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Authors: Paul Quarrington
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wanted none of this. They wanted Beelzebubs and Lucifers. They wanted Hellfire so hot that they burned to hear of it.
The auditorium was perhaps half full now, some twenty minutes before the exhibition began. Benton Hope looked at the people with disdain. Most of them were Harvard men, young louts with rich fathers and small intelligences. Some were townsmen, laborers and farmers, and they found it for some reason incumbent to attend in their Sabbath finery. Joseph snorted haughtily, propelling a thin line of mucus on to his upper lip. He wiped it away and shifted in his seat. Hope realized, with dismay, that he was possessed of an erection.
Joseph Benton Hope was boyish in appearance, looking in all respects to be no older than fourteen. His face didn’t need shaving, and his voice was adolescently temperamental. His manly endowment was therefore anomalous. It was long and thick, ribbed with veins, and perpetually insistent on growing even larger. Joseph had been forced to adjust his tailoring, making sure that all his trousers were loose-fitting and roomy. Now,in the theater, Joseph shifted and dug a fist into his groin covertly. He rifled the pages of his Bible and read. When next he looked up, the auditorium was all but full. Two weeks ago, when Benton Hope had first attended, he had been one of perhaps two dozen. Now there were close to four hundred, including many of the faculty. Benton Hope watched as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow dashed through the door. Longfellow stopped, dusted himself and ran his fingers through his sideburns. Longfellow then proceeded into the auditorium, quickly and hurriedly, and Hope was reminded of the familiar Harvard doggerel—“With his hat on one whisker and an air that says ‘Go it,’ you have the great American poet.’ ” Joseph Benton Hope attended Longfellow’s special lectures on Goethe’s
Faust
(which was viewed as a trifle rebellious of him).
Then Dr. Charles X. Poyen walked out on to the stage. He was a small, silver-haired man, gracefully into his middle age, one of the university’s most distinguished lecturers. Poyen looked at the assembled (nodding briefly to Longfellow, who was having trouble choosing a place), and then Poyen said, “Good evening.” His accent was continental French.
Joseph Benton Hope had, of course, heard Poyen’s lecture before. It had to do with Franz Anton Mesmer and his discovery of the fluids (and the empathic balancing thereof) that are inherent in the human body. Not only had Hope heard it before, he had most of the speech written down on the endpapers of various textbooks. After some minutes, the lecture was concluded, and Hope refocused his attention.
Dr. Poyen asked for a volunteer. A young freshman with a peculiar, froglike face virtually bolted on to the stage. Poyen took the fellow by the elbow and stationed him so that his back faced the north. Poyen induced in the lad “human hibernation,” the state in which the subject’s magnetic fluids are most susceptible to the influence of another’s animal magnetism. The young man’s mouth dropped stupidly open, and his tongue pressed flatly against his lower lip. “Now,” said Poyen, “I would like to demonstrate the powers of the science of Phreno-Mesmerism.” The words rang in J. B. Hope’s ears, cloaked exotically in Poyen’s French accent—“ze poors of ze seance of Phreno-Mezmereezem.” Poyen touched his hand to the freshman’shead and excited several phrenological sites. When Dr. Poyen touched the Organ of Veneration the young man folded his hands together as if in prayer. When Poyen excited the Antagonistical Site the subject snarled and brandished his fists.
At this point someone in the audience yelled, “You’re a croakus!” For the past several nights, such protests were made with increasing frequency. Dr. Poyen merely smiled, a trifle embarrassed, and quoted the great
philosophe
Voltaire: “Those who believe in occult causes are subjected to ridicule, but
The auditorium was perhaps half full now, some twenty minutes before the exhibition began. Benton Hope looked at the people with disdain. Most of them were Harvard men, young louts with rich fathers and small intelligences. Some were townsmen, laborers and farmers, and they found it for some reason incumbent to attend in their Sabbath finery. Joseph snorted haughtily, propelling a thin line of mucus on to his upper lip. He wiped it away and shifted in his seat. Hope realized, with dismay, that he was possessed of an erection.
Joseph Benton Hope was boyish in appearance, looking in all respects to be no older than fourteen. His face didn’t need shaving, and his voice was adolescently temperamental. His manly endowment was therefore anomalous. It was long and thick, ribbed with veins, and perpetually insistent on growing even larger. Joseph had been forced to adjust his tailoring, making sure that all his trousers were loose-fitting and roomy. Now,in the theater, Joseph shifted and dug a fist into his groin covertly. He rifled the pages of his Bible and read. When next he looked up, the auditorium was all but full. Two weeks ago, when Benton Hope had first attended, he had been one of perhaps two dozen. Now there were close to four hundred, including many of the faculty. Benton Hope watched as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow dashed through the door. Longfellow stopped, dusted himself and ran his fingers through his sideburns. Longfellow then proceeded into the auditorium, quickly and hurriedly, and Hope was reminded of the familiar Harvard doggerel—“With his hat on one whisker and an air that says ‘Go it,’ you have the great American poet.’ ” Joseph Benton Hope attended Longfellow’s special lectures on Goethe’s
Faust
(which was viewed as a trifle rebellious of him).
Then Dr. Charles X. Poyen walked out on to the stage. He was a small, silver-haired man, gracefully into his middle age, one of the university’s most distinguished lecturers. Poyen looked at the assembled (nodding briefly to Longfellow, who was having trouble choosing a place), and then Poyen said, “Good evening.” His accent was continental French.
Joseph Benton Hope had, of course, heard Poyen’s lecture before. It had to do with Franz Anton Mesmer and his discovery of the fluids (and the empathic balancing thereof) that are inherent in the human body. Not only had Hope heard it before, he had most of the speech written down on the endpapers of various textbooks. After some minutes, the lecture was concluded, and Hope refocused his attention.
Dr. Poyen asked for a volunteer. A young freshman with a peculiar, froglike face virtually bolted on to the stage. Poyen took the fellow by the elbow and stationed him so that his back faced the north. Poyen induced in the lad “human hibernation,” the state in which the subject’s magnetic fluids are most susceptible to the influence of another’s animal magnetism. The young man’s mouth dropped stupidly open, and his tongue pressed flatly against his lower lip. “Now,” said Poyen, “I would like to demonstrate the powers of the science of Phreno-Mesmerism.” The words rang in J. B. Hope’s ears, cloaked exotically in Poyen’s French accent—“ze poors of ze seance of Phreno-Mezmereezem.” Poyen touched his hand to the freshman’shead and excited several phrenological sites. When Dr. Poyen touched the Organ of Veneration the young man folded his hands together as if in prayer. When Poyen excited the Antagonistical Site the subject snarled and brandished his fists.
At this point someone in the audience yelled, “You’re a croakus!” For the past several nights, such protests were made with increasing frequency. Dr. Poyen merely smiled, a trifle embarrassed, and quoted the great
philosophe
Voltaire: “Those who believe in occult causes are subjected to ridicule, but
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