The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 1Poe, Edgar Allan
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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 1
Poe, Edgar Allan
American fiction -- 19th century; Fantasy fiction; Horror tales, American; Poe, Edgar Allan, 1809-1849
“At half past nine I tried the experiment of throwing out a
handful of feathers through the valve. They did not float as I
had expected; but dropped down perpendicularly, like a bullet, en
masse, and with the greatest velocity—being out of sight in a
very few seconds. I did not at first know what to make of this
extraordinary phenomenon; not being able to believe that my rate
of ascent had, of a sudden, met with so prodigious an
acceleration. But it soon occurred to me that the atmosphere was
now far too rare to sustain even the feathers; that they actually
fell, as they appeared to do, with great rapidity; and that I had
been surprised by the united velocities of their descent and my
own elevation.
“By ten o’clock I found that I had very little to occupy my
immediate attention. Affairs went swimmingly, and I believed the
balloon to be going upward with a speed increasing momently
although I had no longer any means of ascertaining the
progression of the increase. I suffered no pain or uneasiness of
any kind, and enjoyed better spirits than I had at any period
since my departure from Rotterdam, busying myself now in
examining the state of my various apparatus, and now in
regenerating the atmosphere within the chamber. This latter point
I determined to attend to at regular intervals of forty minutes,
more on account of the preservation of my health, than from so
frequent a renovation being absolutely necessary. In the
meanwhile I could not help making anticipations. Fancy revelled
in the wild and dreamy regions of the moon. Imagination, feeling
herself for once unshackled, roamed at will among the
ever-changing wonders of a shadowy and unstable land. Now there
were hoary and time-honored forests, and craggy precipices, and
waterfalls tumbling with a loud noise into abysses without a
bottom. Then I came suddenly into still noonday solitudes, where
no wind of heaven ever intruded, and where vast meadows of
poppies, and slender, lily-looking flowers spread themselves out
a weary distance, all silent and motionless forever. Then again I
journeyed far down away into another country where it was all one
dim and vague lake, with a boundary line of clouds. And out of
this melancholy water arose a forest of tall eastern trees, like
a wilderness of dreams. And I have in mind that the shadows of
the trees which fell upon the lake remained not on the surface
where they fell, but sunk slowly and steadily down, and
commingled with the waves, while from the trunks of the trees
other shadows were continually coming out, and taking the place
of their brothers thus entombed. “This then,” I said
thoughtfully, “is the very reason why the waters of this lake
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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