stinguish that person from all others, as in this case
Pocahontas is used to distinguish the daughter of Powhattan from all
other Indian women. She knew who was meant when that name was applied to
her. But the name Pocahontas does not indicate that she was wise or
unwise, learned or unlearned, tall or short, old or young. In saving the
life of Capt. John Smith she became entitled to be called a "_Good_
Princess." In this case it would be In. by G. & S. We have heard of all
this, and now when we think of Pocahontas, we are apt to remember that
she was a good Princess for saving Smith's life. The connection between
these words I call Concurrence. We have thought of these words together,
and the mind by its own operation has cemented them together, so that
when we think of one it is apt to make us remember the other.
_Concurrence means that which has been accidentally, or as cause and
effect, conjoined in our experience._ Between the words or ideas thus
conjoined, there is, strictly speaking, neither Inclusion or Exclusion.
Whenever there are unrelated things which the mind holds together simply
because it has occupied itself with them, then we have a case of
concurrence to be represented by Con. Other examples: "Harrison,
Tippecanoe;" "Columbus, America;" "Washington, Cherry Tree;" "Andrew
Jackson, To the Victors belong the Spoils;" "Newton, Gravitation;"
"Garfield, Guiteau;" "Gladstone, Home Rule," &c.

=Pocahontas.= } Con.
=Capt. John Smith.= }

We have read the story of the rescue of Smith by Pocahontas. We have
_thought of these names together_ and they have united in our memories
by the Law of Concurrence. When we recall the name of Pocahontas, we are
apt to revive also the name of Capt. John Smith and _vice versa_.
Another case:--A gentleman was present at Ford's Theatre in Washington
when John Wilkes Booth shot Abraham Lincoln. Just a moment before, he
recognised the odour of a hyacinth held by a lady in front of him. The
next moment he heard the fatal shot, and turning whence the report came,
he saw the murderous result. After the lapse of a quarter of a century,
he could not smell, see, or think of hyacinth without at once thinking
of that scene, nor could Lincoln's assassination be mentioned in his
presence without his instantly thinking of hyacinth. Nothing could have
been more purely _accidental_ than the quick succession of the sensation
of the odour and the murder of the President. But they we