The Speaking Telegraph.

We have heretofore given accounts of the wonderful success of Professor Bell in transmitting the vibrations of the human voice by electrical means over a telegraph wire. He has lately made improvements in his method of transmission, by which he dispenses with the use of the battery, and substitutes the magneto-electric plan of producing the current. The Boston Transcript describes a recent experiment with the new apparatus, by which conversation and singing was successfully carried on between Boston and Malden, a distance of six miles. The telephone, in its present form, consists of a powerful compound permanent magnet, to the poles of which are attached ordinary telegraph coils of insulated wire. In front of the poles, surrounded by these coils of wire, is placed a diaphragm of iron. A mouthpiece to converge the sound upon this diaphragm substantially completes the arrangement. As is well known, 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 environing the magnets, precisely analogous to the undulations of the air produced by that voice. These coils are connected with the line wire, which may be of any length, provided the insulation be good. The undulations which are induced in these coils travel through the line wire, and, passing through the coils of an instrument of precisely similar construction at the distant station, are again resolved into air undulations by the diaphragm of this instrument.

The experiments were as follows: Telephones having been connected with the private telegraphic line of the Boston Rubber Shoe Company, conversation was at once commenced. Stationed at the Boston end of the wire, Professor Bell requested Mr. Watson, who was at the Malden end, to speak in loud tones, with a view of enabling the entire company at once to distinguish the sounds.

This was so successful that a smile of mingled pleasure and surprise played on the features of those present. That it, however, might not be supposed that loud speaking was essential to intelligibility, Mr. Bell explained that soft tones could be heard across the wires even more distinctly than loud utterances, even a whisper being audible. In confirmation of this statement, Mr. Watson commenced speaking in turn with each member of the company; and after the efficiency of this method had been proved to the satisfaction of all, he took up a newspaper and informed the assemblage that gold had closed the previous evening at New York at 105-5/8. As there were quite a number of business men present, the effect that this practical demonstration of the value of the telephone produced can scarcely be exaggerated. Other passages from the daily journals were then given, and by this time the desire for conversation having become general, Mr. Watson was plied with questions such as: "Is it thawing or freezing at Malden? Who will be the next President?" etc. It was remarkable that Mr. Watson was able to distinguish between the voices at the Boston end, he calling at least one gentleman by name as soon as the latter commenced speaking.

This went on for some time, until a lady at the Malden end sent the company an invitation to lunch per telephone, and an appropriate response was made by the same medium. At length the Boston company were requested to remain quiet while a lady at the other end conveyed to them the sweet strains of music. The assemblage thereupon listened with rapt attention while a young lady commenced singing "The Last Rose of Summer." The effect was simply charming. The sound of the voice penetrated into the Boston end of the telephone with distinctness equal to that attainable in the more distant parts of a large concert room, and a unanimous vote of thanks was sent by the handy little instrument which had procured for the assemblage so agreeable an hour.

The superb steam engine built by C.H. Brown & Co., of Fitchburg, Mass., which was illustrated and described on page 1 of our current volume, has been purchased by Messrs. Phineas Jones & Co., and is being erected in their extensive carriage wheel works at Newark, N.J.

Crossing a River on a Wire.

A reporter of the New York Sun wanted to realize the sensation of being suspended on a wire 275 feet from the surface of the earth. He applied to the engineer of the Brooklyn bridge for permission to cross the East river on a wire, three quarters of an inch in diameter, which hangs between the two towers. He was refused permission; but he finally saw the president of the company, who granted his request. Arriving at the appointed time, the engineer, Mr. Farrington, said: "Well, sir; whenever you're ready, I am."

"All ready, said I, as bold as brass outside, and as nervous as the Endorian witch on the inside. He walked on and I followed, when, Horror of Horrors—capital H's—to both Horrors—instead of leading me to the 'cradle,' which I called a raft, he took me to a little square board held up by two crossed iron arms, called a 'buggy.' It was about three feet square, and depended from the 'traveler,' a three quarter inch wire which crosses the river, and is run from tower to tower over apparatus, by means of a stationary engine. It was too late to back out, but I didn't feel exactly prepared to plunge in. He did.

"He jumped in, and the little buggy swung from side to side, precisely as a swing does when you jump on the board and try to steady it by the ropes. I looked at him, at the scale—that's it; it's exactly like a pair of scales, with one scale—at the deep depths below us, and at myself. I imagined the ticklish thrill which would permeate my body when we started. I fancied the glories of the prospective perspective before me.

"'Come, hurry up, please,' interrupted Farrington, and with resignation I hurried down. He stood up. I crouched down. Perhaps you think you'd have stood up as he did. You're mistaken. I crouched down and held on tight. Make no mistake. I held on tight and waited for my thrill. It didn't come. Then I stood up, and Farrington gave the word 'Go.' 'Wouldn't you better take a rope along?' said one of the men. 'Yes, I think I would.' What did he want of a rope? He feared I would be nervous. He meant to grapple me in the middle of the river, and tie me in. I knew it. I felt it. But I didn't say a word.

"With a gentle jerk we started—slow, slow, very slow. Farrington stood in front and watched the wire. I stood behind and watched myself. I felt nothing. I was'n't exhilarated. I was'n't scared. I was'n't even timid. I can't look from the top of a house without desiring to jump off, but I looked down from the buggy and hadn't the least desire to jump. Farrington says: 'It's because it's so high up.' Well, we went on without any special sensation till the buggy struck against a stay rope which reaches from one of the cables to the tower. In the effort to free the buggy, Mr. Farrington gave a push which swung us out some little distance and back again, at which a little piece of indigestion seemed to be monarch of my interior, and for a moment I was on the verge of a sensation. Having passed the middle, the ascent was more labored. I waved my handkerchief to the people on the ferryboats. I looked out toward the sea. I looked up at the heavens. I even looked toward Harlem, but, like the buyer in the Bible, I said: 'It is naught, it is naught.'

"In about eight minutes we touched the New York side—all but ten feet. The red flag waved for the engine to stop. There we hung in mid-air 275 feet above the level, swinging to and fro like a drunken buggy, at an angle of forty degrees, and quite uneasy. The rope which was to haul us on was fastened to the iron—blest be the tie that binds—and with a few hearty pulls we were brought so near the New York tower that without difficulty we clambered up. I had made the trip, but I had not felt a feel. From the top of the New York tower I saw much, but the chief point of interest was the innumerable jets of steam which flourish in the air, and fantastically curl off into space.

"Again the steeples, the tower, and the long, narrow, dirty river filled the prospect, and the bright sun of a charming day lightened up the western sky That was all, except to say 'thanks and good-bye,' and descend the stairs. There were 417 of them stairs, and before I reached the bottom I was dizzy, faint, seasick, and filled with a decoction of tickle, so that I had to shut my eyes and rest from my labors.

"Thus ends the trip which filled my anticipatory imagination as the waters fill the sea, but which resolved itself in realization to a simple, childlike faith in the fixtures on the wire, and in the skill and competence of the man who guided them.

Monsieur X."

Blue Glass Science.

There is nothing more reassuring in these days, when new "isms" of the scientists are slowly sapping the foundations of cherished beliefs, than to remember that, after all, the much vaunted dicta of Nature are yet opposable by the sound operations of honest common sense. See for example how one of our evening dailies, tossing the dogmas of so-called science contemptuously aside, evolves such profoundly original thoughts as these, to explain the lucid blue glass theory of General Pleasonton: "The blue glass presents an obstruction to the sun's rays which can only be penetrated by one of the seven primary rays—the blue ray; the remaining six rays, travelling with the velocity of 186,000 miles a second, falling upon the blue glass, are suddenly arrested; the impact evolves upon the surface of the glass friction, heat, electricity and magnetism; the heat expands the molecules of the glass, and a current of electricity and magnetism passes through it into the room; this current, falling upon animal or vegetable life within, stimulates it to unusual vigor. Certainly the results achieved, and abundantly certified to, are marvellous, and sufficient to provoke further experiments and inquiry." Prior to these splendid original discoveries of our contemporary, we ignorantly believed that blue glass only partially sifted out the orange and yellow rays from the spectrum, and that with this exception, it acted merely as a screen to diminish the intensity of all the rays. We also supposed that there was a sharp distinction to be drawn between sunlight after passing through blue glass and the blue spectral ray: that in one case all the colored rays were more or less present, and that in the other but one was. But think of the utter dismay of such pretenders as Helmholtz, Tyndall, and Henry when they learn that the undulatory theory of light with which they have so long taxed our credulity is overthrown—that of the seven primary rays, six bounce off from blue glass and distribute themselves over the adjoining neighborhood. That the glass is heated by the impact; and as the sun persistently emits more rays, there are more impacts and more heat. The glass gets hotter and hotter; but—mark the scientific acumen here—just as we are wondering whether it will reach the melting point, the pores open. It is the Turkish bath of Nature. Electricity and magnetism, no longer shut out, rush in between the separate molecules. Hand in hand, these great curative powers seek a proper subject. They meet (we learn from a report, also in our contemporary, of Pleasonton's latest triumph) a pig or a young lady whose hair has come out—a heifer, a rooster, or a rheumatic child. Forthwith the pig fattens, hair equal to that produced by the finest tricopherus pervades the female scalp, and "unusual vigor" and general happiness prevail. Such is the boon which Pleasonton bestows on humanity, as elucidated by the original genius of our contemporary.

Infectious Disease Propagation.

In view of the alarming prevalence of scarlet fever in many parts of the country, the following hints by the British Medical Journal are wholesome warnings: "There are three common ways by means of which infectious diseases may be very widely spread. It is a very usual practice for parents to take children suffering from scarlet fever, measles, etc., to a public dispensary, in order to obtain advice and medicines. It is little less than crime to expose, in the streets of a town and in the crowded waiting room of a dispensary, children afflicted with such complaints. Again, persons who are recovering from infectious disorders borrow books out of the lending departments of public libraries; these books, on their reissue to fresh borrowers, are sources of very great danger. In all libraries, notices should be posted up informing borrowers that no books will be lent out to persons who are suffering from diseases of an infectious character; and that any person so suffering will be prosecuted if he borrow during the time of his illness. Lastly, disease is spread by tract distributors. It is the habit for such well meaning people to call at a house where a person is ill and to leave him a tract. In a week or so the tract is called for again, another left in its place, and the old one is left with another person. It needs not much imagination to know with what result to health such a practice will lead if the first person be in scarlet fever or smallpox."

Dr. Hutton offers "a warning on the reckless manner in which parents allow their healthy children to run into the houses of acquaintances who have members of their families suffering from scarlatina, etc., and states that he has seen the infection thus carried from the patient, and several families attacked."

Toughened Glass Making in Brooklyn.

A World reporter has lately visited the works in Brooklyn where the manufacture of the La Bastie toughened glass is now in active progress. The manufacturer states that, in June last, his factory was destroyed by fire, and the introduction of the glass into our markets has for that reason been delayed. Only one kind of goods, lamp chimneys, are now made, and the process is as follows: A workman, having in his hand a pole about eight feet long, with a knob on the end of the size of a lamp burner, fits a chimney on the knob and plunges it into the flame of a furnace. He with-draws it twice or thrice that it may not heat too quickly, turning the pole rapidly the while, and when the glass reaches a red heat quickly shoots it into one of a dozen small baths fixed on a revolving table, and seizes another chimney. A boy keeps the revolving table always in position, and as the chimneys come around to him, having been the proper time in the bath, he takes them out to be dried, sorted, cleaned, and packed. The bath has to be of just the right temperature, as, if it be too hot or too cold, the chimneys are liable to explode. In either case the process of annealing is imperfect. By working the tables at a certain rate, the baths are kept at the right temperature by the immersion of the red hot glass. Oil or tallow is used in the bath. Any greasy substance will do, though tallow has proved most satisfactory.

M. De la Chapelle, the manufacturer, states that he has already sold $150,000 worth of the chimneys. The toughened chimneys are about 60 per cent dearer than those of ordinary glass. The factory is in Delavan street, Brooklyn, N.Y.

Alexander Bain, Electrician.

This ingenious man, whose inventions in connection with the electric telegraph entitle his name to be held in grateful remembrance, died in January last at the new Home for Incurables at Broomhill, Kirkintilloch, near Glasgow, Scotland, and on Saturday his remains were interred in the burying ground in the neighborhood of that town known as the Old Aisle Cemetery. Mr. Bain, who was about sixty-six years of age, was a native of Thurso. He was the inventor of the electro-chemical printing telegraph, the electro-magnetic clock, and of perforated paper for automatic transmission of messages, and was author of a number of books and pamphlets relating to these subjects. Sir William Thomson, in his address to the Mathematical Section of the British Association at its meeting in Glasgow last year, said: "In the United States Telegraphic Department of the Great Exhibition at Philadelphia, I saw Edison's automatic telegraph delivering 1,015 words in 57 seconds. This was done by the long neglected electro-chemical method of Bain, long ago condemned in England to the helot work of recording from a relay, and turned adrift as needlessly delicate for that." Mr. Bain was stricken by paralysis, and suffered from complete loss of power in the lower limbs. For some time he had received a pension from the government, obtained for him, we believe, through the instrumentality of Sir William Thomson. Mr. Bain was a widower, and has left a son and daughter, the former of whom is in America, and the latter at present on the Continent. Photographs of him by Mayall were recently presented to the Society of Telegraph Engineers and the American Society of Telegraphers at Philadelphia.—The Engineer.

Self-Reliance Necessary to Success.

Self-reliance, conjoined with promptitude in the execution of our undertakings, is indispensable to success. And yet multitudes live a life of vacillation and consequent failure, because they remain undetermined what to do, or, having decided that, have no confidence in themselves. Such persons need to be assured; but this assurance can be obtained in no other way than by their own successes in whatever they may attempt for themselves. If they lean upon others, they not only become dissatisfied with what they achieve, but the success of one achievement, in which they are entitled to but partial credit, is no guaranty to them that, unaided, they will not fail in their very next experiment.

For want of self-reliance and decision of character, thousands are submerged in their first essays to make the voyage of life. Disappointed and chagrined at this, they underestimate their own capacities, and thenceforward, relying on others, they take and keep a subordinate position, from which they rise, when they rise at all, with the utmost difficulty. When a young man attains his majority, it is better for him, as a general rule, to take some independent position of his own, even though the present remuneration be less than he would obtain in the service of others. When at work for himself, in a business which requires and demands foresight, economy, and industry, he will naturally develop the strong points of his character, and become self-reliant.

A glance at the business men of any community will show who have and who have not improved the opportunities of their earlier years. The former transact their business with ease, promptitude, and profit. They rely upon themselves, and execute what they have to do with energy and dispatch. But those who shirked everything in their youth are compelled to rely on their clerks and salesmen for advice, and are never ready to act when occasions of profit arise. Many parents commit a lamentable error in this respect. They lead their children to believe that they can do nothing without the constant assistance of their superiors, and after awhile the child becomes impressed with that idea. Fortunate will it be for him when he emerges from the parental roof, if he can at once acquire the self-reliance which has been kept down at home—otherwise he must necessarily fail in whatever independent enterprise he undertakes; and in such a case, while the misfortune is his own, the fault lies at the door of misjudging parents rather than at his own.

Something to Do.

It is an old trick of despots, and a good one, to employ their subjects. Why? To keep them out of mischief, Employed men are most contented. There is no conspiracy. Men do not sit down and coolly proceed to concoct iniquity so long as there is plenty of pleasant and profitable employment for body and mind. Work drives off discontent, provided there is compensation in proportion to the amount of labor performed. There must be a stimulant. God never intended a man should sweat without eating of the fruits of his labor—reaping a reward—more than he intended the idle man should revel in plenty and grow gouty on luxuries. Industry is a great peacemaker—a mind-your-own-business citizen. Something to do renders the despairing good-natured and hopeful—stops the cry of the hungry, and promotes all virtue. The best men are the most industrious; the most wealthy work the hardest. They always find something to do. Do you ever wonder that men of wealth do not "retire" and enjoy their substance? We know some young men look forward with anticipation to the time of "retiring." It is doubtful if a man should ever retire from business as long as he lives. We think we know men who, were they to abandon business, would be ruined, not pecuniarily, but mentally—their lives would be shortened. God never intended man's mind should become dormant. It is governed by fixed laws. Those laws are imperative in their exactions.

Something to do! "Oh, if I had something to do!" There are young men who sigh for it, yet one thing they can do—that is, seek for a job. Once found, provided it is an honest one, do not hesitate to perform it, even if it does not pay as well as you expected.

Moneyed Men.

The Cleveland Herald said, twenty years ago, during a stringency of the times, that moneyed men are the veriest cravens on earth: so timid, that on the least alarm they pull their heads, turtle-like, within their shells, and, snugly housed, hug their glittering treasure until all fear is removed. The consequence is that a few days' disturbance of the monetary atmosphere brings on a perfect dearth of not only the precious metals, but even of paper money, their representative. Moneyed men never adopt the tactics of mutual support; hence, as soon as a shot is fired into the flock, they scatter, each looking out for himself, each distrustful of the other, and each recognizing only the great law of selfishness, which is to take care of number one. Courage has saved many an army, even when ammunition was low; and many a foe has been scattered by one yell of defiance when there was not a cartridge left.