The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven Edition: Table Of Contents And Index Of The Five VolumesPoe, Edgar Allan
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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven Edition: Table Of Contents And Index Of The Five Volumes
Poe, Edgar Allan
American fiction -- 19th century; Fantasy fiction; Horror tales, American; Indexes; Poe, Edgar Allan, 1809-1849; Short stories
Many of the vessels fired signal
guns; and in all we were saluted with loud cheers (which we heard
with surprising distinctness) and the waving of caps and
handkerchiefs. We kept on in this manner throughout the day, with
no material incident, and, as the shades of night closed around
us, we made a rough estimate of the distance traversed. It could
not have been less than five hundred miles, and was probably much
more. The propeller was kept in constant operation, and, no
doubt, aided our progress materially. As the sun went down, the
gale freshened into an absolute hurricane, and the ocean beneath
was clearly visible on account of its phosphorescence. The wind
was from the East all night, and gave us the brightest omen of
success. We suffered no little from cold, and the dampness of the
atmosphere was most unpleasant; but the ample space in the car
enabled us to lie down, and by means of cloaks and a few
blankets, we did sufficiently well.
“P.S. (by Mr. Ainsworth.) The last nine hours have been
unquestionably the most exciting of my life. I can conceive
nothing more sublimating than the strange peril and novelty of an
adventure such as this. May God grant that we succeed! I ask not
success for mere safety to my insignificant person, but for the
sake of human knowledge and—for the vastness of the triumph. And
yet the feat is only so evidently feasible that the sole wonder
is why men have scrupled to attempt it before. One single gale
such as now befriends us—let such a tempest whirl forward a
balloon for four or five days (these gales often last longer) and
the voyager will be easily borne, in that period, from coast to
coast. In view of such a gale the broad Atlantic becomes a mere
lake. I am more struck, just now, with the supreme silence which
reigns in the sea beneath us, notwithstanding its agitation, than
with any other phenomenon presenting itself. The waters give up
no voice to the heavens. The immense flaming ocean writhes and is
tortured uncomplainingly. The mountainous surges suggest the idea
of innumerable dumb gigantic fiends struggling in impotent agony.
In a night such as is this to me, a man _lives_—lives a whole
century of ordinary life—nor would I forego this rapturous
delight for that of a whole century of ordinary existence.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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