lonely island in the Indian Ocean, to him the dearest upon earth.
I found time, before the train left, to send on a few words announcing my departure, promising to send more by diuba. Scarcely was the train in motion, when I proceeded to carry this promise into effect. In the special compartment provided for the purpose, I confided to the faithful diuba all I wished to say. There was plenty of time, since we did not halt for the first hundred miles. The case being confided by me to the proper agent, was put off at this station, where they knew what was to be done.
As the train moved off, I pleased myself with the idea that my message was already transmitted to the recording instrument in Hulmar's study,—might possibly be already sounding in the ears for which it was intended. On the diuba, in fact, being placed in connection with the proper wire, the message within was almost instantaneously transmitted to the phonographic sheet always set in readiness to receive it. The message could then be listened to, much as we read a letter. The unimpaired eyesight, as well as the extraordinary fineness of ear, I found universally prevalent among these people, were both attributable, in a great measure, to the extent to which the ear had superseded and lightened the labors of the eye. All correspondence, and much the greater part of literary labor, were done by voice and ear. The finest literature, moreover, was scarcely ever read from books. It was committed to long phonographic sheets. Placed in the instrument, these reproduced, will fit utterance, the grand or beautiful thoughts the world will not let die, in the
