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
As I fell, the ship hove in stays, and went about; and to the
confusion ensuing I attributed my escape from the notice of the
crew. With little difficulty I made my way unperceived to the
main hatchway, which was partially open, and soon found an
opportunity of secreting myself in the hold. Why I did so I can
hardly tell. An indefinite sense of awe, which at first sight of
the navigators of the ship had taken hold of my mind, was perhaps
the principle of my concealment. I was unwilling to trust myself
with a race of people who had offered, to the cursory glance I
had taken, so many points of vague novelty, doubt, and
apprehension. I therefore thought proper to contrive a
hiding-place in the hold. This I did by removing a small portion
of the shifting-boards, in such a manner as to afford me a
convenient retreat between the huge timbers of the ship.
I had scarcely completed my work, when a footstep in the hold
forced me to make use of it. A man passed by my place of
concealment with a feeble and unsteady gait. I could not see his
face, but had an opportunity of observing his general appearance.
There was about it an evidence of great age and infirmity. His
knees tottered beneath a load of years, and his entire frame
quivered under the burthen. He muttered to himself, in a low
broken tone, some words of a language which I could not
understand, and groped in a corner among a pile of
singular-looking instruments, and decayed charts of navigation.
His manner was a wild mixture of the peevishness of second
childhood, and the solemn dignity of a God. He at length went on
deck, and I saw him no more.
A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my
soul —a sensation which will admit of no analysis, to which the
lessons of bygone times are inadequate, and for which I fear
futurity itself will offer me no key. To a mind constituted like
my own, the latter consideration is an evil. I shall never—I know
that I shall never—be satisfied with regard to the nature of my
conceptions. Yet it is not wonderful that these conceptions are
indefinite, since they have their origin in sources so utterly
novel. A new sense—a new entity is added to my soul.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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