The Telephone Gambit: Chasing Alexander Graham Bell's Secret (v5) by Seth Shulman Page A
Authors: Seth Shulman
Tags: science, History, Biography & Autobiography, Law, Technology & Engineering, Science & Technology, Experiments & Projects, Applied Sciences, Intellectual Property, Inventors, inventions, Telecommunications, Telephone, Patent
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with what he called his “harmonic, multiple telegraph.”
Bell’s concept was simple. Using the principle of sympathetic vibration, he hoped to develop a paired transmitter and receiver that could be tuned to a particular pitch. That way, it might be possible to send multiple messages—at different pitches—over a wire simultaneously. In Bell’s conception, the telegraph receivers would only vibrate in concert with the messages sent by the transmitters they were tuned to.
Bell had asked Watson to build an early prototype of the multiple telegraph design. The transmitter used a “reed” made out of a small, thin strip of steel that was mounted above an electromagnet with an adjustable contact screw like that found on an electric buzzer. When Bell attached the transmitter to a battery, the steel reed would vibrate and emit a sound; by moving the reed in and out of contact with the electromagnet, he could create an intermittent current that corresponded to the pitch of the reed. According to Bell’s plan, this vibrating, intermittent current would pass through the telegraph wire and set a reed in a distant receiver into sympathetic vibration—just as the sound waves from Bell’s voice had vibrated a tuning fork held in front of his mouth. It was a line of thinking that would, before long, lead Bell directly to what we now know as the telephone.
AFTER WANDERING ALL afternoon in search of Bell’s history in Boston, I was exhausted when I made my way back to MIT. With little tangible evidence to hang on to, I wondered gloomily whether historical questions like mine could ever be answered definitively. It was already evening by the time I reached the long, carpeted corridor to my office.
The building was quiet, but the door to the office next to mine was open and the light was on. Inside, David Cahan sat engrossed before his computer. Cahan, a friendly man with a big midwestern smile and slightly stooped shoulders that made him seem at once warm and professorial, taught the history of science at the University of Nebraska. He was also, as fate would have it, one of the world’s leading scholars on the life and work of Hermann von Helmholtz. For nearly fifteen years, Cahan had been working on a definitive biography of Helmholtz, and his office shelves, piled with stacks of notes and manuscript pages, reflected his long labors. He glanced up and greeted me warmly, presumably happy not to be the only one still toiling.
Once in my office, I sunk into my desk chair and pulled out my notebook. I couldn’t help but think of my neighbor next door. I thought of all the historical mysteries that must surely have flummoxed Cahan in his career. And yet there he sat, undaunted even after long years of doggedly sifting fact from fiction about Helmholtz’s life. I wasn’t confident that I could uncover enough detail about what had transpired at the birth of the telephone to explain how Gray’s secret design seemed to have wound up in Bell’s notebook. But, for the year at least, I realized I was literally surrounded by historians brimming with expertise, people like Cahan who were devoting their lives to studying and understanding the history of science and technology. There was no question about it: I would just have to enlist their help to unearth what I could about the real story behind the telephone’s invention.
OPERATOR ASSISTANCE
O N A LATE OCTOBER afternoon in 1874, Alexander Graham Bell paid a fateful visit to the Hubbard residence in Cambridge’s wealthiest neighborhood. For the past year, Bell had been tutoring Mabel, the Hubbards’ sweet and vivacious sixteen-year-old daughter, who had been deaf since a bout of scarlet fever when she was five years old. Now Bell had been invited to join the family for tea. As he approached the house at 146 Brattle Street, Bell paused to admire its grandeur. The impressive Italianate mansion overlooked the Charles River. Surrounded by formal gardens, a stable, and
Bell’s concept was simple. Using the principle of sympathetic vibration, he hoped to develop a paired transmitter and receiver that could be tuned to a particular pitch. That way, it might be possible to send multiple messages—at different pitches—over a wire simultaneously. In Bell’s conception, the telegraph receivers would only vibrate in concert with the messages sent by the transmitters they were tuned to.
Bell had asked Watson to build an early prototype of the multiple telegraph design. The transmitter used a “reed” made out of a small, thin strip of steel that was mounted above an electromagnet with an adjustable contact screw like that found on an electric buzzer. When Bell attached the transmitter to a battery, the steel reed would vibrate and emit a sound; by moving the reed in and out of contact with the electromagnet, he could create an intermittent current that corresponded to the pitch of the reed. According to Bell’s plan, this vibrating, intermittent current would pass through the telegraph wire and set a reed in a distant receiver into sympathetic vibration—just as the sound waves from Bell’s voice had vibrated a tuning fork held in front of his mouth. It was a line of thinking that would, before long, lead Bell directly to what we now know as the telephone.
AFTER WANDERING ALL afternoon in search of Bell’s history in Boston, I was exhausted when I made my way back to MIT. With little tangible evidence to hang on to, I wondered gloomily whether historical questions like mine could ever be answered definitively. It was already evening by the time I reached the long, carpeted corridor to my office.
The building was quiet, but the door to the office next to mine was open and the light was on. Inside, David Cahan sat engrossed before his computer. Cahan, a friendly man with a big midwestern smile and slightly stooped shoulders that made him seem at once warm and professorial, taught the history of science at the University of Nebraska. He was also, as fate would have it, one of the world’s leading scholars on the life and work of Hermann von Helmholtz. For nearly fifteen years, Cahan had been working on a definitive biography of Helmholtz, and his office shelves, piled with stacks of notes and manuscript pages, reflected his long labors. He glanced up and greeted me warmly, presumably happy not to be the only one still toiling.
Once in my office, I sunk into my desk chair and pulled out my notebook. I couldn’t help but think of my neighbor next door. I thought of all the historical mysteries that must surely have flummoxed Cahan in his career. And yet there he sat, undaunted even after long years of doggedly sifting fact from fiction about Helmholtz’s life. I wasn’t confident that I could uncover enough detail about what had transpired at the birth of the telephone to explain how Gray’s secret design seemed to have wound up in Bell’s notebook. But, for the year at least, I realized I was literally surrounded by historians brimming with expertise, people like Cahan who were devoting their lives to studying and understanding the history of science and technology. There was no question about it: I would just have to enlist their help to unearth what I could about the real story behind the telephone’s invention.
OPERATOR ASSISTANCE
O N A LATE OCTOBER afternoon in 1874, Alexander Graham Bell paid a fateful visit to the Hubbard residence in Cambridge’s wealthiest neighborhood. For the past year, Bell had been tutoring Mabel, the Hubbards’ sweet and vivacious sixteen-year-old daughter, who had been deaf since a bout of scarlet fever when she was five years old. Now Bell had been invited to join the family for tea. As he approached the house at 146 Brattle Street, Bell paused to admire its grandeur. The impressive Italianate mansion overlooked the Charles River. Surrounded by formal gardens, a stable, and
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