Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/140

 ALONE WITH A MANIAC.

BY F. H. STAUFFER.

I was smoking in my study at Port P——. As I leaned back in my easy-chuir, I became the subject of the most delicious vagaries. My senses were carried away on the wings of the most grotesque imagery; “castles in the air” rose like magic, and long vistas of paintings and statuary opened to my gaze at every turn.

Perhaps this was owing to the segar; perhaps to my hat (which sat rather rakishly on my head,) pressing upon my organs of humor and ideality; perhaps because I was just then satisfied with the world in general, and with myself in particular. Be that as it may, I was for once, matter-of-fact man as I am, indulging in the most absurd yet enchanting vagaries.

Some segars lay on the table, which, together with the way I cocked my head at unusual noises, revealed that I was waiting for a companion. And so I was; I was waiting for Frank Rivers.

A glorious, whole-souled fellow was Rivers; sensitive to a fault, rather visionary in his views, (perhaps only so in comparison with myself,) warm, brave, impulsive, and very strong in his likes and dislikes.

He was never to be cornered in an argument— not he. His antagonist’s reasoning was warped into the most ludicrous shapes; sophistry, dashing with the scintillations of his wit, enveloped it in her folds: and when these failed, his ringing laugh, so peculiarly contagious, would carry him off, undefeated still, upon the strong wings of its sonorous echo.

Interest him in an argument? forsooth! you might as well try to upset Bunker Hill Monument with a yard stick, or attempt to shave yourself with a rolling-pin!

While I was sitting in my reverie, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

“There’s Rivers at last!” I thought.

But it wasn’t; the door opened and in stalked a man whom I had never seen before. There was something majestic in his tread, something intellectual in his countenance, something demonical in the glare of his eyes.

“Are we alone?” he asked, in a low voice, looking uneasily around the room.

“Exclusively so,” I replied, eyeing my visitor with more than common curiosity. “Take a chair, Mr.——, Mr.——?”

“Yes, yes—I see. Mr. Miles—Abner Miles,” he replied, taking my hint to introduce himself at the same time that he took the chair.

“You are a philosopher, Mr. Reed—a mechanic and a geuius. I know this because I have inquired; I know this because I have seen the light burning in your room at late hours. I have something to exhibit to you. You will be able to understand me, your perceptives are largely developed, your constructiveness very large, your reasoning powers more than ordinary. I, too, am a genius. For many years I have been devoting my attention to a new motive power—and my labors have at last been crowned with success. You said we were alone?” “I did, Mr. Miles.”

“Well—you are waiting for me to expedite business, ain’t you?”

“Not particularly so—though I expect a friend here shortly.”

“You do?” asked he, glaring at me. Soon his eyes, however, assumed their usual expression. “You are quite complacent, Mr. Reed.”

“Thank you,” I replied, lighting another segar, and becoming slowly convinced that I was alone with a maniac.

Taking a small box from his bosom he made room for it on the table—shoving, as he did so, my books, papers, microscopes, pistols, &c., into a glorious heap of confusion.

“Disarranging your table slightly, ain’t I? But never mind it.”

He opened the box and took out its contents. It was a miniature wagon, neatly fashioned out of brass and steel, with machinery about it that was quite a mystery to me.

Taking the light in one hand and the little car in the other, he sat down upon the floor. Giving the fly-wheel, which was higher than the other wheels, and stood clear of the floor, a sudden twirl, the car went across the room with con- siderable velocity. Going to the farther end of the room, he 6tarted it again. It flew across the room, increasing in velocity as it went, and running up against the wash-board with a force almost sufficient to have demolished it.

“What do you think of that?” he asked. “A great invention, indeed,” I said. “But what is the motive power?”