The thing was in its
way a little triumph. A few of the visitors were deaf, and hugged
the belief that they were the victims of a new kind of fancy-fair
swindle. Of the others, many who came to scoff remained to take
raffle tickets; and one of the phonographs was finally disposed of
in this way, falling, by a happy freak of the ballot-box, into the
hands of Sir William Thomson.' The other remained in Fleeming's
hands, and was a source of infinite occupation. Once it was sent
to London, 'to bring back on the tinfoil the tones of a lady
distinguished for clear vocalisations; at another time Sir Robert
Christison was brought in to contribute his powerful bass'; and
there scarcely came a visitor about the house, but he was made the
subject of experiment. The visitors, I am afraid, took their parts
lightly: Mr. Hole and I, with unscientific laughter, commemorating
various shades of Scotch accent, or proposing to 'teach the poor
dumb animal to swear.' But Fleeming and Mr. Ewing, when we
butterflies were gone, were laboriously ardent. Many thoughts that
occupied the later years of my friend were caught from the small
utterance of that toy.
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