Electric Telegraph.

In strolling down Lothbury, in the City of London, the stranger suddenly sees, opposite to the dull dead wall of the Bank of England and pointing down an alley, the forefinger of a little black hand, under which are written the following words:—

“To the Central Telegraph Station.”

and accordingly, at the bottom of the small cul-de-sac there it stands, appropriately designated by its “Electric Clock.”

On entering the door of this establishment the visitor suddenly finds himself in a very handsome reception-hall, 53 feet long, 32 broad, and 45 feet high, illuminated from above by a skylight, which also gives light to three galleries, one above another, communicating with the various departments of the establishment.

Across this reception-hall, on the left of which are the secretary’s and accountant’s offices, there is at each side a long counter or table, that on the right being divided by green curtains into six desks, at which are to be seen the round, stout, slight, slim backs of persons of all shapes, and occasionally of both sexes, intently occupied in writing—unseen by each other—the important communications they are severally desirous to despatch. These messages are required to be written on a half-sheet of large-sized letter-paper, nearly one half of which is pre-occupied by a printed form, to be filled up by the name and address of the writer, as also of the person to whom his communication is addressed; the charge of the message, answer, porterage, or cab-hire; the date and hour at which the message is received; and lastly, the date and hour at which the operation of conveying it was commenced and finished by the person who works the electric instrument.

On glancing at these forms our first impression was that the space allotted for the letter or message was insufficient. It is, however, practically found that the Company’s charges, which amount, from, say London—

ToBirmingham or Stafford3-9/10 d.per word.
„Derby, Norwich, Nottingham, or Yarmouth4⅕„
„Liverpool, Leeds, Manchester5⅒„
„York5⅖„
„Edinburgh7⅘„
„Glasgow8⅖„

seriously admonish writers of all descriptions to be as brief as possible: indeed it is a very curious fact in natural philosophy that a lawyer under the Company’s galvanic influence is suddenly gifted with a description of clairvoyance which enables him to write on any subject in a laconic style, which in his chambers he would consider, and would most conscientiously assure his client, to be utterly impracticable!

As fast as these messages are written, they are, one after another, passed through a glass window to a small compartment, or rather department, on the ground-floor, termed “the Booking-office,” where, after having been briefly noted and marked with their distinctive numbers, they are by the same hand put into a small box, a bell is then rung, and at the same instant up they fly, through a sort of wooden chimney, to the attic regions of the building, to “the Instrument department;” and as we slowly followed them by a staircase, on every landing-place of which we involuntarily paused for a moment or two to reflect on the wonderful process we were about to witness, we own it was with admiration and surprise that, on entering the attic, we suddenly saw before us the simple materials with which such astonishing effects are produced.

In most of our manufactories it may but too truly be said that “the workmanship exceeds the materials.” Before a common coffin-nail can be made, the bowels of the earth must be ransacked, ores raised in Cornwall must be smelted in Wales by coals which have been excavated, raised, carted, recarted, &c. The amount of labour which has been expended in the fabrication of every trifling commodity exhibited in our shops is in a similar manner almost incalculable: indeed if our countrywomen did but know how many hours of unwholesome and unremitting application have been required, nay, how many constitutions have been ruined, in the fabrication of the light beautiful dresses and trinkets that adorn their persons, they would surely feel that their dance, delightful as it may have appeared to them, has been that of death to many of the poorest of their sex. Even the tedious details of the trifling volume we are writing prove that, while the public are luxuriously flying along the rails of only one arterial railway, an army of upwards of ten thousand workmen are labouring in a variety of ways for the management, protection, and maintenance of the way; and as we were not insensible of the usual necessity for these details, we certainly did expect to find that a proportionate amount of labour would be requisite for the simultaneous transmission of messages with extraordinary velocity to distances from one to upwards of four hundred miles. Simplicity, however, is the characteristic of science, and certainly the attics or garrets of the London Central Telegraph Station strikingly illustrate the truth of the axiom: indeed the whole of the Company’s stock in trade which we found therein consisted of four or five intelligent-looking boys, from fourteen to fifteen years of age, and eight little “instruments,” each about half the size of those which German women and Italian men carry on their backs through our streets; and as our advertising horse-dealers, in offering, or, as it is technically termed, in chaunting their cob to the notice of “a heavy timid gentleman,” invariably assure him “that a child can ride it,” so it may truly be said of the electric telegraph, which transmits its intelligence at the incomprehensible rate of 280,000 miles per second, that a boy can guide it!

Although the ordinary rate at which electric communication is now effected has above been easily expressed by a few figures, it is evident that it is a velocity which the human mind has not power to comprehend.

When Shakspeare, in the exercise of his unbounded imagination, made Puck, in obedience to Oberon’s order to him—

“be here again

Ere the leviathan can swim a league,”

reply—

“I’ll put a girdle round the earth

In forty minutes”—

how little did our immortal bard think that this light, fanciful offer of “a fairy” to “the king of the fairies,” would, in the 19th century, not only be substantially realised, but surpassed as follows.

The electric telegraph would convey intelligence more than twenty-eight thousand times round the earth while Puck, at his vaunted speed, was crawling round it only once!

On every instrument there is a dial, on which is inscribed the names of the six or eight stations with which it usually communicates. When much business is to be transacted, a boy is necessary for each of these instruments; generally, however, one lad can without practical difficulty manage about three; but as the whole of them are ready for work by night as well as by day, they are incessantly attended in watches of eight hours each by these satellite boys by day, and by men at night.

As fast as the various messages for delivery, flying one after another from the ground floor up the chimney, reach the level of the instruments, they are brought by the superintendent to the particular one by which they are to be communicated, and its boy, with the quickness characteristic of his age, then instantly sets to work.

His first process is, by means of the electric current, to sound a little bell, which simultaneously alarms all the stations on his line; and although the attention of the sentinel at each is thus attracted, yet it almost instantly evaporates from all excepting from that to the name of which he causes the index needle to point, by which signal the clerk at that station instantly knows that the forthcoming message is addressed solely to him, and accordingly by a corresponding signal he announces to the London boy that he is ready to receive it. By means of a brass handle affixed to the dial, which the boy grasps in each hand, he now begins rapidly to spell off his information by certain twists of his wrists, each of which imparts to the needles on his dials, as well as to those on the dials of his distant correspondent, a convulsive movement designating the particular letter of the telegraphic alphabet required.

By this arrangement he is enabled to transmit an ordinary sized word in three seconds, or about twenty per minute. In case of any accident to the wire of one of his needles, he can, by a different alphabet, transmit his message by a series of movements of the single needle at the reduced rate of about eight or nine words per minute.

While a boy at one instrument is thus occupied in transmitting to—say Liverpool—a message written by its London author in ink which is scarcely dry, another boy at the adjoining instrument is, by the reverse of the process, attentively reading the quivering movements of his dial, which by a sort of St. Vitus’s dance are rapidly spelling to him a message, viâ the wires of the South-Western Railway, say from Gosport, which word by word he repeats aloud to an assistant, who, seated by his side, writes it down (he receives it about as fast as his attendant can conveniently write it) on a sheet of paper, which as soon as the message is concluded descends to the “Booking Office;” where, inscribed in due form, it is without delay despatched to its destination by messenger, cab, or express, according to order. The following trifling anecdotes will not only practically exemplify the process we have just described, but will demonstrate the rapidity with which the Company are enabled to transmit messages.

Some little time ago, a gentleman, walking into the reception-hall of the London office, stated that he had important business to communicate to his friend at Edinburgh, who by appointment was, he knew, at that moment waiting there to reply to it in the Company’s Telegraphic Office. On being presented with the half-sheet of paper, headed with its printed form as described, he wrote his query, which, after passing through the glass window to “the Booking Office,” flew upwards to the Instrument department, from whence with the utmost despatch it was transmitted to Edinburgh, and, the brief reply almost instantly returning to the instrument, it was committed to writing, and then lowered down to the “gentleman in waiting,” who thus quietly walked off with his answer, which we were informed at the office he obtained within the space of five minutes, a considerable portion of which had been consumed by himself and his friend in writing the few words which had passed between them, for, during their passage and return, the electric wires had only detained them exactly the three hundred and fiftieth part of one second!

In a dull foggy day an engine on the London and North-Western Railway, tired of idly standing still with its steam up, suddenly ran away, and, without any one to guide it, proceeded at a rapid rate towards the Euston Station, where every one who witnessed its start expected it would create an amount of damage almost incalculable: but the electric telegraph, soon overtaking and passing the fugitive, conveyed intelligence to Camden Station in abundant time for full preparations to be made there for its reception, by turning the points of the rails into a sideway containing only a few ballast waggons.

In like manner a “gentleman” who had taken for himself and his family only second-class tickets, but who with them had been comfortably enjoying a first-class carriage, was greatly astonished on arriving at his destination to see standing at the window of his carriage, almost before the train had stopped, the Company’s station clerk, who very loudly said to him, in presence of his fellow-travellers, “Mr. ——, I’ll trouble you for excess of fare for yourself and party!”

Besides the transmission of private messages at charges averaging, say one-fortieth of a penny per mile per word, the Electric Telegraph Company have, in central situations in the principal towns of the kingdom, established stations, whence and where information, messages, and despatches of a public character may be forwarded and received to and from all the other stations of the Company.

In each of these stations a room for subscribers has been established, in which is posted as fast as it arrives all intelligence of commercial or public interest; such, for instance, as—

It need hardly be stated that this intelligence is principally imparted to the various stations from London, where it is concentrated by telegraphic announcements from all quarters.

The “Intelligence Department,” which is distinct from the “Private Message Department,” is solely for supplying news to the country subscription-rooms at Edinburgh, Glasgow, Liverpool, Leeds, Manchester, Hull, Newcastle, &c.

At 7 in the morning the superintendent of the former department obtains all the London morning newspapers, from which he condenses and despatches to the several electric stations the intelligence he considers most useful to each. The local press of course awaits the arrival, and thus by 8 o’clock A.M. a merchant at Manchester receives intelligence which the rails can only bring at ¼ before 2, and which cannot by rail reach Edinburgh till ½ past 9 P.M.

To Glasgow is transmitted every evening detailed intelligence for immediate insertion in the ‘North British Daily Mail,’ giving everything of importance that has occurred since the first edition of the London papers. Similar intelligence is despatched to papers at Hull and Leeds.

By this rapid transmission of intelligence, the alternations in the prices of the markets at Manchester, &c. &c., being almost simultaneous with those of London, the merchants of the former are saved from being victimized by the latter. It is true that by great exertions prior intelligence may electrically be sent by private message; but as the wary ones cautiously wait for the despatch of the Telegraph Office, it has but little effect.

At one o’clock information is sent to all the electric reading-rooms of the London quotations of funds and shares up to that hour, thus showing the actual prices at which business has been done. The closing prices of the French funds for the day preceding are usually annexed, and the state of the London wind and weather at that hour.

Early in the morning the instrument boys are to be seen greedily devouring (for, with the curiosity, eagerness, and enthusiasm of youth, they appear to take great interest in their duties) the various matters which from all quarters at once are imparted to them.

One has just received intelligence by telegraph from Ely, announcing the result of the Lynn election. Another, a copy of a ‘Moniteur’ extraordinary, containing the first message of the President of the French Republic to the President of the National Assembly.

Another, that “Stewart’s and Hetton’s were nineteen and sixpence. Gosforth eighteen shill. Holywell fifteen and sixpence. Hastings Hartley fourteen and ninepence. S Q—market one hun. fifty one, sold one hun and three—S Q. Market very good—P Q.”

Another, the following characteristic description of the winds and weather of Old England at 9 A.M.:—

Places.Wind.Weather.
SouthamptonW.S.W.Cloudy.
GosportS.E.„
PortsmouthS.E.„
LondonE.Rain.
St. IvesW.Very fine.
CambridgeS.W.Cloudy.
NewmarketE.Cloudy.
YarmouthE.Fine.
LowestoffeE.Stormy.
NorwichE.Fine.
ChelmsfordN.E.Cloudy.
ColchesterS.E.Fine.
IpswichFine.

The above description of our changeable climate, it occurred to us, would not very incorrectly represent the present political state of Europe.

During the day telegraphic information flashes upon these boys from the Stock Exchange, informing them of “prices and closing prices of the funds and principal railway shares. With remarks.”

From the London Cattle Market, stating “the number and quality of beasts, sheep, calves, pigs. Holland beasts, sheep, calves. Danish beasts. With remarks.”

From the Meat Market, stating “the prices of every description of meat, with remarks.”

Also similar returns from all the other markets we have enumerated.

As fast as this incongruous mass of intelligence arrives, it is, in the mode already described, transcribed in writing to separate sheets of paper, which are without delay one after another lowered down to the superintendent of “the Intelligence Department,” by whom they are rapidly digested for distribution either to the whole of the Company’s reading-room stations, or for those lines only which any particular species of information may partially interest; such as corn-markets requiring corn intelligence; seaports, shipping news, &c. &c.

As quickly as these various despatches are concocted, the information they respectively contain reascends through “the lift,” or wooden chimney, to the instrument department, from whence it is projected, or rather radiates, to its respective destination; and thus in every one of the Company’s reading-rooms throughout the kingdom there consecutively appears, in what would until very lately have been considered magic writing upon the walls, the varied information which had only reached London from all points of the compass a few minutes ago! But not only does this wonderful power, which it has pleased the Almighty to develop to mankind, facilitate in a most extraordinary degree our communication with each other, and thereby materially adds to our wealth, but it affords us a proportionate increase of power to defend that property which, by integrity and industry, our nation has, under Providence, been enabled to acquire.

In case of war, our Commander-in-Chief would not only be made acquainted with information even of the smallest importance as soon as, or even before, it reached our shores, but he would simultaneously be enabled to issue orders to the troops at every station in the kingdom as rapidly as if they were all assembled on the parade before him.

In like manner the Admiralty would receive intelligence and despatch directions, which, in combination with the arrangements at the Horse Guards, War Office, and Home Office, would give to our naval, military, and civil forces a combined strength which it has hitherto been impracticable for them separately to develop.

But to whatever amount the electric telegraph, used in the manner we have described, may facilitate the commerce and strengthen the defences of the empire, there remains to be delineated an application of the discovery which, there can be no doubt, forms the most extraordinary feat which the ingenuity of man has hitherto performed.

In a corner of one of the attics in which the eight electric instruments are placed there stands a small very ordinary-looking piece of cheap machinery composed of a few wheels, giving revolution to a small cylinder, upon which there has been wound a strip of bluish paper half an inch wide and about 60 yards in length.

As this insignificant thread of paper slowly unrolls itself, the stranger observes, with feelings of curiosity rather than of surprise, that as it passes along a small flat surface it receives from a little piece of steel wire about a quarter of an inch long, and about the size of a large needle, a series of minute black marks, composed of “dot and go one,”—two dots,—two dots and a line,—two lines and a dot,—three little lines and a dot,—and so on.

Now many of our readers will, no doubt, gravely exclaim, But who makes these dots?

The answer in a few words explains the greatest mechanical wonder upon earth. The little dots and lines marked upon the narrow roll of paper revolving in a garret of the London Central Telegraph Station, are made by a man sitting in Manchester, who, by galvanic electricity, and by the movement of a little brass finger-pedal, is not only communicating to, but is HIMSELF actually printing in London information which requires nothing but a knowledge of the dotted alphabet he uses to be read by any one to whom it may either publicly or confidentially be addressed!!

Upon this fact comment is unnecessary. It humbles rather than exalts the mind. Of such an invention it can only be said

“Non nobis, Domine, sed nomini tuo da gloriam.”

To supply this instrument with paper there has been invented one of the most beautiful little toys we ever beheld, consisting of two iron fluted rollers four feet long, which, by revolving against each other, draw between them on one side, and emit from the other in a shower of fantastic writhing shreds, a hundred strips of paper half an inch broad at a time.

Before leaving the attics in which the electric printing as well the eight telegraphic instruments are stationed, we may observe that the boys who work the latter form that amount of acquaintance with the workers of the distant instruments with which they have been in the habit of communicating, that, if from any reason their usual correspondents are removed, they instantly discover by the movement of the needles that they have to form an acquaintance with a new comrade, from whom, in leisure moments, they probably soon ascertain the fate of the old one; indeed, so completely is this description of acquaintance established, that it is not uncommon to hear a telegraph boy in the London attic suddenly exclaim, as he looks with joy at the quivering vibrations of his needles, which are working say from Manchester, “Oh! here is Bill * * * come back!” There are, of course, however, exceptions to these kindly feelings, and accordingly two clerks who had been employed at remote stations on the * * * line were lately separated because they were constantly electrically quarrelling and abusing each other by telegraph.

The working of these instruments requires, as may be supposed, undivided attention, and accordingly there is very properly affixed to the wall of the chamber in which they stand the following notice, which we implicitly obeyed:—

“Do not interrupt the clerks while engaged at the instruments.”

As the Vicar of Wakefield’s most important movements in life were “from the blue bed to the brown one,” so we must now request our readers to migrate with us from the attics of the Electric Telegraph Office to a low, dark, groined, 5th-of-November-looking cellar, thirty-two feet long by five in width, containing three shelves, on which are to be seen, lying in double rows, thirty-four galvanic batteries, or, to speak in more homely terms, small open troughs, five inches broad, and either thirty-two inches or twenty inches in length. The largest, weighing, when charged, 60 lbs., are called “twenty-fours,” because they contain that number of pairs of plates of copper and zinc separated by a little sand, the whole being then brought into galvanic action by being sluiced with sulphuric acid and water mixed in the proportions of one of the former to twelve of the latter.

The smallest, called “twelves,” contain only that number of pairs of plates.

Of these batteries it requires from four to six of the largest to be applied to one instrument to blow a message from London to Edinburgh. A single “twelve,” applied to each instrument, will project intelligence to a range of four or five miles.

These batteries are connected with the eight instruments in the attics by small copper wires, which, to prevent confusion of action from contact one with another, are covered with cotton thread, saturated with a mixture of tar, rosin, and grease.

With this simple precaution, nine wires, insulated from each other, are packed in a half-inch leaden tube, in which they again descend from the instruments to the cellar region. Four or five of these pipes are there packed into an iron pipe three inches in diameter, which conducts them under the foot pavement of the streets to the termini of the arterial rail-roads, alongside of which, and in the open air, a series of lines resembling those on which music is written, composed of galvanised iron, stout enough to bear tension, and suspended by posts, have, as is well known, been constructed. Along the street pavement, at every quarter of a mile, there are cast-iron “testing-posts” to enable the Company’s servants to examine all these wires in order to detect and remove any that require to be renewed.

Although the London police have strict orders to allow no one to impede the thoroughfare of the public, and accordingly are everlastingly mumbling the unphilosophical monotonous exhortation of “Get on, Sir!” “Move on, Ma’am!” yet it is almost impossible for any ruminating being to walk the streets without occasionally pausing to reflect not only on the busy bustling scenes which glide before his eyes, but on those which, at very different rates, are at the same moment flowing beneath his feet.

In our metropolis, there is scarcely a street which does not appear to take pride in exposing as often as possible to public view a series of pipes of all sizes, in which fire of various companies, pure water of various companies, and unmentionable mixtures, abominable to all, pass cheek by jowl with infinitely less trouble than the motley human currents flow above them. But among all the subterranean pipes laid bare before us there is certainly no one which has more curious contents than the three-inch iron pipe of the Electric Telegraph Company; and yet, of all the multitudes who walk the streets, how few of them ever care to reflect what a singular contrast exists between the slow pace at which they themselves are proceeding, and the rate at which beneath their feet forty-five electric wires are transmitting in all directions, and to a variety of distances, intelligence of every possible description!

How singular is it to reflect that, within the narrow space of the three-inch iron pipe which encases them, notice of a murder is flying to London papers, passing news from India going into the country; along another wire an officer is applying for his regimentals, while others are conducting to and fro the “price of stocks,” “news of the Pope,” a speech from Paris of the “collapsed poet,” &c. &c. &c. In case, from the abrasion of the cotton that surrounds the numerous copper wires within the pipe, any of them come into contact with each other, the intelligence which each is conveying is suddenly confounded; in which case other wires must instantly be substituted. Indeed, even as regards the strong galvanised iron wires which in the open air run parallel with our arterial railways, if in wet weather, in spite of the many ingenious precautions taken, the rain should form a continuous stream between the several wires and the ground, the electric fluid, escaping from the wires, is conducted by the water till it “finds earth,” the best of all conductors; and therefore, instead of the intelligence going on, say to Edinburgh, it follows the axiom of electricity by selecting the shortest road, and, thus completing its circuit through the earth, it returns to London. Sometimes, instead of going “to earth,” it flies back to the office in London along another wire, to which, by means of a continuous line of water or of entanglement of the two wires, it has managed to escape; in which case, the messages on both wires wrangling with each other, the communication is stopped.

It is commonly asserted and believed that many birds are killed by merely perching upon the iron wires of the electric telegraph; but at any time they can do so with perfect impunity. If, indeed, a bird could put one of his feet on the wire, and with the other manage to touch the earth, he would then, no doubt, be severely galvanised. That the railway company’s men often pick up under the wires of the electric telegraph partridges and other birds which have evidently been just killed—indeed, some are found with their heads cut off—is quite true; but these deaths and decapitations have proceeded, not from electricity, but from the birds—probably during twilight or fog—having at full speed flown against the wires, which, of course, cut their heads off, just as an iron bar would cut off the head of any man or alderman on horseback who, at a full gallop, was to run foul of it.

In windy weather the electric wires form an Eolian harp, which occasionally emits most unearthly music. “I say, Jack!” said an engine-driver to his stoker, who, like himself, was listening for the first time to this querulous sort of noise proceeding from the newly erected wires along his line, “I say, Jack! ain’t they a giving it to ’em at Thrapstone?”

When the posts and wires of the electric telegraph between Northampton and Peterborough were being erected, an honest farmer, who for many minutes had very attentively been watching the operation, inquired of the chief superintendent to what use it was to be applied? On being informed that by its means he would in a few minutes receive at Wellingboro’ a list of the Mark Lane prices in London, he evidently incredulously asked how that was to be done; and on its being explained to him that the intelligence would be sent down to him “letter by letter,” he exclaimed, “But you don’t mean to say that, besides letters, it will bring down parcels too?”

As the rails and electric wires are now immediately before us, we cannot refrain from observing that the two inventions, like all branches of science, not only materially assist each other, but that the former, to a considerable degree, has created the latter: for instance, it may be truly said that Mr. M‘Adam materially assisted the invention of the innumerable little four-wheeled carriages which burst into existence as soon as, in consequence of good roads, it became possible for a single horse to draw a whole family. In like manner, it may, we submit, be reasonably and fairly asserted that the gradients and police of the railway have materially assisted the invention, or rather the application, of galvanic electricity to wires, which, placed along unguarded high roads, would have been practically useless.

On the outside of the Central Telegraph Station, as well as in the interior, there is an electric clock, the latter of which is worked by a small battery contained in a white jar capable of holding about three quarts, and, the pendulum being operated upon by combined electricity with galvanism, the clock requires no winding up, and would, therefore, go perpetually, or rather as long as the battery lasts; and if the Company would, instead of gas-burners, adopt the electric light, their establishment would then, sui generis, be complete.

Considerable instruction, with some little amusement, might, no doubt, be derived from a perusal of the variegated information, intelligence, and ordinary as well as extraordinary private messages which have been despatched and recorded by the electric telegraph; but the Company very properly faithfully refuse—be it important or unimportant—to unveil to any one what they consider to have been confidentially intrusted to their care.

Those, however, who have recourse to the invention often divulge their own secrets; and accordingly here is one which came to us direct from one of the parties concerned.

During a marriage which very lately took place at ——, one of the bridesmaids was so deeply affected by the ceremony, that she took the opportunity of the concentrated interest excited by the bride to elope from the church with an admirer. The instant her parents discovered their sad loss, messengers were sent to all the railway stations to stop the fugitives. The telegraph also went to work, and with such effect that, before night, no less than four affectionate couples legitimately married that morning were interrupted on their several marriage jaunts, and most seriously bothered, inconvenienced, and impeded by policemen and magistrates, who

“Like envious clouds seem’d bent to dim their glory,

And check their bright course to the Occident.”

On the other hand, when it is considered that young people who form imprudent attachments, instead of being effectually separated, as in old-fashioned times, by distance, can now-a-days, though four or five hundred miles apart, at any moment, by daylight or by moonlight, electrically converse with each other—in short, ask questions and give answers—it must be admitted that, although the galvanic telegraph has certainly triumphantly succeeded in stopping many matches, it has possibly, if the real truth could be known, made quite as many as it has marred.

With respect, however, to communications of this delicate nature, we deem it our duty very gravely to warn our young readers, especially those of the fairer sex, that unless London time were to be adopted—as it is—at all the electric stations, a despatch would arrive at its western destination at an earlier hour than that at which it had left its eastern starting-post; and thus a young lady might appear to have affirmatively answered in Devonshire an important question—say seven minutes and a half before, according to local clocks, it had actually been proposed to her in London!

In cases where crimes have been committed, the astonishing detective powers of the telegraph have already proved most valuable to the community. As, however, the numberless instances which might be cited are but endless exemplifications of the same principle, we will merely offer to our readers the fragment of one of them.

He never expected that!… He had made up his mind to give her the stuff,—he had deliberately bought it,—had paid for it,—had put it into his pocket,—had driven with it to the terminus of the Great Western Railway,—had flown with it along the line to Slough,—had walked with it to the cottage.

He had already deprived the poor creature of her character, and now, on the first day of the year 1845, he had come down to her on purpose to deprive her of her life.

With affected kindness he had offered her refreshment,—had waited while, with his money, she went to buy it,—he had summoned up courage? … no, cowardice and wickedness … enough secretly to pour the stuff from a tiny phial into her glass,—he had seen her, with feelings of gratitude to him, raise the mixture to her faded lips,—he had watched her swallow the first mouthful—then another—then drink,—he had expected every instant, as she reached the drugs, to see his degraded victim drop down dead before his eyes;—he could bear all this, but he did not know that it was the nature of the horrid poison he had purchased to betray the hand that administered it. Oh! he never expected that loud, horrid, piercing, convulsive scream!

As terrified and scared he opened the door to escape, the inhabitants of the neighbouring cottages, alarmed by the frightful noise they had just heard, sympathetically opened theirs. They saw him leave the house with hurried steps,—observed him make for the Slough road, where by another party he was observed to be “confused—to tremble—and on being addressed, to make no reply.” And yet he had only done what he had deliberately intended to perpetrate:—he knew there was no rest for the wicked, but, Oh! he had never expected that shrill, fearful, haunting scream!

On reaching the station he took his place in a departing train, and in a few minutes he apparently had effected his escape!

Everybody who has travelled by the Great Western Railway knows how joyously its well-appointed trains skim along the level country between Slough and London. He no doubt appreciated the speed—valued the wings with which he was flying—more than any of his fellow-passengers. He probably felt that no power on earth could overtake him, and that, if he could but dive into the mass of population in London, he would in perfect security flow with its streams unnoticed.

But whatever may have been his fears—his hopes—his fancies—or his thoughts, there suddenly flashed along the wires of the electric telegraph which were stretched close beside him the following words:—

“A murder has just been committed at Salthill, and the suspected murderer was seen to take a first-class ticket for London by the train which left Slough at 7h. 42m. p.m.

“He is in the garb of a Quaker, with a brown greatcoat on, which reaches nearly down to his feet. he is in the last compartment of the second first-class carriage.”

And yet, fast as these words flew like lightning past him, the information they contained, with all its details, as well as every secret thought that had preceded them, had already consecutively flown millions of times faster; indeed, at the very instant that, within the walls of the little cottage at Slough, there had been uttered that dreadful scream, it had simultaneously reached the judgment-seat of Heaven!

On arriving at the Paddington Station, after mingling for some moments with the crowd, he got into an omnibus, and as it rumbled along, taking up one passenger and putting down another, he probably felt that his identity was every minute becoming confounded and confused by the exchange of fellow-passengers for strangers that was constantly taking place. But all the time he was thinking, the Cad of the omnibus—a policeman in disguise—knew that he held his victim like a rat in a cage. Without, however, apparently taking the slightest notice of him, he took one sixpence, gave change for a shilling, handed out this lady, stuffed in that one, until, arriving at the Bank, the guilty man, stooping as he walked towards the carriage-door, descended the steps;—paid his fare;—crossed over to the Duke of Wellington’s statue, where pausing for a few moments, anxiously to gaze around him, he proceeded to the Jerusalem Coffee House,—thence over London Bridge to the Leopard Coffee House in the Borough,—and finally to a lodging-house in Scott’s Yard, Cannon Street.

He probably fancied that, by making so many turns and doubles, he had not only effectually puzzled all pursuit, but that his appearance at so many coffee-houses would assist him, if necessary, in proving an alibi; but, whatever may have been his motives or his thoughts, he had scarcely entered the lodging when the policeman—who, like a wolf, had followed him every step of the way—opening his door, very calmly said to him—the words no doubt were infinitely more appalling to him even than the scream that had been haunting him—

“Hav’nt you just come from Slough?”

The monosyllable “NO,” confusedly uttered in reply, substantiated his guilt.

The policeman made him his prisoner;—he was thrown into jail;—tried;—found guilty of wilful murder;—and—HANGED.

A few months afterwards, we happened to be travelling by rail from Paddington to Slough, in a carriage filled with people all strangers to one another. Like English travellers, they were all mute. For nearly fifteen miles no one had uttered a single word, until a short-bodied, short-necked, short-nosed, exceedingly respectable-looking man in the corner, fixing his eyes on the apparently fleeting posts and rails of the electric telegraph, significantly nodded to us as he muttered aloud—

“Them’s the cords that hung John Tawell!”

Having now concluded a rough outline of the practical working of the electric telegraph, it is necessary that we should state—as an important fact on which we offer no comment—that the Company has made arrangements with all the railway companies for working their wires, excepting with the South-Eastern, and, accordingly, that the electric communication between London and Dover is worked by itself, and without connexion with the general system.

The wires of the electric telegraph from the various lines of railway, carried under the streets, and concentrated at the central station in London, transmit private messages and answers to and from the following places:—

CHAPTER XIV.