and look out upon the company. Mr. Diggs
coughs a little, but, to his disappointment, is
not suffocated. In another second or two, he
can take his breath freely. Very odd.

Mr. Diggs is more than staggered by such
a proof. He begins to suspect there may be
something in it. As Mr. Phillips assists the
worthy sugar-baker over a piece of very burnt
and precarious-looking flooring, out at a side
hole in the house, as the stairs are no longer
safe, Mr. Diggs thanks him very civilly for
his attention, and—he almost adds—for the
satisfactory result of this last experiment;
but he checked himself. Time would show.

Meanwhile, all was pleasant confusion, and
applause, and wonder, and satisfaction, and
congratulation, and the re-arrangement of
habiliments, and the polishing of smutty faces,
and laughing and good humour among the
company. With some difficulty, Mr. Diggs
discovered his wife, and with almost equal
difficulty recognised her after he had found
her. She had been honoured more than
almost any one else, with the falling embers
and black smut of the conflagration. Her
pink and fawn-coloured silk shawl was
spotted all over, and looked like a leopard-
skin; the orange ribbons on her bonnet were
speckled, and otherwise toadied, while her face,
after a diligent use of her handkerchief
(having no glass, or friend to ask), had a
complete shady tint all over it, giving her the
appearance of one of those complexions of
lead colour, presented by unfortunate invalids
who have had occasion to undergo a course of
nitrate of silver. Many other persons were
in a spotty and smutted predicament, but
none so bad as poor Mrs. Diggs, except,
indeed her husband; but he was insensible to
such matters.

Issuing forth into the spacious yard of the
gas works, a final demonstration was about to
be given to the visitors on their way out. A
circular pool, of eighteen feet in circumference,
was filled with tar and naphtha. This thick
liquid mixture was ignited, and in a few
seconds the whole surface sent up a prodigious
blaze of great brilliancy. A boy of about
eleven years of age (apparently a stranger
to the machine, to judge from his awkwardness)
was desired to strike down the knob
which put the portable Fire Annihilator in
action. He did so; and immediately the thick
white vapour began to gush forth. The boy
carried the machine, with very little effort, to
within four or five feet of the flames.
Instantly the flames changed colour, as though
with a sort of ghastly purple horror of their
destroyer and, in a few seconds, down
they sank, and became nothing. There lay
the black mixture, looking as if it had never
been disturbed. But the machine, meantime,
went on vomiting forth its vapour, with
surplus power, like the escape-pipe of a steam-
engine, and the boy being in a state of
confusion, was bringing the machine back among
the company assembled round, who all begun
to retreat, when somebody connected with
the Works told him to let it off against the
dead wall. While this was taking place, the
same individual remarked aloud, that the
vapour could not only be breathed after it
had ascended and extinguished a fire, but
would not burn even as it gushed forth fresh
and furious from the machine. As he said
this, he passed his hand through it once or
twice. Mr. Diggs suddenly thought he had
a last chance,—and, rushing forward, passed
his hand (hoping he might be dreadfully
scorched) through the fierce vapour as it
rushed out. Actually, he was not at all
scorched. It was only rather hot. He passed
his hand backwards and forwards twice more
—a sort of greasy and rather dirty warm
moisture covered his hand—this was all. John
Diggs was fairly conquered—admitted it to
himself—and, seeking out Mr. Phillips, went
honestly up to him, and shook him heartily
by the hand—saying, with a laugh, that if all
was fairly done, and no necromancy, he had
witnessed a great fact, and he congratulated
him.

Still—in a friendly way—he could not help
asking Mr. Phillips for a word of explanation
as to his assertion that fire and water were of
the same family—in fact, convertible, each into
the other. Mr. Phillips accordingly favoured
Mr. Diggs with the following remarks:—
"Fire," said he, "is mainly composed of eight
parts of oxygen, and one part of hydrogen;
thus making a whole of nine parts. When
fire ceases to be fire, it becomes water, retaining
the same elements and proportions, viz.,
eight of oxygen and one of hydrogen, and will
weigh (if the measure has been in pounds)
nine pounds or parts. If you decompose
these nine pounds of water by voltaic battery,
the gases generated will render eight pounds
of oxygen and one of hydrogen. Moreover,
this law of nature cannot be deranged or
disturbed by human agency. If, to make fire,
you take eight parts of oxygen, and two of
hydrogen, the false proportion will not
prevent the product of fire; for the principle of
fire, as if by instinct, will elect its own proper
proportions, become fire, and throw over the
excess, whether the error be an excess of
oxygen or hydrogen."

"Thank you, Sir—thank you!" said Mr.
John Diggs; but he determined to take a
glass of punch with a friend of his, an
experimental chemist, that same evening.

Now, taking it for granted that there is no
necromancy in all this, it may be asked, how
will the discovery affect, not only the Fire-
Brigade of London, but the use of fire-engines
(with hose and water) all over the country,
and the civilised world. Will they not be
superseded? We answer without hesitation, we
think they will by no means be superseded.
One great value of this magnificent discovery
of Mr. Phillips, consists in its immediate
command over the active part of fire, viz.,
flame: whereby a fire in a large building