dition of automatons. Happily there is such a dead level of mental
power, or rather of mental weakness, among us that such a catastrophe
is not likely to occur; but still within our small compass there are
variations which produce surprising effects. I shall now single out one
of the audience, and endeavour 'by the mere power of will' to compel him
to come upon the platform, and do and say what I wish. Let me assure you
that there is no collusion, and that the subject whom I may select is
at perfect liberty to resent to the uttermost any impulse which I may
communicate to him."

With these words the lecturer came to the front of the platform, and
glanced over the first few rows of the stalls. No doubt Cowles' dark
skin and bright eyes marked him out as a man of a highly nervous
temperament, for the mesmerist picked him out in a moment, and fixed his
eyes upon him. I saw my friend give a start of surprise, and then settle
down in his chair, as if to express his determination not to yield
to the influence of the operator. Messinger was not a man whose head
denoted any great brain-power, but his gaze was singularly intense and
penetrating. Under the influence of it Cowles made one or two spasmodic
motions of his hands, as if to grasp the sides of his seat, and then
half rose, but only to sink down again, though with an evident effort. I
was watching the scene with intense interest, when I happened to catch
a glimpse of Miss Northcott's face. She was sitting with her eyes fixed
intently upon the mesmerist, and with such an expression of concentrated
power upon her features as I have never seen on any other human
countenance. Her jaw was firmly set, her lips compressed, and her face
as hard as if it were a beautiful sculpture cut out of the whitest
marble. Her eyebrows were drawn down, however, and from beneath them her
grey eyes seemed to sparkle and gleam with a cold light.

I looked at Cowles again, expecting every moment to see him rise and
obey the mesmerist's wishes, when there came from the platform a short,
gasping cry as of a man utterly worn out and prostrated by a prolonged
struggle. Messinger was leaning against the table, his hand to his
forehead, and the perspiration pouring down his face. "I won't go on,"
he cried, addressing the audience. "There is a stronger will than
mine acting against me. You must excuse me for to-night." The man
was evidently ill, and utterly unable to proceed, so the curtain
was lowere