resistance, resolute not to be fooled by any mock influence which could resolve itself into the action of nerves or ganglions.  The first symptom; as before, was that my heart sprang up with a bound, as if a cannon had been fired at my ear.  My whole being responded with a start.  The pen fell out of my fingers, the figures went out of my head as if all faculty had departed; and yet I was conscious for a time at least of keeping my self-control.  I was like the rider of a frightened horse, rendered almost wild by something which in the mystery of its voiceless being it has seen, something on the road which it will not pass, but wildly plunging, resisting every persuasion, turns from, with ever-increasing passion.  The rider himself after a time becomes infected with this inexplainable desperation of terror, and I suppose I must have done so; but for a time I kept the upper hand.  I would not allow myself to spring up as I wished, as my impulse was, but sat there doggedly, clinging to my books, to my table, fixing myself on I did not mind what, to resist the flood of sensation, of emotion, which was sweeping through me, carrying me away.  I tried to continue my calculations.  I tried to stir myself up with recollections of the miserable sights I had seen, the poverty, the helplessness.  I tried to work myself into indignation; but all through these efforts I felt the contagion growing upon me, my mind falling into sympathy with all those straining faculties of the body, startled, excited, driven wild by something, I knew not what.  It was not fear.  I was like a ship at sea straining and plunging against wind and tide, but I was not afraid.  I am obliged to use these metaphors, otherwise I could give no explanation of my condition, seized upon against my will, and torn from all those moorings of reason to which I clung with desperation, as long as I had the strength.

When I got up from my chair at last, the battle was lost, so far as my powers of self-control were concerned.  I got up, or rather was dragged up, from my seat, clutching at these material things round me as with a last effort to hold my own.  But that was no longer possible; I was overcome.  I stood for a moment looking round me feebly, feeling myself begin to babble with stammering lips, which was the alternative of shrieking, and which I seemed to choose as a lesser evil.  What I said was, “What am I to do?” and after a while, “What do you want me to do?” although throughout I saw no one, heard no voice, and had in reality not power enough in my dizzy and confused brain to know what I myself meant.  I stood thus for a moment, looking blankly round me for guidance, repeating the question, which seemed after a time to become almost mechanical, “What do you want me to do?” though I neither knew to whom I addressed it nor why I said it.  Presently—­whether in answer, whether in mere yielding of nature, I cannot tell—­I became aware of a difference:  not a lessening of the agitation, but a softening,