I looked at this man of medium size, with rather a large head and a noble-looking profile, and I thought of Napoleon I. There is certainly a great physical resemblance between these two men, and I am sure that one compartment of their brain would be found to be identical. Of course I do not compare their genius. The one was “destructive” and the other “creative,” but while I execrate battles, I adore victories and, in spite of his errors, I have raised an altar in my heart to that god of Glory, Napoleon! I therefore looked at Edison thoughtfully, for he reminded me of the great man who was dead. The deafening sound of the machinery, the dazzling rapidity of the changes of light—all that together made my head whirl and, forgetting where I was, I leaned for support on the slight balustrade which separated me from the abyss beneath. I was so unconscious of all danger that, before I had recovered from my surprise, Edison had helped me into an adjoining room and installed me in an armchair without my realizing how it had all happened. He told me afterwards that I had turned dizzy. After having done the honors of his telephonic discovery and of his astonishing phonograph, Edison offered me his arm and took me to the dining-room where I found his family assembled. I was very tired and did justice to the supper that had been so hospitably prepared for us. I left Menlo Park at four o’clock in the morning and this time the country round, the roads, and the station were all lighted up, _à giorno_, by the thousands of jets of my kind host. What a strange power of suggestion the darkness has! I thought I had traveled a long way that night, and it seemed to me that the roads were impracticable. It proved to be quite a short distance and the roads were charming, although they were covered with snow. Imagination had played a great part during the journey to Edison’s house, but reality played a much greater one during the same journey back to the station. I was enthusiastic in my admiration of the inventions of this man, and I was charmed with his timid graciousness and perfect courtesy, and with his profound love of Shakespeare. The next day or rather that same day, for it was then four in the morning, I started after my company for Boston. Mr. Abbey, my _impresario_, had arranged for me to have a delightful “car,” but it was nothing like the wonderful Pullman car that I was to have from Philadelphia for continuing my tour. I was very much pleased with this one, nevertheless. In the middle of the room there was a real bed, large and comfortable, on a brass bedstead. Then there was an armchair, a pretty dressing table, a basket tied up with ribbons for my dog, and flowers everywhere, but flowers without overpowering perfume. In the car adjoining mine were my own servants, who were also very comfortable. I went to bed feeling thoroughly satisfied and woke up at Boston.