"This is my library. Here I think, calculate, and write. This room has been the birth-place of many a glorious inspiration."
By the glimmer of one candle, Helen made out a large apartment that seemed to contain nothing but books. They lined the walls, loaded the tables, and covered the floor. Here and there they stood in untidy stacks, as if cart-loads of volumes had been shot about the room at random. The books were doubtless ancient, for a disagreeable odour of fusty paper and mouldy leather, impregnated the atmosphere, and Helen was glad to withdraw to the chill but less oppressive staircase, when her uncle, with a dangerous wave of his composite, said,—
"Now let us ascend to the 'Locus in quo'—in short, to the laboratory."
When they reached their destination they found the same wild disorder reigned there as they had just witnessed below. A forge and bellows, a carpenter's bench and tools, a lathe, quantities of peculiar-looking bottles,—presumably containing chemicals; a furnace, steel tools, newspapers, lumps of coal, bits of whalebone, and the remains of Mr. Sheridan's dinner on a tray were all mixed up together in extraordinary confusion. In the middle of the room stood a large table, on which lay a mysterious object, concealed by a red cover. It was something long, something broad; but all further speculation was ended by Mr. Sheridan delicately raising the cloth, and solemnly displaying what looked like a pair of umbrellas blown inside out!
"I suppose you know nothing of aerostation?" he said gravely, addressing his niece.
She shook her head; shameful to state, the very name was new to her.
"It is the art—as yet in its infancy—of travelling through the air; an art that has ever baffled mankind. In me,"—pointing to his beard with a long forefinger,—"you see the fortunate inventor of a pair of wings, by means of which I hope shortly to make the first aerial voyage—and fly to Dublin."
To an ordinary listener, this announcement would have seemed the mere raving of a Bedlamite; but the three girls were profoundly impressed by the inventor's voice, and presence, and enthusiastic belief in himself, and they hung upon his words, with parted lips, and awe-struck eyes.
"It is quite true," he resumed, "that Borelli and Liebnitz, both denied the possibility of any man's flying. But Bacon and Wilkin, thought as I do," he added with a nod that implied,—"and so much the better for them!"
"Observe this," now tenderly holding up a wing. (It was of immense length, and seemed surprisingly light and flexible.) "Here it is annexed to the shoulders, by means of mechanical contrivances; these springs, and a certain amount of muscular exertion, waft a human body into the elements! Once fairly afloat, a very slight effort, similar to a bird's, will keep one going for hours! The first ascent is the principal,—and indeed, I may say,—only difficulty. Fairly poised in the air, the process is ludicrously simple. The main idea is, to attach to one's person some mass, which, by being lighter than air, raises itself, and the annexed incumbrance. But these details are rather beyond your mental grasp. To be brief, this little contrivance of mine blows into atoms all other modes of human locomotion—trains, steamers, carriages, bicycles,—their fate is sealed. We shall all be as the birds of the air in future. The boon to humanity will be incalculable; and, believe me, the day predicted by good Bishop Wilkin is not far distant, when every man who is going a journey, will call for his wings, just as he now calls for his boots!"