Among strange mental feats the strangest perhaps yet recorded are the following singular feats of memory for sound, related in the Scientific American. In the city of Rochester, N. Y., resides a boy named Hicks, who, though he has only lately removed from Buffalo to Rochester, has already learned to distinguish three hundred locomotive engines by the sound of their bells. During the day the boy is employed so far from the railway that he seldom hears a passing train; but at night he can hear every train, his house being near the railroad. To give an idea of his wonderful memory for sounds (and his scarcely less wonderful memory for numbers also) take the following cases. Not long ago young Hicks went to Syracuse, and while there, he, hearing an engine coming out of the round-house, remarked to a friend that he knew the bell, though he had not heard it for five years: he gave the number of the engine, which proved to be correct. Again, not long since, an old switch-engine, used in the yards at Buffalo, was sent to Rochester for some special purpose. It passed near Hicks’ house, and he remarked that the engine was number
so and so, and that he had not heard the bell for six years. A boarder in the house ran to the railroad, and found the number given by Hicks was the correct one. To most persons the bells on American locomotives seem all much alike in sound and timbre, though, of course, a good ear will readily distinguish differences, especially between bells which are sounded within a short interval of time. But that anyone should be able in the first place to discriminate between two or three hundred of these bells, and in the second place to retain the recollection of the slight peculiarities characterising each for several years, would seem altogether incredible, had we not other instances—such as Bidder’s and Colburn’s calculating feats, Morphy’s blindfold chess-play, etc.—of the amazing degree in which one brain may surpass all others in some special quality, though perhaps, in other respects, not exceptionally powerful, or even relatively deficient.
—Gentleman’s Magazine, March 1880.
A DISINGENUOUS BISHOP.
Max. O’Rell, the French author, in his book John Bull at Home, writes English people are very great on words; lying is unknown. I was travelling by rail one day with an English bishop. There were five in our compartment. On arriving at a station we heard a cry, “Five minutes here!” My lord bishop, with the greatest haste, set to work to spread out travelling-bag, hat-box, rug, papers, &c. A lady appeared at the door, and asked, “Is there room here?” “Madam,” replied the bishop, “all the seats are full.” When the poor lady had been sent about her business, we called his lordship’s attention to the fact that there were only five of us in the carriage, and that, consequently all the seats were not taken. “I did not say that they were,” answered my lord; “I said that they were full.”
DROPPING THE LETTER “L.”
In an advertisement by a railway company of some unclaimed goods, the “l” dropped from the word “lawful,” and it reads now, “People to whom these packages are directed are requested to come forward and pay the awful charges on the same.”
THE SAFEST SEAT IN A RAILWAY CARRIAGE.
The American Engineer, as the result of scientific calculations and protracted experience, says the safest seat is in the middle of the last car but one. There are some chances of danger, which are the same everywhere in the train, but others are least at the above-named place.