'This _aura-magnetica_-making,' said he Is a process as simple as A B C, And very agreeable, certainly, where The patient is female, and passably fair: You hold her hand gently, and look in her eye, Succeeding the better, the harder you try;[5] Then paw her all over, it comes to you pat, Precisely like stroking the back of a cat.[6] And now it is holiday-time with the mind, It hastens to leave the poor body behind; As mischievous urchins escape to the street, The pedagogue slumb'ring unmov'd in his seat. Hereafter, no 'wishing-cap' ever can be Invented to rival the _bonnet de nuit_. But though I account myself fully _au fait_ At dismissing the soul in a technical way, (Being funnily call'd by a patient of mine, A forwarding agent for Charon's old line,) I own that it never came into my head To try to converse with it after it fled; It might be unpleasant; particular folks Object to all species of practical jokes; And one might, with reason, resent being made, From a person of substance, an unreal shade. However, I think we had better prepare For one live spirit-walking--another affair. The patient appears well inclin'd to repose, Or rather, already beginning to doze.' He sat himself opposite, look'd in her eye, Put his hand in his pocket, and stifled a sigh. A striking resemblance there was in the face, To one that occasion'd his first-love case. Ah, doctor! that love thou wert better forget, With symptoms recurring, comes over thee yet. 'Be still!' said he, boldly! 'nay madam, don't start, The caution was private--address'd to my heart.' He went through the process; ten minutes expir'd, The process was tedious, the doctor was tir'd; He hinted that opium, one or two grains, Had been quite as speedy, and saved him his pains. The patient, at this, to the doctor's surprise, Look'd sweetly upon him, and--sleep seal'd her eyes.