An absorbing and haunting collection of early science fiction tales by an Irish-American author Fitz-James O'Brien capitalized on the success of his predecessors Edgar Allan Poe and Mary Shelley in writing disturbing stories with demented protagonists, and this collection of three tales shows his mastery of the macabre. "The Diamond Lens" tells of a lone scientist's discovery of a microcosmic world within a drop of water, and his growing obsession with the beautiful Animula, a fair maiden within this world which he can see but never enter. His uncompromising pursuit of knowledge at any cost foreshadows the mad scientist familiar to readers in a multitude of works. In "What Was It?" an invisible man is discovered by residents of a boarding house. The residents' capture and investigation of the creature blends the fantastic with the scientific as they seek rational explanations for this extraordinary phenomenon. "The Wondersmith" is a macabre tale of an embittered toymaker who seeks revenge upon the society that has persecuted him by creating demonic mannequins and imbuing them with life in order to slaughter the masses— a fantastic melodrama in which the cunning Wondersmith is offset by the unassuming and unlikely hero Solon the hunchback, in love with the villain's daughter.

How I longed to discover the secret of some perfect lens, whose magnifying power should be limited only by the resolvability of the object, and which at the same time should be free from spherical and chromatic aberrations, in short from all the obstacles over which the poor microscopist finds himself continually stumbling!

This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1885 edition. Excerpt: ... 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 1 who but the industrious mother of six children, the youngest of which is only nine months old, all of whom are dependent on her exertions for support 1 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 fellowbeings forevermore, Golosh Street -- as I will call this nameless lane...