At our experimental farm we have a very beautiful new saddle horse. As I pretend to be something of a rider I went to ride this horse. There was a sort of celebration that afternoon, and I thought it would be pleasant for the president of the University to ride one of these blooded horses to give _eclat_ to the =affair=. I went out and rode this mare about. Everything went well until I encountered several traction engines in active operation and a number of automobiles. I was in a very narrow place. There being almost no other direction for the mare to go, she began to take a vertical course. She was in good condition and rather rotund, and the laws of physics worked out their inevitable result. At forty-five degrees I held on admirably. At sixty-five degrees, I began to feel some little distress. At eighty degrees I looked behind me, and at 89-1/2 degrees I slid off. Now, such is the admirable press organization in the great state of Minnesota that every newspaper, I think, in the commonwealth--I haven't found one yet that skipped the item--called attention to the fact that the president of the University had come a cropper--or, if not strictly a cropper, the effect of it was the same. One of the papers was kind enough to say that, being an expert rider, I landed on my feet. If I did, my fundamental ideas of anatomy have been entirely erroneous. As I have been traveling about the state in the last few weeks, I haven't met a man, woman or child who has not sooner or later worked that back-sliding into the conversation. This is a picture of which, when it comes on the screen of my mind, the spectator within me says, "I suppose we have got to stand this, but it is certainly getting to be slightly tiresome." We all get slides of that sort in our collection. Then there are pictures of another sort, beautiful pictures, inspiring pictures, yet for some reason the spectator within us is left cold and unaffected by these images. It is the very tragedy of human nature that we may intellectually know beautiful, noble, inspiring things, may have uplifting visions, and yet the spectator within us may look at these things and never so much as feel a flutter of the pulse. We do not incorporate ideas until these things have become not only a part of our intellectual apprehension, but until they have become a part of our emotional nature, until we make them into the very fabric of ourselves. We define the self, therefore, in terms of mental pictures, and the control of self is the control of mental pictures. Let me know the pictures to which you constantly revert, let me know the pictures that come steadily to the screen of your mind, let me know the pictures that the spectator within you gloats over and feels a loyalty to, and I will reveal to you your character. Whatsoever a man thinketh in his heart, whatsoever pictures he makes his own, whatsoever pictures he gloats over with joy and satisfaction, these things reveal the true personality.