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PRESIDENT BARBICANE’S COMMUNICATION
On the 5th of October, at eight p.m., a dense crowd pressed toward the
saloons of the Gun Club at No. 21 Union Square. All the members of the
association resident in Baltimore attended the invitation of their president.
As regards the corresponding members, notices were delivered by hundreds
throughout the streets of the city, and, large as was the great hall, it was
quite inadequate to accommodate the crowd of savants. They overflowed into the
adjoining rooms, down the narrow passages, into the outer courtyards. There
they ran against the vulgar herd who pressed up to the doors, each struggling
to reach the front ranks, all eager to learn the nature of the important
communication of President Barbicane; all pushing, squeezing, crushing with
that perfect freedom of action which is so peculiar to the masses when educated
in ideas of “self-government.”
On that evening a stranger who might have chanced to be in Baltimore
could not have gained admission for love or money into the great hall. That was
reserved exclusively for resident or corresponding members; no one else could
possibly have obtained a place; and the city magnates, municipal councilors,
and “select men” were compelled to mingle with the mere townspeople
in order to catch stray bits of news from the interior.
Nevertheless the vast hall presented a curious spectacle. Its immense
area was singularly adapted to the purpose. Lofty pillars formed of cannon,
superposed upon huge mortars as a base, supported the fine ironwork of the
arches, a perfect piece of cast-iron lacework. Trophies of blunderbuses,
matchlocks, arquebuses, carbines, all kinds of firearms, ancient and modern,
were picturesquely interlaced against the walls. The gas lit up in full glare
myriads of revolvers grouped in the form of lustres, while groups of pistols,
and candelabra formed of muskets bound together, completed this magnificent
display of brilliance. Models of cannon, bronze castings, sights covered with
dents, plates battered by the shots of the Gun Club, assortments of rammers and
sponges, chaplets of shells, wreaths of projectiles, garlands of
howitzers— in short, all the apparatus of the artillerist, enchanted the
eye by this wonderful arrangement and induced a kind of belief that their real
purpose was ornamental rather than deadly.
At the further end of the saloon the president, assisted by four
secretaries, occupied a large platform. His chair, supported by a carved
gun-carriage, was modeled upon the ponderous proportions of a 32-inch mortar.
It was pointed at an angle of ninety degrees, and suspended upon truncheons, so
that the president could balance himself upon it as upon a rocking-chair, a
very agreeable fact in the very hot weather. Upon the table (a huge iron plate
supported upon six carronades) stood an inkstand of exquisite elegance, made of
a beautifully chased Spanish piece, and a sonnette, which, when required, could
give forth a report equal to that of a revolver. During violent debates this
novel kind of bell scarcely sufficed to drown the clamor of these excitable
artillerists.
In front of the table benches arranged in zigzag form, like the
circumvallations of a retrenchment, formed a succession of bastions and
curtains set apart for the use of the members of the club; and on this especial
evening one might say, “All the world was on the ramparts.” The
president was sufficiently well known, however, for all to be assured that he
would not put his colleagues to discomfort without some very strong motive.
Impey Barbicane was a man of forty years of age, calm, cold, austere; of
a singularly serious and self-contained demeanor, punctual as a chronometer, of
imperturbable temper and immovable character; by no means chivalrous, yet
adventurous withal, and always bringing practical ideas to bear upon the very
rashest enterprises; an essentially New Englander, a Northern colonist, a
descendant of the old anti-Stuart Roundheads, and the implacable enemy of the
gentlemen of the South, those ancient cavaliers of the mother country. In a
word, he was a Yankee to the backbone.
Barbicane had made a large fortune as a timber merchant. Being nominated
director of artillery during the war, he proved himself fertile in invention.
Bold in his conceptions, he contributed powerfully to the progress of that arm
and gave an immense impetus to experimental researches.
He was personage of the middle height, having, by a rare exception in
the Gun Club, all his limbs complete. His strongly marked features seemed drawn
by square and rule; and if it be true that, in order to judge a man’s
character one must look at his profile, Barbicane, so examined, exhibited the
most certain indications of energy, audacity, and sang-froid.
At this moment he was sitting in his armchair, silent, absorbed, lost in
reflection, sheltered under his high-crowned hat— a kind of black
cylinder which always seems firmly screwed upon the head of an American.
Just when the deep-toned clock in the great hall struck eight,
Barbicane, as if he had been set in motion by a spring, raised himself up. A
profound silence ensued, and the speaker, in a somewhat emphatic tone of voice,
commenced as follows:
“My brave, colleagues, too long already a paralyzing peace has
plunged the members of the Gun Club in deplorable inactivity. After a period of
years full of incidents we have been compelled to abandon our labors, and to
stop short on the road of progress. I do not hesitate to state, baldly, that
any war which would recall us to arms would be welcome!” (Tremendous
applause!) “But war, gentlemen, is impossible under existing
circumstances; and, however we may desire it, many years may elapse before our
cannon shall again thunder in the field of battle. We must make up our minds, then,
to seek in another train of ideas some field for the activity which we all pine
for.”
The meeting felt that the president was now approaching the critical
point, and redoubled their attention accordingly.
“For some months past, my brave colleagues,” continued Barbicane,
“I have been asking myself whether, while confining ourselves to our own
particular objects, we could not enter upon some grand experiment worthy of the
nineteenth century; and whether the progress of artillery science would not
enable us to carry it out to a successful issue. I have been considering,
working, calculating; and the result of my studies is the conviction that we
are safe to succeed in an enterprise which to any other country would appear
wholly impracticable. This project, the result of long elaboration, is the
object of my present communication. It is worthy of yourselves, worthy of the
antecedents of the Gun Club; and it cannot fail to make some noise in the
world.”
A thrill of excitement ran through the meeting.
Barbicane, having by a rapid movement firmly fixed his hat upon his
head, calmly continued his harangue:
“There is no one among you, my brave colleagues, who has not seen
the Moon, or, at least, heard speak of it. Don’t be surprised if I am
about to discourse to you regarding the Queen of the Night. It is perhaps
reserved for us to become the Columbuses of this unknown world. Only enter into
my plans, and second me with all your power, and I will lead you to its
conquest, and its name shall be added to those of the thirty-six states which
compose this Great Union.”
“Three cheers for the Moon!” roared the Gun Club, with one
voice.
“The moon, gentlemen, has been carefully studied,” continued
Barbicane; “her mass, density, and weight; her constitution, motions,
distance, as well as her place in the solar system, have all been exactly
determined. Selenographic charts have been constructed with a perfection which
equals, if it does not even surpass, that of our terrestrial maps. Photography
has given us proofs of the incomparable beauty of our satellite; all is known
regarding the moon which mathematical science, astronomy, geology, and optics
can learn about her. But up to the present moment no direct communication has
been established with her.”
A violent movement of interest and surprise here greeted this remark of
the speaker.
“Permit me,” he continued, “to recount to you briefly
how certain ardent spirits, starting on imaginary journeys, have penetrated the
secrets of our satellite. In the seventeenth century a certain David Fabricius
boasted of having seen with his own eyes the inhabitants of the moon. In 1649 a
Frenchman, one Jean Baudoin, published a ‘Journey performed from the
Earth to the Moon by Domingo Gonzalez,’ a Spanish adventurer. At the same
period Cyrano de Bergerac published that celebrated ‘Journeys in the
Moon’ which met with such success in France. Somewhat later another
Frenchman, named Fontenelle, wrote ‘The Plurality of Worlds,’ a
chef-d’oeuvre of its time. About 1835 a small treatise, translated from
the New York American, related how Sir John Herschel, having been despatched to
the Cape of Good Hope for the purpose of making there some astronomical
calculations, had, by means of a telescope brought to perfection by means of
internal lighting, reduced the apparent distance of the moon to eighty yards!
He then distinctly perceived caverns frequented by hippopotami, green mountains
bordered by golden lace-work, sheep with horns of ivory, a white species of
deer and inhabitants with membranous wings, like bats. This brochure, the work
of an American named Locke, had a great sale. But, to bring this rapid sketch
to a close, I will only add that a certain Hans Pfaal, of Rotterdam, launching
himself in a balloon filled with a gas extracted from nitrogen, thirty-seven
times lighter than hydrogen, reached the moon after a passage of nineteen
hours. This journey, like all previous ones, was purely imaginary; still, it
was the work of a popular American author— I mean Edgar Poe!”
“Cheers for Edgar Poe!” roared the assemblage, electrified
by their president’s words.
“I have now enumerated,” said Barbicane, “the
experiments which I call purely paper ones, and wholly insufficient to
establish serious relations with the Queen of the Night. Nevertheless, I am
bound to add that some practical geniuses have attempted to establish actual
communication with her. Thus, a few days ago, a German geometrician proposed to
send a scientific expedition to the steppes of Siberia. There, on those vast
plains, they were to describe enormous geometric figures, drawn in characters
of reflecting luminosity, among which was the proposition regarding the
‘square of the hypothenuse,’ commonly called the ‘Ass’s
Bridge’ by the French. ‘Every intelligent being,’ said the
geometrician, ‘must understand the scientific meaning of that figure. The
Selenites, do they exist, will respond by a similar figure; and, a
communication being thus once established, it will be easy to form an alphabet
which shall enable us to converse with the inhabitants of the moon.’ So spoke
the German geometrician; but his project was never put into practice, and up to
the present day there is no bond in existence between the Earth and her
satellite. It is reserved for the practical genius of Americans to establish a
communication with the sidereal world. The means of arriving thither are
simple, easy, certain, infallible— and that is the purpose of my present
proposal.”
A storm of acclamations greeted these words. There was not a single
person in the whole audience who was not overcome, carried away, lifted out of
himself by the speaker’s words!
Long-continued applause resounded from all sides.
As soon as the excitement had partially subsided, Barbicane resumed his
speech in a somewhat graver voice.
“You know,” said he, “what progress artillery science
has made during the last few years, and what a degree of perfection firearms of
every kind have reached. Moreover, you are well aware that, in general terms,
the resisting power of cannon and the expansive force of gunpowder are
practically unlimited. Well! starting from this principle, I ask myself
whether, supposing sufficient apparatus could be obtained constructed upon the
conditions of ascertained resistance, it might not be possible to project a
shot up to the moon?”
At these words a murmur of amazement escaped from a thousand panting
chests; then succeeded a moment of perfect silence, resembling that profound
stillness which precedes the bursting of a thunderstorm. In point of fact, a
thunderstorm did peal forth, but it was the thunder of applause, or cries, and
of uproar which made the very hall tremble. The president attempted to speak,
but could not. It was fully ten minutes before he could make himself heard.
“Suffer me to finish,” he calmly continued. “I have
looked at the question in all its bearings, I have resolutely attacked it, and
by incontrovertible calculations I find that a projectile endowed with an
initial velocity of 12,000 yards per second, and aimed at the moon, must
necessarily reach it. I have the honor, my brave colleagues, to propose a trial
of this little experiment.”
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