shore: the reader may be an external observer of his acts until the events begin to move, and then, if he has genuine assimilation, becomes so identified with the movement of imaginary events that he participates in the scene.

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, on the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: hardly a man is now alive who remembers that famous day and year.

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He said to his friend: "If the British march by land or sea from the town to-night, hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light, one if by land, and two if by sea; and I on the opposite shore will be, ready to ride and spread the alarm through every Middlesex village and farm, for the country folk to be up and to arm. Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar silently row'd to the Charlestown shore, just as the moon rose over the bay, where swinging wide at her moorings lay the Somerset, British man-of-war: a phantom ship, with each mast and spar across the moon, like a prison-bar, and a huge, black hulk, that was magnified by its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, wanders and watches with eager ears, till in the silence around him he hears the muster of men at the barrack-door, the sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, and the measured tread of the grenadiers marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climb'd to the tower of the church, up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, to the belfry-chamber overhead, and startled the pigeons from their perch

on the sombre rafters, that round him made masses and moving shapes of shade; up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, to the highest window in the wall, where he paused to listen and look down a moment on the roofs of the quiet town, and the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead in their night-encampment on the hill, wrapp'd in silence so deep and still, that he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, the watchful night-wind as it went creeping along from tent to tent, and seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell of the place and the hour, the secret dread of the lonely belfry and the dead; for suddenly all his thoughts are bent on a shadowy something far away, where the river widens to meet the bay, - a line of black, that bends and floats on the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, booted and spurr'd, with a heavy stride on the opposite shore walk'd Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, now gazed on the landscape far and near, then impetuous stamp'd the earth, and turn'd and tighten'd his saddle-girth; but mostly he watch'd with eager search the belfry-tower of the old North Church, as it rose above the graves on the hill, lonely and spectral, and sombre and still. And, lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height, a glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, but lingers and gazes, till full on his sight, a second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, a shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, and beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: that was all! and yet, through the gloom and the light, the fate of a nation was riding that night; and the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, kindled the land into flame with its heat.

It was twelve by the village clock when he cross'd the bridge into Medford town; he heard the crowing of the cock, and the barking of the farmer's dog, and felt the damp of the river-fog, that rises when the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock when he rode into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock swim in the moonlight as he pass'd, and the meetinghouse windows, blank and bare, gaze at him with a spectral glare, as if they already stood aghast at the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock when he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, and the twitter of birds among the trees, and felt the breath of the morning breeze blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed who at the bridge would be first to fall, who that day would be lying dead, pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read how the British regulars fired and fled; how the farmers gave them ball for ball, from behind each fence and farmyard-wall, chasing the red-coats down the lane, then crossing the fields to emerge again under the trees at the turn of the road, and only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere; and so through the night went his cry of alarm to every Middlesex village and farm, a cry of defiance, and not of fear; a voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, and a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night wind of the Past, through all our history, to the last, in the hour of darkness and peril and need, the people will waken and listen to hear the hurrying hoof-beat of that steed, and the midnight message of Paul Revere.

THE PIPER.

PIPING down the valleys wild, piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child; and he, laughing, said to me,
"Pipe a song about a lamb!" So I piped with merry cheer.

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Longfellow.

Piper, pipe that song again!" So I piped; he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; sing thy songs of happy cheer!" So I sang the same again, while he wept with joy to hear.

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"Piper, sit thou down and write in a book, that all may read!"

So he vanished from my sight, and I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen, and I stained the water clear;
And I wrote my happy songs every child may joy to hear.

Blake.

XXVIII. CHANGES IN FEELING.

In all thinking there is a series of continual changes, the mind by progressive transition passing from idea to idea. As each idea causes an emotional response, how do changes of feeling compare with changes of ideas? Emotion has a more vital and immediate relation to the voice and body than thinking. Thought is revealed more by symbols, feeling rather by natural signs and languages. Hence, transitions of emotion are more definitely shown through the action of voice and body than transitions in thinking. Emotion is a response to thought, a movement of the whole man, caused by ideas; hence, transitions of emotion are slower than transitions of thought. Thinking may be excited quickly, but passion is gradually aroused. Emotion flows like a stream, and admits only of direction and guidance. As the waves of the ocean slowly respond to the wind, and do not immediately subside when the wind has ceased to blow, so passion may not immediately respond; but when once aroused, it tends to increase, or it may react rhythmically. The domination of passion thus requires

vivid realization of ideas, and frequently sudden and extreme changes of situation, which must during a pause completely change expression.

Thought is manifested through melody and form, passion through rhythm and tone-color. Rhythm in expression manifests the pulsation of passion. Rhythm does not change so quickly or frequently as form, which is a perpetual change; but its changes are very important, as they show the transitions in the weight of ideas, their importance, and the degree of excitement they awaken in the man, his earnestness, his intensity, or his control. Transitions of experience are very important, because often they can be expressed only by an indication of change. Some of the deeper and more intense passions can be only delicately suggested. Some passions can be indicated only by contrast, or by a sudden reaction. Monotony of feeling causes sameness of movement. Passion has a strong tendency to drift into monotony. Naturalness and power, therefore, depend upon the development of versatility, or readiness of response to every variation of thought and feeling. Development of control is dependent upon the union of the movement of passion with thought. Each change in situation must cause a change in feeling and expression.

PROBLEM XXIV. Read passages with changes of situation, giving such strong attention to each one successively as to cause a distinct feeling and expression.

THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,
When first on them I met my lover;

Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,

When now thy waves his body cover!

Logan.

ONE cruel blow had fallen on him, when Nicholas Nickleby cried, "Stop!" "Who cried 'Stop!"" "I did. This must not go on." "Must not go on!" "No! Must not! Shall not! I will prevent it! You have disregarded all my quiet interference in this miserable lad's behalf; you have returned no answer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him, and offered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this public interference. You have brought it upon yourself, not I." "Sit down, beggar!" "Wretch, touch him again at your peril! I will not stand by and see it done.

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