Chapter XI: Part 11

The following passage from Guillemin’s “Application of the Physical Forces” indicates the effectiveness of Caselli’s pantelegraph not only as respects the character of the message it conveys, but as to rapidity of transmission. (I alter the measures from the metric to our usual system of notation.[34]) “Nothing is simpler than the writing of the pantelegraph. The message when written is placed on the surface of the transmitting cylinder. The clerk makes the warning signals, and then sets the pendulum going. The transmission of the message is accomplished automatically, without the clerk having any work to do, and consequently without [his] being obliged to acquire any special knowledge. Since two despatches may be sent at the same time—and since shorthand may be used—the rapidity of transmission may be considerable.” “The long pendulum of Caselli’s telegraph,” says M. Quet, “generally performs about forty oscillations a minute, and the styles trace forty broken lines, separated from each other by less than the hundredth part of an inch. In one minute the lines described by the style have ranged over a breadth of more than half an inch, and in twenty minutes of nearly 10½ inches. As we can give the lines a length of 4¼ inches, it follows that in twenty minutes Caselli’s apparatus furnishes the facsimile of the writing or drawing traced on a metallized plate 4¼ inches broad by 10½ inches long. For clearness of reproduction, the original writing must be very legible and in large characters.” “Since 1865 the line from Paris to Lyons and Marseilles has been open to the public for the transmission of messages by this truly marvellous system.”

It will easily be seen that Caselli’s method is capable of many important uses besides the transmission of facsimiles of handwriting. For instance, by means of it a portrait of some person who is to be identified—whether fraudulent absconder, or escaped prisoner or lunatic, or wife who has eloped from her husband, or husband who has deserted his wife, or missing child, and so on—can be sent in a few minutes to a distant city where the missing person is likely to be. All that is necessary is that from a photograph or other portrait an artist employed for the purpose at the transmitting station should, in bold and heavy lines, sketch the lineaments of the missing person on one of the prepared sheets, as in Fig. 10. The portrait at the receiving station will appear as in Fig. 11, and if necessary an artist at this station can darken the lines or in other ways improve the picture without altering the likeness.

But now we must turn to the greatest marvel of all—the transmission of tones, tunes, and words by the electric wire.

The transmission of the rhythm of an air is of course a very simple matter. I have seen the following passage from “Lardner’s Museum of Science and Art,” 1859, quoted as describing an anticipation of the telephone, though in reality it only shows what every one who has heard a telegraphic indicator at work must have noticed, that the click of the instrument may be made to keep time with an air. “We were in the Hanover Street Office, when there was a pause in the business operations. Mr. M. Porter, of the office at Boston—the writer being at New York—asked what tune we would have? We replied, ‘Yankee Doodle,’ and to our surprise he immediately complied with our request. The instrument, a Morse one, commenced drumming the notes of the tune as perfectly and distinctly as a skilful drummer could have made them at the head of a regiment, and many will be astonished to hear that ‘Yankee Doodle’ can travel by lightning.... So perfectly and distinctly were the sounds of the tunes transmitted, that good instrumental performers could have no difficulty in keeping time with the instruments at this end of the wires.... That a pianist in London should execute a fantasia at Paris, Brussels, Berlin, and Vienna, at the same moment, and with the same spirit, expression, and precision as if the instruments at these distant places were under his fingers, is not only within the limits of practicability, but really presents no other difficulty than may arise from the expense of the performances. From what has just been stated, it is clear that the time of music has been already transmitted, and the production of the sounds does not offer any more difficulty than the printing of the letters of a despatch.” Unfortunately, Lardner omitted to describe how this easy task was to be achieved.

Reuss first in 1861 showed how a sound can be transmitted. At the sending station, according to his method, there is a box, into which, through a pipe in the side, the note to be transmitted is sounded. The box is open at the top, and across it, near the top, is stretched a membrane which vibrates synchronously with the aerial vibrations corresponding to the note. At the middle of the membrane, on its upper surface, is a small disc of metal, connected by a thin strip of copper with the positive pole of the battery at the transmitting station. The disc also, when the machine is about to be put in use, lightly touches a point on a metallic arm, along which (while this contact continues) the electric current passes to the wire communicating with the distant station. At that station the wire is carried in a coil round a straight rod of soft iron suspended horizontally in such a way as to be free to vibrate between two sounding-boards. After forming this coil, the wire which conveys the current passes to the earth-plate and so home. As already explained, while the current passes, the rod of iron is magnetized, but the rod loses its magnetization when the current ceases.

Now, when a note is sounded in the box at the transmitting station, the membrane vibrates, and at each vibration the metal disc is separated from the point which it lightly touches when at rest. Thus contact is broken at regular intervals, corresponding to the rate of vibration due to the note. Suppose, for instance, the note _C_ is sounded; then there are 256 complete vibrations in a second, the electric current is therefore interrupted and renewed, and the bar of soft iron magnetized and demagnetized, 256 times in a second. Now, it had been discovered by Page and Henry that when a bar of iron is rapidly magnetized and demagnetized, it is put into vibrations synchronizing with the interruptions of the current, and therefore emits a note of the same tone as that which has been sounded into the transmitting box.

Professor Heisler, in his “Lehrbuch der technischen Physik,” 1866, wrote of Reuss’s telephone: “The instrument is still in its infancy; however, by the use of batteries of proper strength, it already transmits not only single musical tones, but even the most intricate melodies, sung at one end of the line, to the other, situated at a great distance, and makes them perceptible there with all desirable distinctness.” Dr. Van der Weyde, of New York, states that, after reading an account of Reuss’s telephone, he had two such instruments constructed, and exhibited them at the meeting of the Polytechnic Club of the American Institute. “The original sounds were produced at the furthest extremity of the large building (the Cooper Institute), totally out of hearing of the Association; and the receiving instrument, standing on the table in the lecture-room, produced, with a peculiar and rather nasal twang, the different tunes sung into the box at the other end of the line; not powerfully, it is true, but very distinctly and correctly. In the succeeding summer I improved the form of the box, so as to produce a more powerful vibration of the membrane. I also improved the receiving instrument by introducing several iron wires into the coil, so as to produce a stronger vibration. I submitted these, with some other improvements, to the meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, and on that occasion (now seven years ago) expressed the opinion that the instrument contained the germ of a new method of working the electric telegraph, and would undoubtedly lead to further improvements in this branch of science.”

The telephonic successes recently achieved by Mr. Gray were in part anticipated by La Cour, of Copenhagen, whose method may be thus described: At the transmitting station a tuning-fork is set in vibration. At each vibration one of the prongs touches a fine strip of metal completing a circuit. At the receiving station the wire conveying the electric current is coiled round the prongs of another tuning-fork of the same tone, but without touching them. The intermittent current, corresponding as it does with the rate of vibration proper to the receiving fork, sets this fork in vibration; and in La Cour’s instrument the vibrations of the receiving fork were used to complete the circuit of a local battery. His object was not so much the production of tones as the use of the vibrations corresponding to different tones, to act on different receiving instruments. For only a fork corresponding to the sending fork could be set in vibration by the intermittent current resulting from the latter’s vibrations. So that, if there were several transmitting forks, each could send its own message at the same time, each receiving fork responding only to the vibrations of the corresponding transmitting fork. La Cour proposed, in fact, that his instrument should be used in combination with other methods of telegraphic communication. Thus, since the transmitting fork, whenever put in vibration, sets the local battery of the receiving station at work, it can be used to work a Morse instrument, or it could work an ordinary Wheatstone and Cook instrument, or it could be used for a pantelegraph. The same wire, when different forks are used, could work simultaneously several instruments at the receiving station. One special use indicated by La Cour was the adaptation of his system to the Caselli pantelegraph, whereby, instead of one style, a comb of styles might be carried over the transmitting and recording plates. It would be necessary, in all such applications of his method (though, strangely enough, La Cour’s description makes no mention of the point), that the vibrations of the transmitting fork should admit of being instantly stopped or “damped.”

Mr. Gray’s system is more directly telephonic, as aiming rather at the development of sound itself than at the transmission of messages by the vibrations corresponding to sound. A series of tuning-forks are used, which are set in separate vibration by fingering the notes of a key-board. The vibrations are transmitted to a receiving instrument consisting of a series of reeds, corresponding in note to the series of transmitting forks, each reed being enclosed in a sounding-box. These boxes vary in length from two feet to six inches, and are connected by two wooden bars, one of which carries an electro-magnet, round the coils of which pass the currents from the transmitting instrument. When a tuning-fork is set in vibration by the performer at the transmitting key-board, the electro-magnet is magnetized and demagnetized synchronously with the vibrations of the fork. Not only are vibrations thus imparted to the reed of corresponding note, but these are synchronously strengthened by thuds resulting from the lengthening of the iron when magnetized.

So far as its musical capabilities are concerned, Gray’s telephone can hardly be regarded as fulfilling all the hopes that have been expressed concerning telephonic music. “Dreaming enthusiasts of a prophetic turn of mind foretold,” we learn, “that a time would come when future Pattis would sing on a London stage to audiences in New York, Berlin, St. Petersburg, Shanghai, San Francisco, and Constantinople all at once.” But the account of the first concert given at a distance scarcely realizes these fond expectations. When “Home, Sweet Home,” played at Philadelphia, came floating through the air at the Steinway Hall, New York, “the sound was like that of a distant organ, rather faint, for a hard storm was in progress, and there was consequently a great leakage of the electric current, but quite clear and musical. The lower notes were the best, the higher being sometimes almost inaudible. ‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ ‘Com’ è gentil,’ and other melodies, followed, with more or less success. There was no attempt to play chords,” though three or four notes can be sounded together. It must be confessed that the rosy predictions of M. Strakosch (the _impresario_) “as to the future of this instrument seem rather exalted, and we are not likely as yet to lay on our music from a central reservoir as we lay on gas and water, though the experiment was certainly a very curious one.”

The importance of Mr. Gray’s, as of La Cour’s inventions, depends, however, far more on the way in which they increase the message-bearing capacity of telegraphy than on their power of conveying airs to a distance. At the Philadelphia Exhibition, Sir W. Thomson heard four messages sounded simultaneously by the Gray telephone. The Morse alphabet was used. I have mentioned that in that alphabet various combinations of dots and dashes are used to represent different letters; it is only necessary to substitute the short and long duration of a note for dots and dashes to have a similar sound alphabet. Suppose, now, four tuning-forks at the transmitting station, whose notes are _Do_ , _Mi_, _Sol_, and _Do_ , or say _C_, _E_, _G_, and _C_´, then by each of these forks a separate message may be transmitted, all the messages being carried simultaneously by the same line to separate sounding reeds (or forks, if preferred), and received by different clerks. With a suitable key-board, a single clerk could send the four messages simultaneously, striking chords instead of single notes, though considerable practice would be necessary to transform four verbal messages at once into the proper telephonic music, and some skill in fingering to give the proper duration to each note.

Lastly, we come to the greatest achievement of all, Professor Graham Bell’s vocal telephone. In the autumn of 1875 I had the pleasure of hearing from Professor Bell in the course of a ride—all too short—from Boston to Salem, Mass., an account of his instrument as then devised, and of his hopes as to future developments. These hopes have since been in great part fulfilled, but I venture to predict that we do not yet know all, or nearly all, that the vocal telephone, in Bell’s hands, is to achieve.

It ought to be mentioned at the outset that Bell claims to have demonstrated in 1873 (a year before La Cour) the possibility of transmitting several messages simultaneously by means of the Morse alphabet.

Bell’s original arrangement for vocal telephony was as follows:—At one station a drumhead of goldbeaters’ skin, about 2¾ inches in diameter, was placed in front of an electro-magnet. To the middle of the drumhead, on the side towards the magnet, was glued a circular piece of clockspring. A similar electro-magnet, drumhead, etc., were placed at the other station. When notes were sung or words spoken before one drumhead, the vibrations of the goldbeaters’ skin carried the small piece of clockspring vibratingly towards and from the electro-magnet, without producing actual contact. Now, the current which was passing along the coil round the electro-magnet changed in strength with each change of position of this small piece of metal. The more rapid the vibrations, and the greater their amplitude, the more rapid and the more intense were the changes in the power of the electric current. Thus, the electro-magnet at the other station underwent changes of power which were synchronous with, and proportionate to, those changes of power in the current which were produced by the changes of position of the vibrating piece of clockspring. Accordingly, the piece of clockspring at the receiving station, and with it the drumhead there, was caused by the electro-magnet to vibrate with the same rapidity and energy as the piece at the transmitting station. Therefore, as the drumhead at one station varied its vibrations in response to the sounds uttered in its neighbourhood, so the drumhead at the other station, varying its vibrations, emitted similar sounds. Later, the receiving drumhead was made unlike the transmitting one. Instead of a membrane carrying a small piece of metal, a thin and very flexible disc of sheet-iron, held in position by a screw, was used. This disc, set in vibration by the varying action of an electro-magnet, as in the older arrangement, uttered articulate sounds corresponding to those which, setting in motion the membrane at the transmitting station, caused the changes in the power of the electric current and in the action of the electro-magnet.

At the meeting of the British Association in 1876 Sir W. Thomson gave the following account of the performance of this instrument at the Philadelphia Exhibition:—“In the Canadian department” (for Professor Bell was not at the time an American citizen) “I heard ‘To be or not to be—there’s the rub,’ through the electric wire; but, scorning monosyllables, the electric articulation rose to higher flights, and gave me passages taken at random from the New York newspapers:—‘S. S. Cox has arrived’ (I failed to make out the ‘S. S. Cox’), ‘the City of New York,’ ‘Senator Morton,’ ‘the Senate has resolved to print a thousand extra copies,’ ‘the Americans in London have resolved to celebrate the coming Fourth of July.’ All this my own ears heard spoken to me with unmistakable distinctness by the thin circular disc armature of just such another little electro-magnet as this which I hold in my hand. The words were shouted with a clear and loud voice by my colleague judge, Professor Watson, at the far end of the line, holding his mouth close to a stretched membrane, carrying a piece of soft iron, which was thus made to perform in the neighbourhood of an electro-magnet, in circuit with the line, motions proportional to the sonorific motions of the air. This, the greatest by far of all the marvels of the electric telegraph, is due to a young countryman of our own, Mr. Graham Bell, of Edinburgh, and Montreal, and Boston, now about to become a naturalized citizen of the United States. Who can but admire the hardihood of invention which devised such very slight means to realize the mathematical conception that, if electricity is to convey all the delicacies of quality which distinguish articulate speech, the strength of its current must vary continuously, and as nearly as may be in simple proportion to the velocity of a particle of air engaged in constituting the sound?”

Since these words were spoken by one of the highest authorities in matters telegraphic, Professor Bell has introduced some important modifications in his apparatus. He now employs, not an electro-magnet, but a permanent magnet. That is to say, instead of using at each station such a bar of soft iron as is shown in Fig. 6, which becomes a magnet while the electric current is passing through the coil surrounding it, he uses at each station a bar of iron permanently magnetized (or preferably a powerful magnet made of several horse-shoe bars—that is, a compound magnet), surrounded similarly by coils of wire. No battery is needed. Instead of a current through the coils magnetizing the iron, the iron already magnetized causes a current to traverse the coils whenever it acts, or rather whenever its action changes. If an armature were placed across its ends or poles, at the moment when it drew that armature to the poles by virtue of its magnetic power, a current would traverse the coils; but afterwards, so long as the armature remained there, there would be no current. If an armature placed near the poles were shifted rapidly in front of the poles, currents would traverse the coils, or be induced, their intensity depending on the strength of the magnet, the length of the coil, and the rapidity and range of the motions. In front of the poles of the magnet is a diaphragm of very flexible iron (or else some other flexible material bearing a small piece of iron on the surface nearest the poles). A mouthpiece to converge the sound upon this diaphragm substantially completes the apparatus at each station. Professor Bell thus describes the operation of the instrument:—“The motion of steel or iron in front of the poles of a magnet creates a current of electricity in coils surrounding the poles of the magnet, and the duration of this current of electricity coincides with the duration of the motion of the steel or iron moved or vibrated in the proximity of the magnet. When the human voice causes the diaphragm to vibrate, electrical undulations are induced in the coils around the magnets precisely similar to the undulations of the air produced by the voice. The coils are connected with the line wire, and the undulations induced in them travel through the wire, and, passing through the coils of another instrument of similar construction at the other end of the line, are again resolved into air undulations by the diaphragm of this (other) instrument.”

So perfectly are the sound undulations repeated—though the instrument has not yet assumed its final form—that not only has the lightest whisper uttered at one end of a line of 140 miles been distinctly heard at the other, but the speaker can be distinguished by his voice when he is known to the listener. So far as can be seen, there is every room to believe that before long Professor Bell’s grand invention will be perfected to such a degree that words uttered on the American side of the Atlantic will be heard distinctly after traversing 2000 miles under the Atlantic, at the European end of the submarine cable—so that Sir W. Thomson at Valentia could tell by the voice whether Graham Bell, or Cyrus Field, or his late colleague Professor Watson, were speaking to him from Newfoundland. Yet a single wave of those which toss in millions on the Atlantic, rolling in on the Irish strand, would utterly drown the voices thus made audible after passing beneath two thousand miles of ocean.

Here surely is the greatest of telegraphic achievements. Of all the marvels of telegraphy—and they are many—none are equal to, none seem even comparable with, this one. Strange truly is the history of the progress of research which has culminated in this noble triumph, wonderful the thought that from the study of the convulsive twitchings of a dead frog by Galvani, and of the quivering of delicately poised magnetic needles by Ampère, should gradually have arisen through successive developments a system of communication so perfect and so wonderful as telegraphy has already become, and promising yet greater marvels in the future.

The last paragraph had barely been written when news arrived of another form of telephone, surpassing Gray’s and La Cour’s in some respects as a conveyor of musical tones, but as yet unable to speak like Bell’s. It is the invention of Mr. Edison, an American electrician. He calls it the motograph. He discovered about six years ago the curious property on which the construction of the instrument depends. If a piece of paper moistened with certain chemical solutions is laid upon a metallic plate connected with the positive pole of a galvanic battery, and a platinum wire connected with the negative pole is dragged over the moistened paper, the wire slides over the paper like smooth iron over ice—the usual friction disappearing so long as the current is passing from the wire to the plate through the paper. At the receiving station of Mr. Edison’s motograph there is a resonating box, from one face of which extends a spring bearing a platinum point, which is pressed by the spring upon a tape of chemically prepared paper. This tape is steadily unwound, drawing by its friction the platinum point, and with it the face of the resonator, outwards. This slight strain on the face of the resonator continues so long as no current passes from the platinum point to the metallic drum over which the moistened tape is rolling. But so soon as a current passes, the friction immediately ceases, and the face of the resonator resumes its normal position. If then at the transmitting station there is a membrane or a very fine diaphragm (as in Reuss’s or Bell’s arrangement) which is set vibrating by a note of any given tone, the current, as in those arrangements, is transmitted and stopped at intervals corresponding to the tone, and the face of the resonating box is freed and pulled at the same intervals. Hence, it speaks the corresponding tone. The instrument appears to have the advantage over Gray’s in range. In telegraphic communication Gray’s telephone is limited to about one octave. Edison’s extends from the deepest bass notes to the highest notes of the human voice, which, when magnets are employed, are almost inaudible. But Edison’s motograph has yet to learn to speak.

Other telegraphic marvels might well find a place here. I might speak of the wonders of submarine telegraphy, and of the marvellous delicacy of the arrangements by which messages by the Atlantic Cable are read, and not only read, but made to record themselves. I might dwell, again, on the ingenious printing telegraph of Mr. Hughes, which sets up its own types, inks them, and prints them, or on the still more elaborate plan of the Chevalier Bonelli “for converting the telegraph stations into so many type-setting workshops.” But space would altogether fail me to deal properly with these and kindred marvels. There is, however, one application of telegraphy, especially interesting to the astronomer, about which I must say a few words: I mean, the employment of electricity as a regulator of time. Here again it is the principle of the system, rather than details of construction, which I propose to describe. Suppose we have a clock not only of excellent construction, but under astronomical surveillance, so that when it is a second or so in error it is set right again by the stars. Let the pendulum of this clock beat seconds; and at each beat let a galvanic current be made and broken. This may be done in many ways—thus the pendulum may at each swing tilt up a very light metallic hammer, which forms part of the circuit when down; or the end of the pendulum may be covered with some non-conducting substance which comes at each swing between two metallic springs in very light contact, separating them and so breaking circuit; or in many other ways the circuit may be broken. When the circuit is made, let the current travel along a wire which passes through a number of stations near or remote, traversing at each the coils of a temporary magnet. Then, at each swing of the pendulum of the regulating clock, each magnet is magnetized and demagnetized. Thus each, once in a second, draws to itself, and then releases its armature, which is thereupon pulled back by a spring. Let the armature, when drawn to the magnet, move a lever by which one tooth of a wheel is carried forward. Then the wheel is turned at the rate of one tooth per second. This wheel communicates motion to others in the usual way. In fact, we have at each station a clock driven, _not_ by a weight or spring and with a pendulum which allows one tooth of an escapement wheel to pass at each swing, but by the distant regulating clock which turns a driving wheel at the rate of one tooth per second, that is, one tooth for each swing of the regulating clock’s pendulum. Each clock, then, keeps perfect time with the regulating clock. In astronomy, where it is often of the utmost importance to secure perfect synchronism of observation, or the power of noting the exact difference of time between observations made at distant stations, not only can the same clock thus keep time for two observers hundreds of miles apart, but each observer can record by the same arrangement the moment of the occurrence of some phenomenon. For if a tape be unwound automatically, as in the Morse instrument, it is easy so to arrange matters that every second’s beat of the pendulum records itself by a dot or short line on the tape, and that the observer can with a touch make (or break) contact at the instant of observation, and so a mark be made properly placed between two seconds’ marks—thus giving the precise time when the observation was made. Such applications, however, though exceedingly interesting to astronomers, are not among those in which the general public take chief interest. There was one occasion, however, when astronomical time-relations were connected in the most interesting manner with one of the greatest of all the marvels of telegraphy: I mean, when the _Great Eastern_ in mid-ocean was supplied regularly with Greenwich time, and this so perfectly (and therefore with such perfect indication of her place in the Atlantic), that when it was calculated from the time-signals that the buoy left in open ocean to mark the place of the cut cable had been reached, and the captain was coming on deck with several officers to look for it, the buoy announced its presence by thumping the side of the great ship.

_THE PHONOGRAPH, OR VOICE-RECORDER._

In the preceding essay I have described the wonderful instrument called the telephone, which has recently become as widely known in this country as in America, the country of its first development. I propose now briefly to describe another instrument—the phonograph—which, though not a telegraphic instrument, is related in some degree to the telephone. In passing, I may remark that some, who as telegraphic specialists might be expected to know better, have described the phonograph as a telegraphic invention. A writer in the _Telegraphic Journal_, for instance, who had mistaken for mine a paper on the phonograph in one of our daily newspapers, denounced me (as the supposed author of that paper) for speaking of the possibility of crystallizing sound by means of this instrument; and then went on to speak of the mistake I (that is, said author) had made in leaving my own proper subject of study to speak of telegraphic instruments and to expatiate on the powers of electricity. In reality the phonograph has no relation to telegraphy whatever, and its powers do not in the slightest degree depend on electricity. If the case had been otherwise, it may be questioned whether the student of astronomy, or of any other department of science, should be considered incompetent of necessity to describe a telegraphic instrument, or to discuss the principles of telegraphic or electrical science. What should unquestionably be left to the specialist, is the description of the practical effect of details of instrumental construction, and the like—for only he who is in the habit of using special instruments or classes of instrument can be expected to be competent adequately to discuss such matters.

Although, however, the phonograph is not an instrument depending, like the telephone, on the action of electricity (in some form or other), yet it is related closely enough to the telephone to make the mistake of the _Telegraphic_ journalist a natural one. At least, the mistake would be natural enough for any one but a telegraphic specialist; the more so that Mr. Edison is a telegraphist, and that he has effected several important and interesting inventions in telegraphic and electrical science. For instance, in the previous article, pp. 270, 271, I had occasion to describe at some length the principles of his “Motograph.” I spoke of it as “another form of telephone, surpassing Gray’s and La Cour’s in some respects as a conveyer of musical tones, but as yet unable to speak like Bell’s ... in telegraphic communication.” I proceeded: “Gray’s telephone is limited to about one octave. Edison’s extends from the deepest bass notes to the highest notes of the human voice, which, when magnets are employed, are almost inaudible; but it has yet to learn to speak.”

The phonograph is an instrument which _has_ learned to speak, though it does not speak at a distance like the telephone or the motograph. Yet there seems no special reason why it should not combine both qualities—the power of repeating messages at considerable intervals of time after they were originally spoken, and the power of transmitting them to great distances.

I have said that the phonograph is an instrument closely related to the telephone. If we consider this feature of the instrument attentively, we shall be led to the clearer recognition of the acoustical principles on which its properties depend, and also of the nature of some of the interesting acoustical problems on which light seems likely to be thrown by means of experiments with this instrument.

In the telephone a stretched membrane, or a diaphragm of very flexible iron, vibrates when words are uttered in its neighbourhood. When a stretched membrane is used, with a small piece of iron at the centre, this small piece of iron, as swayed by the vibrations of the membrane, causes electrical undulations to be induced in the coils round the poles of a magnet placed in front of the membrane. These undulations travel along the wire and pass through the coils of another instrument of similar construction at the other end of the wire, where, accordingly, a stretched membrane vibrates precisely as the first had done. The vibrations of this membrane excite atmospheric vibrations identical in character with those which fell upon the first membrane when the words were uttered in its neighbourhood; and therefore the same words appear to be uttered in the neighbourhood of the second membrane, however far it may be from the transmitting membrane, so only that the electrical undulations are effectually transmitted from the sending to the receiving instrument.

I have here described what happened in the case of that earlier form of the telephone in which a stretched membrane of some such substance as goldbeater’s skin was employed, at the centre of which only was placed a small piece of iron. For in its bearing on the subject of the phonograph, this particular form of telephonic diaphragm is more suggestive than the later form in which very flexible iron was employed. We see that the vibrations of a small piece of iron at the centre of a membrane are competent to reproduce all the peculiarities of the atmospheric waves which fall upon the membrane when words are uttered in its neighbourhood. This must be regarded, I conceive, as a remarkable acoustical discovery. Most students of acoustics would have surmised that to reproduce the motions merely of the central parts of a stretched diaphragm would be altogether insufficient for the reproduction of the complicated series of sound-waves corresponding to the utterance of words. I apprehend that if the problem had originally been suggested simply as an acoustical one, the idea entertained would have been this—that though the motions of a diaphragm receiving vocal sound-waves _might_ be generated artificially in such sort as to produce the same vocal sounds, yet this could only be done by first determining what particular points of the diaphragm were centres of motion, so to speak, and then adopting some mechanical arrangements for giving to small portions of the membrane at these points the necessary oscillating motions. It would not, I think, have been supposed that motions communicated to the centre of the diaphragm would suffice to make the whole diaphragm vibrate properly in all its different parts.

Let us briefly consider what was before known about the vibrations of plates, discs, and diaphragms, when particular tones were sounded in their neighbourhood; and also what was known respecting the requirements for vocal sounds and speech as distinguished from simple tones. I need hardly say that I propose only to consider these points in a general, not in a special, manner.

We must first carefully draw a distinction between the vibrations of a plate or disc which is itself the source of sound, and those vibrations which are excited in a plate or disc by sound-waves otherwise originated. If a disc or plate of given size be set in vibration by a blow or other impulse it will give forth a special sound, according to the place where it is struck, or it will give forth combinations of the several tones which it is capable of emitting. On the other hand, experiment shows that a diaphragm like that used in the telephone—not only the electric telephone, but such common telephones as have been sold of late in large quantities in toy shops, etc.—will respond to any sounds which are properly directed towards it, not merely reproducing sounds of different tones, but all the peculiarities which characterize vocal sounds. In the former case, the size of a disc and the conditions under which it is struck determine the nature of its vibrations, and the air responds to the vibrations thus excited; in the latter, the air is set moving in vibrations of a special kind by the sounds or words uttered, and the disc or diaphragm responds to these vibrations. Nevertheless, though it is important that this distinction be recognized, we can still learn, from the behaviour of discs and plates set in vibration by a blow or other impulse, the laws according to which the actual motions of the various parts of a vibrating disc or plate take place. We owe to Chladni the invention of a method for rendering visible the nature of such motions.

Certain electrical experiments of Lichtenberg suggested to Chladni the idea of scattering fine sand over the plate or disc whose motions he wished to examine. If a horizontal plate covered with fine sand is set in vibration, those parts which move upwards and downwards scatter the sand from their neighbourhood, while on those points which undergo no change of position the sand will remain. Such points are called _nodes_; and rows of such points are called _nodal lines_, which may be either straight or curved, according to circumstances.

If a square plate of glass is held by a suitable clamp at its centre, and the middle point of a side is touched while a bow is drawn across the edge near a corner, the sand is seen to gather in the form of a cross dividing the square into four equal squares—like a cross of St George. If the finger touches a corner, and the bow is drawn across the middle of a side, the sand forms a cross dividing the square along its diagonals—like a cross of St Andrew. Touching two points equidistant from two corners, and drawing the bow along the middle of the opposite edge, we get the diagonal cross and also certain curved lines of sand systematically placed in each of the four quarters into which the diagonals divide the square. We also have, in this case, a far shriller note from the vibrating plate. And so, by various changes in the position of the points clamped by the finger and of the part of the edge along which the bow is drawn, we can obtain innumerable varieties of nodal lines and curves along which the sand gathers upon the surface of the vibrating plate.

When we take a circular plate of glass, clamped at the middle, and touching one part of its edge with the finger, draw the bow across a point of the edge half a quadrant from the finger, we see the sand arrange itself along two diameters intersecting at right angles. If the bow is drawn at a point one-third a quadrant from the finger-clamped point, we get a six-pointed star. If the bow is drawn at a point a fourth of a quadrant from the finger-clamped point, we get an eight-pointed star. And so we can get the sand to arrange itself into a star of any even number of points; that is, we can get a star of four, six, eight, ten, twelve, etc., points, but not of three, five, seven, etc.

In these cases the centre of the plate or disc has been fixed. If, instead, the plate or disc be fixed by a clip at the edge, or clamped elsewhere than at the centre, we find the sand arranging itself into other forms, in which the centre may or may not appear; that is, the centre may or may not be nodal, according to circumstances.

A curious effect is produced if very fine powder be strewn along with the sand over the plate. For it is found that the dust gathers, not where the nodes or places of no vibration lie, but where the motion is greatest. Faraday assigns as the cause of this peculiarity the circumstance that “the light powder is entangled by the little whirlwinds of air produced by the vibrations of the plate; it cannot escape from the little cyclones, though the heavier sand particles are readily driven through them; when, therefore, the motion ceases, the light powder settles down in heaps at the places where the vibration was a maximum.” In proof of this theory we have the fact that “in vacuo no such effect is produced; all powders light and heavy move to the nodal lines.” (Tyndall on “Sound.”)

Now if we consider the meaning of such results as these, we shall begin to recognize the perplexing but also instructive character of the evidence derived from the telephone, and applied to the construction of the phonograph. It appears that when a disc is vibrating under such special conditions as to give forth a particular series of tones (the so-called fundamental tone of the disc and other tones combined with it which belong to its series of overtones), the various parts of the disc are vibrating to and fro in a direction square to the face of the disc, except certain points at which there is no vibration, these points together forming curves of special forms along the substance of the disc.

When, on the other hand, tones of various kinds are sounded in the neighbourhood of a disc or of a stretched circular membrane, we may assume that the different parts of the disc are set in vibration after a manner at least equally complicated. If the tones belong to the series which could be emitted by the diaphragm when struck, we can understand that the vibrations of the diaphragm would resemble those which would result from a blow struck under special conditions. When other tones are sounded, it may be assumed that the sound-waves which reach the diaphragm cause it to vibrate as though not the circumference (only) but a circle in the substance of the diaphragm—concentric, of course, with the circumference, and corresponding in dimensions with the tone of the sounds—were fixed. If a drum of given size is struck, we hear a note of particular tone. If we heard, as the result of a blow on the same drum, a much higher tone, we should know that in some way or other the effective dimensions of the drum-skin had been reduced—as for instance, by a ring firmly pressed against the inside of the skin. So when a diaphragm is responding to tones other than those corresponding to its size, tension, etc., we infer that the sound-waves reaching it cause it to behave, so far as its effective vibrating portion is concerned, as though its conformation had altered. When several tones are responded to by such a diaphragm, we may infer that the vibrations of the diaphragm are remarkably complicated.

Now the varieties of vibratory motion to which the diaphragm of the telephone has been made to respond have been multitudinous. Not only have all orders of sound singly and together been responded to, but vocal sounds which in many respects differ widely from ordinary tones are repeated, and the peculiarities of intonation which distinguish one voice from another have been faithfully reproduced.

Let us consider in what respects vocal sounds, and especially the sounds employed in speech, differ from mere combinations of ordinary tones.

It has been said, and with some justice, that the organ of voice is of the nature of a reed instrument. A reed instrument, as most persons know, is one in which musical sounds are produced by the action of a vibrating reed in breaking up a current of air into a series of short puffs. The harmonium, accordion, concertina, etc., are reed instruments, the reed for each note being a fine strip of metal vibrating in a slit. The vocal organ of man is at the top of the windpipe, along which a continuous current of air can be forced by the lungs. Certain elastic bands are attached to the head of the windpipe, almost closing the aperture. These vocal chords are thrown into vibration by the current of air from the lungs; and as the rate of their vibration is made to vary by varying their tension, the sound changes in tone. So far, we have what corresponds to a reed instrument admitting of being altered in pitch so as to emit different notes. The mouth, however, affects the character of the sound uttered from the throat. The character of a _tone_ emitted by the throat cannot be altered by any change in the configuration of the mouth; so that if a single tone were in reality produced by the vocal chords, the resonance of the mouth would only strengthen that tone more or less according to the figure given to the cavity of the mouth at the will of the singer or speaker. But in reality, besides the fundamental tone uttered by the vocal chords, a series of overtones are produced. Overtones are tones corresponding to vibration at twice, three times, four times, etc., the rate of the vibration producing the fundamental tone. Now the cavity of the mouth can be so modified in shape as to strengthen either the fundamental tone or any one of these overtones. And according as special tones are strengthened in this way various vocal sounds are produced, without changing the pitch or intensity of the sound actually uttered. Calling the fundamental tone the first tone, the overtones just mentioned the second, third, fourth, etc., tones respectively (after Tyndall), we find that the following relations exist between the combinations of these tones and the various vowel sounds:—

If the lips are pushed forward so as to make the cavity of the mouth deep and the orifice of the mouth small, we get the deepest resonance of which the mouth is capable, the fundamental tone is reinforced, while the higher tones are as far as possible thrown into the shade. The resulting vowel sound is that of deep U (“oo” in “hoop”).

If the mouth is so far opened that the fundamental tone is accompanied by a strong second tone (the next higher octave to the fundamental tone), we get the vowel sound O (as in “hole”). The third and fourth tones feebly accompanying the first and second make the sound more perfect, but are not necessary.

If the orifice of the mouth is so widened, and the volume of the cavity so reduced, that the fundamental tone is lost, the second somewhat weakened, and the third given as the chief tone, with very weak fourth and fifth tones, we have the vowel sound A.

To produce the vowel sound E, the resonant cavity of the mouth must be considerably reduced. The fourth tone is the characteristic of this vowel. Yet the second tone also must be given with moderate strength. The first and third tones must be weak, and the fifth tone should be added with moderate strength.

To produce the vowel sound A, as in “far,” the higher overtones are chiefly used, the second is wanting altogether, the third feeble, the higher tones—especially the fifth and seventh—strong.

The vowel sound I, as in “fine,” it should be added, is not a simple sound, but diphthongal. The two sounds whose succession gives the sound we represent (erroneously) by a single letter I (long), are not very different from “a” as in “far,” and “ee” (or “i” as in “ravine”); they, lie, however, in reality, respectively between “a” in “far” and “fat,” and “i” in “ravine” and “pin.” Thus the tones and overtones necessary for sounding “I” long, do not require a separate description, any more than those necessary for sounding other diphthongs, as “oi,” “oe,” and so forth.

We see, then, that the sound-waves necessary to reproduce accurately the various vowel sounds, are more complicated than those which would correspond to the fundamental tones simply in which any sound may be uttered. There must not only be in each case certain overtones, but each overtone must be sounded with its due degree of strength.

But this is not all, even as regards the vowel sounds, the most readily reproducible peculiarities of ordinary speech. Spoken sounds differ from musical sounds properly so called, in varying in pitch throughout their continuance. So far as tone is concerned, apart from vowel quality, the speech note may be imitated by sliding a finger up the finger-board of a violin while the bow is being drawn. A familiar illustration of the varying pitch of a speech note is found in the utterance of Hamlet’s question, “Pale, or red?” with intense anxiety of inquiry, if one may so speak. “The speech note on the word ‘pale’ will consist of an upward movement of the voice, while that on ‘red’ will be a downward movement, and in both words the voice will traverse an interval of pitch so wide as to be conspicuous to ordinary ears; while the cultivated perception of the musician will detect the voice moving through a less interval of pitch while he is uttering the word ‘or’ of the same sentence. And he who can record in musical notation the sounds which he hears, will perceive the musical interval traversed in these vocal movements, and the place also of these speech notes on the musical staff.” Variations of this kind, only not so great in amount, occur in ordinary speech; and no telephonic or phonographic instrument could be regarded as perfect, or even satisfactory, which did not reproduce them.

But the vowel sounds are, after all, combinations and modifications of musical tones. It is otherwise with consonantal sounds, which, in reality, result from various ways in which vowel sounds are commenced, interrupted (wholly or partially), and resumed. In one respect this statement requires, perhaps, some modification—a point which has not been much noticed by writers on vocal sounds. In the case of liquids, vowel sounds are not partially interrupted only, as is commonly stated. They cease entirely as vowel sounds, though the utterance of a vocal sound is continued when a liquid consonant is uttered. Let the reader utter any word in which a liquid occurs, and he will find that while the liquid itself is sounded the vowel sounds preceding or following the liquid cease entirely. Repeating slowly, for example, the word “remain,” dwelling on all the liquids, we find that while the “r” is being sounded the “ē” sound cannot be given, and this sound ceases so soon as the “m” is sounded; similarly the long “a” sound can only be uttered when the “m” sound ceases, and cannot be carried on into the sound of the final liquid “n.” The liquids are, in fact, improperly called semi-vowels, since no vowel sound can accompany their utterance. The tone, however, with which they are sounded can be modified during their utterance. In sounding labials the emission of air is not stopped completely at any moment. The same is true of the sibilants s, z, sh, zh, and of the consonants g, j, f, v, th (hard and soft). These are called, on this account, _continuous_ consonants. The only consonants in pronouncing which the emission of air is for a moment entirely stopped, are the true mutes, sometimes called the six _explosive_ consonants, b, p, t, d, k, and g.