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The World Peril of 1910 — Reading Notes

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In Category - Machines Inventions Early Science Fiction

Authors: Griffith, George Chetwynd, 1857-1906 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2008 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Science fiction, English Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 99,382

Reading time 433 min

Text sections 10

The source record for The World Peril of 1910 — Reading Notes measures this digital text at 99,382 words, 7 hr 13 min estimated reading time, and 10 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 24.6 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Science fiction, English,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #24764

Griffith's novel combines a transatlantic romance, a secret airship, and a comet threat, moving from Connemara to global crisis. The narrative shifts between intimate scenes and large-scale action, using recurring motifs of flight, light, and scientific ambition.

Editorial Edition Score 4.8/5

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Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

Edition quality

File: pg24764

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Castellan had swum round, and they took her under the arms to give her a rest. The two boys left in the boat had managed to get an oar out to their comrade just in time, and then haul him into the boat, which was now about fifty yards away; so as soon as the girl had got her breath they swam with her to the boat, and lifted her hands on to the gunwale.

"If you wouldn't mind, sir, picking up those oars," said the Englishman, "I will get the young lady into the boat, and then we can row back."

Castellan gave him another look which said as plainly as words: "Well, I suppose she's your prize for the present," and swam off for the oars. With the eager help of the boys, who were now very frightened and very penitent, the Englishman soon had the girl in the boat; and so it came about that an adventure which might well have deprived America of one of her most beautiful and brilliant heiresses, resulted in nothing more than a ducking for two men and one girl, a wet, but somehow not altogether unpleasant walk, and a slight chill from which she had quite recovered the next morning.

The after consequences of that race for the rescue were of course, quite another matter.

A MOMENTOUS EXPERIMENT

On the first day of July, 1908, a scene which was destined to become historic took place in the great Lecture Theatre in the Imperial College at Potsdam. It was just a year and a few days after the swimming race between John Castellan and the Englishman in Clifden Bay.

There were four people present. The doors were locked and guarded by two sentries outside. The German Emperor, Count Herold von Steinitz, Chancellor of the Empire, Field-Marshal Count Friedrich von Moltke, grandson of the great Organiser of Victory, and John Castellan, were standing round a great glass tank, twenty-five feet long, and fifteen broad, supported on a series of trestles. The tank was filled with water up to within about six inches of the upper edge. The depth was ten feet. A dozen models of battleships, cruisers and torpedo craft were floating on the surface of the water. Five feet under the surface, a grey, fish-shaped craft with tail and fins, almost exactly resembling those of a flying fish, was darting about, now jumping forward like a cat pouncing on a bird, now drawing back, and then suddenly coming to a standstill. Another moment, it sank to the bottom, and lay there as if it had been a wreck. The next it darted up to the surface, cruised about in swift curves, turning in and out about the models, but touching none.

Every now and then John Castellan went to a little table in the corner of the room, on which there was a machine something like a typewriter, and touched two or three of the keys. There was no visible connection between them--the machine and the tank--but the little grey shape in the water responded instantly to the touch of every key.

"That, I hope, will be enough to prove to your Majesty that as submarine the _Flying Fish_ is quite under control. Of course the real _Flying Fish_ will be controlled inside, not from outside."

"There is no doubt about the control," said the Kaiser. "It is marvellous, and I think the Chancellor and the Field Marshal will agree with me in that."

"Wonderful," said the Chancellor.

"A miracle," said the Field Marshal, "if it can only be realised."

"There is no doubt about that, gentlemen," said Castellan, going back to the machine. "Which of the models would your Majesty like to see destroyed first?"

The Kaiser pointed to the model of a battleship which was a very good imitation of one of the most up-to-date British battleships.

"We will take that one first," he said.

Castellan smiled, and began to play the keys. The grey shape of the _Flying Fish_ dropped to the bottom of the tank, rose, and seemed all at once to become endowed with human reason, or a likeness of it, which was so horrible that even the Kaiser and his two chiefs could hardly repress a shudder. It rose very slowly, circled among the floating models about two feet under the surface and then, like an animal smelling out its prey, it made a dart at the ship which the Kaiser had indicated, and struck it from underneath. They saw a green flash stream through the water, and the next moment the model had crumbled to pieces and sank.

"Donner-Wetter!" exclaimed the Chancellor, forgetting in his wonder that he was in the presence of His Majesty, "that is wonderful, horrible!"

Continue Reading →

The novel opens not with a comet or a war, but with a man bent over a drawing desk in a Connemara bed-sitting room. The sheet of cartridge paper is crowded with designs: an engine for a destroyer, a lighthouse-like structure, and a craft that is 'different from anything that had ever sailed upon the waters or below them, or, for the matter of that, above them.' This image of a hybrid vehicle—part submarine, part airship—anchors the story's central preoccupation with transcending natural limits. Griffith establishes a pattern of juxtaposing the domestic and the extraordinary, the personal and the planetary, that will persist throughout the narrative.

From Drawing Desk to Global Stage

The prologue, titled 'A Race for a Woman,' introduces a romantic rivalry that quickly gives way to scientific and military concerns. The opening scene in Clifden is intimate—a single room, a man sketching—but the designs on the table hint at world-altering technology. This pattern of zooming from the personal to the global recurs: later, a conversation about a comet and a cannon unfolds in a drawing room, with characters discussing Jules Verne's Journey to the Moon as a practical precedent. The novel moves between such confined spaces and sweeping vistas: the harbour of Clifden, the deck of a warship, the trajectory of a projectile aimed at a comet. Griffith uses these shifts to keep the reader aware that individual actions have planetary consequences.

Recurring Images of Flight and Light

Two images recur with notable frequency: flight and light. The hybrid craft on the drawing desk is only the first of several flying machines; later, the 'Flying Fish' appears, and the 'Auriole' hoists the White Ensign. Light appears in multiple forms: the 'lantern' design on the desk, the 'magnificent display of celestial fireworks' predicted for the comet's destruction, and the 'Night of Terror' that begins and ends under darkness. These motifs are not merely decorative; they structure the narrative's movement between hope and dread. The comet itself is a celestial body that brings both light (discovery) and peril (impact). Griffith uses these recurring elements to create a visual and thematic coherence across the novel's many scenes.

Dialogue as a Vehicle for Exposition

Griffith frequently uses dialogue to convey technical information and advance the plot. In the excerpted passage, Mr. Parmenter, Lord Westerham, and Lennard discuss the comet threat through a conversation that blends scientific explanation with financial negotiation. Parmenter's offer to buy a colliery to house a cannon is presented as a matter of 'new-world enterprise helped with old-world brains.' The dialogue is brisk and functional, often carrying the burden of exposition that a modern novel might assign to narration. This technique allows Griffith to move quickly between scenes—from a Connemara room to a Lancashire colliery to a naval engagement—without slowing the pace. The result is a narrative that feels both talky and urgent, as characters debate, plan, and argue their way through the crisis.

The Comet as Catalyst and Mirror

The comet that threatens Earth is more than a disaster plot device; it serves as a mirror for human ambition and folly. Lennard's plan to destroy it with a giant cannon explicitly echoes Jules Verne, but Griffith adds a layer of financial and national rivalry. The comet's approach forces characters to reveal their priorities: Parmenter wants to 'show what new-world enterprise' can do; Lord Westerham worries about the cost to 'surrounding property.' The comet is also a narrative catalyst, accelerating the action from personal drama to global crisis. Its presence justifies the novel's rapid scene changes, as characters race to prepare for impact. In this way, the comet is both a literal threat and a structural device that propels the story toward its climax.

Griffith's novel rewards attention to its structural rhythms: the alternation between intimate and panoramic scenes, the recurrence of flight and light imagery, and the use of dialogue to compress exposition. Readers may find it useful to track how each new setting—a room, a ship, a colliery—introduces a different scale of conflict. The comet, though central, is only the final expression of a world already in motion, driven by invention, rivalry, and the desire to transcend limits.

Reading about Griffith’s airship and looming comet, I remembered a summer evening when my father read aloud about a similar flood-threatened world, and how strangely peaceful his voice made the end of everything feel. The Second Deluge — Context and Discussion brought back that same quiet hush—catastrophe rendered as a slow, almost tender revelation, not chaos but a closing curtain.