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pole were pressed firmly down on the paper and moved along by muscular force or clockwork; then, despite the downward pressure, the platinum strip would move along freely as long as the current continued, but if the current were interrupted, the motion of the wire would be instantly stopped by the normal friction of the moist paper. Endeavouring by additional force to overcome this friction, and at the same moment restoring the electric current, it was found that the wire would be instantly released, and would involuntarily slip over the paper as if upon ice. Here was a power to put in motion matter at a distance by means of electricity without the intervention of an electro-magnet. Mr. Edison applied this new principle to the telephone, substituting a cylinder of chalk, saturated with an alkaline solution, for the original paper, the friction of the chalk being more uniform owing to its finer particles. The cylinder is mounted on a shaft which is rotated by a hand crank. A brass strip faced with platinum, attached to the centre of a disc of mica, projects over the cylinder, and bears with considerable pressure upon the chalk by means of a spring. The electric current is made to pass from the brass strip to and through the chalk cylinder at the point of friction. When the crank is turned so as to rotate the cylinder outward from the face of the disc, the friction between the cylinder and strip drags the centre of the disc inward more or less. If now an impulse of electricity is passed over the wire, the friction is destroyed and the disc by its own tension regains its normal position. Thus the disc is drawn in one direction by the friction, in the other by its own tension; when this is united with the carbon-transmitter, we have a perfect telephone, and such power can be obtained as will cause the reproduction of the voice in greater or less volume than was given forth by the transmitter. It can either whisper a secret or roar a command. One day, while experimenting on an automatic telegraph transmitter, Mr. Edison tried tinfoil to receive the indentations of the recorder instead of paper, and was surprised to see how readily it received them. These identations, passing under another needle, were to repeat the message automatically to another wire. A few days later, the fancy seized him to fix a needle point to the diaphragm of a telephone, and try whether the vibration of the diaphragm, when spoken against, would cause the needle to prick his finger. It did so, and he wondered what would be the effect on a slip of paper. He tried the experiment, and, sure enough, there was a sort of indented track; Then it occurred to him to try what would result from drawing this indented slip under the point again, following the working of the automatic transmitter. The effect was one which almost made him wild. A sound like a smothered cry of words seeking utterance issued from the diaphragm. He worked, oblivious of food or sleep, until he had made a grooved cylinder, and put a piece of tinfoil on it-to this he

attached the diaphragm and shouted into it. On turning the crank the words were reproduced with distinct articulation and marvellous elocution, and the phonograph took its place among the wonders of the day. While pursuing experiments in electric lighting, Mr. Edison developed some striking phenomena arising from the heating of metals by flames and by the electric current. After further investigation of the phenomena, he succeeded in condensing certain metals so that they increased in density four or five times beyond what had hitherto been deemed possible. The series of experiments also referred to the volatilisation of metals in vacuo. He succeeded in obtaining with a condensed platinum wire with a radiating surface only about equal to a grain of buckwheat an electric light equal to the light of eight standard candles. The wire before being subjected to this process would scarcely give out the light of one candle. Thus he is enabled, by the increased capacity of platinum, to withstand high temperature, to employ small radiating surfaces and reduce the energy required for the light. Mr. Edison's electric light machine combines the smallest resistance with the greatest electro-motive force.

Mr. Edison has, notwithstanding his being the wizard of the day a humorous side to his character, and an imperturbable good humour, yet even he must find it difficult to be amused with the curiosity of the sight-seeing public. In 1876 he moved out to Menlo Park, some twentyfour miles from New York, where he hoped he would, at a sufficiently inconvenient distance from the city, be comparatively free from visitors. But it was no use; a gentleman asked the privilege of presenting a few friends; he arrived on the scene with a small party of one hundred and seventy-five persons!—and it is nothing uncommon for a "special train" full of visitors from Boston to be announced. Edison may be driven yet to carry out a natural law and throw out some device for his own protection. He does allow sometimes that he will probably be tempted to "blow up somebody yet;" and he once declared that he was considering the idea of connecting a battery with his gate, so that everybody who touched it should be straightway knocked down.

Menlo Park is a little hamlet, quiet enough in itself, a mere group of some half-a-dozen yellow and chocolate houses. Upon a hill Edison has built his laboratory. On the ground floor he has a machine room, where there is an engine of ten-horse power and a collection of expensive tools, so that any appliance can be made under his own eye. He has a costly scientific library; but his great possessions appear to be those which are of use to him in his work. He has thousands of bottles containing chemicals, and he makes a point of having some of every known chemical or mineral, in case he should need it.

When you go to his house he may very possibly answer your inquiry for "Mr. Edison," himself; or, if not, you will be shown into his

laboratory, where you will find him among his assistants; and if you try to guess which is Mr. Edison, your best plan will be to select the least obtrusive person in the group. His figure is slight and young-looking, though the face, from its long habit of concentration, has an old look; he has a frank, cordial expression, and, like most men of great powers, can be almost a boy when his attention is turned away from his absorbing interests. But when he is not roused, he seems to retire within himself as if his mind had travelled a long way off, and his attention comes back slowly. He has the peculiar pallor of a night-worker, and if you stay with him through the night you will find him as bright at the end of the vigil as at the beginning.

As Edison is said to be somewhat timid with ladies, it is pleasant to know that he has married, and married well. His wife was a lady telegraph operator. His two little ones are nicknamed Dot and Dash after the letters of that telegraphic alphabet which has been so interwoven with their father's life. Now and then they visit the scene of these wonderful labours of their father, to amuse themselves with that invariable delight to children, seeing "the wheels go round."

When Mr. Edison chooses to vary his vast labours by a holiday he is sure to be welcomed anywhere. People are glad to have him only to look at. But he does not always succeed in pleasing those whose idea of entertaining a lion is to feast him. Invited to dine at Delmonico's, that restaurant which has become historical from the celebrities it has feasted, he astounded his entertainer by contenting himself with a piece of pie and a cup of tea. If anybody has a right to say such a thing, certainly Edison may justify himself by saying he has no time to cultivate Epicurean tastes. Many people make this kind of excuse for not sharing in the tastes of most men, who would succumb at a hundredth part of the work Edison accomplishes. He must needs have holiday sometimes; but his difficulty would probably be how to escape from the great public eye. He laughingly said, a year ago, when speaking of taking a rest, "The proprietors of White Mountain hotels have generously placed that region at my disposal. They even offer to place a locomotive at my command. If I can get there I shall talk ten miles, from one peak to another, with my telescopophon!"

He admires Victor Hugo and Jules Verne; small wonder, for to him no flight of imagination can seem absurd, and these authors are rather suggestors than romancists. And what a hero must Edison be to the boys who read Jules Verne. Let them picture to themselves a living man, who, when he talks of going to the White Mountains for a holiday, proposes to amuse himself by talking to his friends from peak to peak!

OVER THE THRESHOLD;

OR, THIRTY YEARS AGO.

CHAPTER LII.

A NOVEL.

By a New Contributor.

(Continued from page 482.)

MADAME DE FAUBOURG.

"WAIT in the court, Petit," said the managing director of the Bank of Athens, on emerging, like a limp Jack-in-the-box, from the miraculous little brougham, at the door which gave admission to the staircase of the establishment.

Petit removed to a convenient part of the court yard, and attended to the wants of his animal without removing the harness. M. le Directeur, however, remained in his apartment merely for the time that was necessary to allow him to cast a hasty glance over the letters of the morning; and to give one or two to be answered, with a word of direction as to each. He then placed one or two more in his breast pocket, and descended the staircase with an easy and unconcerned aspect. Taking no notice of Petit, who took none of his master until his back was turned (on which the coachman became suddenly watchful of the retreating figure), the man of business sauntered along the boulevard, and dropped, as if by accident, into the open mouth of a café.

The room he entered was large and splendid; the walls covered. with looking-glasses. All that was

not glass was gold-all that was not gold was glass; it was a hall of ormolu and crystal. In the centre a marble font gave forth a tiny jet of water, rising with a sort of irregular, inefficient beat, and falling into a glass basin containing gold and silver fish; to the overflow of which receptacle the marble font served by way of saucer. Around the room were small bronze tables, fixed to the floor, with marble tops. Behind and between the tables were benches and settees of carved mahogany, covered with crimson Utrecht velvet, and a few plain wooden chairs were interspersed amid the more costly furniture.

At

The morning was rather too early for the grand affair of breakfast; but two or three occupants were seated at different tables. one which bore signs of the remnants of rather a substantial repast, sat two men playing at dominoes.

The younger of these two men was chiefly remarkable for a sort of cat-like stealthiness and fixity of gaze, and for the fitting of his clothes as if they grew on him. It was not that he was over-dressed, or dressed in any way in bad taste. But his wrists seemed as if they were ever holding down his white and spotless cuffs; his shoulders seemed as if they were keeping

guard over the unruffled smoothness and flatness of his shirt front. His hair, moustache, imperial, and eyes were all of a bright reddish auburn. He fixed his eye stealthily on the managing director, while his hand rattled the dominoes on the marble.

The other player was a man of more pretentious appearance. He was a tall man-he was also very stout. Had he been less obese he would have struck you as very tall; as it was, you were most impressed by the wide expanse of lightcoloured waistcoat, from and across which hung an enormous watchchain, of engraved and twisted links, from each joint or interlinking of which hung, by little independent gold chainlets of their own, golden excrescences of every form and variety. A large globe of burnished gold, a locket of dead gold, a packet of Turkish coins, and a bunch of Neapolitan coral amulets, played at their will over the waistcoat. The face of the man was coarse-large featured, apparently English, but, if so, possibly Judaically English. He said something in a low voice to the auburn-eyed man, who turned straight round to face him as he spoke, listened intently to what he had to say, and then rose and left the room.

The Directeur Gérant ordered a little cup of coffee, and then, pausing carelessly by the table, said to the domino player, "Ah! you here! I thought you never came till half-past eleven? the bye, I am glad to have met you.

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The stout man, with an important and lordly air, said he was glad to have the felicity of meeting the Directeur. He had just finished breakfast.

"In that case," said the other, "if you are going eastward, we can walk a few steps together."

The one drew up his figure, and

marched defiantly out of the café, the other sauntered by him. "Goldwin," said he, as they left the precincts occupied by the settlers on the pavé outside the door, "I want you to go with me to Therese."

"Now?" said the other.
"Yes, now."

The two men walked in silence

along the boulevard. Soon they turned up a street at right angles to their course, and from that, in its turn, entered one of those quiet, colourless streets that formed a peculiar feature of pre-Hausmanic Paris. It was dark and narrow, but contained good, though gloomy-looking houses. For the first reason, the accommodation which it offered for residents was cheap; for the second it was good— good if you never cared to look out of window. The locality, too, was such as to give ready access to the most central parts of Paris. Thus it came to pass that its population, which was somewhat of a migratory or nomadic type, was no less heterogeneous than unstable. The Legitimist noble from a distant province, the daily habitué of the Bourse, the operatic star of second or third magnitude, the steady man of business, the fluttering woman of pleasure, all found shelter in the Rue de Quelquechose.

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