“One evening at a friend’s house, where some ten or a dozen of my companions and acquaintances were assembled, I mesmerized a boy about twelve years old. I found him completely under my control, and perfectly docile to all my intentions. His behavior was admirable. I asked him mentally a large number of questions which it was certain that in his normal state he could not answer, and which he answered explicitly, with surprising accuracy. He had never been taught music, and in his normal state could not distinguish even one tune from another. I willed him to seat himself at the piano, and play for us a favorite waltz of Mozart. He obeyed, and performed it with accuracy, with spirit, a delicacy of touch, and brilliancy of effect, which none of us had ever heard equalled, or even approached. I then mentally ordered him to sing us, to his own accompaniment, one or two songs from Fra Diavolo, which were then in fashion. He obeyed. We were all surprised, and began talking among ourselves of the apparent miracle, when, to our still greater astonishment, he commenced playing of his own accord a strange piece, which none of us knew or had ever heard, and which, for its wild and unearthly character, for its brilliancy, depth, and pathos, surpassed all that we had ever conceived of music. We were all entranced. Here was some agency not the boy’s, not mine, not that of any one present. Such strains had never had mortal composer. “I knew not what to think, and so contrived not to think at all, but enjoyed the music, and looked no farther. _Carpe diem_, you know, was my philosophy. I saw I had a brilliant subject, and I resolved to make the most of him. I had heard of the marvellous powers of clairvoyance and second sight exhibited by some somnambulists. I blindfolded the boy, and gave him a letter. He read it with ease. I placed another at the back of his neck, he read that also; I placed another, folded up, on the back of his head. He told me who was the writer, described his appearance, his complexion, size, and character, with more accuracy than I could have done, although the writer was well known to me, and must have been a total stranger to the boy. I took the boy with me on a journey, that is, mentally. We stopped at Providence, went on to Stonington, took the steamer for New York, landed and went up Broadway, down the Bowery, and through several other streets. He named the hotels, churches, and other public buildings we passed, and read the signs over the shop doors. We went up the Hudson, to Albany, from there on to Utica, Rochester, Niagara Falls, and then returned, and on our way back stopped at your house in Genesee county, with which you know I am familiar. We went into the library, and the laboratory, in each of which he named and accurately described the principal objects. Having come back, we took an excursion into the other world, of which he told us strange things, which none of us believed, for we were all Unitarians, Universalists, or