manipulated him, what a capital pose it would
have been for Hercules and Omphale. He seemed to like it exceedingly,
and I thought was dropping comfortably off when he whispered something
to his operator (I have no notion what the feminine of that word is),
who fixed her brilliant eyes on somebody near me--I feared it was
actually on me--and said, "Somebody at the back of the room is
exercising control. I shall be glad if they will refrain." I was quite
innocent of exercising conscious control, and did not quite know what
the phrase meant. I certainly had once or twice thought it must be much
pleasanter to be operated upon by so pretty a young lady than by some
bull-necked male mesmerist or aged spinster above-mentioned, but I could
scarcely believe that such a mild sentiment could affect that colossal
man. However, I recollected the delicacy of these psychological
relations, and sat down conscience-stricken and warmer than ever.

Miss Chandos selected No. 5 in the person of a young man with a nascent
moustache, who had successfully struggled into the front row at the
outset. He promised well at first; but, like other young men with
incipient moustaches, disappointed us afterwards. Then came No. 6 upon
the scene.

No. 6 was a lady who came late, and at once pushed to the front with the
air of a person who was not doing so for the first time. She went off in
a moment--far too suddenly, in fact, and then did everything she was
told in a very obedient way. Being told that she was in a beautiful
garden, she stooped down on the floral carpet and proceeded to gather
materials for a bouquet. I confess I did not care about No. 6, and was
proceeding to read Professor Tyndall's Belfast Address, which I had in
my pocket, when Miss Chandos looked up No. 1 again.

Reduced to a proper frame of mind, either by Miss Chandos' continued
attentions or the contagion of No. 6's docility, the youth was now all
submission. He walked up and down any number of times like a tame animal
at the Zoological Gardens, and now quite agreed that his name was Mary
Jones. He sang "Tom Bowling" at command, and No. 6, not to be outdone,
warbled a ditty called, I think, "The Slave Girl's Love," the refrain of
which, according to her version, was, "I cannot love, because I _ham_ a
slave." She broke down in the middle of this aspiring ditty, and then
personated a Jew old clo' man, a woman selling "ornaments for your
firestoves," and various other characters,