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’œuvre_ 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.”