The Telephon.
Arrived at my hotel, I was at once struck with its extreme quietness, more so as the apartments were all but taken by some thousands of travellers. The cause of this, however, I soon discovered on entering the elegant and spacious conversation room. Methought I heard a kind of music, feeble, yet melodious in the extreme. The sound approached as near as possible that of the human voice; but still the quality was altogether different. Besides, no artist, male or female, was to be seen in the room. The only clue that I could get to the mystery was through a box of small dimensions; this instrument was placed on a table right in the centre of the room, and thence the sound appeared to proceed. Taking the affair to be an ordinary musical-box, worked in the usual way, I gazed with no little contempt and surprise upon the crowd of serious-looking, enthusiastic men and women who had clustered round the table. As soon as the music ceased, I ventured to approach the spectators, at the same time asking one among the crowd for some information with regard to the musical instrument in which they all seemed to be so much interested.
Oh the number of pairs of eyes that stared at me, full of amazement, if not of indignation! At last one of the enthusiasts condescended to break the silence, “What, sir, a musical instrument! where did you ever know such tones to proceed from a musical instrument? Surely, sir, as a gentleman you must have heard of the telephon?”
I now remembered that a machine bearing that name, and answering that description, had been invented as far back as 1861 by a certain Reis; also that it was based upon the following law, as discovered and laid down by Page; namely, that when an electric current passes through a wire coiled round an iron bar, and the current is continually interrupted, there arises a sound or a tone, the height or depth of which is entirely dependent on the number of vibrations produced by the interruptions of the current, according to their succeeding each other with more or less velocity. This recurring to my mind, I now replied that the telephon was indeed not quite unfamiliar to me, in proof of which I went back to the history of its first invention; I also gave a description of Reis’ little instrument, by which the sound of the human voice could be transmitted through very great distances; and finally, I added my surmise or natural conviction that such an instrument must have been considerably improved upon in the course of more than two centuries.[10] I was happy to notice the excellent impression visibly produced by my words; there now arose a tolerably general murmur of “whoever now would have taken the telephon to be so old an affair?” As for me, I was complimented on my antiquarian knowledge, and, thanks to the amiable disposition of the visitors towards me, I was not long in discovering what had been going on. That which every one now was so anxious to explain to me amounted, in a few words, to this. The North-American papers had of late been indulging in the most extravagant terms of praise with regard to a lady singer who, according to the Yankee critics, was possessed of a voice such as no mortal had ever yet heard of, surpassing in compass and quality everything that could be imagined; a talent whereby all the artists of former ages—if history could be relied on—ladies like Catalani, Malibran, Henriette Sonntag, Jenny Lind, or the Pattis, were really no more in comparison than a cricket to a nightingale.
Of course, as might be imagined, these reports from across the Atlantic had created an immense stir in the musical world of Londinia. From all directions the managers of concerts and operas had been induced to negotiate with this marvellous talent, so that it should no longer be hidden from the musical inhabitants of Londinia. But, then, all these reports emanated from the States, the fons et origo of humbug; and, probably taught by experience, the managers had all clubbed together, and, at their joint expense, despatched a telegram to the gifted artist, requesting her to allow her marvellous power to be tested by means of the telephon. That would, at all events, enable them to judge of the compass and quality of her voice. To this the lady had consented, and thereupon the managers had hired one of the transatlantic telegraph cables, on which the experiment had been made.
As a clear indication of the compass of the voice, I was shown sundry slips of black paper on which could be seen numerous curved white lines; the latter had been traced upon the paper by the phonautographer standing behind the telephon, and were supposed to mark the musical scales within compass of the lady’s voice. An impression of these slips of paper was to appear, on the following morning, in the musical journal, Panharmonia, in order that “the eyes of the inhabitants of Londinia might anticipate the glorious treat in store for the musical ears of the great metropolis.” “For,” added the editor of the Panharmonia, “all connoisseurs in music know the meaning of these little waves. Won’t they be astonished when they see a tone like this!” Saying this, he pointed with his finger to the very extreme line where the little curves met as near as possible.
Of course I was longing to examine the construction of the telephon. I was just about to ask one of the gentlemen present to give me some explanation on the subject, when there was a general demand for silence. The American lady was to afford us another treat. This time she sang an air from Mozart’s Don Giovanni, and I was delighted to find that this masterpiece of the great maestro was not forgotten even three centuries after the composer’s death.
At the close of her examination, the lady was unanimously declared worthy to appear before the critical public of Londinia, and she received what we might term a musical ovation by means of another telephon working in opposite direction. And here the matter was allowed to rest, it being left to the different managers to endeavour to engage her services. All and each of these gentlemen looked as if they were in possession of some secret or other wherewith to outvie their competitors. They parted, however, on the best of terms, and I retired to my room.
The following morning I was down very early, and, having enjoyed my breakfast, I walked slowly towards the place where I expected to meet my companions of the preceding day. No guide was required in this apparently immense labyrinth, for nothing indeed was easier than to find one’s way. All the streets, squares, etc., were namely marked, not by names as formerly, but by a particular set of figures, which, with the assistance of a map, directed me to any given spot; all that was required to know was two figures, indicating the point of destination pretty much as with the latitude and longitude at sea.
I was still at a considerable distance away from it when I caught sight of a vast building, on which I read an inscription in gigantic characters: