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    The Wondersmith
    The Wondersmith
    The Wondersmith
    Ebook49 pages51 minutes

    The Wondersmith

    By Fitz-James O'Brien

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The Wondersmith is a short novel written by Fitz James O'Brien in 1858. The story focuses on a robot rebellion: toys possessed by evil spirits come alive and they turn against their creators. The Wondersmith is considered one of the most impressive examples of surreal fiction ...
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherFitz James O' Brien
    Release dateSep 29, 2015
    ISBN9788893155632
    The Wondersmith
    Author

    Fitz-James O'Brien

    Fitz-James O’Brien (1828-62) was an Irish-born American writer best known for his Gothic short stories, which are now seen as precursors of modern science fiction

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      Book preview

      The Wondersmith - Fitz-James O'Brien

      The Wondersmith

      by

      Fitz James O'Brien

      To the best of our knowledge, the text of this

      work is in the Public Domain.

      HOWEVER, copyright law varies in other countries, and the work may still be under

      copyright in the country from which you are accessing this website. It is your

      responsibility to check the applicable copyright laws in your country before

      downloading this work.

      Golosh Street and its People

      A Bottleful of Souls.

      Solon.

      The Manikins and the Minos.

      Tied up.

      The Poisoning of the Swords.

      Let Loose.

      Golosh Street and its People

      A small lane, the name of which I have forgotten, or do not choose to remember, slants suddenly off from Chatham Street, (before that headlong thoroughfare reaches into the Park,) and retreats suddenly down towards the East River, as if it were disgusted with the smell of old clothes, and had determined to wash itself clean. This excellent intention it has, however, evidently contributed towards the making of that imaginary pavement mentioned in the old adage; for it is still emphatically a dirty street. It has never been able to shake off the Hebraic taint of filth which it inherits from the ancestral thoroughfare. It is slushy and greasy, as if it were twin brother of the Roman Ghetto.

      I like a dirty slum; not because I am naturally unclean — I have not a drop of Neapolitan blood in my veins — but because I generally find a certain sediment of philosophy precipitated in its gutters. A clean street is terribly prosaic. There is no food for thought in carefully swept pavements, barren kennels, and vulgarly spotless houses. But when I go down a street which has been left so long to itself that it has acquired a distinct outward character, I find plenty to think about. The scraps of sodden letters lying in the ash-barrel have their meaning: desperate appeals, perhaps, from Tom, the baker’s assistant, to Amelia, the daughter of the dry-goods retailer, who is always selling at a sacrifice in consequence of the late fire. That may be Tom himself who is now passing me in a white apron, and I look up at the windows of the house (which does not, however, give any signs of a recent conflagration) and almost hope to see Amelia wave a white pocket-handkerchief. The bit of orange-peel lying on the sidewalk inspires thought. Who will fall over it? who but the industrious mother of six children, the eldest of which is only nine months old, all of whom are dependent on her exertions for support? I see her slip and tumble. I see the pale face convulsed with agony, and the vain struggle to get up; the pitying crowd closing her off from all air; the anxious young doctor who happened to be passing by; the manipulation of the broken limb, the shake of the head, the moan of the victim, the litter borne on men’s shoulders, the gates of the New York Hospital unclosing, the subscription taken up on the spot. There is some food for speculation in that three-year-old, tattered child, masked with dirt, who is throwing a brick at another three-year-old, tattered child, masked with dirt. It is not difficult to perceive that he is destined to lurk, as it were, through life. His bad, flat face — or, at least, what can be seen of it — does not look as if it were made for the light of day. The mire in which he wallows now is but a type of the moral mire in which he will wallow hereafter. The feeble little hand lifted at this instant to smite his companion, half in earnest, half in jest, will be raised against his fellow-beings forevermore.

      Golosh Street — as I will call this nameless lane before alluded to — is an interesting locality. All the oddities of trade seem to have found their way thither and made an eccentric mercantile settlement. There is a bird-shop at one corner, wainscoted with little cages containing linnets, waxwings, canaries, blackbirds,

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