Solar Light?”
Bacon asked. “That surprises me; for as far back as the second half of the nineteenth century it was used to illuminate both here and in Paris some of the public edifices. Here it has been generally introduced for some time past, ever since the streets have been covered with our endless glass.”
“But then that light is too brilliant and too white; that can’t be gas-light.”
“Nor is it. Gas is now only burnt in those isolated districts where the houses stand far apart from each other, but the central part of the city is chiefly lighted up by the burning of magnesium, and sometimes also by electric light, or any of the numerous lights with which we are now acquainted. The apparatus, consisting of mirrors and lenses, to collect the light and to make the beams parallel, i.e. equal to sunlight, is the same for all those different kinds of public illumination.”
“Rather expensive, though,” was my sudden reply.
“Not as expensive as you think,” continued Bacon; “especially not in the case of magnesium, for there is an abundance of magnesium ore in the form of dolemite, etc., from which we get the metal in a way as inexpensive as that followed in the preparation of aluminium. To this must be added that the process of burning this metal yields a hard substance, which, by a suitable arrangement of the apparatus, can be collected again and re-reduced to magnesium. Speaking theoretically, a certain quantity of magnesium is a source of light quite as inexhaustible as the oil-jar of the widow of Sarepta of which we read in the Book of Kings.”
The more I looked about, the more I arrived at the humiliating conclusion that we of the boasting nineteenth century—of which I still felt to be a child—were really very much benighted, and I could almost forgive Miss Phantasia for speaking of the semi-barbarous condition of society in my time.
It seemed as if Bacon read my thoughts by my features; for he continued as follows: “I see that you are desirous of increasing your acquaintance with the present state of affairs. Well, then, if you have been able to put up with our company to-day, you had better join us to-morrow, in our contemplated aërial voyage.”
How I thrilled with inward delight at the prospect of such a tour! Of course I accepted the kind offer without hesitation, although I could not help raising a slight point of doubt with regard to the state of the weather.
“Don’t you trouble your mind about that,” said my amiable guide; “early this morning I was at the meteorological institute, and I have ascertained that the weather will be fine for a fortnight at all events. The reports from the different meteorological stations are all equally propitious. The sky will be bright, and the wind favourable; I should be surprised if the aëronaut would have any occasion to use the energeiathecs, which, however, will accompany us as preventatives.”
We parted company, but not until I had made a note of the spot where it was intended we should meet on the following morning. I hailed one of the numerous cabs on the stand, and ordered the driver to take me to my hotel. As I drove on, I was agreeably surprised not to hear anything of that rattling noise over the pavement, which is alike obnoxious to the person inside the vehicle, to all the passers-by, and to the inmates of houses situated in public thoroughfares. I heard nothing, indeed, but the melodious tinkling of four little bells tied round the horse’s neck, and forming a musical chord. I am sorry to say that I was not fortunate enough to discover whether this “gentle process” was attributable to the nature of the pavement, or to certain hoops (not iron ones) round the wheels. Probably it was the one as much as the other.