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Title: From the Earth to the moon; and, round the moon

Author: Jules Verne

Release date: September 1, 1993 [eBook #83]
Most recently updated: November 24, 2023

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/83

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM THE
EARTH TO THE MOON; AND, ROUND THE MOON ***

From the Earth to the
Moon

by Jules Verne

Contents: From the Earth to the Moon

CHAPTER I. The Gun Club
CHAPTER II. President Barbicane’s Communication
CHAPTER III. Effect of the President’s Communication
CHAPTER IV. Reply From the Observatory of Cambridge
CHAPTER V. The Romance of the Moon
CHAPTER VI. The Permissive Limits of Ignorance and Belief in the
United States
CHAPTER VII. The Hymn of the Cannon-Ball
CHAPTER VIII. History of the Cannon
CHAPTER IX. The Question of the Powders
CHAPTER X. One Enemy v. Twenty-Five Millions of Friends
CHAPTER XI. Florida and Texas
CHAPTER XII. Urbi et Orbi
CHAPTER XIII. Stones Hill
CHAPTER XIV. Pickaxe and Trowel
CHAPTER XV. The Fete of the Casting
CHAPTER XVI. The Columbiad
CHAPTER XVII. A Telegraphic Dispatch
CHAPTER XVIII. The Passenger of the Atlanta
CHAPTER XIX. A Monster Meeting
CHAPTER XX. Attack and Riposte
CHAPTER XXI. How A Frenchman Manages An Affair
CHAPTER XXII. The New Citizen of the United States
CHAPTER XXIII. The Projectile-Vehicle
CHAPTER XXIV. The Telescope of the Rocky Mountains
CHAPTER XXV. Final Details

CHAPTER XXVI. Fire!
CHAPTER XXVII. Foul Weather
CHAPTER XXVIII. A New Star

Contents: Round the Moon

PRELIMINARY CHAPTER—Recapitulating the First Part of
This Work, and Serving as a Preface to the Second
CHAPTER I. From Twenty Minutes Past Ten to Forty-Seven Minutes Past
Ten P. M.
CHAPTER II. The First Half Hour
CHAPTER III. Their Place of Shelter
CHAPTER IV. A Little Algebra
CHAPTER V. The Cold of Space
CHAPTER VI. Question and Answer
CHAPTER VII. A Moment of Intoxication
CHAPTER VIII.At Seventy-Eight Thousand Five Hundred and Fourteen
Leagues
CHAPTER IX. The Consequences of A Deviation
CHAPTER X. The Observers of the Moon
CHAPTER XI. Fancy and Reality
CHAPTER XII. Orographic Details
CHAPTER XIII. Lunar Landscapes
CHAPTER XIV. The Night of Three Hundred and Fifty-Four Hours and A
Half
CHAPTER XV. Hyperbola or Parabola
CHAPTER XVI. The Southern Hemisphere
CHAPTER XVII. Tycho
CHAPTER XVIII. Grave Questions
CHAPTER XIX. A Struggle Against the Impossible
CHAPTER XX. The Soundings of the Susquehanna
CHAPTER XXI. J. T. Maston Recalled

CHAPTER XXII. Recovered From the Sea
CHAPTER XXIII. The End

FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON

CHAPTER I.
THE GUN CLUB

During the War of the Rebellion, a new and influential club was
established in the city of Baltimore in the State of Maryland. It is well
known with what energy the taste for military matters became developed
among that nation of ship-owners, shopkeepers, and mechanics. Simple
tradesmen jumped their counters to become extemporized captains,
colonels, and generals, without having ever passed the School of Instruction
at West Point; nevertheless; they quickly rivaled their compeers of the old
continent, and, like them, carried off victories by dint of lavish expenditure
in ammunition, money, and men.
But the point in which the Americans singularly distanced the Europeans
was in the science of gunnery. Not, indeed, that their weapons retained a
higher degree of perfection than theirs, but that they exhibited unheard-of
dimensions, and consequently attained hitherto unheard-of ranges. In point
of grazing, plunging, oblique, or enfilading, or point-blank firing, the
English, French, and Prussians have nothing to learn; but their cannon,
howitzers, and mortars are mere pocket-pistols compared with the
formidable engines of the American artillery.
This fact need surprise no one. The Yankees, the first mechanicians in the
world, are engineers—just as the Italians are musicians and the Germans
metaphysicians—by right of birth. Nothing is more natural, therefore, than
to perceive them applying their audacious ingenuity to the science of
gunnery. Witness the marvels of Parrott, Dahlgren, and Rodman. The
Armstrong, Palliser, and Beaulieu guns were compelled to bow before their
transatlantic rivals.
Now when an American has an idea, he directly seeks a second American
to share it. If there be three, they elect a president and two secretaries.
Given four, they name a keeper of records, and the office is ready for work;
five, they convene a general meeting, and the club is fully constituted. So

things were managed in Baltimore. The inventor of a new cannon
associated himself with the caster and the borer. Thus was formed the
nucleus of the “Gun Club.” In a single month after its formation it
numbered 1,833 effective members and 30,565 corresponding members.
One condition was imposed as a sine quâ non upon every candidate for
admission into the association, and that was the condition of having
designed, or (more or less) perfected a cannon; or, in default of a cannon, at
least a firearm of some description. It may, however, be mentioned that
mere inventors of revolvers, fire-shooting carbines, and similar small arms,
met with little consideration. Artillerists always commanded the chief place
of favor.
The estimation in which these gentlemen were held, according to one of
the most scientific exponents of the Gun Club, was “proportional to the
masses of their guns, and in the direct ratio of the square of the distances
attained by their projectiles.”
The Gun Club once founded, it is easy to conceive the result of the
inventive genius of the Americans. Their military weapons attained colossal
proportions, and their projectiles, exceeding the prescribed limits,
unfortunately occasionally cut in two some unoffending pedestrians. These
inventions, in fact, left far in the rear the timid instruments of European
artillery.
It is but fair to add that these Yankees, brave as they have ever proved
themselves to be, did not confine themselves to theories and formulae, but
that they paid heavily, in propriâ personâ, for their inventions. Among them
were to be counted officers of all ranks, from lieutenants to generals;
military men of every age, from those who were just making their début in
the profession of arms up to those who had grown old in the gun-carriage.
Many had found their rest on the field of battle whose names figured in the
“Book of Honor” of the Gun Club; and of those who made good their return
the greater proportion bore the marks of their indisputable valor. Crutches,
wooden legs, artificial arms, steel hooks, caoutchouc jaws, silver craniums,
platinum noses, were all to be found in the collection; and it was calculated
by the great statistician Pitcairn that throughout the Gun Club there was not
quite one arm between four persons and two legs between six.
Nevertheless, these valiant artillerists took no particular account of these
little facts, and felt justly proud when the despatches of a battle returned the

number of victims at ten-fold the quantity of projectiles expended.
One day, however—sad and melancholy day!—peace was signed
between the survivors of the war; the thunder of the guns gradually ceased,
the mortars were silent, the howitzers were muzzled for an indefinite
period, the cannon, with muzzles depressed, were returned into the arsenal,
the shot were repiled, all bloody reminiscences were effaced; the cotton-
plants grew luxuriantly in the well-manured fields, all mourning garments
were laid aside, together with grief; and the Gun Club was relegated to
profound inactivity.
Some few of the more advanced and inveterate theorists set themselves
again to work upon calculations regarding the laws of projectiles. They
reverted invariably to gigantic shells and howitzers of unparalleled caliber.
Still in default of practical experience what was the value of mere theories?
Consequently, the clubrooms became deserted, the servants dozed in the
antechambers, the newspapers grew mouldy on the tables, sounds of
snoring came from dark corners, and the members of the Gun Club,
erstwhile so noisy in their seances, were reduced to silence by this
disastrous peace and gave themselves up wholly to dreams of a Platonic
kind of artillery.
“This is horrible!” said Tom Hunter one evening, while rapidly
carbonizing his wooden legs in the fireplace of the smoking-room; “nothing
to do! nothing to look forward to! what a loathsome existence! When again
shall the guns arouse us in the morning with their delightful reports?”
“Those days are gone by,” said jolly Bilsby, trying to extend his missing
arms. “It was delightful once upon a time! One invented a gun, and hardly
was it cast, when one hastened to try it in the face of the enemy! Then one
returned to camp with a word of encouragement from Sherman or a friendly
shake of the hand from McClellan. But now the generals are gone back to
their counters; and in place of projectiles, they despatch bales of cotton. By
Jove, the future of gunnery in America is lost!”
“Ay! and no war in prospect!” continued the famous James T. Maston,
scratching with his steel hook his gutta-percha cranium. “Not a cloud on the
horizon! and that too at such a critical period in the progress of the science
of artillery! Yes, gentlemen! I who address you have myself this very
morning perfected a model (plan, section, elevation, etc.) of a mortar
destined to change all the conditions of warfare!”

“No! is it possible?” replied Tom Hunter, his thoughts reverting
involuntarily to a former invention of the Hon. J. T. Maston, by which, at its
first trial, he had succeeded in killing three hundred and thirty-seven people.
“Fact!” replied he. “Still, what is the use of so many studies worked out,
so many difficulties vanquished? It’s mere waste of time! The New World
seems to have made up its mind to live in peace; and our bellicose Tribune
predicts some approaching catastrophes arising out of this scandalous
increase of population.”
“Nevertheless,” replied Colonel Blomsberry, “they are always struggling
in Europe to maintain the principle of nationalities.”
“Well?”
“Well, there might be some field for enterprise down there; and if they
would accept our services—”
“What are you dreaming of?” screamed Bilsby; “work at gunnery for the
benefit of foreigners?”
“That would be better than doing nothing here,” returned the colonel.
“Quite so,” said J. T. Matson; “but still we need not dream of that
expedient.”
“And why not?” demanded the colonel.
“Because their ideas of progress in the Old World are contrary to our
American habits of thought. Those fellows believe that one can’t become a
general without having served first as an ensign; which is as much as to say
that one can’t point a gun without having first cast it oneself!”
“Ridiculous!” replied Tom Hunter, whittling with his bowie-knife the
arms of his easy chair; “but if that be the case there, all that is left for us is
to plant tobacco and distill whale-oil.”
“What!” roared J. T. Maston, “shall we not employ these remaining years
of our life in perfecting firearms? Shall there never be a fresh opportunity of
trying the ranges of projectiles? Shall the air never again be lighted with the
glare of our guns? No international difficulty ever arise to enable us to
declare war against some transatlantic power? Shall not the French sink one
of our steamers, or the English, in defiance of the rights of nations, hang a
few of our countrymen?”

“No such luck,” replied Colonel Blomsberry; “nothing of the kind is
likely to happen; and even if it did, we should not profit by it. American
susceptibility is fast declining, and we are all going to the dogs.”
“It is too true,” replied J. T. Maston, with fresh violence; “there are a
thousand grounds for fighting, and yet we don’t fight. We save up our arms
and legs for the benefit of nations who don’t know what to do with them!
But stop—without going out of one’s way to find a cause for war—did not
North America once belong to the English?”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Tom Hunter, stamping his crutch with fury.
“Well, then,” replied J. T. Maston, “why should not England in her turn
belong to the Americans?”
“It would be but just and fair,” returned Colonel Blomsberry.
“Go and propose it to the President of the United States,” cried J. T.
Maston, “and see how he will receive you.”
“Bah!” growled Bilsby between the four teeth which the war had left
him; “that will never do!”
“By Jove!” cried J. T. Maston, “he mustn’t count on my vote at the next
election!”
“Nor on ours,” replied unanimously all the bellicose invalids.
“Meanwhile,” replied J. T. Maston, “allow me to say that, if I cannot get
an opportunity to try my new mortars on a real field of battle, I shall say
good-by to the members of the Gun Club, and go and bury myself in the
prairies of Arkansas!”
“In that case we will accompany you,” cried the others.
Matters were in this unfortunate condition, and the club was threatened
with approaching dissolution, when an unexpected circumstance occurred
to prevent so deplorable a catastrophe.
On the morrow after this conversation every member of the association
received a sealed circular couched in the following terms:
BALTIMORE, October 3. The president of the Gun Club has the honor
to inform his colleagues that, at the meeting of the 5th instant, he will bring
before them a communication of an extremely interesting nature. He
requests, therefore, that they will make it convenient to attend in accordance
with the present invitation. Very cordially, IMPEY BARBICANE, P.G.C.

CHAPTER II.
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.”

CHAPTER III.
EFFECT OF THE PRESIDENT’S
COMMUNICATION

It is impossible to describe the effect produced by the last words of the
honorable president—the cries, the shouts, the succession of roars, hurrahs,
and all the varied vociferations which the American language is capable of
supplying. It was a scene of indescribable confusion and uproar. They
shouted, they clapped, they stamped on the floor of the hall. All the
weapons in the museum discharged at once could not have more violently
set in motion the waves of sound. One need not be surprised at this. There
are some cannoneers nearly as noisy as their own guns.
Barbicane remained calm in the midst of this enthusiastic clamor;
perhaps he was desirous of addressing a few more words to his colleagues,
for by his gestures he demanded silence, and his powerful alarum was worn
out by its violent reports. No attention, however, was paid to his request. He
was presently torn from his seat and passed from the hands of his faithful
colleagues into the arms of a no less excited crowd.
Nothing can astound an American. It has often been asserted that the
word “impossible” is not a French one. People have evidently been
deceived by the dictionary. In America, all is easy, all is simple; and as for
mechanical difficulties, they are overcome before they arise. Between
Barbicane’s proposition and its realization no true Yankee would have
allowed even the semblance of a difficulty to be possible. A thing with them
is no sooner said than done.
The triumphal progress of the president continued throughout the
evening. It was a regular torchlight procession. Irish, Germans, French,
Scotch, all the heterogeneous units which make up the population of

Maryland shouted in their respective vernaculars; and the “vivas,”
“hurrahs,” and “bravos” were intermingled in inexpressible enthusiasm.
Just at this crisis, as though she comprehended all this agitation regarding
herself, the moon shone forth with serene splendor, eclipsing by her intense
illumination all the surrounding lights. The Yankees all turned their gaze
toward her resplendent orb, kissed their hands, called her by all kinds of
endearing names. Between eight o’clock and midnight one optician in
Jones’-Fall Street made his fortune by the sale of opera-glasses.
Midnight arrived, and the enthusiasm showed no signs of diminution. It
spread equally among all classes of citizens—men of science, shopkeepers,
merchants, porters, chair-men, as well as “greenhorns,” were stirred in their
innermost fibres. A national enterprise was at stake. The whole city, high
and low, the quays bordering the Patapsco, the ships lying in the basins,
disgorged a crowd drunk with joy, gin, and whisky. Every one chattered,
argued, discussed, disputed, applauded, from the gentleman lounging upon
the barroom settee with his tumbler of sherry-cobbler before him down to
the waterman who got drunk upon his “knock-me-down” in the dingy
taverns of Fell Point.
About two A.M., however, the excitement began to subside. President
Barbicane reached his house, bruised, crushed, and squeezed almost to a
mummy. Hercules could not have resisted a similar outbreak of enthusiasm.
The crowd gradually deserted the squares and streets. The four railways
from Philadelphia and Washington, Harrisburg and Wheeling, which
converge at Baltimore, whirled away the heterogeneous population to the
four corners of the United States, and the city subsided into comparative
tranquility.
On the following day, thanks to the telegraphic wires, five hundred
newspapers and journals, daily, weekly, monthly, or bi-monthly, all took up
the question. They examined it under all its different aspects, physical,
meteorological, economical, or moral, up to its bearings on politics or
civilization. They debated whether the moon was a finished world, or
whether it was destined to undergo any further transformation. Did it
resemble the earth at the period when the latter was destitute as yet of an
atmosphere? What kind of spectacle would its hidden hemisphere present to
our terrestrial spheroid? Granting that the question at present was simply
that of sending a projectile up to the moon, every one must see that that

involved the commencement of a series of experiments. All must hope that
some day America would penetrate the deepest secrets of that mysterious
orb; and some even seemed to fear lest its conquest should not sensibly
derange the equilibrium of Europe.
The project once under discussion, not a single paragraph suggested a
doubt of its realization. All the papers, pamphlets, reports—all the journals
published by the scientific, literary, and religious societies enlarged upon its
advantages; and the Society of Natural History of Boston, the Society of
Science and Art of Albany, the Geographical and Statistical Society of New
York, the Philosophical Society of Philadelphia, and the Smithsonian of
Washington sent innumerable letters of congratulation to the Gun Club,
together with offers of immediate assistance and money.
From that day forward Impey Barbicane became one of the greatest
citizens of the United States, a kind of Washington of science. A single trait
of feeling, taken from many others, will serve to show the point which this
homage of a whole people to a single individual attained.
Some few days after this memorable meeting of the Gun Club, the
manager of an English company announced, at the Baltimore theatre, the
production of “Much ado about Nothing.” But the populace, seeing in that
title an allusion damaging to Barbicane’s project, broke into the auditorium,
smashed the benches, and compelled the unlucky director to alter his
playbill. Being a sensible man, he bowed to the public will and replaced the
offending comedy by “As you like it”; and for many weeks he realized
fabulous profits.

CHAPTER IV.
REPLY FROM THE OBSERVATORY OF
CAMBRIDGE

Barbicane, however, lost not one moment amid all the enthusiasm of
which he had become the object. His first care was to reassemble his
colleagues in the board-room of the Gun Club. There, after some
discussion, it was agreed to consult the astronomers regarding the
astronomical part of the enterprise. Their reply once ascertained, they could
then discuss the mechanical means, and nothing should be wanting to
ensure the success of this great experiment.
A note couched in precise terms, containing special interrogatories, was
then drawn up and addressed to the Observatory of Cambridge in
Massachusetts. This city, where the first university of the United States was
founded, is justly celebrated for its astronomical staff. There are to be found
assembled all the most eminent men of science. Here is to be seen at work
that powerful telescope which enabled Bond to resolve the nebula of
Andromeda, and Clarke to discover the satellite of Sirius. This celebrated
institution fully justified on all points the confidence reposed in it by the
Gun Club. So, after two days, the reply so impatiently awaited was placed
in the hands of President Barbicane.
It was couched in the following terms:
The Director of the Cambridge Observatory to the President of the Gun
Club at Baltimore.
CAMBRIDGE, October 7. On the receipt of your favor of the 6th instant,
addressed to the Observatory of Cambridge in the name of the members of
the Baltimore Gun Club, our staff was immediately called together, and it
was judged expedient to reply as follows:

The questions which have been proposed to it are these—
“1. Is it possible to transmit a projectile up to the moon?
“2. What is the exact distance which separates the earth from its satellite?
“3. What will be the period of transit of the projectile when endowed
with sufficient initial velocity? and, consequently, at what moment ought it
to be discharged in order that it may touch the moon at a particular point?
“4. At what precise moment will the moon present herself in the most
favorable position to be reached by the projectile?
“5. What point in the heavens ought the cannon to be aimed at which is
intended to discharge the projectile?
“6. What place will the moon occupy in the heavens at the moment of the
projectile’s departure?”
Regarding the first question, “Is it possible to transmit a projectile up to
the moon?”
Answer.—Yes; provided it possess an initial velocity of 12,000 yards per
second; calculations prove that to be sufficient. In proportion as we recede
from the earth the action of gravitation diminishes in the inverse ratio of the
square of the distance; that is to say, at three times a given distance the
action is nine times less. Consequently, the weight of a shot will decrease,
and will become reduced to zero at the instant that the attraction of the
moon exactly counterpoises that of the earth; that is to say at 47/52 of its
passage. At that instant the projectile will have no weight whatever; and, if
it passes that point, it will fall into the moon by the sole effect of the lunar
attraction. The theoretical possibility of the experiment is therefore
absolutely demonstrated; its success must depend upon the power of the
engine employed.
As to the second question, “What is the exact distance which separates
the earth from its satellite?”
Answer.—The moon does not describe a circle round the earth, but rather
an ellipse, of which our earth occupies one of the foci; the consequence,
therefore, is, that at certain times it approaches nearer to, and at others it
recedes farther from, the earth; in astronomical language, it is at one time in
apogee, at another in perigee. Now the difference between its greatest and
its least distance is too considerable to be left out of consideration. In point
of fact, in its apogee the moon is 247,552 miles, and in its perigee, 218,657

miles only distant; a fact which makes a difference of 28,895 miles, or more
than one-ninth of the entire distance. The perigee distance, therefore, is that
which ought to serve as the basis of all calculations.
To the third question:—
Answer.—If the shot should preserve continuously its initial velocity of
12,000 yards per second, it would require little more than nine hours to
reach its destination; but, inasmuch as that initial velocity will be
continually decreasing, it will occupy 300,000 seconds, that is 83hrs. 20m.
in reaching the point where the attraction of the earth and moon will be in
equilibrio. From this point it will fall into the moon in 50,000 seconds, or
13hrs. 53m. 20sec. It will be desirable, therefore, to discharge it 97hrs. 13m.
20sec. before the arrival of the moon at the point aimed at.
Regarding question four, “At what precise moment will the moon present
herself in the most favorable position, etc.?”
Answer.—After what has been said above, it will be necessary, first of all,
to choose the period when the moon will be in perigee, and also the
moment when she will be crossing the zenith, which latter event will further
diminish the entire distance by a length equal to the radius of the earth, i. e.
3,919 miles; the result of which will be that the final passage remaining to
be accomplished will be 214,976 miles. But although the moon passes her
perigee every month, she does not reach the zenith always at exactly the
same moment. She does not appear under these two conditions
simultaneously, except at long intervals of time. It will be necessary,
therefore, to wait for the moment when her passage in perigee shall
coincide with that in the zenith. Now, by a fortunate circumstance, on the
4th of December in the ensuing year the moon will present these two
conditions. At midnight she will be in perigee, that is, at her shortest
distance from the earth, and at the same moment she will be crossing the
zenith.
On the fifth question, “At what point in the heavens ought the cannon to
be aimed?”
Answer.—The preceding remarks being admitted, the cannon ought to be
pointed to the zenith of the place. Its fire, therefore, will be perpendicular to
the plane of the horizon; and the projectile will soonest pass beyond the
range of the terrestrial attraction. But, in order that the moon should reach
the zenith of a given place, it is necessary that the place should not exceed

in latitude the declination of the luminary; in other words, it must be
comprised within the degrees 0° and 28° of lat. N. or S. In every other spot
the fire must necessarily be oblique, which would seriously militate against
the success of the experiment.
As to the sixth question, “What place will the moon occupy in the
heavens at the moment of the projectile’s departure?”
Answer.—At the moment when the projectile shall be discharged into
space, the moon, which travels daily forward 13° 10′ 35″, will be distant
from the zenith point by four times that quantity, i. e. by 52° 41′ 20″, a
space which corresponds to the path which she will describe during the
entire journey of the projectile. But, inasmuch as it is equally necessary to
take into account the deviation which the rotary motion of the earth will
impart to the shot, and as the shot cannot reach the moon until after a
deviation equal to 16 radii of the earth, which, calculated upon the moon’s
orbit, are equal to about eleven degrees, it becomes necessary to add these
eleven degrees to those which express the retardation of the moon just
mentioned: that is to say, in round numbers, about sixty-four degrees.
Consequently, at the moment of firing the visual radius applied to the moon
will describe, with the vertical line of the place, an angle of sixty-four
degrees.
These are our answers to the questions proposed to the Observatory of
Cambridge by the members of the Gun Club:—
To sum up—
1st. The cannon ought to be planted in a country situated between 0° and
28° of N. or S. lat.
2nd. It ought to be pointed directly toward the zenith of the place.
3rd. The projectile ought to be propelled with an initial velocity of 12,000
yards per second.
4th. It ought to be discharged at 10hrs. 46m. 40sec. of the 1st of
December of the ensuing year.
5th. It will meet the moon four days after its discharge, precisely at
midnight on the 4th of December, at the moment of its transit across the
zenith.
The members of the Gun Club ought, therefore, without delay, to
commence the works necessary for such an experiment, and to be prepared

to set to work at the moment determined upon; for, if they should suffer this
4th of December to go by, they will not find the moon again under the same
conditions of perigee and of zenith until eighteen years and eleven days
afterward.
The staff of the Cambridge Observatory place themselves entirely at their
disposal in respect of all questions of theoretical astronomy; and herewith
add their congratulations to those of all the rest of America. For the
Astronomical Staff, J. M. BELFAST, Director of the Observatory of
Cambridge.

CHAPTER V.
THE ROMANCE OF THE MOON

An observer endued with an infinite range of vision, and placed in that
unknown center around which the entire world revolves, might have beheld
myriads of atoms filling all space during the chaotic epoch of the universe.
Little by little, as ages went on, a change took place; a general law of
attraction manifested itself, to which the hitherto errant atoms became
obedient: these atoms combined together chemically according to their
affinities, formed themselves into molecules, and composed those nebulous
masses with which the depths of the heavens are strewed. These masses
became immediately endued with a rotary motion around their own central
point. This center, formed of indefinite molecules, began to revolve around
its own axis during its gradual condensation; then, following the immutable
laws of mechanics, in proportion as its bulk diminished by condensation, its
rotary motion became accelerated, and these two effects continuing, the
result was the formation of one principal star, the center of the nebulous
mass.
By attentively watching, the observer would then have perceived the
other molecules of the mass, following the example of this central star,
become likewise condensed by gradually accelerated rotation, and
gravitating round it in the shape of innumerable stars. Thus was formed the
Nebulæ, of which astronomers have reckoned up nearly 5,000.
Among these 5,000 nebulæ there is one which has received the name of
the Milky Way, and which contains eighteen millions of stars, each of
which has become the center of a solar world.
If the observer had then specially directed his attention to one of the more
humble and less brilliant of these stellar bodies, a star of the fourth class,
that which is arrogantly called the Sun, all the phenomena to which the
formation of the Universe is to be ascribed would have been successively

fulfilled before his eyes. In fact, he would have perceived this sun, as yet in
the gaseous state, and composed of moving molecules, revolving round its
axis in order to accomplish its work of concentration. This motion, faithful
to the laws of mechanics, would have been accelerated with the diminution
of its volume; and a moment would have arrived when the centrifugal force
would have overpowered the centripetal, which causes the molecules all to
tend toward the center.
Another phenomenon would now have passed before the observer’s eye,
and the molecules situated on the plane of the equator, escaping like a stone
from a sling of which the cord had suddenly snapped, would have formed
around the sun sundry concentric rings resembling that of Saturn. In their
turn, again, these rings of cosmical matter, excited by a rotary motion about
the central mass, would have been broken up and decomposed into
secondary nebulosities, that is to say, into planets. Similarly he would have
observed these planets throw off one or more rings each, which became the
origin of the secondary bodies which we call satellites.
Thus, then, advancing from atom to molecule, from molecule to nebulous
mass, from that to principal star, from star to sun, from sun to planet, and
hence to satellite, we have the whole series of transformations undergone by
the heavenly bodies during the first days of the world.
Now, of those attendant bodies which the sun maintains in their elliptical
orbits by the great law of gravitation, some few in turn possess satellites.
Uranus has eight, Saturn eight, Jupiter four, Neptune possibly three, and the
Earth one. This last, one of the least important of the entire solar system, we
call the Moon; and it is she whom the daring genius of the Americans
professed their intention of conquering.
The moon, by her comparative proximity, and the constantly varying
appearances produced by her several phases, has always occupied a
considerable share of the attention of the inhabitants of the earth.
From the time of Thales of Miletus, in the fifth century B.C., down to
that of Copernicus in the fifteenth and Tycho Brahé in the sixteenth century
A.D., observations have been from time to time carried on with more or less
correctness, until in the present day the altitudes of the lunar mountains
have been determined with exactitude. Galileo explained the phenomena of
the lunar light produced during certain of her phases by the existence of
mountains, to which he assigned a mean altitude of 27,000 feet. After him

Hévelius, an astronomer of Dantzic, reduced the highest elevations to
15,000 feet; but the calculations of Riccioli brought them up again to
21,000 feet.
At the close of the eighteenth century Herschel, armed with a powerful
telescope, considerably reduced the preceding measurements. He assigned a
height of 11,400 feet to the maximum elevations, and reduced the mean of
the different altitudes to little more than 2,400 feet. But Herschel’s
calculations were in their turn corrected by the observations of Halley,
Nasmyth, Bianchini, Gruithuysen, and others; but it was reserved for the
labors of Boeer and Maedler finally to solve the question. They succeeded
in measuring 1,905 different elevations, of which six exceed 15,000 feet,
and twenty-two exceed 14,400 feet. The highest summit of all towers to a
height of 22,606 feet above the surface of the lunar disc. At the same period
the examination of the moon was completed. She appeared completely
riddled with craters, and her essentially volcanic character was apparent at
each observation. By the absence of refraction in the rays of the planets
occulted by her we conclude that she is absolutely devoid of an atmosphere.
The absence of air entails the absence of water. It became, therefore,
manifest that the Selenites, to support life under such conditions, must
possess a special organization of their own, must differ remarkably from the
inhabitants of the earth.
At length, thanks to modern art, instruments of still higher perfection
searched the moon without intermission, not leaving a single point of her
surface unexplored; and notwithstanding that her diameter measures 2,150
miles, her surface equals the one-fifteenth part of that of our globe, and her
bulk the one-forty-ninth part of that of the terrestrial spheroid—not one of
her secrets was able to escape the eyes of the astronomers; and these skillful
men of science carried to an even greater degree their prodigious
observations.
Thus they remarked that, during full moon, the disc appeared scored in
certain parts with white lines; and, during the phases, with black. On
prosecuting the study of these with still greater precision, they succeeded in
obtaining an exact account of the nature of these lines. They were long and
narrow furrows sunk between parallel ridges, bordering generally upon the
edges of the craters. Their length varied between ten and 100 miles, and
their width was about 1,600 yards. Astronomers called them chasms, but

they could not get any further. Whether these chasms were the dried-up
beds of ancient rivers or not they were unable thoroughly to ascertain.
The Americans, among others, hoped one day or other to determine this
geological question. They also undertook to examine the true nature of that
system of parallel ramparts discovered on the moon’s surface by
Gruithuysen, a learned professor of Munich, who considered them to be “a
system of fortifications thrown up by the Selenitic engineers.” These two
points, yet obscure, as well as others, no doubt, could not be definitely
settled except by direct communication with the moon.
Regarding the degree of intensity of its light, there was nothing more to
learn on this point. It was known that it is 300,000 times weaker than that of
the sun, and that its heat has no appreciable effect upon the thermometer. As
to the phenomenon known as the “ashy light,” it is explained naturally by
the effect of the transmission of the solar rays from the earth to the moon,
which give the appearance of completeness to the lunar disc, while it
presents itself under the crescent form during its first and last phases.
Such was the state of knowledge acquired regarding the earth’s satellite,
which the Gun Club undertook to perfect in all its aspects, cosmographic,
geological, political, and moral.

CHAPTER VI.
PERMISSIVE LIMITS OF IGNORANCE AND
BELIEF IN THE UNITED STATES

The immediate result of Barbicane’s proposition was to place upon the
orders of the day all the astronomical facts relative to the Queen of the
Night. Everybody set to work to study assiduously. One would have thought
that the moon had just appeared for the first time, and that no one had ever
before caught a glimpse of her in the heavens. The papers revived all the
old anecdotes in which the “sun of the wolves” played a part; they recalled
the influences which the ignorance of past ages ascribed to her; in short, all
America was seized with selenomania, or had become moon-mad.
The scientific journals, for their part, dealt more especially with the
questions which touched upon the enterprise of the Gun Club. The letter of
the Observatory of Cambridge was published by them, and commented
upon with unreserved approval.
Until that time most people had been ignorant of the mode in which the
distance which separates the moon from the earth is calculated. They took
advantage of this fact to explain to them that this distance was obtained by
measuring the parallax of the moon. The term parallax proving “caviare to
the general,” they further explained that it meant the angle formed by the
inclination of two straight lines drawn from either extremity of the earth’s
radius to the moon. On doubts being expressed as to the correctness of this
method, they immediately proved that not only was the mean distance
234,347 miles, but that astronomers could not possibly be in error in their
estimate by more than seventy miles either way.
To those who were not familiar with the motions of the moon, they
demonstrated that she possesses two distinct motions, the first being that of
rotation upon her axis, the second being that of revolution round the earth,

accomplishing both together in an equal period of time, that is to say, in
twenty-seven and one-third days.
The motion of rotation is that which produces day and night on the
surface of the moon; save that there is only one day and one night in the
lunar month, each lasting three hundred and fifty-four and one-third hours.
But, happily for her, the face turned toward the terrestrial globe is
illuminated by it with an intensity equal to that of fourteen moons. As to the
other face, always invisible to us, it has of necessity three hundred and fifty-
four hours of absolute night, tempered only by that “pale glimmer which
falls upon it from the stars.”
Some well-intentioned, but rather obstinate persons, could not at first
comprehend how, if the moon displays invariably the same face to the earth
during her revolution, she can describe one turn round herself. To such they
answered, “Go into your dining-room, and walk round the table in such a
way as to always keep your face turned toward the center; by the time you
will have achieved one complete round you will have completed one turn
around yourself, since your eye will have traversed successively every point
of the room. Well, then, the room is the heavens, the table is the earth, and
the moon is yourself.” And they would go away delighted.
So, then the moon displays invariably the same face to the earth;
nevertheless, to be quite exact, it is necessary to add that, in consequence of
certain fluctuations of north and south, and of west and east, termed her
libration, she permits rather more than half, that is to say, five-sevenths, to
be seen.
As soon as the ignoramuses came to understand as much as the director
of the observatory himself knew, they began to worry themselves regarding
her revolution round the earth, whereupon twenty scientific reviews
immediately came to the rescue. They pointed out to them that the
firmament, with its infinitude of stars, may be considered as one vast dial-
plate, upon which the moon travels, indicating the true time to all the
inhabitants of the earth; that it is during this movement that the Queen of
Night exhibits her different phases; that the moon is full when she is in
opposition with the sun, that is when the three bodies are on the same
straight line, the earth occupying the center; that she is new when she is in
conjunction with the sun, that is, when she is between it and the earth; and,

lastly that she is in her first or last quarter, when she makes with the sun
and the earth an angle of which she herself occupies the apex.
Regarding the altitude which the moon attains above the horizon, the
letter of the Cambridge Observatory had said all that was to be said in this
respect. Every one knew that this altitude varies according to the latitude of
the observer. But the only zones of the globe in which the moon passes the
zenith, that is, the point directly over the head of the spectator, are of
necessity comprised between the twenty-eighth parallels and the equator.
Hence the importance of the advice to try the experiment upon some point
of that part of the globe, in order that the projectile might be discharged
perpendicularly, and so the soonest escape the action of gravitation. This
was an essential condition to the success of the enterprise, and continued
actively to engage the public attention.
Regarding the path described by the moon in her revolution round the
earth, the Cambridge Observatory had demonstrated that this path is a re-
entering curve, not a perfect circle, but an ellipse, of which the earth
occupies one of the foci. It was also well understood that it is farthest
removed from the earth during its apogee, and approaches most nearly to it
at its perigee.
Such was then the extent of knowledge possessed by every American on
the subject, and of which no one could decently profess ignorance. Still,
while these principles were being rapidly disseminated many errors and
illusory fears proved less easy to eradicate.
For instance, some worthy persons maintained that the moon was an
ancient comet which, in describing its elongated orbit round the sun,
happened to pass near the earth, and became confined within her circle of
attraction. These drawing-room astronomers professed to explain the
charred aspect of the moon—a disaster which they attributed to the intensity
of the solar heat; only, on being reminded that comets have an atmosphere,
and that the moon has little or none, they were fairly at a loss for a reply.
Others again, belonging to the doubting class, expressed certain fears as
to the position of the moon. They had heard it said that, according to
observations made in the time of the Caliphs, her revolution had become
accelerated in a certain degree. Hence they concluded, logically enough,
that an acceleration of motion ought to be accompanied by a corresponding
diminution in the distance separating the two bodies; and that, supposing

the double effect to be continued to infinity, the moon would end by one
day falling into the earth. However, they became reassured as to the fate of
future generations on being apprised that, according to the calculations of
Laplace, this acceleration of motion is confined within very restricted
limits, and that a proportional diminution of speed will be certain to succeed
it. So, then, the stability of the solar system would not be deranged in ages
to come.
There remains but the third class, the superstitious. These worthies were
not content merely to rest in ignorance; they must know all about things
which had no existence whatever, and as to the moon, they had long known
all about her. One set regarded her disc as a polished mirror, by means of
which people could see each other from different points of the earth and
interchange their thoughts. Another set pretended that out of one thousand
new moons that had been observed, nine hundred and fifty had been
attended with remarkable disturbances, such as cataclysms, revolutions,
earthquakes, the deluge, etc. Then they believed in some mysterious
influence exercised by her over human destinies—that every Selenite was
attached to some inhabitant of the earth by a tie of sympathy; they
maintained that the entire vital system is subject to her control, etc. But in
time the majority renounced these vulgar errors, and espoused the true side
of the question. As for the Yankees, they had no other ambition than to take
possession of this new continent of the sky, and to plant upon the summit of
its highest elevation the star- spangled banner of the United States of
America.

CHAPTER VII.
THE HYMN OF THE CANNON-BALL

The Observatory of Cambridge in its memorable letter had treated the
question from a purely astronomical point of view. The mechanical part still
remained.
President Barbicane had, without loss of time, nominated a working
committee of the Gun Club. The duty of this committee was to resolve the
three grand questions of the cannon, the projectile, and the powder. It was
composed of four members of great technical knowledge, Barbicane (with a
casting vote in case of equality), General Morgan, Major Elphinstone, and
J. T. Maston, to whom were confided the functions of secretary. On the 8th
of October the committee met at the house of President Barbicane, 3
Republican Street. The meeting was opened by the president himself.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “we have to resolve one of the most important
problems in the whole of the noble science of gunnery. It might appear,
perhaps, the most logical course to devote our first meeting to the
discussion of the engine to be employed. Nevertheless, after mature
consideration, it has appeared to me that the question of the projectile must
take precedence of that of the cannon, and that the dimensions of the latter
must necessarily depend on those of the former.”
“Suffer me to say a word,” here broke in J. T. Maston. Permission having
been granted, “Gentlemen,” said he with an inspired accent, “our president
is right in placing the question of the projectile above all others. The ball we
are about to discharge at the moon is our ambassador to her, and I wish to
consider it from a moral point of view. The cannon-ball, gentlemen, to my
mind, is the most magnificent manifestation of human power. If Providence
has created the stars and the planets, man has called the cannon-ball into
existence. Let Providence claim the swiftness of electricity and of light, of
the stars, the comets, and the planets, of wind and sound—we claim to have

invented the swiftness of the cannon-ball, a hundred times superior to that
of the swiftest horses or railway train. How glorious will be the moment
when, infinitely exceeding all hitherto attained velocities, we shall launch
our new projectile with the rapidity of seven miles a second! Shall it not,
gentlemen—shall it not be received up there with the honors due to a
terrestrial ambassador?”
Overcome with emotion the orator sat down and applied himself to a
huge plate of sandwiches before him.
“And now,” said Barbicane, “let us quit the domain of poetry and come
direct to the question.”
“By all means,” replied the members, each with his mouth full of
sandwich.
“The problem before us,” continued the president, “is how to
communicate to a projectile a velocity of 12,000 yards per second. Let us at
present examine the velocities hitherto attained. General Morgan will be
able to enlighten us on this point.”
“And the more easily,” replied the general, “that during the war I was a
member of the committee of experiments. I may say, then, that the 100-
pounder Dahlgrens, which carried a distance of 5,000 yards, impressed
upon their projectile an initial velocity of 500 yards a second. The Rodman
Columbiad threw a shot weighing half a ton a distance of six miles, with a
velocity of 800 yards per second—a result which Armstrong and Palisser
have never obtained in England.”
“This,” replied Barbicane, “is, I believe, the maximum velocity ever
attained?”
“It is so,” replied the general.
“Ah!” groaned J. T. Maston, “if my mortar had not burst—”
“Yes,” quietly replied Barbicane, “but it did burst. We must take, then,
for our starting point, this velocity of 800 yards. We must increase it
twenty-fold. Now, reserving for another discussion the means of producing
this velocity, I will call your attention to the dimensions which it will be
proper to assign to the shot. You understand that we have nothing to do here
with projectiles weighing at most but half a ton.”
“Why not?” demanded the major.

“Because the shot,” quickly replied J. T. Maston, “must be big enough to
attract the attention of the inhabitants of the moon, if there are any?”
“Yes,” replied Barbicane, “and for another reason more important still.”
“What mean you?” asked the major.
“I mean that it is not enough to discharge a projectile, and then take no
further notice of it; we must follow it throughout its course, up to the
moment when it shall reach its goal.”
“What?” shouted the general and the major in great surprise.
“Undoubtedly,” replied Barbicane composedly, “or our experiment would
produce no result.”
“But then,” replied the major, “you will have to give this projectile
enormous dimensions.”
“No! Be so good as to listen. You know that optical instruments have
acquired great perfection; with certain instruments we have succeeded in
obtaining enlargements of 6,000 times and reducing the moon to within
forty miles’ distance. Now, at this distance, any objects sixty feet square
would be perfectly visible.
“If, then, the penetrative power of telescopes has not been further
increased, it is because that power detracts from their light; and the moon,
which is but a reflecting mirror, does not give back sufficient light to enable
us to perceive objects of lesser magnitude.”
“Well, then, what do you propose to do?” asked the general. “Would you
give your projectile a diameter of sixty feet?”
“Not so.”
“Do you intend, then, to increase the luminous power of the moon?”
“Exactly so. If I can succeed in diminishing the density of the atmosphere
through which the moon’s light has to travel I shall have rendered her light
more intense. To effect that object it will be enough to establish a telescope
on some elevated mountain. That is what we will do.”
“I give it up,” answered the major. “You have such a way of simplifying
things. And what enlargement do you expect to obtain in this way?”
“One of 48,000 times, which should bring the moon within an apparent
distance of five miles; and, in order to be visible, objects need not have a
diameter of more than nine feet.”

“So, then,” cried J. T. Maston, “our projectile need not be more than nine
feet in diameter.”
“Let me observe, however,” interrupted Major Elphinstone, “this will
involve a weight such as—”
“My dear major,” replied Barbicane, “before discussing its weight permit
me to enumerate some of the marvels which our ancestors have achieved in
this respect. I don’t mean to pretend that the science of gunnery has not
advanced, but it is as well to bear in mind that during the middle ages they
obtained results more surprising, I will venture to say, than ours. For
instance, during the siege of Constantinople by Mahomet II., in 1453, stone
shot of 1,900 pounds weight were employed. At Malta, in the time of the
knights, there was a gun of the fortress of St. Elmo which threw a projectile
weighing 2,500 pounds. And, now, what is the extent of what we have seen
ourselves? Armstrong guns discharging shot of 500 pounds, and the
Rodman guns projectiles of half a ton! It seems, then, that if projectiles
have gained in range, they have lost far more in weight. Now, if we turn our
efforts in that direction, we ought to arrive, with the progress on science, at
ten times the weight of the shot of Mahomet II. and the Knights of Malta.”
“Clearly,” replied the major; “but what metal do you calculate upon
employing?”
“Simply cast iron,” said General Morgan.
“But,” interrupted the major, “since the weight of a shot is proportionate
to its volume, an iron ball of nine feet in diameter would be of tremendous
weight.”
“Yes, if it were solid, not if it were hollow.”
“Hollow? then it would be a shell?”
“Yes, a shell,” replied Barbicane; “decidely it must be. A solid shot of
108 inches would weigh more than 200,000 pounds, a weight evidently far
too great. Still, as we must reserve a certain stability for our projectile, I
propose to give it a weight of 20,000 pounds.”
“What, then, will be the thickness of the sides?” asked the major.
“If we follow the usual proportion,” replied Morgan, “a diameter of 108
inches would require sides of two feet thickness, or less.”
“That would be too much,” replied Barbicane; “for you will observe that
the question is not that of a shot intended to pierce an iron plate; it will

suffice to give it sides strong enough to resist the pressure of the gas. The
problem, therefore, is this—What thickness ought a cast-iron shell to have
in order not to weight more than 20,000 pounds? Our clever secretary will
soon enlighten us upon this point.”
“Nothing easier.” replied the worthy secretary of the committee; and,
rapidly tracing a few algebraical formulae upon paper, among which n2 and
x2 frequently appeared, he presently said:
“The sides will require a thickness of less than two inches.”
“Will that be enough?” asked the major doubtfully.
“Clearly not!” replied the president.
“What is to be done, then?” said Elphinstone, with a puzzled air.
“Employ another metal instead of iron.”
“Copper?” said Morgan.
“No! that would be too heavy. I have better than that to offer.”
“What then?” asked the major.
“Aluminum!” replied Barbicane.
“Aluminum?” cried his three colleagues in chorus.
“Unquestionably, my friends. This valuable metal possesses the
whiteness of silver, the indestructibility of gold, the tenacity of iron, the
fusibility of copper, the lightness of glass. It is easily wrought, is very
widely distributed, forming the base of most of the rocks, is three times
lighter than iron, and seems to have been created for the express purpose of
furnishing us with the material for our projectile.”
“But, my dear president,” said the major, “is not the cost price of
aluminum extremely high?”
“It was so at its first discovery, but it has fallen now to nine dollars a
pound.”
“But still, nine dollars a pound!” replied the major, who was not willing
readily to give in; “even that is an enormous price.”
“Undoubtedly, my dear major; but not beyond our reach.”
“What will the projectile weigh then?” asked Morgan.
“Here is the result of my calculations,” replied Barbicane. “A shot of 108
inches in diameter, and twelve inches in thickness, would weigh, in cast-

iron, 67,440 pounds; cast in aluminum, its weight will be reduced to 19,250
pounds.”
“Capital!” cried the major; “but do you know that, at nine dollars a
pound, this projectile will cost—”
“One hundred and seventy-three thousand and fifty dollars ($173,050). I
know it quite well. But fear not, my friends; the money will not be wanting
for our enterprise. I will answer for it. Now what say you to aluminum,
gentlemen?”
“Adopted!” replied the three members of the committee. So ended the
first meeting. The question of the projectile was definitely settled.

CHAPTER VIII.
HISTORY OF THE CANNON

The resolutions passed at the last meeting produced a great effect out of
doors. Timid people took fright at the idea of a shot weighing 20,000
pounds being launched into space; they asked what cannon could ever
transmit a sufficient velocity to such a mighty mass. The minutes of the
second meeting were destined triumphantly to answer such questions. The
following evening the discussion was renewed.
“My dear colleagues,” said Barbicane, without further preamble, “the
subject now before us is the construction of the engine, its length, its
composition, and its weight. It is probable that we shall end by giving it
gigantic dimensions; but however great may be the difficulties in the way,
our mechanical genius will readily surmount them. Be good enough, then,
to give me your attention, and do not hesitate to make objections at the
close. I have no fear of them. The problem before us is how to communicate
an initial force of 12,000 yards per second to a shell of 108 inches in
diameter, weighing 20,000 pounds. Now when a projectile is launched into
space, what happens to it? It is acted upon by three independent forces: the
resistance of the air, the attraction of the earth, and the force of impulsion
with which it is endowed. Let us examine these three forces. The resistance
of the air is of little importance. The atmosphere of the earth does not
exceed forty miles. Now, with the given rapidity, the projectile will have
traversed this in five seconds, and the period is too brief for the resistance
of the medium to be regarded otherwise than as insignificant. Proceding,
then, to the attraction of the earth, that is, the weight of the shell, we know
that this weight will diminish in the inverse ratio of the square of the
distance. When a body left to itself falls to the surface of the earth, it falls
five feet in the first second; and if the same body were removed 257,542
miles further off, in other words, to the distance of the moon, its fall would

be reduced to about half a line in the first second. That is almost equivalent
to a state of perfect rest. Our business, then, is to overcome progressively
this action of gravitation. The mode of accomplishing that is by the force of
impulsion.”
“There’s the difficulty,” broke in the major.
“True,” replied the president; “but we will overcome that, for the force of
impulsion will depend on the length of the engine and the powder
employed, the latter being limited only by the resisting power of the former.
Our business, then, to-day is with the dimensions of the cannon.”
“Now, up to the present time,” said Barbicane, “our longest guns have
not exceeded twenty-five feet in length. We shall therefore astonish the
world by the dimensions we shall be obliged to adopt. It must evidently be,
then, a gun of great range, since the length of the piece will increase the
detention of the gas accumulated behind the projectile; but there is no
advantage in passing certain limits.”
“Quite so,” said the major. “What is the rule in such a case?”
“Ordinarily the length of a gun is twenty to twenty-five times the
diameter of the shot, and its weight two hundred and thirty-five to two
hundred and forty times that of the shot.”
“That is not enough,” cried J. T. Maston impetuously.
“I agree with you, my good friend; and, in fact, following this proportion
for a projectile nine feet in diameter, weighing 30,000 pounds, the gun
would only have a length of two hundred and twenty- five feet, and a
weight of 7,200,000 pounds.”
“Ridiculous!” rejoined Maston. “As well take a pistol.”
“I think so too,” replied Barbicane; “that is why I propose to quadruple
that length, and to construct a gun of nine hundred feet.”
The general and the major offered some objections; nevertheless, the
proposition, actively supported by the secretary, was definitely adopted.
“But,” said Elphinstone, “what thickness must we give it?”
“A thickness of six feet,” replied Barbicane.
“You surely don’t think of mounting a mass like that upon a carriage?”
asked the major.
“It would be a superb idea, though,” said Maston.

“But impracticable,” replied Barbicane. “No, I think of sinking this
engine in the earth alone, binding it with hoops of wrought iron, and finally
surrounding it with a thick mass of masonry of stone and cement. The piece
once cast, it must be bored with great precision, so as to preclude any
possible windage. So there will be no loss whatever of gas, and all the
expansive force of the powder will be employed in the propulsion.”
“One simple question,” said Elphinstone: “is our gun to be rifled?”
“No, certainly not,” replied Barbicane; “we require an enormous initial
velocity; and you are well aware that a shot quits a rifled gun less rapidly
than it does a smooth-bore.”
“True,” rejoined the major.
The committee here adjourned for a few minutes to tea and sandwiches.
On the discussion being renewed, “Gentlemen,” said Barbicane, “we
must now take into consideration the metal to be employed. Our cannon
must be possessed of great tenacity, great hardness, be infusible by heat,
indissoluble, and inoxidable by the corrosive action of acids.”
“There is no doubt about that,” replied the major; “and as we shall have
to employ an immense quantity of metal, we shall not be at a loss for
choice.”
“Well, then,” said Morgan, “I propose the best alloy hitherto known,
which consists of one hundred parts of copper, twelve of tin, and six of
brass.”
“I admit,” replied the president, “that this composition has yielded
excellent results, but in the present case it would be too expensive, and very
difficult to work. I think, then, that we ought to adopt a material excellent in
its way and of low price, such as cast iron. What is your advice, major?”
“I quite agree with you,” replied Elphinstone.
“In fact,” continued Barbicane, “cast iron costs ten times less than
bronze; it is easy to cast, it runs readily from the moulds of sand, it is easy
of manipulation, it is at once economical of money and of time. In addition,
it is excellent as a material, and I well remember that during the war, at the
siege of Atlanta, some iron guns fired one thousand rounds at intervals of
twenty minutes without injury.”
“Cast iron is very brittle, though,” replied Morgan.

“Yes, but it possesses great resistance. I will now ask our worthy
secretary to calculate the weight of a cast-iron gun with a bore of nine feet
and a thickness of six feet of metal.”
“In a moment,” replied Maston. Then, dashing off some algebraical
formulae with marvelous facility, in a minute or two he declared the
following result:
“The cannon will weigh 68,040 tons. And, at two cents a pound, it will
cost—”
“Two million five hundred and ten thousand seven hundred and one
dollars.”
Maston, the major, and the general regarded Barbicane with uneasy
looks.
“Well, gentlemen,” replied the president, “I repeat what I said yesterday.
Make yourselves easy; the millions will not be wanting.”
With this assurance of their president the committee separated, after
having fixed their third meeting for the following evening.

CHAPTER IX.
THE QUESTION OF THE POWDERS

There remained for consideration merely the question of powders. The
public awaited with interest its final decision. The size of the projectile, the
length of the cannon being settled, what would be the quantity of powder
necessary to produce impulsion?
It is generally asserted that gunpowder was invented in the fourteenth
century by the monk Schwartz, who paid for his grand discovery with his
life. It is, however, pretty well proved that this story ought to be ranked
among the legends of the middle ages. Gunpowder was not invented by any
one; it was the lineal successor of the Greek fire, which, like itself, was
composed of sulfur and saltpeter. Few persons are acquainted with the
mechanical power of gunpowder. Now this is precisely what is necessary to
be understood in order to comprehend the importance of the question
submitted to the committee.
A litre of gunpowder weighs about two pounds; during combustion it
produces 400 litres of gas. This gas, on being liberated and acted upon by
temperature raised to 2,400 degrees, occupies a space of 4,000 litres:
consequently the volume of powder is to the volume of gas produced by its
combustion as 1 to 4,000. One may judge, therefore, of the tremendous
pressure on this gas when compressed within a space 4,000 times too
confined. All this was, of course, well known to the members of the
committee when they met on the following evening.
The first speaker on this occasion was Major Elphinstone, who had been
the director of the gunpowder factories during the war.
“Gentlemen,” said this distinguished chemist, “I begin with some figures
which will serve as the basis of our calculation. The old 24-pounder shot
required for its discharge sixteen pounds of powder.”

“You are certain of this amount?” broke in Barbicane.
“Quite certain,” replied the major. “The Armstrong cannon employs only
seventy-five pounds of powder for a projectile of eight hundred pounds, and
the Rodman Columbiad uses only one hundred and sixty pounds of powder
to send its half ton shot a distance of six miles. These facts cannot be called
in question, for I myself raised the point during the depositions taken before
the committee of artillery.”
“Quite true,” said the general.
“Well,” replied the major, “these figures go to prove that the quantity of
powder is not increased with the weight of the shot; that is to say, if a 24-
pounder shot requires sixteen pounds of powder;—in other words, if in
ordinary guns we employ a quantity of powder equal to two-thirds of the
weight of the projectile, this proportion is not constant. Calculate, and you
will see that in place of three hundred and thirty-three pounds of powder,
the quantity is reduced to no more than one hundred and sixty pounds.”
“What are you aiming at?” asked the president.
“If you push your theory to extremes, my dear major,” said J. T. Maston,
“you will get to this, that as soon as your shot becomes sufficiently heavy
you will not require any powder at all.”
“Our friend Maston is always at his jokes, even in serious matters,” cried
the major; “but let him make his mind easy, I am going presently to propose
gunpowder enough to satisfy his artillerist’s propensities. I only keep to
statistical facts when I say that, during the war, and for the very largest
guns, the weight of the powder was reduced, as the result of experience, to a
tenth part of the weight of the shot.”
“Perfectly correct,” said Morgan; “but before deciding the quantity of
powder necessary to give the impulse, I think it would be as well—”
“We shall have to employ a large-grained powder,” continued the major;
“its combustion is more rapid than that of the small.”
“No doubt about that,” replied Morgan; “but it is very destructive, and
ends by enlarging the bore of the pieces.”
“Granted; but that which is injurious to a gun destined to perform long
service is not so to our Columbiad. We shall run no danger of an explosion;
and it is necessary that our powder should take fire instantaneously in order
that its mechanical effect may be complete.”

“We must have,” said Maston, “several touch-holes, so as to fire it at
different points at the same time.”
“Certainly,” replied Elphinstone; “but that will render the working of the
piece more difficult. I return then to my large-grained powder, which
removes those difficulties. In his Columbiad charges Rodman employed a
powder as large as chestnuts, made of willow charcoal, simply dried in cast-
iron pans. This powder was hard and glittering, left no trace upon the hand,
contained hydrogen and oxygen in large proportion, took fire
instantaneously, and, though very destructive, did not sensibly injure the
mouth-piece.”
Up to this point Barbicane had kept aloof from the discussion; he left the
others to speak while he himself listened; he had evidently got an idea. He
now simply said, “Well, my friends, what quantity of powder do you
propose?”
The three members looked at one another.
“Two hundred thousand pounds.” at last said Morgan.
“Five hundred thousand,” added the major.
“Eight hundred thousand,” screamed Maston.
A moment of silence followed this triple proposal; it was at last broken
by the president.
“Gentlemen,” he quietly said, “I start from this principle, that the
resistance of a gun, constructed under the given conditions, is unlimited. I
shall surprise our friend Maston, then, by stigmatizing his calculations as
timid; and I propose to double his 800,000 pounds of powder.”
“Sixteen hundred thousand pounds?” shouted Maston, leaping from his
seat.
“Just so.”
“We shall have to come then to my ideal of a cannon half a mile long; for
you see 1,600,000 pounds will occupy a space of about 20,000 cubic feet;
and since the contents of your cannon do not exceed 54,000 cubic feet, it
would be half full; and the bore will not be more than long enough for the
gas to communicate to the projectile sufficient impulse.”
“Nevertheless,” said the president, “I hold to that quantity of powder.
Now, 1,600,000 pounds of powder will create 6,000,000,000 litres of gas.

Six thousand millions! You quite understand?”
“What is to be done then?” said the general.
“The thing is very simple; we must reduce this enormous quantity of
powder, while preserving to it its mechanical power.”
“Good; but by what means?”
“I am going to tell you,” replied Barbicane quietly.
“Nothing is more easy than to reduce this mass to one quarter of its bulk.
You know that curious cellular matter which constitutes the elementary
tissues of vegetable? This substance is found quite pure in many bodies,
especially in cotton, which is nothing more than the down of the seeds of
the cotton plant. Now cotton, combined with cold nitric acid, become
transformed into a substance eminently insoluble, combustible, and
explosive. It was first discovered in 1832, by Braconnot, a French chemist,
who called it xyloidine. In 1838 another Frenchman, Pelouze, investigated
its different properties, and finally, in 1846, Schonbein, professor of
chemistry at Bale, proposed its employment for purposes of war. This
powder, now called pyroxyle, or fulminating cotton, is prepared with great
facility by simply plunging cotton for fifteen minutes in nitric acid, then
washing it in water, then drying it, and it is ready for use.”
“Nothing could be more simple,” said Morgan.
“Moreover, pyroxyle is unaltered by moisture—a valuable property to us,
inasmuch as it would take several days to charge the cannon. It ignites at
170 degrees in place of 240, and its combustion is so rapid that one may set
light to it on the top of the ordinary powder, without the latter having time
to ignite.”
“Perfect!” exclaimed the major.
“Only it is more expensive.”
“What matter?” cried J. T. Maston.
“Finally, it imparts to projectiles a velocity four times superior to that of
gunpowder. I will even add, that if we mix it with one-eighth of its own
weight of nitrate of potassium, its expansive force is again considerably
augmented.”
“Will that be necessary?” asked the major.

“I think not,” replied Barbicane. “So, then, in place of 1,600,000 pounds
of powder, we shall have but 400,000 pounds of fulminating cotton; and
since we can, without danger, compress 500 pounds of cotton into twenty-
seven cubic feet, the whole quantity will not occupy a height of more than
180 feet within the bore of the Columbiad. In this way the shot will have
more than 700 feet of bore to traverse under a force of 6,000,000,000 litres
of gas before taking its flight toward the moon.”
At this juncture J. T. Maston could not repress his emotion; he flung
himself into the arms of his friend with the violence of a projectile, and
Barbicane would have been stove in if he had not been boom-proof.
This incident terminated the third meeting of the committee.
Barbicane and his bold colleagues, to whom nothing seemed impossible,
had succeeding in solving the complex problems of projectile, cannon, and
powder. Their plan was drawn up, and it only remained to put it into
execution.
“A mere matter of detail, a bagatelle,” said J. T. Maston.

CHAPTER X.
ONE ENEMY v. TWENTY-FIVE MILLIONS OF
FRIENDS

The American public took a lively interest in the smallest details of the
enterprise of the Gun Club. It followed day by day the discussion of the
committee. The most simple preparations for the great experiment, the
questions of figures which it involved, the mechanical difficulties to be
resolved—in one word, the entire plan of work—roused the popular
excitement to the highest pitch.
The purely scientific attraction was suddenly intensified by the following
incident:
We have seen what legions of admirers and friends Barbicane’s project
had rallied round its author. There was, however, one single individual
alone in all the States of the Union who protested against the attempt of the
Gun Club. He attacked it furiously on every opportunity, and human nature
is such that Barbicane felt more keenly the opposition of that one man than
he did the applause of all the others. He was well aware of the motive of
this antipathy, the origin of this solitary enmity, the cause of its personality
and old standing, and in what rivalry of self-love it had its rise.
This persevering enemy the president of the Gun Club had never seen.
Fortunate that it was so, for a meeting between the two men would certainly
have been attended with serious consequences. This rival was a man of
science, like Barbicane himself, of a fiery, daring, and violent disposition; a
pure Yankee. His name was Captain Nicholl; he lived at Philadelphia.
Most people are aware of the curious struggle which arose during the
Federal war between the guns and armor of iron-plated ships. The result
was the entire reconstruction of the navy of both the continents; as the one
grew heavier, the other became thicker in proportion. The Merrimac, the

Monitor, the Tennessee, the Weehawken discharged enormous projectiles
themselves, after having been armor-clad against the projectiles of others.
In fact they did to others that which they would not they should do to them
—that grand principle of immortality upon which rests the whole art of war.
Now if Barbicane was a great founder of shot, Nicholl was a great forger
of plates; the one cast night and day at Baltimore, the other forged day and
night at Philadelphia. As soon as ever Barbicane invented a new shot,
Nicholl invented a new plate; each followed a current of ideas essentially
opposed to the other. Happily for these citizens, so useful to their country, a
distance of from fifty to sixty miles separated them from one another, and
they had never yet met. Which of these two inventors had the advantage
over the other it was difficult to decide from the results obtained. By last
accounts, however, it would seem that the armor-plate would in the end
have to give way to the shot; nevertheless, there were competent judges
who had their doubts on the point.
At the last experiment the cylindro-conical projectiles of Barbicane stuck
like so many pins in the Nicholl plates. On that day the Philadelphia iron-
forger then believed himself victorious, and could not evince contempt
enough for his rival; but when the other afterward substituted for conical
shot simple 600-pound shells, at very moderate velocity, the captain was
obliged to give in. In fact, these projectiles knocked his best metal plate to
shivers.
Matters were at this stage, and victory seemed to rest with the shot, when
the war came to an end on the very day when Nicholl had completed a new
armor-plate of wrought steel. It was a masterpiece of its kind, and bid
defiance to all the projectiles of the world. The captain had it conveyed to
the Polygon at Washington, challenging the president of the Gun Club to
break it. Barbicane, peace having been declared, declined to try the
experiment.
Nicholl, now furious, offered to expose his plate to the shock of any shot,
solid, hollow, round, or conical. Refused by the president, who did not
choose to compromise his last success.
Nicholl, disgusted by this obstinacy, tried to tempt Barbicane by offering
him every chance. He proposed to fix the plate within two hundred yards of
the gun. Barbicane still obstinate in refusal. A hundred yards? Not even
seventy-five!

“At fifty then!” roared the captain through the newspapers. “At twenty-
five yards! and I’ll stand behind!”
Barbicane returned for answer that, even if Captain Nicholl would be so
good as to stand in front, he would not fire any more.
Nicholl could not contain himself at this reply; threw out hints of
cowardice; that a man who refused to fire a cannon-shot was pretty near
being afraid of it; that artillerists who fight at six miles distance are
substituting mathematical formulae for individual courage.
To these insinuations Barbicane returned no answer; perhaps he never
heard of them, so absorbed was he in the calculations for his great
enterprise.
When his famous communication was made to the Gun Club, the
captain’s wrath passed all bounds; with his intense jealousy was mingled a
feeling of absolute impotence. How was he to invent anything to beat this
900-feet Columbiad? What armor-plate could ever resist a projectile of
30,000 pounds weight? Overwhelmed at first under this violent shock, he
by and by recovered himself, and resolved to crush the proposal by weight
of his arguments.
He then violently attacked the labors of the Gun Club, published a
number of letters in the newspapers, endeavored to prove Barbicane
ignorant of the first principles of gunnery. He maintained that it was
absolutely impossible to impress upon any body whatever a velocity of
12,000 yards per second; that even with such a velocity a projectile of such
a weight could not transcend the limits of the earth’s atmosphere. Further
still, even regarding the velocity to be acquired, and granting it to be
sufficient, the shell could not resist the pressure of the gas developed by the
ignition of 1,600,000 pounds of powder; and supposing it to resist that
pressure, it would be less able to support that temperature; it would melt on
quitting the Columbiad, and fall back in a red-hot shower upon the heads of
the imprudent spectators.
Barbicane continued his work without regarding these attacks.
Nicholl then took up the question in its other aspects. Without touching
upon its uselessness in all points of view, he regarded the experiment as
fraught with extreme danger, both to the citizens, who might sanction by
their presence so reprehensible a spectacle, and also to the towns in the
neighborhood of this deplorable cannon. He also observed that if the

projectile did not succeed in reaching its destination (a result absolutely
impossible), it must inevitably fall back upon the earth, and that the shock
of such a mass, multiplied by the square of its velocity, would seriously
endanger every point of the globe. Under the circumstances, therefore, and
without interfering with the rights of free citizens, it was a case for the
intervention of Government, which ought not to endanger the safety of all
for the pleasure of one individual.
In spite of all his arguments, however, Captain Nicholl remained alone in
his opinion. Nobody listened to him, and he did not succeed in alienating a
single admirer from the president of the Gun Club. The latter did not even
take the pains to refute the arguments of his rival.
Nicholl, driven into his last entrenchments, and not able to fight
personally in the cause, resolved to fight with money. He published,
therefore, in the Richmond Inquirer a series of wagers, conceived in these
terms, and on an increasing scale:
No. 1 ($1,000).—That the necessary funds for the experiment of the Gun
Club will not be forthcoming.
No. 2 ($2,000).—That the operation of casting a cannon of 900 feet is
impracticable, and cannot possibly succeed.
No. 3 ($3,000).—That is it impossible to load the Columbiad, and that
the pyroxyle will take fire spontaneously under the pressure of the
projectile.
No. 4 ($4,000).—That the Columbiad will burst at the first fire.
No. 5 ($5,000).—That the shot will not travel farther than six miles, and
that it will fall back again a few seconds after its discharge.
It was an important sum, therefore, which the captain risked in his
invincible obstinacy. He had no less than $15,000 at stake.
Notwithstanding the importance of the challenge, on the 19th of May he
received a sealed packet containing the following superbly laconic reply:

“BALTIMORE, October 19.
”Done.
”BARBICANE.”

CHAPTER XI.
FLORIDA AND TEXAS

One question remained yet to be decided; it was necessary to choose a
favorable spot for the experiment. According to the advice of the
Observatory of Cambridge, the gun must be fired perpendicularly to the
plane of the horizon, that is to say, toward the zenith. Now the moon does
not traverse the zenith, except in places situated between 0° and 28° of
latitude. It became, then, necessary to determine exactly that spot on the
globe where the immense Columbiad should be cast.
On the 20th of October, at a general meeting of the Gun Club, Barbicane
produced a magnificent map of the United States. “Gentlemen,” said he, in
opening the discussion, “I presume that we are all agreed that this
experiment cannot and ought not to be tried anywhere but within the limits
of the soil of the Union. Now, by good fortune, certain frontiers of the
United States extend downward as far as the 28th parallel of the north
latitude. If you will cast your eye over this map, you will see that we have
at our disposal the whole of the southern portion of Texas and Florida.”
It was finally agreed, then, that the Columbiad must be cast on the soil of
either Texas or Florida. The result, however, of this decision was to create a
rivalry entirely without precedent between the different towns of these two
States.
The 28th parallel, on reaching the American coast, traverses the
peninsula of Florida, dividing it into two nearly equal portions. Then,
plunging into the Gulf of Mexico, it subtends the arc formed by the coast of
Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana; then skirting Texas, off which it cuts
an angle, it continues its course over Mexico, crosses the Sonora, Old
California, and loses itself in the Pacific Ocean. It was, therefore, only those
portions of Texas and Florida which were situated below this parallel which
came within the prescribed conditions of latitude.

Florida, in its southern part, reckons no cities of importance; it is simply
studded with forts raised against the roving Indians. One solitary town,
Tampa Town, was able to put in a claim in favor of its situation.
In Texas, on the contrary, the towns are much more numerous and
important. Corpus Christi, in the county of Nueces, and all the cities
situated on the Rio Bravo, Laredo, Comalites, San Ignacio on the Web, Rio
Grande City on the Starr, Edinburgh in the Hidalgo, Santa Rita, Elpanda,
Brownsville in the Cameron, formed an imposing league against the
pretensions of Florida. So, scarcely was the decision known, when the
Texan and Floridan deputies arrived at Baltimore in an incredibly short
space of time. From that very moment President Barbicane and the
influential members of the Gun Club were besieged day and night by
formidable claims. If seven cities of Greece contended for the honor of
having given birth to a Homer, here were two entire States threatening to
come to blows about the question of a cannon.
The rival parties promenaded the streets with arms in their hands; and at
every occasion of their meeting a collision was to be apprehended which
might have been attended with disastrous results. Happily the prudence and
address of President Barbicane averted the danger. These personal
demonstrations found a division in the newspapers of the different States.
The New York Herald and the Tribune supported Texas, while the Times
and the American Review espoused the cause of the Floridan deputies. The
members of the Gun Club could not decide to which to give the preference.
Texas produced its array of twenty-six counties; Florida replied that
twelve counties were better than twenty-six in a country only one-sixth part
of the size.
Texas plumed itself upon its 330,000 natives; Florida, with a far smaller
territory, boasted of being much more densely populated with 56,000.
The Texans, through the columns of the Herald claimed that some regard
should be had to a State which grew the best cotton in all America,
produced the best green oak for the service of the navy, and contained the
finest oil, besides iron mines, in which the yield was fifty per cent. of pure
metal.
To this the American Review replied that the soil of Florida, although not
equally rich, afforded the best conditions for the moulding and casting of
the Columbiad, consisting as it did of sand and argillaceous earth.

“That may be all very well,” replied the Texans; “but you must first get to
this country. Now the communications with Florida are difficult, while the
coast of Texas offers the bay of Galveston, which possesses a circumference
of fourteen leagues, and is capable of containing the navies of the entire
world!”
“A pretty notion truly,” replied the papers in the interest of Florida, “that
of Galveston bay below the 29th parallel! Have we not got the bay of
Espiritu Santo, opening precisely upon the 28th degree, and by which ships
can reach Tampa Town by direct route?”
“A fine bay; half choked with sand!”
“Choked yourselves!” returned the others.
Thus the war went on for several days, when Florida endeavored to draw
her adversary away on to fresh ground; and one morning the Times hinted
that, the enterprise being essentially American, it ought not to be attempted
upon other than purely American territory.
To these words Texas retorted, “American! are we not as much so as
you? Were not Texas and Florida both incorporated into the Union in
1845?”
“Undoubtedly,” replied the Times; “but we have belonged to the
Americans ever since 1820.”
“Yes!” returned the Tribune; “after having been Spaniards or English for
two hundred years, you were sold to the United States for five million
dollars!”
“Well! and why need we blush for that? Was not Louisiana bought from
Napoleon in 1803 at the price of sixteen million dollars?”
“Scandalous!” roared the Texas deputies. “A wretched little strip of
country like Florida to dare to compare itself to Texas, who, in place of
selling herself, asserted her own independence, drove out the Mexicans in
March 2, 1846, and declared herself a federal republic after the victory
gained by Samuel Houston, on the banks of the San Jacinto, over the troops
of Santa Anna!—a country, in fine, which voluntarily annexed itself to the
United States of America!”
“Yes; because it was afraid of the Mexicans!” replied Florida.
“Afraid!” From this moment the state of things became intolerable. A
sanguinary encounter seemed daily imminent between the two parties in the

streets of Baltimore. It became necessary to keep an eye upon the deputies.
President Barbicane knew not which way to look. Notes, documents,
letters full of menaces showered down upon his house. Which side ought he
to take? As regarded the appropriation of the soil, the facility of
communication, the rapidity of transport, the claims of both States were
evenly balanced. As for political prepossessions, they had nothing to do
with the question.
This dead block had existed for some little time, when Barbicane
resolved to get rid of it all at once. He called a meeting of his colleagues,
and laid before them a proposition which, it will be seen, was profoundly
sagacious.
“On carefully considering,” he said, “what is going on now between
Florida and Texas, it is clear that the same difficulties will recur with all the
towns of the favored State. The rivalry will descend from State to city, and
so on downward. Now Texas possesses eleven towns within the prescribed
conditions, which will further dispute the honor and create us new enemies,
while Florida has only one. I go in, therefore, for Florida and Tampa Town.”
This decision, on being made known, utterly crushed the Texan deputies.
Seized with an indescribable fury, they addressed threatening letters to the
different members of the Gun Club by name. The magistrates had but one
course to take, and they took it. They chartered a special train, forced the
Texans into it whether they would or no; and they quitted the city with a
speed of thirty miles an hour.
Quickly, however, as they were despatched, they found time to hurl one
last and bitter sarcasm at their adversaries.
Alluding to the extent of Florida, a mere peninsula confined between two
seas, they pretended that it could never sustain the shock of the discharge,
and that it would “bust up” at the very first shot.
“Very well, let it bust up!” replied the Floridans, with a brevity of the
days of ancient Sparta.

CHAPTER XII.
URBI ET ORBI

The astronomical, mechanical, and topographical difficulties resolved,
finally came the question of finance. The sum required was far too great for
any individual, or even any single State, to provide the requisite millions.
President Barbicane undertook, despite of the matter being a purely
American affair, to render it one of universal interest, and to request the
financial co-operation of all peoples. It was, he maintained, the right and
duty of the whole earth to interfere in the affairs of its satellite. The
subscription opened at Baltimore extended properly to the whole world—
Urbi et orbi.
This subscription was successful beyond all expectation; notwithstanding
that it was a question not of lending but of giving the money. It was a purely
disinterested operation in the strictest sense of the term, and offered not the
slightest chance of profit.
The effect, however, of Barbicane’s communication was not confined to
the frontiers of the United States; it crossed the Atlantic and Pacific,
invading simultaneously Asia and Europe, Africa and Oceanica. The
observatories of the Union placed themselves in immediate communication
with those of foreign countries. Some, such as those of Paris, Petersburg,
Berlin, Stockholm, Hamburg, Malta, Lisbon, Benares, Madras, and others,
transmitted their good wishes; the rest maintained a prudent silence, quietly
awaiting the result. As for the observatory at Greenwich, seconded as it was
by the twenty- two astronomical establishments of Great Britain, it spoke
plainly enough. It boldly denied the possibility of success, and pronounced
in favor of the theories of Captain Nicholl. But this was nothing more than
mere English jealousy.
On the 8th of October President Barbicane published a manifesto full of
enthusiasm, in which he made an appeal to “all persons of good will upon

the face of the earth.” This document, translated into all languages, met
with immense success.
Subscription lists were opened in all the principal cities of the Union,
with a central office at the Baltimore Bank, 9 Baltimore Street.
In addition, subscriptions were received at the following banks in the
different states of the two continents:

At Vienna, with S. M. de Rothschild.
At Petersburg, Stieglitz and Co.
At Paris, The Credit Mobilier.
At Stockholm, Tottie and Arfuredson.
At London, N. M. Rothschild and Son.
At Turin, Ardouin and Co.
At Berlin, Mendelssohn.
At Geneva, Lombard, Odier and Co.
At Constantinople, The Ottoman Bank.
At Brussels, J. Lambert.
At Madrid, Daniel Weisweller.
At Amsterdam, Netherlands Credit Co.
At Rome, Torlonia and Co.
At Lisbon, Lecesne.
At Copenhagen, Private Bank.
At Rio de Janeiro, Private Bank.
At Montevideo, Private Bank.
At Valparaiso and Lima, Thomas la Chambre and Co.
At Mexico, Martin Daran and Co.

Three days after the manifesto of President Barbicane $4,000,000 were
paid into the different towns of the Union. With such a balance the Gun
Club might begin operations at once. But some days later advices were
received to the effect that foreign subscriptions were being eagerly taken
up. Certain countries distinguished themselves by their liberality; others
untied their purse-strings with less facility—a matter of temperament.
Figures are, however, more eloquent than words, and here is the official
statement of the sums which were paid in to the credit of the Gun Club at
the close of the subscription.

Russia paid in as her contingent the enormous sum of 368,733 roubles.
No one need be surprised at this, who bears in mind the scientific taste of
the Russians, and the impetus which they have given to astronomical
studies—thanks to their numerous observatories.
France began by deriding the pretensions of the Americans. The moon
served as a pretext for a thousand stale puns and a score of ballads, in which
bad taste contested the palm with ignorance. But as formerly the French
paid before singing, so now they paid after having had their laugh, and they
subscribed for a sum of 1,253,930 francs. At that price they had a right to
enjoy themselves a little.
Austria showed herself generous in the midst of her financial crisis. Her
public contributions amounted to the sum of 216,000 florins—a perfect
godsend.
Fifty-two thousand rix-dollars were the remittance of Sweden and
Norway; the amount is large for the country, but it would undoubtedly have
been considerably increased had the subscription been opened in Christiana
simultaneously with that at Stockholm. For some reason or other the
Norwegians do not like to send their money to Sweden.
Prussia, by a remittance of 250,000 thalers, testified her high approval of
the enterprise.
Turkey behaved generously; but she had a personal interest in the matter.
The moon, in fact, regulates the cycle of her years and her fast of Ramadan.
She could not do less than give 1,372,640 piastres; and she gave them with
an eagerness which denoted, however, some pressure on the part of the
government.
Belgium distinguished herself among the second-rate states by a grant of
513,000 francs—about two centimes per head of her population.
Holland and her colonies interested themselves to the extent of 110,000
florins, only demanding an allowance of five per cent. discount for paying
ready money.
Denmark, a little contracted in territory, gave nevertheless 9,000 ducats,
proving her love for scientific experiments.
The Germanic Confederation pledged itself to 34,285 florins. It was
impossible to ask for more; besides, they would not have given it.

Though very much crippled, Italy found 200,000 lire in the pockets of
her people. If she had had Venetia she would have done better; but she had
not.
The States of the Church thought that they could not send less than 7,040
Roman crowns; and Portugal carried her devotion to science as far as
30,000 cruzados. It was the widow’s mite—eighty-six piastres; but self-
constituted empires are always rather short of money.
Two hundred and fifty-seven francs, this was the modest contribution of
Switzerland to the American work. One must freely admit that she did not
see the practical side of the matter. It did not seem to her that the mere
despatch of a shot to the moon could possibly establish any relation of
affairs with her; and it did not seem prudent to her to embark her capital in
so hazardous an enterprise. After all, perhaps she was right.
As to Spain, she could not scrape together more than 110 reals. She gave
as an excuse that she had her railways to finish. The truth is, that science is
not favorably regarded in that country, it is still in a backward state; and
moreover, certain Spaniards, not by any means the least educated, did not
form a correct estimate of the bulk of the projectile compared with that of
the moon. They feared that it would disturb the established order of things.
In that case it were better to keep aloof; which they did to the tune of some
reals.
There remained but England; and we know the contemptuous antipathy
with which she received Barbicane’s proposition. The English have but one
soul for the whole twenty-six millions of inhabitants which Great Britain
contains. They hinted that the enterprise of the Gun Club was contrary to
the “principle of non-intervention.” And they did not subscribe a single
farthing.
At this intimation the Gun Club merely shrugged its shoulders and
returned to its great work. When South America, that is to say, Peru, Chili,
Brazil, the provinces of La Plata and Columbia, had poured forth their
quota into their hands, the sum of $300,000, it found itself in possession of
a considerable capital, of which the following is a statement:

United States subscriptions, . . $4,000,000
Foreign subscriptions . . . . . . . $1,446,675

——————
Total, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $5,446,675

Such was the sum which the public poured into the treasury of the Gun
Club.
Let no one be surprised at the vastness of the amount. The work of
casting, boring, masonry, the transport of workmen, their establishment in
an almost uninhabited country, the construction of furnaces and workshops,
the plant, the powder, the projectile, and incipient expenses, would,
according to the estimates, absorb nearly the whole. Certain cannon-shots in
the Federal war cost one thousand dollars apiece. This one of President
Barbicane, unique in the annals of gunnery, might well cost five thousand
times more.
On the 20th of October a contract was entered into with the manufactory
at Coldspring, near New York, which during the war had furnished the
largest Parrott, cast-iron guns. It was stipulated between the contracting
parties that the manufactory of Coldspring should engage to transport to
Tampa Town, in southern Florida, the necessary materials for casting the
Columbiad. The work was bound to be completed at latest by the 15th of
October following, and the cannon delivered in good condition under
penalty of a forfeit of one hundred dollars a day to the moment when the
moon should again present herself under the same conditions—that is to
say, in eighteen years and eleven days.
The engagement of the workmen, their pay, and all the necessary details
of the work, devolved upon the Coldspring Company.
This contract, executed in duplicate, was signed by Barbicane, president
of the Gun Club, of the one part, and T. Murchison director of the
Coldspring manufactory, of the other, who thus executed the deed on behalf
of their respective principals.

CHAPTER XIII.
STONES HILL

When the decision was arrived at by the Gun Club, to the disparagement
of Texas, every one in America, where reading is a universal acquirement,
set to work to study the geography of Florida. Never before had there been
such a sale for works like “Bertram’s Travels in Florida,” “Roman’s Natural
History of East and West Florida,” “William’s Territory of Florida,” and
“Cleland on the Cultivation of the Sugar-Cane in Florida.” It became
necessary to issue fresh editions of these works.
Barbicane had something better to do than to read. He desired to see
things with his own eyes, and to mark the exact position of the proposed
gun. So, without a moment’s loss of time, he placed at the disposal of the
Cambridge Observatory the funds necessary for the construction of a
telescope, and entered into negotiations with the house of Breadwill and
Co., of Albany, for the construction of an aluminum projectile of the
required size. He then quitted Baltimore, accompanied by J. T. Maston,
Major Elphinstone, and the manager of the Coldspring factory.
On the following day, the four fellow-travelers arrived at New Orleans.
There they immediately embarked on board the Tampico, a despatch-boat
belonging to the Federal navy, which the government had placed at their
disposal; and, getting up steam, the banks of Louisiana speedily
disappeared from sight.
The passage was not long. Two days after starting, the Tampico, having
made four hundred and eighty miles, came in sight of the coast of Florida.
On a nearer approach Barbicane found himself in view of a low, flat country
of somewhat barren aspect. After coasting along a series of creeks
abounding in lobsters and oysters, the Tampico entered the bay of Espiritu
Santo, where she finally anchored in a small natural harbor, formed by the

embouchure of the River Hillisborough, at seven P.M., on the 22d of
October.
Our four passengers disembarked at once. “Gentlemen,” said Barbicane,
“we have no time to lose; tomorrow we must obtain horses, and proceed to
reconnoiter the country.”
Barbicane had scarcely set his foot on shore when three thousand of the
inhabitants of Tampa Town came forth to meet him, an honor due to the
president who had signalized their country by his choice.
Declining, however, every kind of ovation, Barbicane ensconced himself
in a room of the Franklin Hotel.
On the morrow some of the small horses of the Spanish breed, full of
vigor and of fire, stood snorting under his windows; but instead of four
steeds, here were fifty, together with their riders. Barbicane descended with
his three fellow- travelers; and much astonished were they all to find
themselves in the midst of such a cavalcade. He remarked that every
horseman carried a carbine slung across his shoulders and pistols in his
holsters.
On expressing his surprise at these preparations, he was speedily
enlightened by a young Floridan, who quietly said:
“Sir, there are Seminoles there.”
“What do you mean by Seminoles?”
“Savages who scour the prairies. We thought it best, therefore, to escort
you on your road.”
“Pooh!” cried J. T. Maston, mounting his steed.
“All right,” said the Floridan; “but it is true enough, nevertheless.”
“Gentlemen,” answered Barbicane, “I thank you for your kind attention;
but it is time to be off.”
It was five A.M. when Barbicane and his party, quitting Tampa Town,
made their way along the coast in the direction of Alifia Creek. This little
river falls into Hillisborough Bay twelve miles above Tampa Town.
Barbicane and his escort coasted along its right bank to the eastward. Soon
the waves of the bay disappeared behind a bend of rising ground, and the
Floridan “champagne” alone offered itself to view.

Florida, discovered on Palm Sunday, in 1512, by Juan Ponce de Leon,
was originally named Pascha Florida. It little deserved that designation,
with its dry and parched coasts. But after some few miles of tract the nature
of the soil gradually changes and the country shows itself worthy of the
name. Cultivated plains soon appear, where are united all the productions of
the northern and tropical floras, terminating in prairies abounding with
pineapples and yams, tobacco, rice, cotton-plants, and sugar-canes, which
extend beyond reach of sight, flinging their riches broadcast with careless
prodigality.
Barbicane appeared highly pleased on observing the progressive
elevation of the land; and in answer to a question of J. T. Maston, replied:
“My worthy friend, we cannot do better than sink our Columbiad in these
high grounds.”
“To get nearer the moon, perhaps?” said the secretary of the Gun Club.
“Not exactly,” replied Barbicane, smiling; “do you not see that among
these elevated plateaus we shall have a much easier work of it? No
struggles with the water-springs, which will save us long expensive tubings;
and we shall be working in daylight instead of down a deep and narrow
well. Our business, then, is to open our trenches upon ground some
hundreds of yards above the level of the sea.”
“You are right, sir,” struck in Murchison, the engineer; “and, if I mistake
not, we shall ere long find a suitable spot for our purpose.”
“I wish we were at the first stroke of the pickaxe,” said the president.
“And I wish we were at the last,” cried J. T. Maston.
About ten A.M. the little band had crossed a dozen miles. To fertile plains
succeeded a region of forests. There perfumes of the most varied kinds
mingled together in tropical profusion. These almost impenetrable forests
were composed of pomegranates, orange-trees, citrons, figs, olives,
apricots, bananas, huge vines, whose blossoms and fruits rivaled each other
in color and perfume. Beneath the odorous shade of these magnificent trees
fluttered and warbled a little world of brilliantly plumaged birds.
J. T. Maston and the major could not repress their admiration on finding
themselves in the presence of the glorious beauties of this wealth of nature.
President Barbicane, however, less sensitive to these wonders, was in haste
to press forward; the very luxuriance of the country was displeasing to him.

They hastened onward, therefore, and were compelled to ford several rivers,
not without danger, for they were infested with huge alligators from fifteen
to eighteen feet long. Maston courageously menaced them with his steel
hook, but he only succeeded in frightening some pelicans and teal, while
tall flamingos stared stupidly at the party.
At length these denizens of the swamps disappeared in their turn; smaller
trees became thinly scattered among less dense thickets—a few isolated
groups detached in the midst of endless plains over which ranged herds of
startled deer.
“At last,” cried Barbicane, rising in his stirrups, “here we are at the
region of pines!”
“Yes! and of savages too,” replied the major.
In fact, some Seminoles had just came in sight upon the horizon; they
rode violently backward and forward on their fleet horses, brandishing their
spears or discharging their guns with a dull report. These hostile
demonstrations, however, had no effect upon Barbicane and his
companions.
They were then occupying the center of a rocky plain, which the sun
scorched with its parching rays. This was formed by a considerable
elevation of the soil, which seemed to offer to the members of the Gun Club
all the conditions requisite for the construction of their Columbiad.
“Halt!” said Barbicane, reining up. “Has this place any local
appellation?”
“It is called Stones Hill,” replied one of the Floridans.
Barbicane, without saying a word, dismounted, seized his instruments,
and began to note his position with extreme exactness. The little band,
drawn up in the rear, watched his proceedings in profound silence.
At this moment the sun passed the meridian. Barbicane, after a few
moments, rapidly wrote down the result of his observations, and said:
“This spot is situated eighteen hundred feet above the level of the sea, in
27° 7′ N. lat. and 5° 7′ W. long. of the meridian of Washington. It appears to
me by its rocky and barren character to offer all the conditions requisite for
our experiment. On that plain will be raised our magazines, workshops,
furnaces, and workmen’s huts; and here, from this very spot,” said he,

stamping his foot on the summit of Stones Hill, “hence shall our projectile
take its flight into the regions of the Solar World.”

CHAPTER XIV.
PICKAXE AND TROWEL

The same evening Barbicane and his companions returned to Tampa
Town; and Murchison, the engineer, re-embarked on board the Tampico for
New Orleans. His object was to enlist an army of workmen, and to collect
together the greater part of the materials. The members of the Gun Club
remained at Tampa Town, for the purpose of setting on foot the preliminary
works by the aid of the people of the country.
Eight days after its departure, the Tampico returned into the bay of
Espiritu Santo, with a whole flotilla of steamboats. Murchison had
succeeded in assembling together fifteen hundred artisans. Attracted by the
high pay and considerable bounties offered by the Gun Club, he had
enlisted a choice legion of stokers, iron-founders, lime-burners, miners,
brickmakers, and artisans of every trade, without distinction of color. As
many of these people brought their families with them, their departure
resembled a perfect emigration.
On the 31st of October, at ten o’clock in the morning, the troop
disembarked on the quays of Tampa Town; and one may imagine the
activity which pervaded that little town, whose population was thus doubled
in a single day.
During the first few days they were busy discharging the cargo brought
by the flotilla, the machines, and the rations, as well as a large number of
huts constructed of iron plates, separately pieced and numbered. At the
same period Barbicane laid the first sleepers of a railway fifteen miles in
length, intended to unite Stones Hill with Tampa Town. On the first of
November Barbicane quitted Tampa Town with a detachment of workmen;
and on the following day the whole town of huts was erected round Stones
Hill. This they enclosed with palisades; and in respect of energy and
activity, it might have been mistaken for one of the great cities of the

Union. Everything was placed under a complete system of discipline, and
the works were commenced in most perfect order.
The nature of the soil having been carefully examined, by means of
repeated borings, the work of excavation was fixed for the 4th of
November.
On that day Barbicane called together his foremen and addressed them as
follows: “You are well aware, my friends, of the object with which I have
assembled you together in this wild part of Florida. Our business is to
construct a cannon measuring nine feet in its interior diameter, six feet
thick, and with a stone revetment of nineteen and a half feet in thickness.
We have, therefore, a well of sixty feet in diameter to dig down to a depth
of nine hundred feet. This great work must be completed within eight
months, so that you have 2,543,400 cubic feet of earth to excavate in 255
days; that is to say, in round numbers, 2,000 cubic feet per day. That which
would present no difficulty to a thousand navvies working in open country
will be of course more troublesome in a comparatively confined space.
However, the thing must be done, and I reckon for its accomplishment upon
your courage as much as upon your skill.”
At eight o’clock the next morning the first stroke of the pickaxe was
struck upon the soil of Florida; and from that moment that prince of tools
was never inactive for one moment in the hands of the excavators. The
gangs relieved each other every three hours.
On the 4th of November fifty workmen commenced digging, in the very
center of the enclosed space on the summit of Stones Hill, a circular hole
sixty feet in diameter. The pickaxe first struck upon a kind of black earth,
six inches in thickness, which was speedily disposed of. To this earth
succeeded two feet of fine sand, which was carefully laid aside as being
valuable for serving the casting of the inner mould. After the sand appeared
some compact white clay, resembling the chalk of Great Britain, which
extended down to a depth of four feet. Then the iron of the picks struck
upon the hard bed of the soil; a kind of rock formed of petrified shells, very
dry, very solid, and which the picks could with difficulty penetrate. At this
point the excavation exhibited a depth of six and a half feet and the work of
the masonry was begun.
At the bottom of the excavation they constructed a wheel of oak, a kind
of circle strongly bolted together, and of immense strength. The center of

this wooden disc was hollowed out to a diameter equal to the exterior
diameter of the Columbiad. Upon this wheel rested the first layers of the
masonry, the stones of which were bound together by hydraulic cement,
with irresistible tenacity. The workmen, after laying the stones from the
circumference to the center, were thus enclosed within a kind of well
twenty-one feet in diameter. When this work was accomplished, the miners
resumed their picks and cut away the rock from underneath the wheel itself,
taking care to support it as they advanced upon blocks of great thickness. At
every two feet which the hole gained in depth they successively withdrew
the blocks. The wheel then sank little by little, and with it the massive ring
of masonry, on the upper bed of which the masons labored incessantly,
always reserving some vent holes to permit the escape of gas during the
operation of the casting.
This kind of work required on the part of the workmen extreme nicety
and minute attention. More than one, in digging underneath the wheel, was
dangerously injured by the splinters of stone. But their ardor never relaxed,
night or day. By day they worked under the rays of the scorching sun; by
night, under the gleam of the electric light. The sounds of the picks against
the rock, the bursting of mines, the grinding of the machines, the wreaths of
smoke scattered through the air, traced around Stones Hill a circle of terror
which the herds of buffaloes and the war parties of the Seminoles never
ventured to pass. Nevertheless, the works advanced regularly, as the steam-
cranes actively removed the rubbish. Of unexpected obstacles there was
little account; and with regard to foreseen difficulties, they were speedily
disposed of.
At the expiration of the first month the well had attained the depth
assigned for that lapse of time, namely, 112 feet. This depth was doubled in
December, and trebled in January.
During the month of February the workmen had to contend with a sheet
of water which made its way right across the outer soil. It became necessary
to employ very powerful pumps and compressed-air engines to drain it off,
so as to close up the orifice from whence it issued; just as one stops a leak
on board ship. They at last succeeded in getting the upper hand of these
untoward streams; only, in consequence of the loosening of the soil, the
wheel partly gave way, and a slight partial settlement ensued. This accident
cost the life of several workmen.

No fresh occurrence thenceforward arrested the progress of the operation;
and on the tenth of June, twenty days before the expiration of the period
fixed by Barbicane, the well, lined throughout with its facing of stone, had
attained the depth of 900 feet. At the bottom the masonry rested upon a
massive block measuring thirty feet in thickness, while on the upper portion
it was level with the surrounding soil.
President Barbicane and the members of the Gun Club warmly
congratulated their engineer Murchison; the cyclopean work had been
accomplished with extraordinary rapidity.
During these eight months Barbicane never quitted Stones Hill for a
single instant. Keeping ever close by the work of excavation, he busied
himself incessantly with the welfare and health of his workpeople, and was
singularly fortunate in warding off the epidemics common to large
communities of men, and so disastrous in those regions of the globe which
are exposed to the influences of tropical climates.
Many workmen, it is true, paid with their lives for the rashness inherent
in these dangerous labors; but these mishaps are impossible to be avoided,
and they are classed among the details with which the Americans trouble
themselves but little. They have in fact more regard for human nature in
general than for the individual in particular.
Nevertheless, Barbicane professed opposite principles to these, and put
them in force at every opportunity. So, thanks to his care, his intelligence,
his useful intervention in all difficulties, his prodigious and humane
sagacity, the average of accidents did not exceed that of transatlantic
countries, noted for their excessive precautions—France, for instance,
among others, where they reckon about one accident for every two hundred
thousand francs of work.

CHAPTER XV.
THE FETE OF THE CASTING

During the eight months which were employed in the work of excavation
the preparatory works of the casting had been carried on simultaneously
with extreme rapidity. A stranger arriving at Stones Hill would have been
surprised at the spectacle offered to his view.
At 600 yards from the well, and circularly arranged around it as a central
point, rose 1,200 reverberating ovens, each six feet in diameter, and
separated from each other by an interval of three feet. The circumference
occupied by these 1,200 ovens presented a length of two miles. Being all
constructed on the same plan, each with its high quadrangular chimney,
they produced a most singular effect.
It will be remembered that on their third meeting the committee had
decided to use cast iron for the Columbiad, and in particular the white
description. This metal, in fact, is the most tenacious, the most ductile, and
the most malleable, and consequently suitable for all moulding operations;
and when smelted with pit coal, is of superior quality for all engineering
works requiring great resisting power, such as cannon, steam boilers,
hydraulic presses, and the like.
Cast iron, however, if subjected to only one single fusion, is rarely
sufficiently homogeneous; and it requires a second fusion completely to
refine it by dispossessing it of its last earthly deposits. So long before being
forwarded to Tampa Town, the iron ore, molten in the great furnaces of
Coldspring, and brought into contact with coal and silicium heated to a high
temperature, was carburized and transformed into cast iron. After this first
operation, the metal was sent on to Stones Hill. They had, however, to deal
with 136,000,000 pounds of iron, a quantity far too costly to send by
railway. The cost of transport would have been double that of material. It
appeared preferable to freight vessels at New York, and to load them with

the iron in bars. This, however, required not less than sixty- eight vessels of
1,000 tons, a veritable fleet, which, quitting New York on the 3rd of May,
on the 10th of the same month ascended the Bay of Espiritu Santo, and
discharged their cargoes, without dues, in the port at Tampa Town. Thence
the iron was transported by rail to Stones Hill, and about the middle of
January this enormous mass of metal was delivered at its destination.
It will easily be understood that 1,200 furnaces were not too many to
melt simultaneously these 60,000 tons of iron. Each of these furnaces
contained nearly 140,000 pounds weight of metal. They were all built after
the model of those which served for the casting of the Rodman gun; they
were trapezoidal in shape, with a high elliptical arch. These furnaces,
constructed of fireproof brick, were especially adapted for burning pit coal,
with a flat bottom upon which the iron bars were laid. This bottom, inclined
at an angle of 25 degrees, allowed the metal to flow into the receiving
troughs; and the 1,200 converging trenches carried the molten metal down
to the central well.
The day following that on which the works of the masonry and boring
had been completed, Barbicane set to work upon the central mould. His
object now was to raise within the center of the well, and with a coincident
axis, a cylinder 900 feet high, and nine feet in diameter, which should
exactly fill up the space reserved for the bore of the Columbiad. This
cylinder was composed of a mixture of clay and sand, with the addition of a
little hay and straw. The space left between the mould and the masonry was
intended to be filled up by the molten metal, which would thus form the
walls six feet in thickness. This cylinder, in order to maintain its
equilibrium, had to be bound by iron bands, and firmly fixed at certain
intervals by cross-clamps fastened into the stone lining; after the castings
these would be buried in the block of metal, leaving no external projection.
This operation was completed on the 8th of July, and the run of the metal
was fixed for the following day.
“This fete of the casting will be a grand ceremony,” said J. T. Maston to
his friend Barbicane.
“Undoubtedly,” said Barbicane; “but it will not be a public fete“
“What! will you not open the gates of the enclosure to all comers?”
“I must be very careful, Maston. The casting of the Columbiad is an
extremely delicate, not to say a dangerous operation, and I should prefer its

being done privately. At the discharge of the projectile, a fete if you like—
till then, no!”
The president was right. The operation involved unforeseen dangers,
which a great influx of spectators would have hindered him from averting.
It was necessary to preserve complete freedom of movement. No one was
admitted within the enclosure except a delegation of members of the Gun
Club, who had made the voyage to Tampa Town. Among these was the
brisk Bilsby, Tom Hunter, Colonel Blomsberry, Major Elphinstone, General
Morgan, and the rest of the lot to whom the casting of the Columbiad was a
matter of personal interest. J. T. Maston became their cicerone. He omitted
no point of detail; he conducted them throughout the magazines,
workshops, through the midst of the engines, and compelled them to visit
the whole 1,200 furnaces one after the other. At the end of the twelve-
hundredth visit they were pretty well knocked up.
The casting was to take place at twelve o’clock precisely. The previous
evening each furnace had been charged with 114,000 pounds weight of
metal in bars disposed cross-ways to each other, so as to allow the hot air to
circulate freely between them. At daybreak the 1,200 chimneys vomited
their torrents of flame into the air, and the ground was agitated with dull
tremblings. As many pounds of metal as there were to cast, so many pounds
of coal were there to burn. Thus there were 68,000 tons of coal which
projected in the face of the sun a thick curtain of smoke. The heat soon
became insupportable within the circle of furnaces, the rumbling of which
resembled the rolling of thunder. The powerful ventilators added their
continuous blasts and saturated with oxygen the glowing plates. The
operation, to be successful, required to be conducted with great rapidity. On
a signal given by a cannon-shot each furnace was to give vent to the molten
iron and completely to empty itself. These arrangements made, foremen and
workmen waited the preconcerted moment with an impatience mingled with
a certain amount of emotion. Not a soul remained within the enclosure.
Each superintendent took his post by the aperture of the run.
Barbicane and his colleagues, perched on a neighboring eminence,
assisted at the operation. In front of them was a piece of artillery ready to
give fire on the signal from the engineer. Some minutes before midday the
first driblets of metal began to flow; the reservoirs filled little by little; and,
by the time that the whole melting was completely accomplished, it was

kept in abeyance for a few minutes in order to facilitate the separation of
foreign substances.
Twelve o’clock struck! A gunshot suddenly pealed forth and shot its
flame into the air. Twelve hundred melting-troughs were simultaneously
opened and twelve hundred fiery serpents crept toward the central well,
unrolling their incandescent curves. There, down they plunged with a
terrific noise into a depth of 900 feet. It was an exciting and a magnificent
spectacle. The ground trembled, while these molten waves, launching into
the sky their wreaths of smoke, evaporated the moisture of the mould and
hurled it upward through the vent-holes of the stone lining in the form of
dense vapor-clouds. These artificial clouds unrolled their thick spirals to a
height of 1,000 yards into the air. A savage, wandering somewhere beyond
the limits of the horizon, might have believed that some new crater was
forming in the bosom of Florida, although there was neither any eruption,
nor typhoon, nor storm, nor struggle of the elements, nor any of those
terrible phenomena which nature is capable of producing. No, it was man
alone who had produced these reddish vapors, these gigantic flames worthy
of a volcano itself, these tremendous vibrations resembling the shock of an
earthquake, these reverberations rivaling those of hurricanes and storms;
and it was his hand which precipitated into an abyss, dug by himself, a
whole Niagara of molten metal!

CHAPTER XVI.
THE COLUMBIAD

Had the casting succeeded? They were reduced to mere conjecture. There
was indeed every reason to expect success, since the mould has absorbed
the entire mass of the molten metal; still some considerable time must
elapse before they could arrive at any certainty upon the matter.
The patience of the members of the Gun Club was sorely tried during this
period of time. But they could do nothing. J. T. Maston escaped roasting by
a miracle. Fifteen days after the casting an immense column of smoke was
still rising in the open sky and the ground burned the soles of the feet within
a radius of two hundred feet round the summit of Stones Hill. It was
impossible to approach nearer. All they could do was to wait with what
patience they might.
“Here we are at the 10th of August,” exclaimed J. T. Maston one
morning, “only four months to the 1st of December! We shall never be
ready in time!” Barbicane said nothing, but his silence covered serious
irritation.
However, daily observations revealed a certain change going on in the
state of the ground. About the 15th of August the vapors ejected had
sensibly diminished in intensity and thickness. Some days afterward the
earth exhaled only a slight puff of smoke, the last breath of the monster
enclosed within its circle of stone. Little by little the belt of heat contracted,
until on the 22nd of August, Barbicane, his colleagues, and the engineer
were enabled to set foot on the iron sheet which lay level upon the summit
of Stones Hill.
“At last!” exclaimed the president of the Gun Club, with an immense
sigh of relief.

The work was resumed the same day. They proceeded at once to extract
the interior mould, for the purpose of clearing out the boring of the piece.
Pickaxes and boring irons were set to work without intermission. The
clayey and sandy soils had acquired extreme hardness under the action of
the heat; but, by the aid of the machines, the rubbish on being dug out was
rapidly carted away on railway wagons; and such was the ardor of the work,
so persuasive the arguments of Barbicane’s dollars, that by the 3rd of
September all traces of the mould had entirely disappeared.
Immediately the operation of boring was commenced; and by the aid of
powerful machines, a few weeks later, the inner surface of the immense
tube had been rendered perfectly cylindrical, and the bore of the piece had
acquired a thorough polish.
At length, on the 22d of September, less than a twelvemonth after
Barbicane’s original proposition, the enormous weapon, accurately bored,
and exactly vertically pointed, was ready for work. There was only the
moon now to wait for; and they were pretty sure that she would not fail in
the rendezvous.
The ecstasy of J. T. Maston knew no bounds, and he narrowly escaped a
frightful fall while staring down the tube. But for the strong hand of
Colonel Blomsberry, the worthy secretary, like a modern Erostratus, would
have found his death in the depths of the Columbiad.
The cannon was then finished; there was no possible doubt as to its
perfect completion. So, on the 6th of October, Captain Nicholl opened an
account between himself and President Barbicane, in which he debited
himself to the latter in the sum of two thousand dollars. One may believe
that the captain’s wrath was increased to its highest point, and must have
made him seriously ill. However, he had still three bets of three, four, and
five thousand dollars, respectively; and if he gained two out of these, his
position would not be very bad. But the money question did not enter into
his calculations; it was the success of his rival in casting a cannon against
which iron plates sixty feet thick would have been ineffectual, that dealt
him a terrible blow.
After the 23rd of September the enclosure of Stones hill was thrown open
to the public; and it will be easily imagined what was the concourse of
visitors to this spot! There was an incessant flow of people to and from

Tampa Town and the place, which resembled a procession, or rather, in fact,
a pilgrimage.
It was already clear to be seen that, on the day of the experiment itself,
the aggregate of spectators would be counted by millions; for they were
already arriving from all parts of the earth upon this narrow strip of
promontory. Europe was emigrating to America.
Up to that time, however, it must be confessed, the curiosity of the
numerous comers was but scantily gratified. Most had counted upon
witnessing the spectacle of the casting, and they were treated to nothing but
smoke. This was sorry food for hungry eyes; but Barbicane would admit no
one to that operation. Then ensued grumbling, discontent, murmurs; they
blamed the president, taxed him with dictatorial conduct. His proceedings
were declared “un-American.” There was very nearly a riot round Stones
Hill; but Barbicane remained inflexible. When, however, the Columbiad
was entirely finished, this state of closed doors could no longer be
maintained; besides it would have been bad taste, and even imprudence, to
affront the public feeling. Barbicane, therefore, opened the enclosure to all
comers; but, true to his practical disposition, he determined to coin money
out of the public curiosity.
It was something, indeed, to be enabled to contemplate this immense
Columbiad; but to descend into its depths, this seemed to the Americans the
ne plus ultra of earthly felicity. Consequently, there was not one curious
spectator who was not willing to give himself the treat of visiting the
interior of this great metallic abyss. Baskets suspended from steam-cranes
permitted them to satisfy their curiosity. There was a perfect mania.
Women, children, old men, all made it a point of duty to penetrate the
mysteries of the colossal gun. The fare for the descent was fixed at five
dollars per head; and despite this high charge, during the two months which
preceded the experiment, the influx of visitors enabled the Gun Club to
pocket nearly five hundred thousand dollars!
It is needless to say that the first visitors of the Columbiad were the
members of the Gun Club. This privilege was justly reserved for that
illustrious body. The ceremony took place on the 25th of September. A
basket of honor took down the president, J. T. Maston, Major Elphinstone,
General Morgan, Colonel Blomsberry, and other members of the club, to
the number of ten in all. How hot it was at the bottom of that long tube of

metal! They were half suffocated. But what delight! What ecstasy! A table
had been laid with six covers on the massive stone which formed the
bottom of the Columbiad, and lighted by a jet of electric light resembling
that of day itself. Numerous exquisite dishes, which seemed to descend
from heaven, were placed successively before the guests, and the richest
wines of France flowed in profusion during this splendid repast, served nine
hundred feet beneath the surface of the earth!
The festival was animated, not to say somewhat noisy. Toasts flew
backward and forward. They drank to the earth and to her satellite, to the
Gun Club, the Union, the Moon, Diana, Phoebe, Selene, the “peaceful
courier of the night!” All the hurrahs, carried upward upon the sonorous
waves of the immense acoustic tube, arrived with the sound of thunder at its
mouth; and the multitude ranged round Stones Hill heartily united their
shouts with those of the ten revelers hidden from view at the bottom of the
gigantic Columbiad.
J. T. Maston was no longer master of himself. Whether he shouted or
gesticulated, ate or drank most, would be a difficult matter to determine. At
all events, he would not have given his place up for an empire, “not even if
the cannon—loaded, primed, and fired at that very moment—were to blow
him in pieces into the planetary world.”

CHAPTER XVII.
A TELEGRAPHIC DISPATCH

The great works undertaken by the Gun Club had now virtually come to
an end; and two months still remained before the day for the discharge of
the shot to the moon. To the general impatience these two months appeared
as long as years! Hitherto the smallest details of the operation had been
daily chronicled by the journals, which the public devoured with eager eyes.
Just at this moment a circumstance, the most unexpected, the most
extraordinary and incredible, occurred to rouse afresh their panting spirits,
and to throw every mind into a state of the most violent excitement.
One day, the 30th of September, at 3:47 P.M., a telegram, transmitted by
cable from Valentia (Ireland) to Newfoundland and the American Mainland,
arrived at the address of President Barbicane.
The president tore open the envelope, read the dispatch, and, despite his
remarkable powers of self-control, his lips turned pale and his eyes grew
dim, on reading the twenty words of this telegram.
Here is the text of the dispatch, which figures now in the archives of the
Gun Club:

FRANCE, PARIS,
30 September, 4 A.M.

Barbicane, Tampa Town, Florida, United States.
Substitute for your spherical shell a cylindro-conical
projectile. I shall go inside. Shall arrive by steamer Atlanta.

MICHEL ARDAN.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PASSENGER OF THE ATLANTA

If this astounding news, instead of flying through the electric wires, had
simply arrived by post in the ordinary sealed envelope, Barbicane would
not have hesitated a moment. He would have held his tongue about it, both
as a measure of prudence, and in order not to have to reconsider his plans.
This telegram might be a cover for some jest, especially as it came from a
Frenchman. What human being would ever have conceived the idea of such
a journey? and, if such a person really existed, he must be an idiot, whom
one would shut up in a lunatic ward, rather than within the walls of the
projectile.
The contents of the dispatch, however, speedily became known; for the
telegraphic officials possessed but little discretion, and Michel Ardan’s
proposition ran at once throughout the several States of the Union.
Barbicane, had, therefore, no further motives for keeping silence.
Consequently, he called together such of his colleagues as were at the
moment in Tampa Town, and without any expression of his own opinions
simply read to them the laconic text itself. It was received with every
possible variety of expressions of doubt, incredulity, and derision from
every one, with the exception of J. T. Maston, who exclaimed, “It is a grand
idea, however!”
When Barbicane originally proposed to send a shot to the moon every
one looked upon the enterprise as simple and practicable enough—a mere
question of gunnery; but when a person, professing to be a reasonable
being, offered to take passage within the projectile, the whole thing became
a farce, or, in plainer language a humbug.
One question, however, remained. Did such a being exist? This telegram
flashed across the depths of the Atlantic, the designation of the vessel on
board which he was to take his passage, the date assigned for his speedy

arrival, all combined to impart a certain character of reality to the proposal.
They must get some clearer notion of the matter. Scattered groups of
inquirers at length condensed themselves into a compact crowd, which
made straight for the residence of President Barbicane. That worthy
individual was keeping quiet with the intention of watching events as they
arose. But he had forgotten to take into account the public impatience; and
it was with no pleasant countenance that he watched the population of
Tampa Town gathering under his windows. The murmurs and vociferations
below presently obliged him to appear. He came forward, therefore, and on
silence being procured, a citizen put point-blank to him the following
question: “Is the person mentioned in the telegram, under the name of
Michel Ardan, on his way here? Yes or no.”
“Gentlemen,” replied Barbicane, “I know no more than you do.”
“We must know,” roared the impatient voices.
“Time will show,” calmly replied the president.
“Time has no business to keep a whole country in suspense,” replied the
orator. “Have you altered the plans of the projectile according to the request
of the telegram?”
“Not yet, gentlemen; but you are right! we must have better information
to go by. The telegraph must complete its information.”
“To the telegraph!” roared the crowd.
Barbicane descended; and heading the immense assemblage, led the way
to the telegraph office. A few minutes later a telegram was dispatched to the
secretary of the underwriters at Liverpool, requesting answers to the
following queries:
“About the ship Atlanta—when did she leave Europe? Had she on board
a Frenchman named Michel Ardan?”
Two hours afterward Barbicane received information too exact to leave
room for the smallest remaining doubt.
“The steamer Atlanta from Liverpool put to sea on the 2nd of October,
bound for Tampa Town, having on board a Frenchman borne on the list of
passengers by the name of Michel Ardan.”
That very evening he wrote to the house of Breadwill and Co., requesting
them to suspend the casting of the projectile until the receipt of further
orders. On the 10th of October, at nine A.M., the semaphores of the Bahama

Canal signaled a thick smoke on the horizon. Two hours later a large
steamer exchanged signals with them. the name of the Atlanta flew at once
over Tampa Town. At four o’clock the English vessel entered the Bay of
Espiritu Santo. At five it crossed the passage of Hillisborough Bay at full
steam. At six she cast anchor at Port Tampa. The anchor had scarcely caught
the sandy bottom when five hundred boats surrounded the Atlanta, and the
steamer was taken by assault. Barbicane was the first to set foot on deck,
and in a voice of which he vainly tried to conceal the emotion, called
“Michel Ardan.”
“Here!” replied an individual perched on the poop.
Barbicane, with arms crossed, looked fixedly at the passenger of the
Atlanta.
He was a man of about forty-two years of age, of large build, but slightly
round-shouldered. His massive head momentarily shook a shock of reddish
hair, which resembled a lion’s mane. His face was short with a broad
forehead, and furnished with a moustache as bristly as a cat’s, and little
patches of yellowish whiskers upon full cheeks. Round, wildish eyes,
slightly near-sighted, completed a physiognomy essentially feline. His nose
was firmly shaped, his mouth particularly sweet in expression, high
forehead, intelligent and furrowed with wrinkles like a newly-plowed field.
The body was powerfully developed and firmly fixed upon long legs.
Muscular arms, and a general air of decision gave him the appearance of a
hardy, jolly, companion. He was dressed in a suit of ample dimensions,
loose neckerchief, open shirtcollar, disclosing a robust neck; his cuffs were
invariably unbuttoned, through which appeared a pair of red hands.
On the bridge of the steamer, in the midst of the crowd, he bustled to and
fro, never still for a moment, “dragging his anchors,” as the sailors say,
gesticulating, making free with everybody, biting his nails with nervous
avidity. He was one of those originals which nature sometimes invents in
the freak of a moment, and of which she then breaks the mould.
Among other peculiarities, this curiosity gave himself out for a sublime
ignoramus, “like Shakespeare,” and professed supreme contempt for all
scientific men. Those “fellows,” as he called them, “are only fit to mark the
points, while we play the game.” He was, in fact, a thorough Bohemian,
adventurous, but not an adventurer; a hare-brained fellow, a kind of Icarus,
only possessing relays of wings. For the rest, he was ever in scrapes, ending

invariably by falling on his feet, like those little figures which they sell for
children’s toys. In a few words, his motto was “I have my opinions,” and
the love of the impossible constituted his ruling passion.
Such was the passenger of the Atlanta, always excitable, as if boiling
under the action of some internal fire by the character of his physical
organization. If ever two individuals offered a striking contrast to each
other, these were certainly Michel Ardan and the Yankee Barbicane; both,
moreover, being equally enterprising and daring, each in his own way.
The scrutiny which the president of the Gun Club had instituted
regarding this new rival was quickly interrupted by the shouts and hurrahs
of the crowd. The cries became at last so uproarious, and the popular
enthusiasm assumed so personal a form, that Michel Ardan, after having
shaken hands some thousands of times, at the imminent risk of leaving his
fingers behind him, was fain at last to make a bolt for his cabin.
Barbicane followed him without uttering a word.
“You are Barbicane, I suppose?” said Michel Ardan, in a tone of voice in
which he would have addressed a friend of twenty years’ standing.
“Yes,” replied the president of the Gun Club.
“All right! how d’ye do, Barbicane? how are you getting on—pretty
well? that’s right.”
“So,” said Barbicane without further preliminary, “you are quite
determined to go.”
“Quite decided.”
“Nothing will stop you?”
“Nothing. Have you modified your projectile according to my telegram.”
“I waited for your arrival. But,” asked Barbicane again, “have you
carefully reflected?”
“Reflected? have I any time to spare? I find an opportunity of making a
tour in the moon, and I mean to profit by it. There is the whole gist of the
matter.”
Barbicane looked hard at this man who spoke so lightly of his project
with such complete absence of anxiety. “But, at least,” said he, “you have
some plans, some means of carrying your project into execution?”

“Excellent, my dear Barbicane; only permit me to offer one remark: My
wish is to tell my story once for all, to everybody, and then have done with
it; then there will be no need for recapitulation. So, if you have no
objection, assemble your friends, colleagues, the whole town, all Florida, all
America if you like, and to-morrow I shall be ready to explain my plans and
answer any objections whatever that may be advanced. You may rest
assured I shall wait without stirring. Will that suit you?”
“All right,” replied Barbicane.
So saying, the president left the cabin and informed the crowd of the
proposal of Michel Ardan. His words were received with clappings of hands
and shouts of joy. They had removed all difficulties. To-morrow every one
would contemplate at his ease this European hero. However, some of the
spectators, more infatuated than the rest, would not leave the deck of the
Atlanta. They passed the night on board. Among others J. T. Maston got his
hook fixed in the combing of the poop, and it pretty nearly required the
capstan to get it out again.
“He is a hero! a hero!” he cried, a theme of which he was never tired of
ringing the changes; “and we are only like weak, silly women, compared
with this European!”
As to the president, after having suggested to the visitors it was time to
retire, he re-entered the passenger’s cabin, and remained there till the bell of
the steamer made it midnight.
But then the two rivals in popularity shook hands heartily and parted on
terms of intimate friendship.

CHAPTER XIX.
A MONSTER MEETING

On the following day Barbicane, fearing that indiscreet questions might
be put to Michel Ardan, was desirous of reducing the number of the
audience to a few of the initiated, his own colleagues for instance. He might
as well have tried to check the Falls of Niagara! he was compelled,
therefore, to give up the idea, and let his new friend run the chances of a
public conference. The place chosen for this monster meeting was a vast
plain situated in the rear of the town. In a few hours, thanks to the help of
the shipping in port, an immense roofing of canvas was stretched over the
parched prairie, and protected it from the burning rays of the sun. There
three hundred thousand people braved for many hours the stifling heat
while awaiting the arrival of the Frenchman. Of this crowd of spectators a
first set could both see and hear; a second set saw badly and heard nothing
at all; and as for the third, it could neither see nor hear anything at all. At
three o’clock Michel Ardan made his appearance, accompanied by the
principal members of the Gun Club. He was supported on his right by
President Barbicane, and on his left by J. T. Maston, more radiant than the
midday sun, and nearly as ruddy. Ardan mounted a platform, from the top
of which his view extended over a sea of black hats.
He exhibited not the slightest embarrassment; he was just as gay,
familiar, and pleasant as if he were at home. To the hurrahs which greeted
him he replied by a graceful bow; then, waving his hands to request silence,
he spoke in perfectly correct English as follows:
“Gentlemen, despite the very hot weather I request your patience for a
short time while I offer some explanations regarding the projects which
seem to have so interested you. I am neither an orator nor a man of science,
and I had no idea of addressing you in public; but my friend Barbicane has
told me that you would like to hear me, and I am quite at your service.

Listen to me, therefore, with your six hundred thousand ears, and please
excuse the faults of the speaker. Now pray do not forget that you see before
you a perfect ignoramus whose ignorance goes so far that he cannot even
understand the difficulties! It seemed to him that it was a matter quite
simple, natural, and easy to take one’s place in a projectile and start for the
moon! That journey must be undertaken sooner or later; and, as for the
mode of locomotion adopted, it follows simply the law of progress. Man
began by walking on all-fours; then, one fine day, on two feet; then in a
carriage; then in a stage-coach; and lastly by railway. Well, the projectile is
the vehicle of the future, and the planets themselves are nothing else! Now
some of you, gentlemen, may imagine that the velocity we propose to
impart to it is extravagant. It is nothing of the kind. All the stars exceed it in
rapidity, and the earth herself is at this moment carrying us round the sun at
three times as rapid a rate, and yet she is a mere lounger on the way
compared with many others of the planets! And her velocity is constantly
decreasing. Is it not evident, then, I ask you, that there will some day appear
velocities far greater than these, of which light or electricity will probably
be the mechanical agent?
“Yes, gentlemen,” continued the orator, “in spite of the opinions of
certain narrow-minded people, who would shut up the human race upon this
globe, as within some magic circle which it must never outstep, we shall
one day travel to the moon, the planets, and the stars, with the same facility,
rapidity, and certainty as we now make the voyage from Liverpool to New
York! Distance is but a relative expression, and must end by being reduced
to zero.”
The assembly, strongly predisposed as they were in favor of the French
hero, were slightly staggered at this bold theory. Michel Ardan perceived
the fact.
“Gentlemen,” he continued with a pleasant smile, “you do not seem quite
convinced. Very good! Let us reason the matter out. Do you know how long
it would take for an express train to reach the moon? Three hundred days;
no more! And what is that? The distance is no more than nine times the
circumference of the earth; and there are no sailors or travelers, of even
moderate activity, who have not made longer journeys than that in their
lifetime. And now consider that I shall be only ninety- seven hours on my
journey. Ah! I see you are reckoning that the moon is a long way off from

the earth, and that one must think twice before making the experiment.
What would you say, then, if we were talking of going to Neptune, which
revolves at a distance of more than two thousand seven hundred and twenty
millions of miles from the sun! And yet what is that compared with the
distance of the fixed stars, some of which, such as Arcturus, are billions of
miles distant from us? And then you talk of the distance which separates the
planets from the sun! And there are people who affirm that such a thing as
distance exists. Absurdity, folly, idiotic nonsense! Would you know what I
think of our own solar universe? Shall I tell you my theory? It is very
simple! In my opinion the solar system is a solid homogeneous body; the
planets which compose it are in actual contact with each other; and
whatever space exists between them is nothing more than the space which
separates the molecules of the densest metal, such as silver, iron, or
platinum! I have the right, therefore, to affirm, and I repeat, with the
conviction which must penetrate all your minds, ‘Distance is but an empty
name; distance does not really exist!’”
“Hurrah!” cried one voice (need it be said it was that of J. T. Maston).
“Distance does not exist!” And overcome by the energy of his movements,
he nearly fell from the platform to the ground. He just escaped a severe fall,
which would have proved to him that distance was by no means an empty
name.
“Gentlemen,” resumed the orator, “I repeat that the distance between the
earth and her satellite is a mere trifle, and undeserving of serious
consideration. I am convinced that before twenty years are over one-half of
our earth will have paid a visit to the moon. Now, my worthy friends, if you
have any question to put to me, you will, I fear, sadly embarrass a poor man
like myself; still I will do my best to answer you.”
Up to this point the president of the Gun Club had been satisfied with the
turn which the discussion had assumed. It became now, however, desirable
to divert Ardan from questions of a practical nature, with which he was
doubtless far less conversant. Barbicane, therefore, hastened to get in a
word, and began by asking his new friend whether he thought that the moon
and the planets were inhabited.
“You put before me a great problem, my worthy president,” replied the
orator, smiling. “Still, men of great intelligence, such as Plutarch,
Swedenborg, Bernardin de St. Pierre, and others have, if I mistake not,

pronounced in the affirmative. Looking at the question from the natural
philosopher’s point of view, I should say that nothing useless existed in the
world; and, replying to your question by another, I should venture to assert,
that if these worlds are habitable, they either are, have been, or will be
inhabited.”
“No one could answer more logically or fairly,” replied the president.
“The question then reverts to this: Are these worlds habitable? For my own
part I believe they are.”
“For myself, I feel certain of it,” said Michel Ardan.
“Nevertheless,” retorted one of the audience, “there are many arguments
against the habitability of the worlds. The conditions of life must evidently
be greatly modified upon the majority of them. To mention only the planets,
we should be either broiled alive in some, or frozen to death in others,
according as they are more or less removed from the sun.”
“I regret,” replied Michel Ardan, “that I have not the honor of personally
knowing my contradictor, for I would have attempted to answer him. His
objection has its merits, I admit; but I think we may successfully combat it,
as well as all others which affect the habitability of other worlds. If I were a
natural philosopher, I would tell him that if less of caloric were set in
motion upon the planets which are nearest to the sun, and more, on the
contrary, upon those which are farthest removed from it, this simple fact
would alone suffice to equalize the heat, and to render the temperature of
those worlds supportable by beings organized like ourselves. If I were a
naturalist, I would tell him that, according to some illustrious men of
science, nature has furnished us with instances upon the earth of animals
existing under very varying conditions of life; that fish respire in a medium
fatal to other animals; that amphibious creatures possess a double existence
very difficult of explanation; that certain denizens of the seas maintain life
at enormous depths, and there support a pressure equal to that of fifty or
sixty atmospheres without being crushed; that several aquatic insects,
insensible to temperature, are met with equally among boiling springs and
in the frozen plains of the Polar Sea; in fine, that we cannot help
recognizing in nature a diversity of means of operation oftentimes
incomprehensible, but not the less real. If I were a chemist, I would tell him
that the aerolites, bodies evidently formed exteriorly of our terrestrial globe,
have, upon analysis, revealed indisputable traces of carbon, a substance

which owes its origin solely to organized beings, and which, according to
the experiments of Reichenbach, must necessarily itself have been endued
with animation. And lastly, were I a theologian, I would tell him that the
scheme of the Divine Redemption, according to St. Paul, seems to be
applicable, not merely to the earth, but to all the celestial worlds. But,
unfortunately, I am neither theologian, nor chemist, nor naturalist, nor
philosopher; therefore, in my absolute ignorance of the great laws which
govern the universe, I confine myself to saying in reply, ‘I do not know
whether the worlds are inhabited or not: and since I do not know, I am
going to see!’”
Whether Michel Ardan’s antagonist hazarded any further arguments or
not it is impossible to say, for the uproarious shouts of the crowd would not
allow any expression of opinion to gain a hearing. On silence being
restored, the triumphant orator contented himself with adding the following
remarks:
“Gentlemen, you will observe that I have but slightly touched upon this
great question. There is another altogether different line of argument in
favor of the habitability of the stars, which I omit for the present. I only
desire to call attention to one point. To those who maintain that the planets
are not inhabited one may reply: You might be perfectly in the right, if you
could only show that the earth is the best possible world, in spite of what
Voltaire has said. She has but one satellite, while Jupiter, Uranus, Saturn,
Neptune have each several, an advantage by no means to be despised. But
that which renders our own globe so uncomfortable is the inclination of its
axis to the plane of its orbit. Hence the inequality of days and nights; hence
the disagreeable diversity of the seasons. On the surface of our unhappy
spheroid we are always either too hot or too cold; we are frozen in winter,
broiled in summer; it is the planet of rheumatism, coughs, bronchitis; while
on the surface of Jupiter, for example, where the axis is but slightly
inclined, the inhabitants may enjoy uniform temperatures. It possesses
zones of perpetual springs, summers, autumns, and winters; every Jovian
may choose for himself what climate he likes, and there spend the whole of
his life in security from all variations of temperature. You will, I am sure,
readily admit this superiority of Jupiter over our own planet, to say nothing
of his years, which each equal twelve of ours! Under such auspices and
such marvelous conditions of existence, it appears to me that the inhabitants
of so fortunate a world must be in every respect superior to ourselves. All

we require, in order to attain such perfection, is the mere trifle of having an
axis of rotation less inclined to the plane of its orbit!”
“Hurrah!” roared an energetic voice, “let us unite our efforts, invent the
necessary machines, and rectify the earth’s axis!”
A thunder of applause followed this proposal, the author of which was, of
course, no other than J. T. Maston. And, in all probability, if the truth must
be told, if the Yankees could only have found a point of application for it,
they would have constructed a lever capable of raising the earth and
rectifying its axis. It was just this deficiency which baffled these daring
mechanicians.

CHAPTER XX.
ATTACK AND RIPOSTE

As soon as the excitement had subsided, the following words were heard
uttered in a strong and determined voice:
“Now that the speaker has favored us with so much imagination, would
he be so good as to return to his subject, and give us a little practical view
of the question?”
All eyes were directed toward the person who spoke. He was a little
dried-up man, of an active figure, with an American “goatee” beard.
Profiting by the different movements in the crowd, he had managed by
degrees to gain the front row of spectators. There, with arms crossed and
stern gaze, he watched the hero of the meeting. After having put his
question he remained silent, and appeared to take no notice of the thousands
of looks directed toward himself, nor of the murmur of disapprobation
excited by his words. Meeting at first with no reply, he repeated his
question with marked emphasis, adding, “We are here to talk about the
moon and not about the earth.”
“You are right, sir,” replied Michel Ardan; “the discussion has become
irregular. We will return to the moon.”
“Sir,” said the unknown, “you pretend that our satellite is inhabited. Very
good, but if Selenites do exist, that race of beings assuredly must live
without breathing, for—I warn you for your own sake—there is not the
smallest particle of air on the surface of the moon.”
At this remark Ardan pushed up his shock of red hair; he saw that he was
on the point of being involved in a struggle with this person upon the very
gist of the whole question. He looked sternly at him in his turn and said:
“Oh! so there is no air in the moon? And pray, if you are so good, who
ventures to affirm that?

“The men of science.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Sir,” replied Michel, “pleasantry apart, I have a profound respect for
men of science who do possess science, but a profound contempt for men of
science who do not.”
“Do you know any who belong to the latter category?”
“Decidedly. In France there are some who maintain that, mathematically,
a bird cannot possibly fly; and others who demonstrate theoretically that
fishes were never made to live in water.”
“I have nothing to do with persons of that description, and I can quote, in
support of my statement, names which you cannot refuse deference to.”
“Then, sir, you will sadly embarrass a poor ignorant, who, besides, asks
nothing better than to learn.”
“Why, then, do you introduce scientific questions if you have never
studied them?” asked the unknown somewhat coarsely.
“For the reason that ‘he is always brave who never suspects danger.’ I
know nothing, it is true; but it is precisely my very weakness which
constitutes my strength.”
“Your weakness amounts to folly,” retorted the unknown in a passion.
“All the better,” replied our Frenchman, “if it carries me up to the moon.”
Barbicane and his colleagues devoured with their eyes the intruder who
had so boldly placed himself in antagonism to their enterprise. Nobody
knew him, and the president, uneasy as to the result of so free a discussion,
watched his new friend with some anxiety. The meeting began to be
somewhat fidgety also, for the contest directed their attention to the
dangers, if not the actual impossibilities, of the proposed expedition.
“Sir,” replied Ardan’s antagonist, “there are many and incontrovertible
reasons which prove the absence of an atmosphere in the moon. I might say
that, a priori, if one ever did exist, it must have been absorbed by the earth;
but I prefer to bring forward indisputable facts.”
“Bring them forward then, sir, as many as you please.”
“You know,” said the stranger, “that when any luminous rays cross a
medium such as the air, they are deflected out of the straight line; in other

words, they undergo refraction. Well! When stars are occulted by the moon,
their rays, on grazing the edge of her disc, exhibit not the least deviation,
nor offer the slightest indication of refraction. It follows, therefore, that the
moon cannot be surrounded by an atmosphere.
“In point of fact,” replied Ardan, “this is your chief, if not your only
argument; and a really scientific man might be puzzled to answer it. For
myself, I will simply say that it is defective, because it assumes that the
angular diameter of the moon has been completely determined, which is not
the case. But let us proceed. Tell me, my dear sir, do you admit the
existence of volcanoes on the moon’s surface?”
“Extinct, yes! In activity, no!”
“These volcanoes, however, were at one time in a state of activity?”
“True, but, as they furnish themselves the oxygen necessary for
combustion, the mere fact of their eruption does not prove the presence of
an atmosphere.”
“Proceed again, then; and let us set aside this class of arguments in order
to come to direct observations. In 1715 the astronomers Louville and
Halley, watching the eclipse of the 3rd of May, remarked some very
extraordinary scintillations. These jets of light, rapid in nature, and of
frequent recurrence, they attributed to thunderstorms generated in the lunar
atmosphere.”
“In 1715,” replied the unknown, “the astronomers Louville and Halley
mistook for lunar phenomena some which were purely terrestrial, such as
meteoric or other bodies which are generated in our own atmosphere. This
was the scientific explanation at the time of the facts; and that is my answer
now.”
“On again, then,” replied Ardan; “Herschel, in 1787, observed a great
number of luminous points on the moon’s surface, did he not?”
“Yes! but without offering any solution of them. Herschel himself never
inferred from them the necessity of a lunar atmosphere. And I may add that
Baeer and Maedler, the two great authorities upon the moon, are quite
agreed as to the entire absence of air on its surface.”
A movement was here manifest among the assemblage, who appeared to
be growing excited by the arguments of this singular personage.

“Let us proceed,” replied Ardan, with perfect coolness, “and come to one
important fact. A skillful French astronomer, M. Laussedat, in watching the
eclipse of July 18, 1860, probed that the horns of the lunar crescent were
rounded and truncated. Now, this appearance could only have been
produced by a deviation of the solar rays in traversing the atmosphere of the
moon. There is no other possible explanation of the facts.”
“But is this established as a fact?”
“Absolutely certain!”
A counter-movement here took place in favor of the hero of the meeting,
whose opponent was now reduced to silence. Ardan resumed the
conversation; and without exhibiting any exultation at the advantage he had
gained, simply said:
“You see, then, my dear sir, we must not pronounce with absolute
positiveness against the existence of an atmosphere in the moon. That
atmosphere is, probably, of extreme rarity; nevertheless at the present day
science generally admits that it exists.”
“Not in the mountains, at all events,” returned the unknown, unwilling to
give in.
“No! but at the bottom of the valleys, and not exceeding a few hundred
feet in height.”
“In any case you will do well to take every precaution, for the air will be
terribly rarified.”
“My good sir, there will always be enough for a solitary individual;
besides, once arrived up there, I shall do my best to economize, and not to
breathe except on grand occasions!”
A tremendous roar of laughter rang in the ears of the mysterious
interlocutor, who glared fiercely round upon the assembly.
“Then,” continued Ardan, with a careless air, “since we are in accord
regarding the presence of a certain atmosphere, we are forced to admit the
presence of a certain quantity of water. This is a happy consequence for me.
Moreover, my amiable contradictor, permit me to submit to you one further
observation. We only know one side of the moon’s disc; and if there is but
little air on the face presented to us, it is possible that there is plenty on the
one turned away from us.”
“And for what reason?”

“Because the moon, under the action of the earth’s attraction, has
assumed the form of an egg, which we look at from the smaller end. Hence
it follows, by Hausen’s calculations, that its center of gravity is situated in
the other hemisphere. Hence it results that the great mass of air and water
must have been drawn away to the other face of our satellite during the first
days of its creation.”
“Pure fancies!” cried the unknown.
“No! Pure theories! which are based upon the laws of mechanics, and it
seems difficult to me to refute them. I appeal then to this meeting, and I put
it to them whether life, such as exists upon the earth, is possible on the
surface of the moon?”
Three hundred thousand auditors at once applauded the proposition.
Ardan’s opponent tried to get in another word, but he could not obtain a
hearing. Cries and menaces fell upon him like hail.
“Enough! enough!” cried some.
“Drive the intruder off!” shouted others.
“Turn him out!” roared the exasperated crowd.
But he, holding firmly on to the platform, did not budge an inch, and let
the storm pass on, which would soon have assumed formidable proportions,
if Michel Ardan had not quieted it by a gesture. He was too chivalrous to
abandon his opponent in an apparent extremity.
“You wished to say a few more words?” he asked, in a pleasant voice.
“Yes, a thousand; or rather, no, only one! If you persevere in your
enterprise, you must be a—”
“Very rash person! How can you treat me as such? me, who have
demanded a cylindro-conical projectile, in order to prevent turning round
and round on my way like a squirrel?”
“But, unhappy man, the dreadful recoil will smash you to pieces at your
starting.”
“My dear contradictor, you have just put your finger upon the true and
only difficulty; nevertheless, I have too good an opinion of the industrial
genius of the Americans not to believe that they will succeed in overcoming
it.”

“But the heat developed by the rapidity of the projectile in crossing the
strata of air?”
“Oh! the walls are thick, and I shall soon have crossed the atmosphere.”
“But victuals and water?”
“I have calculated for a twelvemonth’s supply, and I shall be only four
days on the journey.”
“But for air to breathe on the road?”
“I shall make it by a chemical process.”
“But your fall on the moon, supposing you ever reach it?”
“It will be six times less dangerous than a sudden fall upon the earth,
because the weight will be only one-sixth as great on the surface of the
moon.”
“Still it will be enough to smash you like glass!”
“What is to prevent my retarding the shock by means of rockets
conveniently placed, and lighted at the right moment?”
“But after all, supposing all difficulties surmounted, all obstacles
removed, supposing everything combined to favor you, and granting that
you may arrive safe and sound in the moon, how will you come back?”
“I am not coming back!”
At this reply, almost sublime in its very simplicity, the assembly became
silent. But its silence was more eloquent than could have been its cries of
enthusiasm. The unknown profited by the opportunity and once more
protested:
“You will inevitably kill yourself!” he cried; “and your death will be that
of a madman, useless even to science!”
“Go on, my dear unknown, for truly your prophecies are most
agreeable!”
“It really is too much!” cried Michel Ardan’s adversary. “I do not know
why I should continue so frivolous a discussion! Please yourself about this
insane expedition! We need not trouble ourselves about you!”
“Pray don’t stand upon ceremony!”
“No! another person is responsible for your act.”
“Who, may I ask?” demanded Michel Ardan in an imperious tone.

“The ignoramus who organized this equally absurd and impossible
experiment!”
The attack was direct. Barbicane, ever since the interference of the
unknown, had been making fearful efforts of self-control; now, however,
seeing himself directly attacked, he could restrain himself no longer. He
rose suddenly, and was rushing upon the enemy who thus braved him to the
face, when all at once he found himself separated from him.
The platform was lifted by a hundred strong arms, and the president of
the Gun Club shared with Michel Ardan triumphal honors. The shield was
heavy, but the bearers came in continuous relays, disputing, struggling,
even fighting among themselves in their eagerness to lend their shoulders to
this demonstration.
However, the unknown had not profited by the tumult to quit his post.
Besides he could not have done it in the midst of that compact crowd. There
he held on in the front row with crossed arms, glaring at President
Barbicane.
The shouts of the immense crowd continued at their highest pitch
throughout this triumphant march. Michel Ardan took it all with evident
pleasure. His face gleamed with delight. Several times the platform seemed
seized with pitching and rolling like a weatherbeaten ship. But the two
heros of the meeting had good sea-legs. They never stumbled; and their
vessel arrived without dues at the port of Tampa Town.
Michel Ardan managed fortunately to escape from the last embraces of
his vigorous admirers. He made for the Hotel Franklin, quickly gained his
chamber, and slid under the bedclothes, while an army of a hundred
thousand men kept watch under his windows.
During this time a scene, short, grave, and decisive, took place between
the mysterious personage and the president of the Gun Club.
Barbicane, free at last, had gone straight at his adversary.
“Come!” he said shortly.
The other followed him on the quay; and the two presently found
themselves alone at the entrance of an open wharf on Jones’ Fall.
The two enemies, still mutually unknown, gazed at each other.
“Who are you?” asked Barbicane.

“Captain Nicholl!”
“So I suspected. Hitherto chance has never thrown you in my way.”
“I am come for that purpose.”
“You have insulted me.”
“Publicly!”
“And you will answer to me for this insult?”
“At this very moment.”
“No! I desire that all that passes between us shall be secret. Their is a
wood situated three miles from Tampa, the wood of Skersnaw. Do you
know it?”
“I know it.”
“Will you be so good as to enter it to-morrow morning at five o’clock, on
one side?”
“Yes! if you will enter at the other side at the same hour.”
“And you will not forget your rifle?” said Barbicane.
“No more than you will forget yours?” replied Nicholl.
These words having been coldly spoken, the president of the Gun Club
and the captain parted. Barbicane returned to his lodging; but instead of
snatching a few hours of repose, he passed the night in endeavoring to
discover a means of evading the recoil of the projectile, and resolving the
difficult problem proposed by Michel Ardan during the discussion at the
meeting.

CHAPTER XXI.
HOW A FRENCHMAN MANAGES AN AFFAIR

While the contract of this duel was being discussed by the president and
the captain—this dreadful, savage duel, in which each adversary became a
man-hunter—Michel Ardan was resting from the fatigues of his triumph.
Resting is hardly an appropriate expression, for American beds rival marble
or granite tables for hardness.
Ardan was sleeping, then, badly enough, tossing about between the cloths
which served him for sheets, and he was dreaming of making a more
comfortable couch in his projectile when a frightful noise disturbed his
dreams. Thundering blows shook his door. They seemed to be caused by
some iron instrument. A great deal of loud talking was distinguishable in
this racket, which was rather too early in the morning. “Open the door,”
some one shrieked, “for heaven’s sake!” Ardan saw no reason for
complying with a demand so roughly expressed. However, he got up and
opened the door just as it was giving way before the blows of this
determined visitor. The secretary of the Gun Club burst into the room. A
bomb could not have made more noise or have entered the room with less
ceremony.
“Last night,” cried J. T. Maston, ex abrupto, “our president was publicly
insulted during the meeting. He provoked his adversary, who is none other
than Captain Nicholl! They are fighting this morning in the wood of
Skersnaw. I heard all the particulars from the mouth of Barbicane himself.
If he is killed, then our scheme is at an end. We must prevent his duel; and
one man alone has enough influence over Barbicane to stop him, and that
man is Michel Ardan.”
While J. T. Maston was speaking, Michel Ardan, without interrupting
him, had hastily put on his clothes; and, in less than two minutes, the two
friends were making for the suburbs of Tampa Town with rapid strides.

It was during this walk that Maston told Ardan the state of the case. He
told him the real causes of the hostility between Barbicane and Nicholl;
how it was of old date, and why, thanks to unknown friends, the president
and the captain had, as yet, never met face to face. He added that it arose
simply from a rivalry between iron plates and shot, and, finally, that the
scene at the meeting was only the long-wished-for opportunity for Nicholl
to pay off an old grudge.
Nothing is more dreadful than private duels in America. The two
adversaries attack each other like wild beasts. Then it is that they might well
covet those wonderful properties of the Indians of the prairies—their quick
intelligence, their ingenious cunning, their scent of the enemy. A single
mistake, a moment’s hesitation, a single false step may cause death. On
these occasions Yankees are often accompanied by their dogs, and keep up
the struggle for hours.
“What demons you are!” cried Michel Ardan, when his companion had
depicted this scene to him with much energy.
“Yes, we are,” replied J. T. modestly; “but we had better make haste.”
Though Michel Ardan and he had crossed the plains still wet with dew,
and had taken the shortest route over creeks and ricefields, they could not
reach Skersnaw in under five hours and a half.
Barbicane must have passed the border half an hour ago.
There was an old bushman working there, occupied in selling fagots from
trees that had been leveled by his axe.
Maston ran toward him, saying, “Have you seen a man go into the wood,
armed with a rifle? Barbicane, the president, my best friend?”
The worthy secretary of the Gun Club thought that his president must be
known by all the world. But the bushman did not seem to understand him.
“A hunter?” said Ardan.
“A hunter? Yes,” replied the bushman.
“Long ago?”
“About an hour.”
“Too late!” cried Maston.
“Have you heard any gunshots?” asked Ardan.
“No!”

“Not one?”
“Not one! that hunter did not look as if he knew how to hunt!”
“What is to be done?” said Maston.
“We must go into the wood, at the risk of getting a ball which is not
intended for us.”
“Ah!” cried Maston, in a tone which could not be mistaken, “I would
rather have twenty balls in my own head than one in Barbicane’s.”
“Forward, then,” said Ardan, pressing his companion’s hand.
A few moments later the two friends had disappeared in the copse. It was
a dense thicket, in which rose huge cypresses, sycamores, tulip-trees, olives,
tamarinds, oaks, and magnolias. These different trees had interwoven their
branches into an inextricable maze, through which the eye could not
penetrate. Michel Ardan and Maston walked side by side in silence through
the tall grass, cutting themselves a path through the strong creepers, casting
curious glances on the bushes, and momentarily expecting to hear the sound
of rifles. As for the traces which Barbicane ought to have left of his passage
through the wood, there was not a vestige of them visible: so they followed
the barely perceptible paths along which Indians had tracked some enemy,
and which the dense foliage darkly overshadowed.
After an hour spent in vain pursuit the two stopped in intensified anxiety.
“It must be all over,” said Maston, discouraged. “A man like Barbicane
would not dodge with his enemy, or ensnare him, would not even
maneuver! He is too open, too brave. He has gone straight ahead, right into
the danger, and doubtless far enough from the bushman for the wind to
prevent his hearing the report of the rifles.”
“But surely,” replied Michel Ardan, “since we entered the wood we
should have heard!”
“And what if we came too late?” cried Maston in tones of despair.
For once Ardan had no reply to make, he and Maston resuming their
walk in silence. From time to time, indeed, they raised great shouts, calling
alternately Barbicane and Nicholl, neither of whom, however, answered
their cries. Only the birds, awakened by the sound, flew past them and
disappeared among the branches, while some frightened deer fled
precipitately before them.

For another hour their search was continued. The greater part of the wood
had been explored. There was nothing to reveal the presence of the
combatants. The information of the bushman was after all doubtful, and
Ardan was about to propose their abandoning this useless pursuit, when all
at once Maston stopped.
“Hush!” said he, “there is some one down there!”
“Some one?” repeated Michel Ardan.
“Yes; a man! He seems motionless. His rifle is not in his hands. What can
he be doing?”
“But can you recognize him?” asked Ardan, whose short sight was of
little use to him in such circumstances.
“Yes! yes! He is turning toward us,” answered Maston.
“And it is?”
“Captain Nicholl!”
“Nicholl?” cried Michel Ardan, feeling a terrible pang of grief.
“Nicholl unarmed! He has, then, no longer any fear of his adversary!”
“Let us go to him,” said Michel Ardan, “and find out the truth.”
But he and his companion had barely taken fifty steps, when they paused
to examine the captain more attentively. They expected to find a
bloodthirsty man, happy in his revenge.
On seeing him, they remained stupefied.
A net, composed of very fine meshes, hung between two enormous tulip-
trees, and in the midst of this snare, with its wings entangled, was a poor
little bird, uttering pitiful cries, while it vainly struggled to escape. The
bird-catcher who had laid this snare was no human being, but a venomous
spider, peculiar to that country, as large as a pigeon’s egg, and armed with
enormous claws. The hideous creature, instead of rushing on its prey, had
beaten a sudden retreat and taken refuge in the upper branches of the tulip-
tree, for a formidable enemy menaced its stronghold.
Here, then, was Nicholl, his gun on the ground, forgetful of danger,
trying if possible to save the victim from its cobweb prison. At last it was
accomplished, and the little bird flew joyfully away and disappeared.
Nicholl lovingly watched its flight, when he heard these words
pronounced by a voice full of emotion:

“You are indeed a brave man.”
He turned. Michel Ardan was before him, repeating in a different tone:
“And a kindhearted one!”
“Michel Ardan!” cried the captain. “Why are you here?”
“To press your hand, Nicholl, and to prevent you from either killing
Barbicane or being killed by him.”
“Barbicane!” returned the captain. “I have been looking for him for the
last two hours in vain. Where is he hiding?”
“Nicholl!” said Michel Ardan, “this is not courteous! we ought always to
treat an adversary with respect; rest assureed if Barbicane is still alive we
shall find him all the more easily; because if he has not, like you, been
amusing himself with freeing oppressed birds, he must be looking for you.
When we have found him, Michel Ardan tells you this, there will be no duel
between you.”
“Between President Barbicane and myself,” gravely replied Nicholl,
“there is a rivalry which the death of one of us—”
“Pooh, pooh!” said Ardan. “Brave fellows like you indeed! you shall not
fight!”
“I will fight, sir!”
“No!”
“Captain,” said J. T. Maston, with much feeling, “I am a friend of the
president’s, his alter ego, his second self; if you really must kill some one,
shoot me! it will do just as well!”
“Sir,” Nicholl replied, seizing his rifle convulsively, “these jokes—”
“Our friend Maston is not joking,” replied Ardan. “I fully understand his
idea of being killed himself in order to save his friend. But neither he nor
Barbicane will fall before the balls of Captain Nicholl. Indeed I have so
attractive a proposal to make to the two rivals, that both will be eager to
accept it.”
“What is it?” asked Nicholl with manifest incredulity.
“Patience!” exclaimed Ardan. “I can only reveal it in the presence of
Barbicane.”
“Let us go in search of him then!” cried the captain.

The three men started off at once; the captain having discharged his rifle
threw it over his shoulder, and advanced in silence. Another half hour
passed, and the pursuit was still fruitless. Maston was oppressed by sinister
forebodings. He looked fiercely at Nicholl, asking himself whether the
captain’s vengeance had already been satisfied, and the unfortunate
Barbicane, shot, was perhaps lying dead on some bloody track. The same
thought seemed to occur to Ardan; and both were casting inquiring glances
on Nicholl, when suddenly Maston paused.
The motionless figure of a man leaning against a gigantic catalpa twenty
feet off appeared, half-veiled by the foliage.
“It is he!” said Maston.
Barbicane never moved. Ardan looked at the captain, but he did not
wince. Ardan went forward crying:
“Barbicane! Barbicane!”
No answer! Ardan rushed toward his friend; but in the act of seizing his
arms, he stopped short and uttered a cry of surprise.
Barbicane, pencil in hand, was tracing geometrical figures in a
memorandum book, while his unloaded rifle lay beside him on the ground.
Absorbed in his studies, Barbicane, in his turn forgetful of the duel, had
seen and heard nothing.
When Ardan took his hand, he looked up and stared at his visitor in
astonishment.
“Ah, it is you!” he cried at last. “I have found it, my friend, I have found
it!”
“What?”
“My plan!”
“What plan?”
“The plan for countering the effect of the shock at the departure of the
projectile!”
“Indeed?” said Michel Ardan, looking at the captain out of the corner of
his eye.
“Yes! water! simply water, which will act as a spring—ah! Maston,”
cried Barbicane, “you here also?”

“Himself,” replied Ardan; “and permit me to introduce to you at the same
time the worthy Captain Nicholl!”
“Nicholl!” cried Barbicane, who jumped up at once. “Pardon me, captain,
I had quite forgotten—I am ready!”
Michel Ardan interfered, without giving the two enemies time to say
anything more.
“Thank heaven!” said he. “It is a happy thing that brave men like you two
did not meet sooner! we should now have been mourning for one or other
of you. But, thanks to Providence, which has interfered, there is now no
further cause for alarm. When one forgets one’s anger in mechanics or in
cobwebs, it is a sign that the anger is not dangerous.”
Michel Ardan then told the president how the captain had been found
occupied.
“I put it to you now,” said he in conclusion, “are two such good fellows
as you are made on purpose to smash each other’s skulls with shot?”
There was in “the situation” somewhat of the ridiculous, something quite
unexpected; Michel Ardan saw this, and determined to effect a
reconciliation.
“My good friends,” said he, with his most bewitching smile, “this is
nothing but a misunderstanding. Nothing more! well! to prove that it is all
over between you, accept frankly the proposal I am going to make to you.”
“Make it,” said Nicholl.
“Our friend Barbicane believes that his projectile will go straight to the
moon?”
“Yes, certainly,” replied the president.
“And our friend Nicholl is persuaded it will fall back upon the earth?”
“I am certain of it,” cried the captain.
“Good!” said Ardan. “I cannot pretend to make you agree; but I suggest
this: Go with me, and so see whether we are stopped on our journey.”
“What?” exclaimed J. T. Maston, stupefied.
The two rivals, on this sudden proposal, looked steadily at each other.
Barbicane waited for the captain’s answer. Nicholl watched for the decision
of the president.
“Well?” said Michel. “There is now no fear of the shock!”

“Done!” cried Barbicane.
But quickly as he pronounced the word, he was not before Nicholl.
“Hurrah! bravo! hip! hip! hurrah!” cried Michel, giving a hand to each of
the late adversaries. “Now that it is all settled, my friends, allow me to treat
you after French fashion. Let us be off to breakfast!”

CHAPTER XXII.
THE NEW CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES

That same day all America heard of the affair of Captain Nicholl and
President Barbicane, as well as its singular denouement. From that day
forth, Michel Ardan had not one moment’s rest. Deputations from all
corners of the Union harassed him without cessation or intermission. He
was compelled to receive them all, whether he would or no. How many
hands he shook, how many people he was “hail-fellow-well-met” with, it is
impossible to guess! Such a triumphal result would have intoxicated any
other man; but he managed to keep himself in a state of delightful semi-
tipsiness.
Among the deputations of all kinds which assailed him, that of “The
Lunatics” were careful not to forget what they owed to the future conqueror
of the moon. One day, certain of these poor people, so numerous in
America, came to call upon him, and requested permission to return with
him to their native country.
“Singular hallucination!” said he to Barbicane, after having dismissed the
deputation with promises to convey numbers of messages to friends in the
moon. “Do you believe in the influence of the moon upon distempers?”
“Scarcely!”
“No more do I, despite some remarkable recorded facts of history. For
instance, during an epidemic in 1693, a large number of persons died at the
very moment of an eclipse. The celebrated Bacon always fainted during an
eclipse. Charles VI relapsed six times into madness during the year 1399,
sometimes during the new, sometimes during the full moon. Gall observed
that insane persons underwent an accession of their disorder twice in every
month, at the epochs of new and full moon. In fact, numerous observations
made upon fevers, somnambulisms, and other human maladies, seem to
prove that the moon does exercise some mysterious influence upon man.”

“But the how and the wherefore?” asked Barbicane.
“Well, I can only give you the answer which Arago borrowed from
Plutarch, which is nineteen centuries old. ‘Perhaps the stories are not true!’”
In the height of his triumph, Michel Ardan had to encounter all the
annoyances incidental to a man of celebrity. Managers of entertainments
wanted to exhibit him. Barnum offered him a million dollars to make a tour
of the United States in his show. As for his photographs, they were sold of
all size, and his portrait taken in every imaginable posture. More than half a
million copies were disposed of in an incredibly short space of time.
But it was not only the men who paid him homage, but the women as
well. He might have married well a hundred times over, if he had been
willing to settle in life. The old maids, in particular, of forty years and
upward, and dry in proportion, devoured his photographs day and night.
They would have married him by hundreds, even if he had imposed upon
them the condition of accompanying him into space. He had, however, no
intention of transplanting a race of Franco-Americans upon the surface of
the moon.
He therefore declined all offers.
As soon as he could withdraw from these somewhat embarrassing
demonstrations, he went, accompanied by his friends, to pay a visit to the
Columbiad. He was highly gratified by his inspection, and made the descent
to the bottom of the tube of this gigantic machine which was presently to
launch him to the regions of the moon. It is necessary here to mention a
proposal of J. T. Maston’s. When the secretary of the Gun Club found that
Barbicane and Nicholl accepted the proposal of Michel Ardan, he
determined to join them, and make one of a smug party of four. So one day
he determined to be admitted as one of the travelers. Barbicane, pained at
having to refuse him, gave him clearly to understand that the projectile
could not possibly contain so many passengers. Maston, in despair, went in
search of Michel Ardan, who counseled him to resign himself to the
situation, adding one or two arguments ad hominem.
“You see, old fellow,” he said, “you must not take what I say in bad part;
but really, between ourselves, you are in too incomplete a condition to
appear in the moon!”
“Incomplete?” shrieked the valiant invalid.

“Yes, my dear fellow! imagine our meeting some of the inhabitants up
there! Would you like to give them such a melancholy notion of what goes
on down here? to teach them what war is, to inform them that we employ
our time chiefly in devouring each other, in smashing arms and legs, and
that too on a globe which is capable of supporting a hundred billions of
inhabitants, and which actually does contain nearly two hundred millions?
Why, my worthy friend, we should have to turn you out of doors!”
“But still, if you arrive there in pieces, you will be as incomplete as I
am.”
“Unquestionably,” replied Michel Ardan; “but we shall not.”
In fact, a preparatory experiment, tried on the 18th of October, had
yielded the best results and caused the most well-grounded hopes of
success. Barbicane, desirous of obtaining some notion of the effect of the
shock at the moment of the projectile’s departure, had procured a 38-inch
mortar from the arsenal of Pensacola. He had this placed on the bank of
Hillisborough Roads, in order that the shell might fall back into the sea, and
the shock be thereby destroyed. His object was to ascertain the extent of the
shock of departure, and not that of the return.
A hollow projectile had been prepared for this curious experiment. A
thick padding fastened upon a kind of elastic network, made of the best
steel, lined the inside of the walls. It was a veritable nest most carefully
wadded.
“What a pity I can’t find room in there,” said J. T. Maston, regretting that
his height did not allow of his trying the adventure.
Within this shell were shut up a large cat, and a squirrel belonging to J. T.
Maston, and of which he was particularly fond. They were desirous,
however, of ascertaining how this little animal, least of all others subject to
giddiness, would endure this experimental voyage.
The mortar was charged with 160 pounds of powder, and the shell placed
in the chamber. On being fired, the projectile rose with great velocity,
described a majestic parabola, attained a height of about a thousand feet,
and with a graceful curve descended in the midst of the vessels that lay
there at anchor.
Without a moment’s loss of time a small boat put off in the direction of
its fall; some divers plunged into the water and attached ropes to the

handles of the shell, which was quickly dragged on board. Five minutes did
not elapse between the moment of enclosing the animals and that of
unscrewing the coverlid of their prison.
Ardan, Barbicane, Maston, and Nicholl were present on board the boat,
and assisted at the operation with an interest which may readily be
comprehended. Hardly had the shell been opened when the cat leaped out,
slightly bruised, but full of life, and exhibiting no signs whatever of having
made an aerial expedition. No trace, however, of the squirrel could be
discovered. The truth at last became apparent—the cat had eaten its fellow-
traveler!
J. T. Maston grieved much for the loss of his poor squirrel, and proposed
to add its case to that of other martyrs to science.
After this experiment all hesitation, all fear disappeared. Besides,
Barbicane’s plans would ensure greater perfection for his projectile, and go
far to annihilate altogether the effects of the shock. Nothing now remained
but to go!
Two days later Michel Ardan received a message from the President of
the United States, an honor of which he showed himself especially sensible.
After the example of his illustrious fellow-countryman, the Marquis de la
Fayette, the government had decreed to him the title of “Citizen of the
United States of America.”

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE PROJECTILE-VEHICLE

On the completion of the Columbiad the public interest centered in the
projectile itself, the vehicle which was destined to carry the three hardy
adventurers into space.
The new plans had been sent to Breadwill and Co., of Albany, with the
request for their speedy execution. The projectile was consequently cast on
the 2nd of November, and immediately forwarded by the Eastern Railway
to Stones Hill, which it reached without accident on the 10th of that month,
where Michel Ardan, Barbicane, and Nicholl were waiting impatiently for
it.
The projectile had now to be filled to the depth of three feet with a bed of
water, intended to support a water-tight wooden disc, which worked easily
within the walls of the projectile. It was upon this kind of raft that the
travelers were to take their place. This body of water was divided by
horizontal partitions, which the shock of the departure would have to break
in succession. Then each sheet of the water, from the lowest to the highest,
running off into escape tubes toward the top of the projectile, constituted a
kind of spring; and the wooden disc, supplied with extremely powerful
plugs, could not strike the lowest plate except after breaking successively
the different partitions. Undoubtedly the travelers would still have to
encounter a violent recoil after the complete escapement of the water; but
the first shock would be almost entirely destroyed by this powerful spring.
The upper parts of the walls were lined with a thick padding of leather,
fastened upon springs of the best steel, behind which the escape tubes were
completely concealed; thus all imaginable precautions had been taken for
averting the first shock; and if they did get crushed, they must, as Michel
Ardan said, be made of very bad materials.

The entrance into this metallic tower was by a narrow aperture contrived
in the wall of the cone. This was hermetically closed by a plate of
aluminum, fastened internally by powerful screw-pressure. The travelers
could therefore quit their prison at pleasure, as soon as they should reach
the moon.
Light and view were given by means of four thick lenticular glass
scuttles, two pierced in the circular wall itself, the third in the bottom, the
fourth in the top. These scuttles then were protected against the shock of
departure by plates let into solid grooves, which could easily be opened
outward by unscrewing them from the inside. Reservoirs firmly fixed
contained water and the necessary provisions; and fire and light were
procurable by means of gas, contained in a special reservoir under a
pressure of several atmospheres. They had only to turn a tap, and for six
hours the gas would light and warm this comfortable vehicle.
There now remained only the question of air; for allowing for the
consumption of air by Barbicane, his two companions, and two dogs which
he proposed taking with him, it was necessary to renew the air of the
projectile. Now air consists principally of twenty-one parts of oxygen and
seventy-nine of nitrogen. The lungs absorb the oxygen, which is
indispensable for the support of life, and reject the nitrogen. The air expired
loses nearly five per cent. of the former and contains nearly an equal
volume of carbonic acid, produced by the combustion of the elements of the
blood. In an air-tight enclosure, then, after a certain time, all the oxygen of
the air will be replaced by the carbonic acid—a gas fatal to life. There were
two things to be done then—first, to replace the absorbed oxygen; secondly,
to destroy the expired carbonic acid; both easy enough to do, by means of
chlorate of potassium and caustic potash. The former is a salt which appears
under the form of white crystals; when raised to a temperature of 400
degrees it is transformed into chlorure of potassium, and the oxygen which
it contains is entirely liberated. Now twenty-eight pounds of chlorate of
potassium produces seven pounds of oxygen, or 2,400 litres—the quantity
necessary for the travelers during twenty-four hours.
Caustic potash has a great affinity for carbonic acid; and it is sufficient to
shake it in order for it to seize upon the acid and form bicarbonate of
potassium. By these two means they would be enabled to restore to the
vitiated air its life- supporting properties.

It is necessary, however, to add that the experiments had hitherto been
made in anima vili. Whatever its scientific accuracy was, they were at
present ignorant how it would answer with human beings. The honor of
putting it to the proof was energetically claimed by J. T. Maston.
“Since I am not to go,” said the brave artillerist, “I may at least live for a
week in the projectile.”
It would have been hard to refuse him; so they consented to his wish. A
sufficient quantity of chlorate of potassium and of caustic potash was
placed at his disposal, together with provisions for eight days. And having
shaken hands with his friends, on the 12th of November, at six o’clock
A.M., after strictly informing them not to open his prison before the 20th, at
six o’clock P.M., he slid down the projectile, the plate of which was at once
hermetically sealed. What did he do with himself during that week? They
could get no information. The thickness of the walls of the projectile
prevented any sound reaching from the inside to the outside. On the 20th of
November, at six P.M. exactly, the plate was opened. The friends of J. T.
Maston had been all along in a state of much anxiety; but they were
promptly reassured on hearing a jolly voice shouting a boisterous hurrah.
Presently afterward the secretary of the Gun Club appeared at the top of
the cone in a triumphant attitude. He had grown fat!

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE TELESCOPE OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS

On the 20th of October in the preceding year, after the close of the
subscription, the president of the Gun Club had credited the Observatory of
Cambridge with the necessary sums for the construction of a gigantic
optical instrument. This instrument was designed for the purpose of
rendering visible on the surface of the moon any object exceeding nine feet
in diameter.
At the period when the Gun Club essayed their great experiment, such
instruments had reached a high degree of perfection, and produced some
magnificent results. Two telescopes in particular, at this time, were
possessed of remarkable power and of gigantic dimensions. The first,
constructed by Herschel, was thirty-six feet in length, and had an object-
glass of four feet six inches; it possessed a magnifying power of 6,000. The
second was raised in Ireland, in Parsonstown Park, and belongs to Lord
Rosse. The length of this tube is forty-eight feet, and the diameter of its
object-glass six feet; it magnifies 6,400 times, and required an immense
erection of brick work and masonry for the purpose of working it, its weight
being twelve and a half tons.
Still, despite these colossal dimensions, the actual enlargements scarcely
exceeded 6,000 times in round numbers; consequently, the moon was
brought within no nearer an apparent distance than thirty-nine miles; and
objects of less than sixty feet in diameter, unless they were of very
considerable length, were still imperceptible.
In the present case, dealing with a projectile nine feet in diameter and
fifteen feet long, it became necessary to bring the moon within an apparent
distance of five miles at most; and for that purpose to establish a
magnifying power of 48,000 times.

Such was the question proposed to the Observatory of Cambridge, There
was no lack of funds; the difficulty was purely one of construction.
After considerable discussion as to the best form and principle of the
proposed instrument the work was finally commenced. According to the
calculations of the Observatory of Cambridge, the tube of the new reflector
would require to be 280 feet in length, and the object-glass sixteen feet in
diameter. Colossal as these dimensions may appear, they were diminutive in
comparison with the 10,000 foot telescope proposed by the astronomer
Hooke only a few years ago!
Regarding the choice of locality, that matter was promptly determined.
The object was to select some lofty mountain, and there are not many of
these in the United States. In fact there are but two chains of moderate
elevation, between which runs the magnificent Mississippi, the “king of
rivers” as these Republican Yankees delight to call it.
Eastwards rise the Appalachians, the very highest point of which, in New
Hampshire, does not exceed the very moderate altitude of 5,600 feet.
On the west, however, rise the Rocky Mountains, that immense range
which, commencing at the Straights of Magellan, follows the western coast
of Southern America under the name of the Andes or the Cordilleras, until it
crosses the Isthmus of Panama, and runs up the whole of North America to
the very borders of the Polar Sea. The highest elevation of this range still
does not exceed 10,700 feet. With this elevation, nevertheless, the Gun Club
were compelled to be content, inasmuch as they had determined that both
telescope and Columbiad should be erected within the limits of the Union.
All the necessary apparatus was consequently sent on to the summit of
Long’s Peak, in the territory of Missouri.
Neither pen nor language can describe the difficulties of all kinds which
the American engineers had to surmount, of the prodigies of daring and skill
which they accomplished. They had to raise enormous stones, massive
pieces of wrought iron, heavy corner-clamps and huge portions of cylinder,
with an object-glass weighing nearly 30,000 pounds, above the line of
perpetual snow for more than 10,000 feet in height, after crossing desert
prairies, impenetrable forests, fearful rapids, far from all centers of
population, and in the midst of savage regions, in which every detail of life
becomes an almost insoluble problem. And yet, notwithstanding these
innumerable obstacles, American genius triumphed. In less than a year after

the commencement of the works, toward the close of September, the
gigantic reflector rose into the air to a height of 280 feet. It was raised by
means of an enormous iron crane; an ingenious mechanism allowed it to be
easily worked toward all the points of the heavens, and to follow the stars
from the one horizon to the other during their journey through the heavens.
It had cost $400,000. The first time it was directed toward the moon the
observers evinced both curiosity and anxiety. What were they about to
discover in the field of this telescope which magnified objects 48,000
times? Would they perceive peoples, herds of lunar animals, towns, lakes,
seas? No! there was nothing which science had not already discovered! and
on all the points of its disc the volcanic nature of the moon became
determinable with the utmost precision.
But the telescope of the Rocky Mountains, before doing its duty to the
Gun Club, rendered immense services to astronomy. Thanks to its
penetrative power, the depths of the heavens were sounded to the utmost
extent; the apparent diameter of a great number of stars was accurately
measured; and Mr. Clark, of the Cambridge staff, resolved the Crab nebula
in Taurus, which the reflector of Lord Rosse had never been able to
decompose.

CHAPTER XXV.
FINAL DETAILS

It was the 22nd of November; the departure was to take place in ten days.
One operation alone remained to be accomplished to bring all to a happy
termination; an operation delicate and perilous, requiring infinite
precautions, and against the success of which Captain Nicholl had laid his
third bet. It was, in fact, nothing less than the loading of the Columbiad, and
the introduction into it of 400,000 pounds of gun-cotton. Nicholl had
thought, not perhaps without reason, that the handling of such formidable
quantities of pyroxyle would, in all probability, involve a grave catastrophe;
and at any rate, that this immense mass of eminently inflammable matter
would inevitably ignite when submitted to the pressure of the projectile.
There were indeed dangers accruing as before from the carelessness of
the Americans, but Barbicane had set his heart on success, and took all
possible precautions. In the first place, he was very careful as to the
transportation of the gun-cotton to Stones Hill. He had it conveyed in small
quantities, carefully packed in sealed cases. These were brought by rail
from Tampa Town to the camp, and from thence were taken to the
Columbiad by barefooted workmen, who deposited them in their places by
means of cranes placed at the orifice of the cannon. No steam-engine was
permitted to work, and every fire was extinguished within two miles of the
works.
Even in November they feared to work by day, lest the sun’s rays acting
on the gun-cotton might lead to unhappy results. This led to their working at
night, by light produced in a vacuum by means of Ruhmkorff’s apparatus,
which threw an artificial brightness into the depths of the Columbiad. There
the cartridges were arranged with the utmost regularity, connected by a
metallic thread, destined to communicate to them all simultaneously the

electric spark, by which means this mass of gun-cotton was eventually to be
ignited.
By the 28th of November eight hundred cartridges had been placed in the
bottom of the Columbiad. So far the operation had been successful! But
what confusion, what anxieties, what struggles were undergone by
President Barbicane! In vain had he refused admission to Stones Hill; every
day the inquisitive neighbors scaled the palisades, some even carrying their
imprudence to the point of smoking while surrounded by bales of gun-
cotton. Barbicane was in a perpetual state of alarm. J. T. Maston seconded
him to the best of his ability, by giving vigorous chase to the intruders, and
carefully picking up the still lighted cigar ends which the Yankees threw
about. A somewhat difficult task! seeing that more than 300,000 persons
were gathered round the enclosure. Michel Ardan had volunteered to
superintend the transport of the cartridges to the mouth of the Columbiad;
but the president, having surprised him with an enormous cigar in his
mouth, while he was hunting out the rash spectators to whom he himself
offered so dangerous an example, saw that he could not trust this fearless
smoker, and was therefore obliged to mount a special guard over him.
At last, Providence being propitious, this wonderful loading came to a
happy termination, Captain Nicholl’s third bet being thus lost. It remained
now to introduce the projectile into the Columbiad, and to place it on its
soft bed of gun-cotton.
But before doing this, all those things necessary for the journey had to be
carefully arranged in the projectile vehicle. These necessaries were
numerous; and had Ardan been allowed to follow his own wishes, there
would have been no space remaining for the travelers. It is impossible to
conceive of half the things this charming Frenchman wished to convey to
the moon. A veritable stock of useless trifles! But Barbicane interfered and
refused admission to anything not absolutely needed. Several thermometers,
barometers, and telescopes were packed in the instrument case.
The travelers being desirous of examing the moon carefully during their
voyage, in order to facilitate their studies, they took with them Boeer and
Moeller’s excellent Mappa Selenographica, a masterpiece of patience and
observation, which they hoped would enable them to identify those physical
features in the moon, with which they were acquainted. This map
reproduced with scrupulous fidelity the smallest details of the lunar surface

which faces the earth; the mountains, valleys, craters, peaks, and ridges
were all represented, with their exact dimensions, relative positions, and
names; from the mountains Doerfel and Leibnitz on the eastern side of the
disc, to the Mare frigoris of the North Pole.
They took also three rifles and three fowling-pieces, and a large quantity
of balls, shot, and powder.
“We cannot tell whom we shall have to deal with,” said Michel Ardan.
“Men or beasts may possibly object to our visit. It is only wise to take all
precautions.”
These defensive weapons were accompanied by pickaxes, crowbars,
saws, and other useful implements, not to mention clothing adapted to every
temperature, from that of polar regions to that of the torrid zone.
Ardan wished to convey a number of animals of different sorts, not
indeed a pair of every known species, as he could not see the necessity of
acclimatizing serpents, tigers, alligators, or any other noxious beasts in the
moon. “Nevertheless,” he said to Barbicane, “some valuable and useful
beasts, bullocks, cows, horses, and donkeys, would bear the journey very
well, and would also be very useful to us.”
“I dare say, my dear Ardan,” replied the president, “but our projectile-
vehicle is no Noah’s ark, from which it differs both in dimensions and
object. Let us confine ourselves to possibilities.”
After a prolonged discussion, it was agreed that the travelers should
restrict themselves to a sporting-dog belonging to Nicholl, and to a large
Newfoundland. Several packets of seeds were also included among the
necessaries. Michel Ardan, indeed, was anxious to add some sacks full of
earth to sow them in; as it was, he took a dozen shrubs carefully wrapped
up in straw to plant in the moon.
The important question of provisions still remained; it being necessary to
provide against the possibility of their finding the moon absolutely barren.
Barbicane managed so successfully, that he supplied them with sufficient
rations for a year. These consisted of preserved meats and vegetables,
reduced by strong hydraulic pressure to the smallest possible dimensions.
They were also supplied with brandy, and took water enough for two
months, being confident, from astronomical observations, that there was no
lack of water on the moon’s surface. As to provisions, doubtless the
inhabitants of the earth would find nourishment somewhere in the moon.

Ardan never questioned this; indeed, had he done so, he would never have
undertaken the journey.
“Besides,” he said one day to his friends, “we shall not be completely
abandoned by our terrestrial friends; they will take care not to forget us.”
“No, indeed!” replied J. T. Maston.
“Nothing would be simpler,” replied Ardan; “the Columbiad will be
always there. Well! whenever the moon is in a favorable condition as to the
zenith, if not to the perigee, that is to say about once a year, could you not
send us a shell packed with provisions, which we might expect on some
appointed day?”
“Hurrah! hurrah!” cried J. T. Matson; “what an ingenious fellow! what a
splendid idea! Indeed, my good friends, we shall not forget you!”
“I shall reckon upon you! Then, you see, we shall receive news regularly
from the earth, and we shall indeed be stupid if we hit upon no plan for
communicating with our good friends here!”
These words inspired such confidence, that Michel Ardan carried all the
Gun Club with him in his enthusiasm. What he said seemed so simple and
so easy, so sure of success, that none could be so sordidly attached to this
earth as to hesitate to follow the three travelers on their lunar expedition.
All being ready at last, it remained to place the projectile in the
Columbiad, an operation abundantly accompanied by dangers and
difficulties.
The enormous shell was conveyed to the summit of Stones Hill. There,
powerful cranes raised it, and held it suspended over the mouth of the
cylinder.
It was a fearful moment! What if the chains should break under its
enormous weight? The sudden fall of such a body would inevitably cause
the gun-cotton to explode!
Fortunately this did not happen; and some hours later the projectile-
vehicle descended gently into the heart of the cannon and rested on its
couch of pyroxyle, a veritable bed of explosive eider-down. Its pressure had
no result, other than the more effectual ramming down of the charge in the
Columbiad.
“I have lost,” said the captain, who forthwith paid President Barbicane
the sum of three thousand dollars.

Barbicane did not wish to accept the money from one of his fellow-
travelers, but gave way at last before the determination of Nicholl, who
wished before leaving the earth to fulfill all his engagements.
“Now,” said Michel Ardan, “I have only one thing more to wish for you,
my brave captain.”
“What is that?” asked Nicholl.
“It is that you may lose your two other bets! Then we shall be sure not to
be stopped on our journey!”

CHAPTER XXVI.
FIRE!

The first of December had arrived! the fatal day! for, if the projectile
were not discharged that very night at 10h. 48m. 40s. P.M., more than
eighteen years must roll by before the moon would again present herself
under the same conditions of zenith and perigee.
The weather was magnificent. Despite the approach of winter, the sun
shone brightly, and bathed in its radiant light that earth which three of its
denizens were about to abandon for a new world.
How many persons lost their rest on the night which preceded this long-
expected day! All hearts beat with disquietude, save only the heart of
Michel Ardan. That imperturbable personage came and went with his
habitual business-like air, while nothing whatever denoted that any unusual
matter preoccupied his mind.
After dawn, an innumerable multitude covered the prairie which extends,
as far as the eye can reach, round Stones Hill. Every quarter of an hour the
railway brought fresh accessions of sightseers; and, according to the
statement of the Tampa Town Observer, not less than five millions of
spectators thronged the soil of Florida.
For a whole month previously, the mass of these persons had bivouacked
round the enclosure, and laid the foundations for a town which was
afterward called “Ardan’s Town.” The whole plain was covered with huts,
cottages, and tents. Every nation under the sun was represented there; and
every language might be heard spoken at the same time. It was a perfect
Babel re-enacted. All the various classes of American society were mingled
together in terms of absolute equality. Bankers, farmers, sailors, cotton-
planters, brokers, merchants, watermen, magistrates, elbowed each other in
the most free-and-easy way. Louisiana Creoles fraternized with farmers
from Indiana; Kentucky and Tennessee gentlemen and haughty Virginians

conversed with trappers and the half-savages of the lakes and butchers from
Cincinnati. Broad-brimmed white hats and Panamas, blue-cotton trousers,
light-colored stockings, cambric frills, were all here displayed; while upon
shirt-fronts, wristbands, and neckties, upon every finger, even upon the very
ears, they wore an assortment of rings, shirt-pins, brooches, and trinkets, of
which the value only equaled the execrable taste. Women, children, and
servants, in equally expensive dress, surrounded their husbands, fathers, or
masters, who resembled the patriarchs of tribes in the midst of their
immense households.
At meal-times all fell to work upon the dishes peculiar to the Southern
States, and consumed with an appetite that threatened speedy exhaustion of
the victualing powers of Florida, fricasseed frogs, stuffed monkey, fish
chowder, underdone ’possum, and raccoon steaks. And as for the liquors
which accompanied this indigestible repast! The shouts, the vociferations
that resounded through the bars and taverns decorated with glasses,
tankards, and bottles of marvelous shape, mortars for pounding sugar, and
bundles of straws! “Mint-julep” roars one of the barmen; “Claret sangaree!”
shouts another; “Cocktail!” “Brandy-smash!” “Real mint-julep in the new
style!” All these cries intermingled produced a bewildering and deafening
hubbub.
But on this day, 1st of December, such sounds were rare. No one thought
of eating or drinking, and at four P.M. there were vast numbers of spectators
who had not even taken their customary lunch! And, a still more significant
fact, even the national passion for play seemed quelled for the time under
the general excitement of the hour.
Up till nightfall, a dull, noiseless agitation, such as precedes great
catastrophes, ran through the anxious multitude. An indescribable
uneasiness pervaded all minds, an indefinable sensation which oppressed
the heart. Every one wished it was over.
However, about seven o’clock, the heavy silence was dissipated. The
moon rose above the horizon. Millions of hurrahs hailed her appearance.
She was punctual to the rendezvous, and shouts of welcome greeted her on
all sides, as her pale beams shone gracefully in the clear heavens. At this
moment the three intrepid travelers appeared. This was the signal for
renewed cries of still greater intensity. Instantly the vast assemblage, as
with one accord, struck up the national hymn of the United States, and

“Yankee Doodle,” sung by five million of hearty throats, rose like a roaring
tempest to the farthest limits of the atmosphere. Then a profound silence
reigned throughout the crowd.
The Frenchman and the two Americans had by this time entered the
enclosure reserved in the center of the multitude. They were accompanied
by the members of the Gun Club, and by deputations sent from all the
European Observatories. Barbicane, cool and collected, was giving his final
directions. Nicholl, with compressed lips, his arms crossed behind his back,
walked with a firm and measured step. Michel Ardan, always easy, dressed
in thorough traveler’s costume, leathern gaiters on his legs, pouch by his
side, in loose velvet suit, cigar in mouth, was full of inexhaustible gayety,
laughing, joking, playing pranks with J. T. Maston. In one word, he was the
thorough “Frenchman” (and worse, a “Parisian”) to the last moment.
Ten o’clock struck! The moment had arrived for taking their places in the
projectile! The necessary operations for the descent, and the subsequent
removal of the cranes and scaffolding that inclined over the mouth of the
Columbiad, required a certain period of time.
Barbicane had regulated his chronometer to the tenth part of a second by
that of Murchison the engineer, who was charged with the duty of firing the
gun by means of an electric spark. Thus the travelers enclosed within the
projectile were enabled to follow with their eyes the impassive needle
which marked the precise moment of their departure.
The moment had arrived for saying “good-by!” The scene was a touching
one. Despite his feverish gayety, even Michel Ardan was touched. J. T.
Maston had found in his own dry eyes one ancient tear, which he had
doubtless reserved for the occasion. He dropped it on the forehead of his
dear president.
“Can I not go?” he said, “there is still time!”
“Impossible, old fellow!” replied Barbicane. A few moments later, the
three fellow-travelers had ensconced themselves in the projectile, and
screwed down the plate which covered the entrance-aperture. The mouth of
the Columbiad, now completely disencumbered, was open entirely to the
sky.
The moon advanced upward in a heaven of the purest clearness,
outshining in her passage the twinkling light of the stars. She passed over
the constellation of the Twins, and was now nearing the halfway point

between the horizon and the zenith. A terrible silence weighed upon the
entire scene! Not a breath of wind upon the earth! not a sound of breathing
from the countless chests of the spectators! Their hearts seemed afraid to
beat! All eyes were fixed upon the yawning mouth of the Columbiad.
Murchison followed with his eye the hand of his chronometer. It wanted
scarce forty seconds to the moment of departure, but each second seemed to
last an age! At the twentieth there was a general shudder, as it occurred to
the minds of that vast assemblage that the bold travelers shut up within the
projectile were also counting those terrible seconds. Some few cries here
and there escaped the crowd.
“Thirty-five!—thirty-six!—thirty-seven!—thirty-eight!—thirty-nine!—
forty! FIRE!!!”
Instantly Murchison pressed with his finger the key of the electric
battery, restored the current of the fluid, and discharged the spark into the
breech of the Columbiad.
An appalling unearthly report followed instantly, such as can be
compared to nothing whatever known, not even to the roar of thunder, or
the blast of volcanic explosions! No words can convey the slightest idea of
the terrific sound! An immense spout of fire shot up from the bowels of the
earth as from a crater. The earth heaved up, and with great difficulty some
few spectators obtained a momentary glimpse of the projectile victoriously
cleaving the air in the midst of the fiery vapors!

CHAPTER XXVII.
FOUL WEATHER

At the moment when that pyramid of fire rose to a prodigious height into
the air, the glare of flame lit up the whole of Florida; and for a moment day
superseded night over a considerable extent of the country. This immense
canopy of fire was perceived at a distance of one hundred miles out at sea,
and more than one ship’s captain entered in his log the appearance of this
gigantic meteor.
The discharge of the Columbiad was accompanied by a perfect
earthquake. Florida was shaken to its very depths. The gases of the powder,
expanded by heat, forced back the atmospheric strata with tremendous
violence, and this artificial hurricane rushed like a water-spout through the
air.
Not a single spectator remained on his feet! Men, women children, all lay
prostrate like ears of corn under a tempest. There ensued a terrible tumult; a
large number of persons were seriously injured. J. T. Maston, who, despite
all dictates of prudence, had kept in advance of the mass, was pitched back
120 feet, shooting like a projectile over the heads of his fellow-citizens.
Three hundred thousand persons remained deaf for a time, and as though
struck stupefied.
As soon as the first effects were over, the injured, the deaf, and lastly, the
crowd in general, woke up with frenzied cries. “Hurrah for Ardan! Hurrah
for Barbicane! Hurrah for Nicholl!” rose to the skies. Thousands of persons,
noses in air, armed with telescopes and race-glasses, were questioning
space, forgetting all contusions and emotions in the one idea of watching
for the projectile. They looked in vain! It was no longer to be seen, and they
were obliged to wait for telegrams from Long’s Peak. The director of the
Cambridge Observatory was at his post on the Rocky Mountains; and to

him, as a skillful and persevering astronomer, all observations had been
confided.
But an unforeseen phenomenon came in to subject the public impatience
to a severe trial.
The weather, hitherto so fine, suddenly changed; the sky became heavy
with clouds. It could not have been otherwise after the terrible derangement
of the atmospheric strata, and the dispersion of the enormous quantity of
vapor arising from the combustion of 200,000 pounds of pyroxyle!
On the morrow the horizon was covered with clouds—a thick and
impenetrable curtain between earth and sky, which unhappily extended as
far as the Rocky Mountains. It was a fatality! But since man had chosen so
to disturb the atmosphere, he was bound to accept the consequences of his
experiment.
Supposing, now, that the experiment had succeeded, the travelers having
started on the 1st of December, at 10h. 46m. 40s. P.M., were due on the 4th
at 0h. P.M. at their destination. So that up to that time it would have been
very difficult after all to have observed, under such conditions, a body so
small as the shell. Therefore they waited with what patience they might.
From the 4th to the 6th of December inclusive, the weather remaining
much the same in America, the great European instruments of Herschel,
Rosse, and Foucault, were constantly directed toward the moon, for the
weather was then magnificent; but the comparative weakness of their
glasses prevented any trustworthy observations being made.
On the 7th the sky seemed to lighten. They were in hopes now, but their
hope was of but short duration, and at night again thick clouds hid the starry
vault from all eyes.
Matters were now becoming serious, when on the 9th the sun reappeared
for an instant, as if for the purpose of teasing the Americans. It was received
with hisses; and wounded, no doubt, by such a reception, showed itself very
sparing of its rays.
On the 10th, no change! J. T. Maston went nearly mad, and great fears
were entertained regarding the brain of this worthy individual, which had
hitherto been so well preserved within his gutta-percha cranium.
But on the 11th one of those inexplicable tempests peculiar to those
intertropical regions was let loose in the atmosphere. A terrific east wind

swept away the groups of clouds which had been so long gathering, and at
night the semi-disc of the orb of night rode majestically amid the soft
constellations of the sky.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
A NEW STAR

That very night, the startling news so impatiently awaited, burst like a
thunderbolt over the United States of the Union, and thence, darting across
the ocean, ran through all the telegraphic wires of the globe. The projectile
had been detected, thanks to the gigantic reflector of Long’s Peak! Here is
the note received by the director of the Observatory of Cambridge. It
contains the scientific conclusion regarding this great experiment of the
Gun Club.
LONG’S PEAK, December 12. To the Officers of the Observatory of
Cambridge. The projectile discharged by the Columbiad at Stones Hill has
been detected by Messrs. Belfast and J. T. Maston, 12th of December, at
8:47 P.M., the moon having entered her last quarter. This projectile has not
arrived at its destination. It has passed by the side; but sufficiently near to
be retained by the lunar attraction.
The rectilinear movement has thus become changed into a circular
motion of extreme velocity, and it is now pursuing an elliptical orbit round
the moon, of which it has become a true satellite.
The elements of this new star we have as yet been unable to determine;
we do not yet know the velocity of its passage. The distance which
separates it from the surface of the moon may be estimated at about 2,833
miles.
However, two hypotheses come here into our consideration.
1. Either the attraction of the moon will end by drawing them into itself,
and the travelers will attain their destination; or,
2. The projectile, following an immutable law, will continue to gravitate
round the moon till the end of time.

At some future time, our observations will be able to determine this
point, but till then the experiment of the Gun Club can have no other result
than to have provided our solar system with a new star. J. BELFAST.
To how many questions did this unexpected denouement give rise? What
mysterious results was the future reserving for the investigation of science?
At all events, the names of Nicholl, Barbicane, and Michel Ardan were
certain to be immortalized in the annals of astronomy!
When the dispatch from Long’s Peak had once become known, there was
but one universal feeling of surprise and alarm. Was it possible to go to the
aid of these bold travelers? No! for they had placed themselves beyond the
pale of humanity, by crossing the limits imposed by the Creator on his
earthly creatures. They had air enough for two months; they had victuals
enough for twelve;—but after that? There was only one man who would not
admit that the situation was desperate—he alone had confidence; and that
was their devoted friend J. T. Maston.
Besides, he never let them get out of sight. His home was henceforth the
post at Long’s Peak; his horizon, the mirror of that immense reflector. As
soon as the moon rose above the horizon, he immediately caught her in the
field of the telescope; he never let her go for an instant out of his sight, and
followed her assiduously in her course through the stellar spaces. He
watched with untiring patience the passage of the projectile across her
silvery disc, and really the worthy man remained in perpetual
communication with his three friends, whom he did not despair of seeing
again some day.
“Those three men,” said he, “have carried into space all the resources of
art, science, and industry. With that, one can do anything; and you will see
that, some day, they will come out all right.”

ROUND THE MOON

A SEQUEL TO
FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON

PRELIMINARY CHAPTER
THE FIRST PART OF THIS WORK, AND
SERVING AS A PREFACE TO THE SECOND

During the year 186-, the whole world was greatly excited by a scientific
experiment unprecedented in the annals of science. The members of the
Gun Club, a circle of artillerymen formed at Baltimore after the American
war, conceived the idea of putting themselves in communication with the
moon!—yes, with the moon—by sending to her a projectile. Their
president, Barbicane, the promoter of the enterprise, having consulted the
astronomers of the Cambridge Observatory upon the subject, took all
necessary means to ensure the success of this extraordinary enterprise,
which had been declared practicable by the majority of competent judges.
After setting on foot a public subscription, which realized nearly
L1,200,000, they began the gigantic work.
According to the advice forwarded from the members of the Observatory,
the gun destined to launch the projectile had to be fixed in a country
situated between the 0 and 28th degrees of north or south latitude, in order
to aim at the moon when at the zenith; and its initiatory velocity was fixed
at twelve thousand yards to the second. Launched on the 1st of December,
at 10hrs. 46m. 40s. P.M., it ought to reach the moon four days after its
departure, that is on the 5th of December, at midnight precisely, at the
moment of her attaining her perigee, that is her nearest distance from the
earth, which is exactly 86,410 leagues (French), or 238,833 miles mean
distance (English).
The principal members of the Gun Club, President Barbicane, Major
Elphinstone, the secretary Joseph T. Maston, and other learned men, held
several meetings, at which the shape and composition of the projectile were
discussed, also the position and nature of the gun, and the quality and
quantity of powder to be used. It was decided: First, that the projectile

should be a shell made of aluminum with a diameter of 108 inches and a
thickness of twelve inches to its walls; and should weigh 19,250 pounds.
Second, that the gun should be a Columbiad cast in iron, 900 feet long, and
run perpendicularly into the earth. Third, that the charge should contain
400,000 pounds of gun-cotton, which, giving out six billions of litres of gas
in rear of the projectile, would easily carry it toward the orb of night.
These questions determined President Barbicane, assisted by Murchison
the engineer, to choose a spot situated in Florida, in 27° 7′ North latitude,
and 77° 3′ West (Greenwich) longitude. It was on this spot, after stupendous
labor, that the Columbiad was cast with full success. Things stood thus,
when an incident took place which increased the interest attached to this
great enterprise a hundredfold.
A Frenchman, an enthusiastic Parisian, as witty as he was bold, asked to
be enclosed in the projectile, in order that he might reach the moon, and
reconnoiter this terrestrial satellite. The name of this intrepid adventurer
was Michel Ardan. He landed in America, was received with enthusiasm,
held meetings, saw himself carried in triumph, reconciled President
Barbicane to his mortal enemy, Captain Nicholl, and, as a token of
reconciliation, persuaded them both to start with him in the projectile. The
proposition being accepted, the shape of the projectile was slightly altered.
It was made of a cylindro-conical form. This species of aerial car was lined
with strong springs and partitions to deaden the shock of departure. It was
provided with food for a year, water for some months, and gas for some
days. A self-acting apparatus supplied the three travelers with air to breathe.
At the same time, on one of the highest points of the Rocky Mountains, the
Gun Club had a gigantic telescope erected, in order that they might be able
to follow the course of the projectile through space. All was then ready.
On the 30th of November, at the hour fixed upon, from the midst of an
extraordinary crowd of spectators, the departure took place, and for the first
time, three human beings quitted the terrestrial globe, and launched into
inter-planetary space with almost a certainty of reaching their destination.
These bold travelers, Michel Ardan, President Barbicane, and Captain
Nicholl, ought to make the passage in ninety-seven hours, thirteen minutes,
and twenty seconds. Consequently, their arrival on the lunar disc could not
take place until the 5th of December at twelve at night, at the exact moment

when the moon should be full, and not on the 4th, as some badly informed
journalists had announced.
But an unforeseen circumstance, viz., the detonation produced by the
Columbiad, had the immediate effect of troubling the terrestrial atmosphere,
by accumulating a large quantity of vapor, a phenomenon which excited
universal indignation, for the moon was hidden from the eyes of the
watchers for several nights.
The worthy Joseph T. Maston, the staunchest friend of the three travelers,
started for the Rocky Mountains, accompanied by the Hon. J. Belfast,
director of the Cambridge Observatory, and reached the station of Long’s
Peak, where the telescope was erected which brought the moon within an
apparent distance of two leagues. The honorable secretary of the Gun Club
wished himself to observe the vehicle of his daring friends.
The accumulation of the clouds in the atmosphere prevented all
observation on the 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, and 10th of December. Indeed it
was thought that all observations would have to be put off to the 3d of
January in the following year; for the moon entering its last quarter on the
11th, would then only present an ever-decreasing portion of her disc,
insufficient to allow of their following the course of the projectile.
At length, to the general satisfaction, a heavy storm cleared the
atmosphere on the night of the 11th and 12th of December, and the moon,
with half-illuminated disc, was plainly to be seen upon the black sky.
That very night a telegram was sent from the station of Long’s Peak by
Joseph T. Maston and Belfast to the gentlemen of the Cambridge
Observatory, announcing that on the 11th of December at 8h. 47m. P.M., the
projectile launched by the Columbiad of Stones Hill had been detected by
Messrs. Belfast and Maston—that it had deviated from its course from
some unknown cause, and had not reached its destination; but that it had
passed near enough to be retained by the lunar attraction; that its rectilinear
movement had been changed to a circular one, and that following an
elliptical orbit round the star of night it had become its satellite. The
telegram added that the elements of this new star had not yet been
calculated; and indeed three observations made upon a star in three different
positions are necessary to determine these elements. Then it showed that the
distance separating the projectile from the lunar surface “might” be
reckoned at about 2,833 miles.

It ended with the double hypothesis: either the attraction of the moon
would draw it to herself, and the travelers thus attain their end; or that the
projectile, held in one immutable orbit, would gravitate around the lunar
disc to all eternity.
With such alternatives, what would be the fate of the travelers? Certainly
they had food for some time. But supposing they did succeed in their rash
enterprise, how would they return? Could they ever return? Should they
hear from them? These questions, debated by the most learned pens of the
day, strongly engrossed the public attention.
It is advisable here to make a remark which ought to be well considered
by hasty observers. When a purely speculative discovery is announced to
the public, it cannot be done with too much prudence. No one is obliged to
discover either a planet, a comet, or a satellite; and whoever makes a
mistake in such a case exposes himself justly to the derision of the mass.
Far better is it to wait; and that is what the impatient Joseph T. Maston
should have done before sending this telegram forth to the world, which,
according to his idea, told the whole result of the enterprise. Indeed this
telegram contained two sorts of errors, as was proved eventually. First,
errors of observation, concerning the distance of the projectile from the
surface of the moon, for on the 11th of December it was impossible to see
it; and what Joseph T. Maston had seen, or thought he saw, could not have
been the projectile of the Columbiad. Second, errors of theory on the fate in
store for the said projectile; for in making it a satellite of the moon, it was
putting it in direct contradiction of all mechanical laws.
One single hypothesis of the observers of Long’s Peak could ever be
realized, that which foresaw the case of the travelers (if still alive) uniting
their efforts with the lunar attraction to attain the surface of the disc.
Now these men, as clever as they were daring, had survived the terrible
shock consequent on their departure, and it is their journey in the projectile
car which is here related in its most dramatic as well as in its most singular
details. This recital will destroy many illusions and surmises; but it will
give a true idea of the singular changes in store for such an enterprise; it
will bring out the scientific instincts of Barbicane, the industrious resources
of Nicholl, and the audacious humor of Michel Ardan. Besides this, it will
prove that their worthy friend, Joseph T. Maston, was wasting his time,

while leaning over the gigantic telescope he watched the course of the
moon through the starry space.

CHAPTER I.
TWENTY MINUTES PAST TEN TO FORTY-
SEVEN MINUTES PAST TEN P. M.

As ten o’clock struck, Michel Ardan, Barbicane, and Nicholl, took leave
of the numerous friends they were leaving on the earth. The two dogs,
destined to propagate the canine race on the lunar continents, were already
shut up in the projectile.
The three travelers approached the orifice of the enormous cast-iron tube,
and a crane let them down to the conical top of the projectile. There, an
opening made for the purpose gave them access to the aluminum car. The
tackle belonging to the crane being hauled from outside, the mouth of the
Columbiad was instantly disencumbered of its last supports.
Nicholl, once introduced with his companions inside the projectile, began
to close the opening by means of a strong plate, held in position by
powerful screws. Other plates, closely fitted, covered the lenticular glasses,
and the travelers, hermetically enclosed in their metal prison, were plunged
in profound darkness.
“And now, my dear companions,” said Michel Ardan, “let us make
ourselves at home; I am a domesticated man and strong in housekeeping.
We are bound to make the best of our new lodgings, and make ourselves
comfortable. And first let us try and see a little. Gas was not invented for
moles.”
So saying, the thoughtless fellow lit a match by striking it on the sole of
his boot; and approached the burner fixed to the receptacle, in which the
carbonized hydrogen, stored at high pressure, sufficed for the lighting and
warming of the projectile for a hundred and forty-four hours, or six days
and six nights. The gas caught fire, and thus lighted the projectile looked

like a comfortable room with thickly padded walls, furnished with a circular
divan, and a roof rounded in the shape of a dome.
Michel Ardan examined everything, and declared himself satisfied with
his installation.
“It is a prison,” said he, “but a traveling prison; and, with the right of
putting my nose to the window, I could well stand a lease of a hundred
years. You smile, Barbicane. Have you any arriere-pensee? Do you say to
yourself, ‘This prison may be our tomb?’ Tomb, perhaps; still I would not
change it for Mahomet’s, which floats in space but never advances an
inch!”
While Michel Ardan was speaking, Barbicane and Nicholl were making
their last preparations.
Nicholl’s chronometer marked twenty minutes past ten P.M. when the
three travelers were finally enclosed in their projectile. This chronometer
was set within the tenth of a second by that of Murchison the engineer.
Barbicane consulted it.
“My friends,” said he, “it is twenty minutes past ten. At forty- seven
minutes past ten Murchison will launch the electric spark on the wire which
communicates with the charge of the Columbiad. At that precise moment
we shall leave our spheroid. Thus we still have twenty-seven minutes to
remain on the earth.”
“Twenty-six minutes thirteen seconds,” replied the methodical Nicholl.
“Well!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, in a good-humored tone, “much may
be done in twenty-six minutes. The gravest questions of morals and politics
may be discussed, and even solved. Twenty-six minutes well employed are
worth more than twenty-six years in which nothing is done. Some seconds
of a Pascal or a Newton are more precious than the whole existence of a
crowd of raw simpletons—”
“And you conclude, then, you everlasting talker?” asked Barbicane.
“I conclude that we have twenty-six minutes left,” replied Ardan.
“Twenty-four only,” said Nicholl.
“Well, twenty-four, if you like, my noble captain,” said Ardan; “twenty-
four minutes in which to investigate—”

“Michel,” said Barbicane, “during the passage we shall have plenty of
time to investigate the most difficult questions. For the present we must
occupy ourselves with our departure.”
“Are we not ready?”
“Doubtless; but there are still some precautions to be taken, to deaden as
much as possible the first shock.”
“Have we not the water-cushions placed between the partition- breaks,
whose elasticity will sufficiently protect us?”
“I hope so, Michel,” replied Barbicane gently, “but I am not sure.”
“Ah, the joker!” exclaimed Michel Ardan. “He hopes!—He is not sure!—
and he waits for the moment when we are encased to make this deplorable
admission! I beg to be allowed to get out!”
“And how?” asked Barbicane.
“Humph!” said Michel Ardan, “it is not easy; we are in the train, and the
guard’s whistle will sound before twenty-four minutes are over.”
“Twenty,” said Nicholl.
For some moments the three travelers looked at each other. Then they
began to examine the objects imprisoned with them.
“Everything is in its place,” said Barbicane. “We have now to decide how
we can best place ourselves to resist the shock. Position cannot be an
indifferent matter; and we must, as much as possible, prevent the rush of
blood to the head.”
“Just so,” said Nicholl.
“Then,” replied Michel Ardan, ready to suit the action to the word, “let us
put our heads down and our feet in the air, like the clowns in the grand
circus.”
“No,” said Barbicane, “let us stretch ourselves on our sides; we shall
resist the shock better that way. Remember that, when the projectile starts, it
matters little whether we are in it or before it; it amounts to much the same
thing.”
“If it is only ‘much the same thing,’ I may cheer up,” said Michel Ardan.
“Do you approve of my idea, Nicholl?” asked Barbicane.
“Entirely,” replied the captain. “We’ve still thirteen minutes and a half.”

“That Nicholl is not a man,” exclaimed Michel; “he is a chronometer
with seconds, an escape, and eight holes.”
But his companions were not listening; they were taking up their last
positions with the most perfect coolness. They were like two methodical
travelers in a car, seeking to place themselves as comfortably as possible.
We might well ask ourselves of what materials are the hearts of these
Americans made, to whom the approach of the most frightful danger added
no pulsation.
Three thick and solidly-made couches had been placed in the projectile.
Nicholl and Barbicane placed them in the center of the disc forming the
floor. There the three travelers were to stretch themselves some moments
before their departure.
During this time, Ardan, not being able to keep still, turned in his narrow
prison like a wild beast in a cage, chatting with his friends, speaking to the
dogs Diana and Satellite, to whom, as may be seen, he had given significant
names.
“Ah, Diana! Ah, Satellite!” he exclaimed, teasing them; “so you are
going to show the moon-dogs the good habits of the dogs of the earth! That
will do honor to the canine race! If ever we do come down again, I will
bring a cross type of ‘moon-dogs,’ which will make a stir!”
“If there are dogs in the moon,” said Barbicane.
“There are,” said Michel Ardan, “just as there are horses, cows, donkeys,
and chickens. I bet that we shall find chickens.”
“A hundred dollars we shall find none!” said Nicholl.
“Done, my captain!” replied Ardan, clasping Nicholl’s hand. “But, by the
bye, you have already lost three bets with our president, as the necessary
funds for the enterprise have been found, as the operation of casting has
been successful, and lastly, as the Columbiad has been loaded without
accident, six thousand dollars.”
“Yes,” replied Nicholl. “Thirty-seven minutes six seconds past ten.”
“It is understood, captain. Well, before another quarter of an hour you
will have to count nine thousand dollars to the president; four thousand
because the Columbiad will not burst, and five thousand because the
projectile will rise more than six miles in the air.”

“I have the dollars,” replied Nicholl, slapping the pocket of this coat. “I
only ask to be allowed to pay.”
“Come, Nicholl. I see that you are a man of method, which I could never
be; but indeed you have made a series of bets of very little advantage to
yourself, allow me to tell you.”
“And why?” asked Nicholl.
“Because, if you gain the first, the Columbiad will have burst, and the
projectile with it; and Barbicane will no longer be there to reimburse your
dollars.”
“My stake is deposited at the bank in Baltimore,” replied Barbicane
simply; “and if Nicholl is not there, it will go to his heirs.”
“Ah, you practical men!” exclaimed Michel Ardan; “I admire you the
more for not being able to understand you.”
“Forty-two minutes past ten!” said Nicholl.
“Only five minutes more!” answered Barbicane.
“Yes, five little minutes!” replied Michel Ardan; “and we are enclosed in
a projectile, at the bottom of a gun 900 feet long! And under this projectile
are rammed 400,000 pounds of gun-cotton, which is equal to 1,600,000
pounds of ordinary powder! And friend Murchison, with his chronometer in
hand, his eye fixed on the needle, his finger on the electric apparatus, is
counting the seconds preparatory to launching us into interplanetary space.”
“Enough, Michel, enough!” said Barbicane, in a serious voice; “let us
prepare. A few instants alone separate us from an eventful moment. One
clasp of the hand, my friends.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Michel Ardan, more moved than he wished to appear;
and the three bold companions were united in a last embrace.
“God preserve us!” said the religious Barbicane.
Michel Ardan and Nicholl stretched themselves on the couches placed in
the center of the disc.
“Forty-seven minutes past ten!” murmured the captain.
“Twenty seconds more!” Barbicane quickly put out the gas and lay down
by his companions, and the profound silence was only broken by the ticking
of the chronometer marking the seconds.

Suddenly a dreadful shock was felt, and the projectile, under the force of
six billions of litres of gas, developed by the combustion of pyroxyle,
mounted into space.

CHAPTER II.
THE FIRST HALF-HOUR

What had happened? What effect had this frightful shock produced? Had
the ingenuity of the constructors of the projectile obtained any happy result?
Had the shock been deadened, thanks to the springs, the four plugs, the
water-cushions, and the partition-breaks? Had they been able to subdue the
frightful pressure of the initiatory speed of more than 11,000 yards, which
was enough to traverse Paris or New York in a second? This was evidently
the question suggested to the thousand spectators of this moving scene.
They forgot the aim of the journey, and thought only of the travelers. And if
one of them—Joseph T. Maston for example—could have cast one glimpse
into the projectile, what would he have seen?
Nothing then. The darkness was profound. But its cylindro- conical
partitions had resisted wonderfully. Not a rent or a dent anywhere! The
wonderful projectile was not even heated under the intense deflagration of
the powder, nor liquefied, as they seemed to fear, in a shower of aluminum.
The interior showed but little disorder; indeed, only a few objects had
been violently thrown toward the roof; but the most important seemed not
to have suffered from the shock at all; their fixtures were intact.
On the movable disc, sunk down to the bottom by the smashing of the
partition-breaks and the escape of the water, three bodies lay apparently
lifeless. Barbicane, Nicholl, and Michel Ardan—did they still breathe? or
was the projectile nothing now but a metal coffin, bearing three corpses into
space?
Some minutes after the departure of the projectile, one of the bodies
moved, shook its arms, lifted its head, and finally succeeded in getting on
its knees. It was Michel Ardan. He felt himself all over, gave a sonorous
“Hem!” and then said:

“Michel Ardan is whole. How about the others?”
The courageous Frenchman tried to rise, but could not stand. His head
swam, from the rush of blood; he was blind; he was a drunken man.
“Bur-r!” said he. “It produces the same effect as two bottles of Corton,
though perhaps less agreeable to swallow.” Then, passing his hand several
times across his forehead and rubbing his temples, he called in a firm voice:
“Nicholl! Barbicane!”
He waited anxiously. No answer; not even a sigh to show that the hearts
of his companions were still beating. He called again. The same silence.
“The devil!” he exclaimed. “They look as if they had fallen from a fifth
story on their heads. Bah!” he added, with that imperturbable confidence
which nothing could check, “if a Frenchman can get on his knees, two
Americans ought to be able to get on their feet. But first let us light up.”
Ardan felt the tide of life return by degrees. His blood became calm, and
returned to its accustomed circulation. Another effort restored his
equilibrium. He succeeded in rising, drew a match from his pocket, and
approaching the burner lighted it. The receiver had not suffered at all. The
gas had not escaped. Besides, the smell would have betrayed it; and in that
case Michel Ardan could not have carried a lighted match with impunity
through the space filled with hydrogen. The gas mixing with the air would
have produced a detonating mixture, and the explosion would have finished
what the shock had perhaps begun. When the burner was lit, Ardan leaned
over the bodies of his companions: they were lying one on the other, an
inert mass, Nicholl above, Barbicane underneath.
Ardan lifted the captain, propped him up against the divan, and began to
rub vigorously. This means, used with judgment, restored Nicholl, who
opened his eyes, and instantly recovering his presence of mind, seized
Ardan’s hand and looked around him.
“And Barbicane?” said he.
“Each in turn,” replied Michel Ardan. “I began with you, Nicholl,
because you were on the top. Now let us look to Barbicane.” Saying which,
Ardan and Nicholl raised the president of the Gun Club and laid him on the
divan. He seemed to have suffered more than either of his companions; he
was bleeding, but Nicholl was reassured by finding that the hemorrhage

came from a slight wound on the shoulder, a mere graze, which he bound
up carefully.
Still, Barbicane was a long time coming to himself, which frightened his
friends, who did not spare friction.
“He breathes though,” said Nicholl, putting his ear to the chest of the
wounded man.
“Yes,” replied Ardan, “he breathes like a man who has some notion of
that daily operation. Rub, Nicholl; let us rub harder.” And the two
improvised practitioners worked so hard and so well that Barbicane
recovered his senses. He opened his eyes, sat up, took his two friends by the
hands, and his first words were—
“Nicholl, are we moving?”
Nicholl and Ardan looked at each other; they had not yet troubled
themselves about the projectile; their first thought had been for the traveler,
not for the car.
“Well, are we really moving?” repeated Michel Ardan.
“Or quietly resting on the soil of Florida?” asked Nicholl.
“Or at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico?” added Michel Ardan.
“What an idea!” exclaimed the president.
And this double hypothesis suggested by his companions had the effect
of recalling him to his senses. In any case they could not decide on the
position of the projectile. Its apparent immovability, and the want of
communication with the outside, prevented them from solving the question.
Perhaps the projectile was unwinding its course through space. Perhaps
after a short rise it had fallen upon the earth, or even in the Gulf of Mexico
—a fall which the narrowness of the peninsula of Florida would render not
impossible.
The case was serious, the problem interesting, and one that must be
solved as soon as possible. Thus, highly excited, Barbicane’s moral energy
triumphed over physical weakness, and he rose to his feet. He listened.
Outside was perfect silence; but the thick padding was enough to intercept
all sounds coming from the earth. But one circumstance struck Barbicane,
viz., that the temperature inside the projectile was singularly high. The
president drew a thermometer from its case and consulted it. The instrument
showed 81° Fahr.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, “yes, we are moving! This stifling heat, penetrating
through the partitions of the projectile, is produced by its friction on the
atmospheric strata. It will soon diminish, because we are already floating in
space, and after having nearly stifled, we shall have to suffer intense cold.
“What!” said Michel Ardan. “According to your showing, Barbicane, we
are already beyond the limits of the terrestrial atmosphere?”
“Without a doubt, Michel. Listen to me. It is fifty-five minutes past ten;
we have been gone about eight minutes; and if our initiatory speed has not
been checked by the friction, six seconds would be enough for us to pass
through the forty miles of atmosphere which surrounds the globe.”
“Just so,” replied Nicholl; “but in what proportion do you estimate the
diminution of speed by friction?”
“In the proportion of one-third, Nicholl. This diminution is considerable,
but according to my calculations it is nothing less. If, then, we had an
initiatory speed of 12,000 yards, on leaving the atmosphere this speed
would be reduced to 9,165 yards. In any case we have already passed
through this interval, and—”
“And then,” said Michel Ardan, “friend Nicholl has lost his two bets:
four thousand dollars because the Columbiad did not burst; five thousand
dollars because the projectile has risen more than six miles. Now, Nicholl,
pay up.”
“Let us prove it first,” said the captain, “and we will pay afterward. It is
quite possible that Barbicane’s reasoning is correct, and that I have lost my
nine thousand dollars. But a new hypothesis presents itself to my mind, and
it annuls the wager.”
“What is that?” asked Barbicane quickly.
“The hypothesis that, for some reason or other, fire was never set to the
powder, and we have not started at all.”
“My goodness, captain,” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “that hypothesis is not
worthy of my brain! It cannot be a serious one. For have we not been half
annihilated by the shock? Did I not recall you to life? Is not the president’s
shoulder still bleeding from the blow it has received?”
“Granted,” replied Nicholl; “but one question.”
“Well, captain?”

“Did you hear the detonation, which certainly ought to be loud?”
“No,” replied Ardan, much surprised; “certainly I did not hear the
detonation.”
“And you, Barbicane?”
“Nor I, either.”
“Very well,” said Nicholl.
“Well now,” murmured the president “why did we not hear the
detonation?”
The three friends looked at each other with a disconcerted air. It was
quite an inexplicable phenomenon. The projectile had started, and
consequently there must have been a detonation.
“Let us first find out where we are,” said Barbicane, “and let down this
panel.”
This very simple operation was soon accomplished.
The nuts which held the bolts to the outer plates of the right-hand scuttle
gave way under the pressure of the English wrench. These bolts were
pushed outside, and the buffers covered with India-rubber stopped up the
holes which let them through. Immediately the outer plate fell back upon its
hinges like a porthole, and the lenticular glass which closed the scuttle
appeared. A similar one was let into the thick partition on the opposite side
of the projectile, another in the top of the dome, and finally a fourth in the
middle of the base. They could, therefore, make observations in four
different directions; the firmament by the side and most direct windows, the
earth or the moon by the upper and under openings in the projectile.
Barbicane and his two companions immediately rushed to the uncovered
window. But it was lit by no ray of light. Profound darkness surrounded
them, which, however, did not prevent the president from exclaiming:
“No, my friends, we have not fallen back upon the earth; no, nor are we
submerged in the Gulf of Mexico. Yes! we are mounting into space. See
those stars shining in the night, and that impenetrable darkness heaped up
between the earth and us!”
“Hurrah! hurrah!” exclaimed Michel Ardan and Nicholl in one voice.
Indeed, this thick darkness proved that the projectile had left the earth,
for the soil, brilliantly lit by the moon-beams would have been visible to the

travelers, if they had been lying on its surface. This darkness also showed
that the projectile had passed the atmospheric strata, for the diffused light
spread in the air would have been reflected on the metal walls, which
reflection was wanting. This light would have lit the window, and the
window was dark. Doubt was no longer possible; the travelers had left the
earth.
“I have lost,” said Nicholl.
“I congratulate you,” replied Ardan.
“Here are the nine thousand dollars,” said the captain, drawing a roll of
paper dollars from his pocket.
“Will you have a receipt for it?” asked Barbicane, taking the sum.
“If you do not mind,” answered Nicholl; “it is more business-like.”
And coolly and seriously, as if he had been at his strong-box, the
president drew forth his notebook, tore out a blank leaf, wrote a proper
receipt in pencil, dated and signed it with the usual flourish,[1] and gave it to
the captain, who carefully placed it in his pocketbook. Michel Ardan, taking
off his hat, bowed to his two companions without speaking. So much
formality under such circumstances left him speechless. He had never
before seen anything so “American.”
[1] This is a purely French habit.

This affair settled, Barbicane and Nicholl had returned to the window,
and were watching the constellations. The stars looked like bright points on
the black sky. But from that side they could not see the orb of night, which,
traveling from east to west, would rise by degrees toward the zenith. Its
absence drew the following remark from Ardan:
“And the moon; will she perchance fail at our rendezvous?”
“Do not alarm yourself,” said Barbicane; “our future globe is at its post,
but we cannot see her from this side; let us open the other.”
“As Barbicane was about leaving the window to open the opposite
scuttle, his attention was attracted by the approach of a brilliant object. It
was an enormous disc, whose colossal dimension could not be estimated. Its
face, which was turned to the earth, was very bright. One might have
thought it a small moon reflecting the light of the large one. She advanced
with great speed, and seemed to describe an orbit round the earth, which

would intersect the passage of the projectile. This body revolved upon its
axis, and exhibited the phenomena of all celestial bodies abandoned in
space.
“Ah!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “What is that? another projectile?”
Barbicane did not answer. The appearance of this enormous body
surprised and troubled him. A collision was possible, and might be attended
with deplorable results; either the projectile would deviate from its path, or
a shock, breaking its impetus, might precipitate it to earth; or, lastly, it
might be irresistibly drawn away by the powerful asteroid. The president
caught at a glance the consequences of these three hypotheses, either of
which would, one way or the other, bring their experiment to an
unsuccessful and fatal termination. His companions stood silently looking
into space. The object grew rapidly as it approached them, and by an optical
illusion the projectile seemed to be throwing itself before it.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “we shall run into one another!”
Instinctively the travelers drew back. Their dread was great, but it did not
last many seconds. The asteroid passed several hundred yards from the
projectile and disappeared, not so much from the rapidity of its course, as
that its face being opposite the moon, it was suddenly merged into the
perfect darkness of space.
“A happy journey to you,” exclaimed Michel Ardan, with a sigh of relief.
“Surely infinity of space is large enough for a poor little projectile to walk
through without fear. Now, what is this portentous globe which nearly
struck us?”
“I know,” replied Barbicane.
“Oh, indeed! you know everything.”
“It is,” said Barbicane, “a simple meteorite, but an enormous one, which
the attraction of the earth has retained as a satellite.”
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Michel Ardan; “the earth then has two moons
like Neptune?”
“Yes, my friends, two moons, though it passes generally for having only
one; but this second moon is so small, and its speed so great, that the
inhabitants of the earth cannot see it. It was by noticing disturbances that a
French astronomer, M. Petit, was able to determine the existence of this
second satellite and calculate its elements. According to his observations,

this meteorite will accomplish its revolution around the earth in three hours
and twenty minutes, which implies a wonderful rate of speed.”
“Do all astronomers admit the existence of this satellite?” asked Nicholl.
“No,” replied Barbicane; “but if, like us, they had met it, they could no
longer doubt it. Indeed, I think that this meteorite, which, had it struck the
projectile, would have much embarrassed us, will give us the means of
deciding what our position in space is.”
“How?” said Ardan.
“Because its distance is known, and when we met it, we were exactly
four thousand six hundred and fifty miles from the surface of the terrestrial
globe.”
“More than two thousand French leagues,” exclaimed Michel Ardan.
“That beats the express trains of the pitiful globe called the earth.”
“I should think so,” replied Nicholl, consulting his chronometer; “it is
eleven o’clock, and it is only thirteen minutes since we left the American
continent.”
“Only thirteen minutes?” said Barbicane.
“Yes,” said Nicholl; “and if our initiatory speed of twelve thousand yards
has been kept up, we shall have made about twenty thousand miles in the
hour.”
“That is all very well, my friends,” said the president, “but the insoluble
question still remains. Why did we not hear the detonation of the
Columbiad?”
For want of an answer the conversation dropped, and Barbicane began
thoughtfully to let down the shutter of the second side. He succeeded; and
through the uncovered glass the moon filled the projectile with a brilliant
light. Nicholl, as an economical man, put out the gas, now useless, and
whose brilliancy prevented any observation of the inter-planetary space.
The lunar disc shone with wonderful purity. Her rays, no longer filtered
through the vapory atmosphere of the terrestrial globe, shone through the
glass, filling the air in the interior of the projectile with silvery reflections.
The black curtain of the firmament in reality heightened the moon’s
brilliancy, which in this void of ether unfavorable to diffusion did not
eclipse the neighboring stars. The heavens, thus seen, presented quite a new
aspect, and one which the human eye could never dream of. One may

conceive the interest with which these bold men watched the orb of night,
the great aim of their journey.
In its motion the earth’s satellite was insensibly nearing the zenith, the
mathematical point which it ought to attain ninety-six hours later. Her
mountains, her plains, every projection was as clearly discernible to their
eyes as if they were observing it from some spot upon the earth; but its light
was developed through space with wonderful intensity. The disc shone like
a platinum mirror. Of the earth flying from under their feet, the travelers
had lost all recollection.
It was captain Nicholl who first recalled their attention to the vanishing
globe.
“Yes,” said Michel Ardan, “do not let us be ungrateful to it. Since we are
leaving our country, let our last looks be directed to it. I wish to see the
earth once more before it is quite hidden from my eyes.”
To satisfy his companions, Barbicane began to uncover the window at the
bottom of the projectile, which would allow them to observe the earth
direct. The disc, which the force of the projection had beaten down to the
base, was removed, not without difficulty. Its fragments, placed carefully
against a wall, might serve again upon occasion. Then a circular gap
appeared, nineteen inches in diameter, hollowed out of the lower part of the
projectile. A glass cover, six inches thick and strengthened with upper
fastenings, closed it tightly. Beneath was fixed an aluminum plate, held in
place by bolts. The screws being undone, and the bolts let go, the plate fell
down, and visible communication was established between the interior and
the exterior.
Michel Ardan knelt by the glass. It was cloudy, seemingly opaque.
“Well!” he exclaimed, “and the earth?”
“The earth?” said Barbicane. “There it is.”
“What! that little thread; that silver crescent?”
“Doubtless, Michel. In four days, when the moon will be full, at the very
time we shall reach it, the earth will be new, and will only appear to us as a
slender crescent which will soon disappear, and for some days will be
enveloped in utter darkness.”
“That the earth?” repeated Michel Ardan, looking with all his eyes at the
thin slip of his native planet.

The explanation given by President Barbicane was correct. The earth,
with respect to the projectile, was entering its last phase. It was in its octant,
and showed a crescent finely traced on the dark background of the sky. Its
light, rendered bluish by the thick strata of the atmosphere was less intense
than that of the crescent moon, but it was of considerable dimensions, and
looked like an enormous arch stretched across the firmament. Some parts
brilliantly lighted, especially on its concave part, showed the presence of
high mountains, often disappearing behind thick spots, which are never
seen on the lunar disc. They were rings of clouds placed concentrically
round the terrestrial globe.
While the travelers were trying to pierce the profound darkness, a
brilliant cluster of shooting stars burst upon their eyes. Hundreds of
meteorites, ignited by the friction of the atmosphere, irradiated the shadow
of the luminous train, and lined the cloudy parts of the disc with their fire.
At this period the earth was in its perihelion, and the month of December is
so propitious to these shooting stars, that astronomers have counted as
many as twenty-four thousand in an hour. But Michel Ardan, disdaining
scientific reasonings, preferred thinking that the earth was thus saluting the
departure of her three children with her most brilliant fireworks.
Indeed this was all they saw of the globe lost in the solar world, rising
and setting to the great planets like a simple morning or evening star! This
globe, where they had left all their affections, was nothing more than a
fugitive crescent!
Long did the three friends look without speaking, though united in heart,
while the projectile sped onward with an ever-decreasing speed. Then an
irresistible drowsiness crept over their brain. Was it weariness of body and
mind? No doubt; for after the over-excitement of those last hours passed
upon earth, reaction was inevitable.
“Well,” said Nicholl, “since we must sleep, let us sleep.”
And stretching themselves on their couches, they were all three soon in a
profound slumber.
But they had not forgotten themselves more than a quarter of an hour,
when Barbicane sat up suddenly, and rousing his companions with a loud
voice, exclaimed—
“I have found it!”

“What have you found?” asked Michel Ardan, jumping from his bed.
“The reason why we did not hear the detonation of the Columbiad.”
“And it is—?” said Nicholl.
“Because our projectile traveled faster than the sound!”

CHAPTER III.
THEIR PLACE OF SHELTER

This curious but certainly correct explanation once given, the three
friends returned to their slumbers. Could they have found a calmer or more
peaceful spot to sleep in? On the earth, houses, towns, cottages, and country
feel every shock given to the exterior of the globe. On sea, the vessels
rocked by the waves are still in motion; in the air, the balloon oscillates
incessantly on the fluid strata of divers densities. This projectile alone,
floating in perfect space, in the midst of perfect silence, offered perfect
repose.
Thus the sleep of our adventurous travelers might have been indefinitely
prolonged, if an unexpected noise had not awakened them at about seven
o’clock in the morning of the 2nd of December, eight hours after their
departure.
This noise was a very natural barking.
“The dogs! it is the dogs!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, rising at once.
“They are hungry,” said Nicholl.
“By Jove!” replied Michel, “we have forgotten them.”
“Where are they?” asked Barbicane.
They looked and found one of the animals crouched under the divan.
Terrified and shaken by the initiatory shock, it had remained in the corner
till its voice returned with the pangs of hunger. It was the amiable Diana,
still very confused, who crept out of her retreat, though not without much
persuasion, Michel Ardan encouraging her with most gracious words.
“Come, Diana,” said he: “come, my girl! thou whose destiny will be
marked in the cynegetic annals; thou whom the pagans would have given as
companion to the god Anubis, and Christians as friend to St. Roch; thou

who art rushing into interplanetary space, and wilt perhaps be the Eve of all
Selenite dogs! come, Diana, come here.”
Diana, flattered or not, advanced by degrees, uttering plaintive cries.
“Good,” said Barbicane: “I see Eve, but where is Adam?”
“Adam?” replied Michel; “Adam cannot be far off; he is there
somewhere; we must call him. Satellite! here, Satellite!”
But Satellite did not appear. Diana would not leave off howling. They
found, however, that she was not bruised, and they gave her a pie, which
silenced her complaints. As to Satellite, he seemed quite lost. They had to
hunt a long time before finding him in one of the upper compartments of
the projectile, whither some unaccountable shock must have violently
hurled him. The poor beast, much hurt, was in a piteous state.
“The devil!” said Michel.
They brought the unfortunate dog down with great care. Its skull had
been broken against the roof, and it seemed unlikely that he could recover
from such a shock. Meanwhile, he was stretched comfortably on a cushion.
Once there, he heaved a sigh.
“We will take care of you,” said Michel; “we are responsible for your
existence. I would rather lose an arm than a paw of my poor Satellite.”
Saying which, he offered some water to the wounded dog, who
swallowed it with avidity.
This attention paid, the travelers watched the earth and the moon
attentively. The earth was now only discernible by a cloudy disc ending in a
crescent, rather more contracted than that of the previous evening; but its
expanse was still enormous, compared with that of the moon, which was
approaching nearer and nearer to a perfect circle.
“By Jove!” said Michel Ardan, “I am really sorry that we did not start
when the earth was full, that is to say, when our globe was in opposition to
the sun.”
“Why?” said Nicholl.
“Because we should have seen our continents and seas in a new light—
the first resplendent under the solar rays, the latter cloudy as represented on
some maps of the world. I should like to have seen those poles of the earth
on which the eye of man has never yet rested.”

“I dare say,” replied Barbicane; “but if the earth had been full, the moon
would have been new; that is to say, invisible, because of the rays of the
sun. It is better for us to see the destination we wish to reach, than the point
of departure.”
“You are right, Barbicane,” replied Captain Nicholl; “and, besides, when
we have reached the moon, we shall have time during the long lunar nights
to consider at our leisure the globe on which our likenesses swarm.”
“Our likenesses!” exclaimed Michel Ardan; “They are no more our
likenesses than the Selenites are! We inhabit a new world, peopled by
ourselves—the projectile! I am Barbicane’s likeness, and Barbicane is
Nicholl’s. Beyond us, around us, human nature is at an end, and we are the
only population of this microcosm until we become pure Selenites.”
“In about eighty-eight hours,” replied the captain.
“Which means to say?” asked Michel Ardan.
“That it is half-past eight,” replied Nicholl.
“Very well,” retorted Michel; “then it is impossible for me to find even
the shadow of a reason why we should not go to breakfast.”
Indeed the inhabitants of the new star could not live without eating, and
their stomachs were suffering from the imperious laws of hunger. Michel
Ardan, as a Frenchman, was declared chief cook, an important function,
which raised no rival. The gas gave sufficient heat for the culinary
apparatus, and the provision box furnished the elements of this first feast.
The breakfast began with three bowls of excellent soup, thanks to the
liquefaction in hot water of those precious cakes of Liebig, prepared from
the best parts of the ruminants of the Pampas. To the soup succeeded some
beefsteaks, compressed by an hydraulic press, as tender and succulent as if
brought straight from the kitchen of an English eating-house. Michel, who
was imaginative, maintained that they were even “red.”
Preserved vegetables (“fresher than nature,” said the amiable Michel)
succeeded the dish of meat; and was followed by some cups of tea with
bread and butter, after the American fashion.
The beverage was declared exquisite, and was due to the infusion of the
choicest leaves, of which the emperor of Russia had given some chests for
the benefit of the travelers.

And lastly, to crown the repast, Ardan had brought out a fine bottle of
Nuits, which was found “by chance” in the provision-box. The three friends
drank to the union of the earth and her satellite.
And, as if he had not already done enough for the generous wine which
he had distilled on the slopes of Burgundy, the sun chose to be part of the
party. At this moment the projectile emerged from the conical shadow cast
by the terrestrial globe, and the rays of the radiant orb struck the lower disc
of the projectile direct occasioned by the angle which the moon’s orbit
makes with that of the earth.
“The sun!” exclaimed Michel Ardan.
“No doubt,” replied Barbicane; “I expected it.”
“But,” said Michel, “the conical shadow which the earth leaves in space
extends beyond the moon?”
“Far beyond it, if the atmospheric refraction is not taken into
consideration,” said Barbicane. “But when the moon is enveloped in this
shadow, it is because the centers of the three stars, the sun, the earth, and
the moon, are all in one and the same straight line. Then the nodes coincide
with the phases of the moon, and there is an eclipse. If we had started when
there was an eclipse of the moon, all our passage would have been in the
shadow, which would have been a pity.”
“Why?”
“Because, though we are floating in space, our projectile, bathed in the
solar rays, will receive light and heat. It economizes the gas, which is in
every respect a good economy.”
Indeed, under these rays which no atmosphere can temper, either in
temperature or brilliancy, the projectile grew warm and bright, as if it had
passed suddenly from winter to summer. The moon above, the sun beneath,
were inundating it with their fire.
“It is pleasant here,” said Nicholl.
“I should think so,” said Michel Ardan. “With a little earth spread on our
aluminum planet we should have green peas in twenty-four hours. I have
but one fear, which is that the walls of the projectile might melt.”
“Calm yourself, my worthy friend,” replied Barbicane; “the projectile
withstood a very much higher temperature than this as it slid through the

strata of the atmosphere. I should not be surprised if it did not look like a
meteor on fire to the eyes of the spectators in Florida.”
“But then J. T. Maston will think we are roasted!”
“What astonishes me,” said Barbicane, “is that we have not been. That
was a danger we had not provided for.”
“I feared it,” said Nicholl simply.
“And you never mentioned it, my sublime captain,” exclaimed Michel
Ardan, clasping his friend’s hand.
Barbicane now began to settle himself in the projectile as if he was never
to leave it. One must remember that this aerial car had a base with a
superficies of fifty-four square feet. Its height to the roof was twelve feet.
Carefully laid out in the inside, and little encumbered by instruments and
traveling utensils, which each had their particular place, it left the three
travelers a certain freedom of movement. The thick window inserted in the
bottom could bear any amount of weight, and Barbicane and his
companions walked upon it as if it were solid plank; but the sun striking it
directly with its rays lit the interior of the projectile from beneath, thus
producing singular effects of light.
They began by investigating the state of their store of water and
provisions, neither of which had suffered, thanks to the care taken to deaden
the shock. Their provisions were abundant, and plentiful enough to last the
three travelers for more than a year. Barbicane wished to be cautious, in
case the projectile should land on a part of the moon which was utterly
barren. As to water and the reserve of brandy, which consisted of fifty
gallons, there was only enough for two months; but according to the last
observations of astronomers, the moon had a low, dense, and thick
atmosphere, at least in the deep valleys, and there springs and streams could
not fail. Thus, during their passage, and for the first year of their settlement
on the lunar continent, these adventurous explorers would suffer neither
hunger nor thirst.
Now about the air in the projectile. There, too, they were secure. Reiset
and Regnaut’s apparatus, intended for the production of oxygen, was
supplied with chlorate of potassium for two months. They necessarily
consumed a certain quantity of gas, for they were obliged to keep the
producing substance at a temperature of above 400°. But there again they
were all safe. The apparatus only wanted a little care. But it was not enough

to renew the oxygen; they must absorb the carbonic acid produced by
expiration. During the last twelve hours the atmosphere of the projectile had
become charged with this deleterious gas. Nicholl discovered the state of
the air by observing Diana panting painfully. The carbonic acid, by a
phenomenon similar to that produced in the famous Grotto del Cane, had
collected at the bottom of the projectile owing to its weight. Poor Diana,
with her head low, would suffer before her masters from the presence of this
gas. But Captain Nicholl hastened to remedy this state of things, by placing
on the floor several receivers containing caustic potash, which he shook
about for a time, and this substance, greedy of carbonic acid, soon
completely absorbed it, thus purifying the air.
An inventory of instruments was then begun. The thermometers and
barometers had resisted, all but one minimum thermometer, the glass of
which was broken. An excellent aneroid was drawn from the wadded box
which contained it and hung on the wall. Of course it was only affected by
and marked the pressure of the air inside the projectile, but it also showed
the quantity of moisture which it contained. At that moment its needle
oscillated between 25.24 and 25.08.
It was fine weather.
Barbicane had also brought several compasses, which he found intact.
One must understand that under present conditions their needles were
acting wildly, that is without any constant direction. Indeed, at the distance
they were from the earth, the magnetic pole could have no perceptible
action upon the apparatus; but the box placed on the lunar disc might
perhaps exhibit some strange phenomena. In any case it would be
interesting to see whether the earth’s satellite submitted like herself to its
magnetic influence.
A hypsometer to measure the height of the lunar mountains, a sextant to
take the height of the sun, glasses which would be useful as they neared the
moon, all these instruments were carefully looked over, and pronounced
good in spite of the violent shock.
As to the pickaxes and different tools which were Nicholl’s especial
choice; as to the sacks of different kinds of grain and shrubs which Michel
Ardan hoped to transplant into Selenite ground, they were stowed away in
the upper part of the projectile. There was a sort of granary there, loaded
with things which the extravagant Frenchman had heaped up. What they

were no one knew, and the good-tempered fellow did not explain. Now and
then he climbed up by cramp-irons riveted to the walls, but kept the
inspection to himself. He arranged and rearranged, he plunged his hand
rapidly into certain mysterious boxes, singing in one of the falsest of voices
an old French refrain to enliven the situation.
Barbicane observed with some interest that his guns and other arms had
not been damaged. These were important, because, heavily loaded, they
were to help lessen the fall of the projectile, when drawn by the lunar
attraction (after having passed the point of neutral attraction) on to the
moon’s surface; a fall which ought to be six times less rapid than it would
have been on the earth’s surface, thanks to the difference of bulk. The
inspection ended with general satisfaction, when each returned to watch
space through the side windows and the lower glass coverlid.
There was the same view. The whole extent of the celestial sphere
swarmed with stars and constellations of wonderful purity, enough to drive
an astronomer out of his mind! On one side the sun, like the mouth of a
lighted oven, a dazzling disc without a halo, standing out on the dark
background of the sky! On the other, the moon returning its fire by
reflection, and apparently motionless in the midst of the starry world. Then,
a large spot seemingly nailed to the firmament, bordered by a silvery cord;
it was the earth! Here and there nebulous masses like large flakes of starry
snow; and from the zenith to the nadir, an immense ring formed by an
impalpable dust of stars, the “Milky Way,” in the midst of which the sun
ranks only as a star of the fourth magnitude. The observers could not take
their eyes from this novel spectacle, of which no description could give an
adequate idea. What reflections it suggested! What emotions hitherto
unknown awoke in their souls! Barbicane wished to begin the relation of his
journey while under its first impressions, and hour after hour took notes of
all facts happening in the beginning of the enterprise. He wrote quietly, with
his large square writing, in a business-like style.
During this time Nicholl, the calculator, looked over the minutes of their
passage, and worked out figures with unparalleled dexterity. Michel Ardan
chatted first with Barbicane, who did not answer him, and then with
Nicholl, who did not hear him, with Diana, who understood none of his
theories, and lastly with himself, questioning and answering, going and
coming, busy with a thousand details; at one time bent over the lower glass,

at another roosting in the heights of the projectile, and always singing. In
this microcosm he represented French loquacity and excitability, and we
beg you to believe that they were well represented. The day, or rather (for
the expression is not correct) the lapse of twelve hours, which forms a day
upon the earth, closed with a plentiful supper carefully prepared. No
accident of any nature had yet happened to shake the travelers’ confidence;
so, full of hope, already sure of success, they slept peacefully, while the
projectile under an uniformly decreasing speed was crossing the sky.

CHAPTER IV.
A LITTLE ALGEBRA

The night passed without incident. The word “night,” however, is
scarcely applicable.
The position of the projectile with regard to the sun did not change.
Astronomically, it was daylight on the lower part, and night on the upper; so
when during this narrative these words are used, they represent the lapse of
time between rising and setting of the sun upon the earth.
The travelers’ sleep was rendered more peaceful by the projectile’s
excessive speed, for it seemed absolutely motionless. Not a motion betrayed
its onward course through space. The rate of progress, however rapid it
might be, cannot produce any sensible effect on the human frame when it
takes place in a vacuum, or when the mass of air circulates with the body
which is carried with it. What inhabitant of the earth perceives its speed,
which, however, is at the rate of 68,000 miles per hour? Motion under such
conditions is “felt” no more than repose; and when a body is in repose it
will remain so as long as no strange force displaces it; if moving, it will not
stop unless an obstacle comes in its way. This indifference to motion or
repose is called inertia.
Barbicane and his companions might have believed themselves perfectly
stationary, being shut up in the projectile; indeed, the effect would have
been the same if they had been on the outside of it. Had it not been for the
moon, which was increasing above them, they might have sworn that they
were floating in complete stagnation.
That morning, the 3rd of December, the travelers were awakened by a
joyous but unexpected noise; it was the crowing of a cock which sounded
through the car. Michel Ardan, who was the first on his feet, climbed to the
top of the projectile, and shutting a box, the lid of which was partly open,

said in a low voice, “Will you hold your tongue? That creature will spoil my
design!”
But Nicholl and Barbicane were awake.
“A cock!” said Nicholl.
“Why no, my friends,” Michel answered quickly; “it was I who wished to
awake you by this rural sound.” So saying, he gave vent to a splendid cock-
a-doodledoo, which would have done honor to the proudest of poultry-
yards.
The two Americans could not help laughing.
“Fine talent that,” said Nicholl, looking suspiciously at his companion.
“Yes,” said Michel; “a joke in my country. It is very Gallic; they play the
cock so in the best society.”
Then turning the conversation:
“Barbicane, do you know what I have been thinking of all night?”
“No,” answered the president.
“Of our Cambridge friends. You have already remarked that I am an
ignoramus in mathematical subjects; and it is impossible for me to find out
how the savants of the observatory were able to calculate what initiatory
speed the projectile ought to have on leaving the Columbiad in order to
attain the moon.”
“You mean to say,” replied Barbicane, “to attain that neutral point where
the terrestrial and lunar attractions are equal; for, starting from that point,
situated about nine-tenths of the distance traveled over, the projectile would
simply fall upon the moon, on account of its weight.”
“So be it,” said Michel; “but, once more; how could they calculate the
initiatory speed?”
“Nothing can be easier,” replied Barbicane.
“And you knew how to make that calculation?” asked Michel Ardan.
“Perfectly. Nicholl and I would have made it, if the observatory had not
saved us the trouble.”
“Very well, old Barbicane,” replied Michel; “they might have cut off my
head, beginning at my feet, before they could have made me solve that
problem.”

“Because you do not know algebra,” answered Barbicane quietly.
“Ah, there you are, you eaters of x1; you think you have said all when you
have said ‘Algebra.’”
“Michel,” said Barbicane, “can you use a forge without a hammer, or a
plow without a plowshare?”
“Hardly.”
“Well, algebra is a tool, like the plow or the hammer, and a good tool to
those who know how to use it.”
“Seriously?”
“Quite seriously.”
“And can you use that tool in my presence?”
“If it will interest you.”
“And show me how they calculated the initiatory speed of our car?”
“Yes, my worthy friend; taking into consideration all the elements of the
problem, the distance from the center of the earth to the center of the moon,
of the radius of the earth, of its bulk, and of the bulk of the moon, I can tell
exactly what ought to be the initiatory speed of the projectile, and that by a
simple formula.”
“Let us see.”
“You shall see it; only I shall not give you the real course drawn by the
projectile between the moon and the earth in considering their motion round
the sun. No, I shall consider these two orbs as perfectly motionless, which
will answer all our purpose.”
“And why?”
“Because it will be trying to solve the problem called ‘the problem of the
three bodies,’ for which the integral calculus is not yet far enough
advanced.”
“Then,” said Michel Ardan, in his sly tone, “mathematics have not said
their last word?”
“Certainly not,” replied Barbicane.
“Well, perhaps the Selenites have carried the integral calculus farther
than you have; and, by the bye, what is this ‘integral calculus?’”

“It is a calculation the converse of the differential,” replied Barbicane
seriously.
“Much obliged; it is all very clear, no doubt.”
“And now,” continued Barbicane, “a slip of paper and a bit of pencil, and
before a half-hour is over I will have found the required formula.”
Half an hour had not elapsed before Barbicane, raising his head, showed
Michel Ardan a page covered with algebraical signs, in which the general
formula for the solution was contained.
“Well, and does Nicholl understand what that means?”
“Of course, Michel,” replied the captain. “All these signs, which seem
cabalistic to you, form the plainest, the clearest, and the most logical
language to those who know how to read it.”
“And you pretend, Nicholl,” asked Michel, “that by means of these
hieroglyphics, more incomprehensible than the Egyptian Ibis, you can find
what initiatory speed it was necessary to give the projectile?”
“Incontestably,” replied Nicholl; “and even by this same formula I can
always tell you its speed at any point of its transit.”
“On your word?”
“On my word.”
“Then you are as cunning as our president.”
“No, Michel; the difficult part is what Barbicane has done; that is, to get
an equation which shall satisfy all the conditions of the problem. The
remainder is only a question of arithmetic, requiring merely the knowledge
of the four rules.”
“That is something!” replied Michel Ardan, who for his life could not do
addition right, and who defined the rule as a Chinese puzzle, which allowed
one to obtain all sorts of totals.
“The expression v zero, which you see in that equation, is the speed
which the projectile will have on leaving the atmosphere.”
“Just so,” said Nicholl; “it is from that point that we must calculate the
velocity, since we know already that the velocity at departure was exactly
one and a half times more than on leaving the atmosphere.”
“I understand no more,” said Michel.
“It is a very simple calculation,” said Barbicane.

“Not as simple as I am,” retorted Michel.
“That means, that when our projectile reached the limits of the terrestrial
atmosphere it had already lost one-third of its initiatory speed.”
“As much as that?”
“Yes, my friend; merely by friction against the atmospheric strata. You
understand that the faster it goes the more resistance it meets with from the
air.”
“That I admit,” answered Michel; “and I understand it, although your x’s
and zero’s, and algebraic formula, are rattling in my head like nails in a
bag.”
“First effects of algebra,” replied Barbicane; “and now, to finish, we are
going to prove the given number of these different expressions, that is, work
out their value.”
“Finish me!” replied Michel.
Barbicane took the paper, and began to make his calculations with great
rapidity. Nicholl looked over and greedily read the work as it proceeded.
“That’s it! that’s it!” at last he cried.
“Is it clear?” asked Barbicane.
“It is written in letters of fire,” said Nicholl.
“Wonderful fellows!” muttered Ardan.
“Do you understand it at last?” asked Barbicane.
“Do I understand it?” cried Ardan; “my head is splitting with it.”
“And now,” said Nicholl, “to find out the speed of the projectile when it
leaves the atmosphere, we have only to calculate that.”
The captain, as a practical man equal to all difficulties, began to write
with frightful rapidity. Divisions and multiplications grew under his fingers;
the figures were like hail on the white page. Barbicane watched him, while
Michel Ardan nursed a growing headache with both hands.
“Very well?” asked Barbicane, after some minutes’ silence.
“Well!” replied Nicholl; every calculation made, v zero, that is to say, the
speed necessary for the projectile on leaving the atmosphere, to enable it to
reach the equal point of attraction, ought to be—”
“Yes?” said Barbicane.

“Twelve thousand yards.”
“What!” exclaimed Barbicane, starting; “you say—”
“Twelve thousand yards.”
“The devil!” cried the president, making a gesture of despair.
“What is the matter?” asked Michel Ardan, much surprised.
“What is the matter! why, if at this moment our speed had already
diminished one-third by friction, the initiatory speed ought to have been—”
“Seventeen thousand yards.”
“And the Cambridge Observatory declared that twelve thousand yards
was enough at starting; and our projectile, which only started with that
speed—”
“Well?” asked Nicholl.
“Well, it will not be enough.”
“Good.”
“We shall not be able to reach the neutral point.”
“The deuce!”
“We shall not even get halfway.”
“In the name of the projectile!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, jumping as if it
was already on the point of striking the terrestrial globe.
“And we shall fall back upon the earth!”

CHAPTER V.
THE COLD OF SPACE

This revelation came like a thunderbolt. Who could have expected such
an error in calculation? Barbicane would not believe it. Nicholl revised his
figures: they were exact. As to the formula which had determined them,
they could not suspect its truth; it was evident that an initiatory velocity of
seventeen thousand yards in the first second was necessary to enable them
to reach the neutral point.
The three friends looked at each other silently. There was no thought of
breakfast. Barbicane, with clenched teeth, knitted brows, and hands clasped
convulsively, was watching through the window. Nicholl had crossed his
arms, and was examining his calculations. Michel Ardan was muttering:
“That is just like these scientific men: they never do anything else. I
would give twenty pistoles if we could fall upon the Cambridge
Observatory and crush it, together with the whole lot of dabblers in figures
which it contains.”
Suddenly a thought struck the captain, which he at once communicated to
Barbicane.
“Ah!” said he; “it is seven o’clock in the morning; we have already been
gone thirty-two hours; more than half our passage is over, and we are not
falling that I am aware of.”
Barbicane did not answer, but after a rapid glance at the captain, took a
pair of compasses wherewith to measure the angular distance of the
terrestrial globe; then from the lower window he took an exact observation,
and noticed that the projectile was apparently stationary. Then rising and
wiping his forehead, on which large drops of perspiration were standing, he
put some figures on paper. Nicholl understood that the president was

deducting from the terrestrial diameter the projectile’s distance from the
earth. He watched him anxiously.
“No,” exclaimed Barbicane, after some moments, “no, we are not falling!
no, we are already more than 50,000 leagues from the earth. We have
passed the point at which the projectile would have stopped if its speed had
only been 12,000 yards at starting. We are still going up.”
“That is evident,” replied Nicholl; “and we must conclude that our initial
speed, under the power of the 400,000 pounds of gun-cotton, must have
exceeded the required 12,000 yards. Now I can understand how, after
thirteen minutes only, we met the second satellite, which gravitates round
the earth at more than 2,000 leagues’ distance.”
“And this explanation is the more probable,” added Barbicane, “Because,
in throwing off the water enclosed between its partition-breaks, the
projectile found itself lightened of a considerable weight.”
“Just so,” said Nicholl.
“Ah, my brave Nicholl, we are saved!”
“Very well then,” said Michel Ardan quietly; “as we are safe, let us have
breakfast.”
Nicholl was not mistaken. The initial speed had been, very fortunately,
much above that estimated by the Cambridge Observatory; but the
Cambridge Observatory had nevertheless made a mistake.
The travelers, recovered from this false alarm, breakfasted merrily. If
they ate a good deal, they talked more. Their confidence was greater after
than before “the incident of the algebra.”
“Why should we not succeed?” said Michel Ardan; “why should we not
arrive safely? We are launched; we have no obstacle before us, no stones in
the way; the road is open, more so than that of a ship battling with the sea;
more open than that of a balloon battling with the wind; and if a ship can
reach its destination, a balloon go where it pleases, why cannot our
projectile attain its end and aim?”
“It will attain it,” said Barbicane.
“If only to do honor to the Americans,” added Michel Ardan, “the only
people who could bring such an enterprise to a happy termination, and the
only one which could produce a President Barbicane. Ah, now we are no

longer uneasy, I begin to think, What will become of us? We shall get right
royally weary.”
Barbicane and Nicholl made a gesture of denial.
“But I have provided for the contingency, my friends,” replied Michel;
“you have only to speak, and I have chess, draughts, cards, and dominoes at
your disposal; nothing is wanting but a billiard-table.”
“What!” exclaimed Barbicane; “you brought away such trifles?”
“Certainly,” replied Michel, “and not only to distract ourselves, but also
with the laudable intention of endowing the Selenite smoking divans with
them.”
“My friend,” said Barbicane, “if the moon is inhabited, its inhabitants
must have appeared some thousands of years before those of the earth, for
we cannot doubt that their star is much older than ours. If then these
Selenites have existed their hundreds of thousands of years, and if their
brain is of the same organization of the human brain, they have already
invented all that we have invented, and even what we may invent in future
ages. They have nothing to learn from us, and we have everything to learn
from them.”
“What!” said Michel; “you believe that they have artists like Phidias,
Michael Angelo, or Raphael?”
“Yes.”
“Poets like Homer, Virgil, Milton, Lamartine, and Hugo?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Philosophers like Plato, Aristotle, Descartes, Kant?”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“Scientific men like Archimedes, Euclid, Pascal, Newton?”
“I could swear it.”
“Comic writers like Arnal, and photographers like—like Nadar?”
“Certain.”
“Then, friend Barbicane, if they are as strong as we are, and even
stronger—these Selenites—why have they not tried to communicate with
the earth? why have they not launched a lunar projectile to our terrestrial
regions?”

“Who told you that they have never done so?” said Barbicane seriously.
“Indeed,” added Nicholl, “it would be easier for them than for us, for two
reasons; first, because the attraction on the moon’s surface is six times less
than on that of the earth, which would allow a projectile to rise more easily;
secondly, because it would be enough to send such a projectile only at 8,000
leagues instead of 80,000, which would require the force of projection to be
ten times less strong.”
“Then,” continued Michel, “I repeat it, why have they not done it?”
“And I repeat,” said Barbicane; “who told you that they have not done
it?”
“When?”
“Thousands of years before man appeared on earth.”
“And the projectile—where is the projectile? I demand to see the
projectile.”
“My friend,” replied Barbicane, “the sea covers five-sixths of our globe.
From that we may draw five good reasons for supposing that the lunar
projectile, if ever launched, is now at the bottom of the Atlantic or the
Pacific, unless it sped into some crevasse at that period when the crust of
the earth was not yet hardened.”
“Old Barbicane,” said Michel, “you have an answer for everything, and I
bow before your wisdom. But there is one hypothesis that would suit me
better than all the others, which is, the Selenites, being older than we, are
wiser, and have not invented gunpowder.”
At this moment Diana joined in the conversation by a sonorous barking.
She was asking for her breakfast.
“Ah!” said Michel Ardan, “in our discussion we have forgotten Diana
and Satellite.”
Immediately a good-sized pie was given to the dog, which devoured it
hungrily.
“Do you see, Barbicane,” said Michel, “we should have made a second
Noah’s ark of this projectile, and borne with us to the moon a couple of
every kind of domestic animal.”
“I dare say; but room would have failed us.”
“Oh!” said Michel, “we might have squeezed a little.”

“The fact is,” replied Nicholl, “that cows, bulls, and horses, and all
ruminants, would have been very useful on the lunar continent, but
unfortunately the car could neither have been made a stable nor a shed.”
“Well, we might have at least brought a donkey, only a little donkey; that
courageous beast which old Silenus loved to mount. I love those old
donkeys; they are the least favored animals in creation; they are not only
beaten while alive, but even after they are dead.”
“How do you make that out?” asked Barbicane. “Why,” said Michel,
“they make their skins into drums.”
Barbicane and Nicholl could not help laughing at this ridiculous remark.
But a cry from their merry companion stopped them. The latter was leaning
over the spot where Satellite lay. He rose, saying:
“My good Satellite is no longer ill.”
“Ah!” said Nicholl.
“No,” answered Michel, “he is dead! There,” added he, in a piteous tone,
“that is embarrassing. I much fear, my poor Diana, that you will leave no
progeny in the lunar regions!”
Indeed the unfortunate Satellite had not survived its wound. It was quite
dead. Michel Ardan looked at his friends with a rueful countenance.
“One question presents itself,” said Barbicane. “We cannot keep the dead
body of this dog with us for the next forty-eight hours.”
“No! certainly not,” replied Nicholl; “but our scuttles are fixed on hinges;
they can be let down. We will open one, and throw the body out into space.”
The president thought for some moments, and then said:
“Yes, we must do so, but at the same time taking very great precautions.”
“Why?” asked Michel.
“For two reasons which you will understand,” answered Barbicane. “The
first relates to the air shut up in the projectile, and of which we must lose as
little as possible.”
“But we manufacture the air?”
“Only in part. We make only the oxygen, my worthy Michel; and with
regard to that, we must watch that the apparatus does not furnish the oxygen
in too great a quantity; for an excess would bring us very serious
physiological troubles. But if we make the oxygen, we do not make the

azote, that medium which the lungs do not absorb, and which ought to
remain intact; and that azote will escape rapidly through the open scuttles.”
“Oh! the time for throwing out poor Satellite?” said Michel.
“Agreed; but we must act quickly.”
“And the second reason?” asked Michel.
“The second reason is that we must not let the outer cold, which is
excessive, penetrate the projectile or we shall be frozen to death.”
“But the sun?”
“The sun warms our projectile, which absorbs its rays; but it does not
warm the vacuum in which we are floating at this moment. Where there is
no air, there is no more heat than diffused light; and the same with darkness;
it is cold where the sun’s rays do not strike direct. This temperature is only
the temperature produced by the radiation of the stars; that is to say, what
the terrestrial globe would undergo if the sun disappeared one day.”
“Which is not to be feared,” replied Nicholl.
“Who knows?” said Michel Ardan. “But, in admitting that the sun does
not go out, might it not happen that the earth might move away from it?”
“There!” said Barbicane, “there is Michel with his ideas.”
“And,” continued Michel, “do we not know that in 1861 the earth passed
through the tail of a comet? Or let us suppose a comet whose power of
attraction is greater than that of the sun. The terrestrial orbit will bend
toward the wandering star, and the earth, becoming its satellite, will be
drawn such a distance that the rays of the sun will have no action on its
surface.”
“That might happen, indeed,” replied Barbicane, “but the consequences
of such a displacement need not be so formidable as you suppose.”
“And why not?”
“Because the heat and cold would be equalized on our globe. It has been
calculated that, had our earth been carried along in its course by the comet
of 1861, at its perihelion, that is, its nearest approach to the sun, it would
have undergone a heat 28,000 times greater than that of summer. But this
heat, which is sufficient to evaporate the waters, would have formed a thick
ring of cloud, which would have modified that excessive temperature;

hence the compensation between the cold of the aphelion and the heat of the
perihelion.”
“At how many degrees,” asked Nicholl, “is the temperature of the
planetary spaces estimated?”
“Formerly,” replied Barbicane, “it was greatly exagerated; but now, after
the calculations of Fourier, of the French Academy of Science, it is not
supposed to exceed 60° Centigrade below zero.”
“Pooh!” said Michel, “that’s nothing!”
“It is very much,” replied Barbicane; “the temperature which was
observed in the polar regions, at Melville Island and Fort Reliance, that is
76° Fahrenheit below zero.”
“If I mistake not,” said Nicholl, “M. Pouillet, another savant, estimates
the temperature of space at 250° Fahrenheit below zero. We shall, however,
be able to verify these calculations for ourselves.”
“Not at present; because the solar rays, beating directly upon our
thermometer, would give, on the contrary, a very high temperature. But,
when we arrive in the moon, during its fifteen days of night at either face,
we shall have leisure to make the experiment, for our satellite lies in a
vacuum.”
“What do you mean by a vacuum?” asked Michel. “Is it perfectly such?”
“It is absolutely void of air.”
“And is the air replaced by nothing whatever?”
“By the ether only,” replied Barbicane.
“And pray what is the ether?”
“The ether, my friend, is an agglomeration of imponderable atoms,
which, relatively to their dimensions, are as far removed from each other as
the celestial bodies are in space. It is these atoms which, by their vibratory
motion, produce both light and heat in the universe.”
They now proceeded to the burial of Satellite. They had merely to drop
him into space, in the same way that sailors drop a body into the sea; but, as
President Barbicane suggested, they must act quickly, so as to lose as little
as possible of that air whose elasticity would rapidly have spread it into
space. The bolts of the right scuttle, the opening of which measured about
twelve inches across, were carefully drawn, while Michel, quite grieved,

prepared to launch his dog into space. The glass, raised by a powerful lever,
which enabled it to overcome the pressure of the inside air on the walls of
the projectile, turned rapidly on its hinges, and Satellite was thrown out.
Scarcely a particle of air could have escaped, and the operation was so
successful that later on Barbicane did not fear to dispose of the rubbish
which encumbered the car.

CHAPTER VI.
QUESTION AND ANSWER

On the 4th of December, when the travelers awoke after fifty-four hours’
journey, the chronometer marked five o’clock of the terrestrial morning. In
time it was just over five hours and forty minutes, half of that assigned to
their sojourn in the projectile; but they had already accomplished nearly
seven-tenths of the way. This peculiarity was due to their regularly
decreasing speed.
Now when they observed the earth through the lower window, it looked
like nothing more than a dark spot, drowned in the solar rays. No more
crescent, no more cloudy light! The next day, at midnight, the earth would
be new, at the very moment when the moon would be full. Above, the orb
of night was nearing the line followed by the projectile, so as to meet it at
the given hour. All around the black vault was studded with brilliant points,
which seemed to move slowly; but, at the great distance they were from
them, their relative size did not seem to change. The sun and stars appeared
exactly as they do to us upon earth. As to the moon, she was considerably
larger; but the travelers’ glasses, not very powerful, did not allow them as
yet to make any useful observations upon her surface, or reconnoiter her
topographically or geologically.
Thus the time passed in never-ending conversations all about the moon.
Each one brought forward his own contingent of particular facts; Barbicane
and Nicholl always serious, Michel Ardan always enthusiastic. The
projectile, its situation, its direction, incidents which might happen, the
precautions necessitated by their fall on to the moon, were inexhaustible
matters of conjecture.
As they were breakfasting, a question of Michel’s, relating to the
projectile, provoked rather a curious answer from Barbicane, which is
worth repeating. Michel, supposing it to be roughly stopped, while still

under its formidable initial speed, wished to know what the consequences
of the stoppage would have been.
“But,” said Barbicane, “I do not see how it could have been stopped.”
“But let us suppose so,” said Michel.
“It is an impossible supposition,” said the practical Barbicane; “unless
that impulsive force had failed; but even then its speed would diminish by
degrees, and it would not have stopped suddenly.”
“Admit that it had struck a body in space.”
“What body?”
“Why that enormous meteor which we met.”
“Then,” said Nicholl, “the projectile would have been broken into a
thousand pieces, and we with it.”
“More than that,” replied Barbicane; “we should have been burned to
death.”
“Burned?” exclaimed Michel, “by Jove! I am sorry it did not happen,
‘just to see.’”
“And you would have seen,” replied Barbicane. “It is known now that
heat is only a modification of motion. When water is warmed—that is to
say, when heat is added to it—its particles are set in motion.”
“Well,” said Michel, “that is an ingenious theory!”
“And a true one, my worthy friend; for it explains every phenomenon of
caloric. Heat is but the motion of atoms, a simple oscillation of the particles
of a body. When they apply the brake to a train, the train comes to a stop;
but what becomes of the motion which it had previously possessed? It is
transformed into heat, and the brake becomes hot. Why do they grease the
axles of the wheels? To prevent their heating, because this heat would be
generated by the motion which is thus lost by transformation.”
“Yes, I understand,” replied Michel, “perfectly. For example, when I have
run a long time, when I am swimming, when I am perspiring in large drops,
why am I obliged to stop? Simply because my motion is changed into heat.”
Barbicane could not help smiling at Michel’s reply; then, returning to his
theory, said:
“Thus, in case of a shock, it would have been with our projectile as with
a ball which falls in a burning state after having struck the metal plate; it is

its motion which is turned into heat. Consequently I affirm that, if our
projectile had struck the meteor, its speed thus suddenly checked would
have raised a heat great enough to turn it into vapor instantaneously.”
“Then,” asked Nicholl, “what would happen if the earth’s motion were to
stop suddenly?”
“Her temperature would be raised to such a pitch,” said Barbicane, “that
she would be at once reduced to vapor.”
“Well,” said Michel, “that is a way of ending the earth which will greatly
simplify things.”
“And if the earth fell upon the sun?” asked Nicholl.
“According to calculation,” replied Barbicane, “the fall would develop a
heat equal to that produced by 16,000 globes of coal, each equal in bulk to
our terrestrial globe.”
“Good additional heat for the sun,” replied Michel Ardan, “of which the
inhabitants of Uranus or Neptune would doubtless not complain; they must
be perished with cold on their planets.”
“Thus, my friends,” said Barbicane, “all motion suddenly stopped
produces heat. And this theory allows us to infer that the heat of the solar
disc is fed by a hail of meteors falling incessantly on its surface. They have
even calculated—”
“Oh, dear!” murmured Michel, “the figures are coming.”
“They have even calculated,” continued the imperturbable Barbicane,
“that the shock of each meteor on the sun ought to produce a heat equal to
that of 4,000 masses of coal of an equal bulk.”
“And what is the solar heat?” asked Michel.
“It is equal to that produced by the combustion of a stratum of coal
surrounding the sun to a depth of forty-seven miles.”
“And that heat—”
“Would be able to boil two billions nine hundred millions of cubic
myriameters[2] of water.”
[2] The myriameter is equal to rather more than 10,936 cubic yards English.

“And it does not roast us!” exclaimed Michel.

“No,” replied Barbicane, “because the terrestrial atmosphere absorbs
four-tenths of the solar heat; besides, the quantity of heat intercepted by the
earth is but a billionth part of the entire radiation.”
“I see that all is for the best,” said Michel, “and that this atmosphere is a
useful invention; for it not only allows us to breathe, but it prevents us from
roasting.”
“Yes!” said Nicholl, “unfortunately, it will not be the same in the moon.”
“Bah!” said Michel, always hopeful. “If there are inhabitants, they must
breathe. If there are no longer any, they must have left enough oxygen for
three people, if only at the bottom of ravines, where its own weight will
cause it to accumulate, and we will not climb the mountains; that is all.”
And Michel, rising, went to look at the lunar disc, which shone with
intolerable brilliancy.
“By Jove!” said he, “it must be hot up there!”
“Without considering,” replied Nicholl, “that the day lasts 360 hours!”
“And to compensate that,” said Barbicane, “the nights have the same
length; and as heat is restored by radiation, their temperature can only be
that of the planetary space.”
“A pretty country, that!” exclaimed Michel. “Never mind! I wish I was
there! Ah! my dear comrades, it will be rather curious to have the earth for
our moon, to see it rise on the horizon, to recognize the shape of its
continents, and to say to oneself, ‘There is America, there is Europe;’ then
to follow it when it is about to lose itself in the sun’s rays! By the bye,
Barbicane, have the Selenites eclipses?”
“Yes, eclipses of the sun,” replied Barbicane, “when the centers of the
three orbs are on a line, the earth being in the middle. But they are only
partial, during which the earth, cast like a screen upon the solar disc, allows
the greater portion to be seen.”
“And why,” asked Nicholl, “is there no total eclipse? Does not the cone
of the shadow cast by the earth extend beyond the moon?”
“Yes, if we do not take into consideration the refraction produced by the
terrestrial atmosphere. No, if we take that refraction into consideration.
Thus let <lower case delta> be the horizontal parallel, and p the apparent
semidiameter—”
“Oh!” said Michel. “Do speak plainly, you man of algebra!”

“Very well, replied Barbicane; “in popular language the mean distance
from the moon to the earth being sixty terrestrial radii, the length of the
cone of the shadow, on account of refraction, is reduced to less than forty-
two radii. The result is that when there are eclipses, the moon finds itself
beyond the cone of pure shadow, and that the sun sends her its rays, not
only from its edges, but also from its center.”
“Then,” said Michel, in a merry tone, “why are there eclipses, when there
ought not to be any?”
“Simply because the solar rays are weakened by this refraction, and the
atmosphere through which they pass extinguished the greater part of them!”
“That reason satisfies me,” replied Michel. “Besides we shall see when
we get there. Now, tell me, Barbicane, do you believe that the moon is an
old comet?”
“There’s an idea!”
“Yes,” replied Michel, with an amiable swagger, “I have a few ideas of
that sort.”
“But that idea does not spring from Michel,” answered Nicholl.
“Well, then, I am a plagiarist.”
“No doubt about it. According to the ancients, the Arcadians pretend that
their ancestors inhabited the earth before the moon became her satellite.
Starting from this fact, some scientific men have seen in the moon a comet
whose orbit will one day bring it so near to the earth that it will be held
there by its attraction.”
“Is there any truth in this hypothesis?” asked Michel.
“None whatever,” said Barbicane, “and the proof is, that the moon has
preserved no trace of the gaseous envelope which always accompanies
comets.”
“But,” continued Nicholl, “Before becoming the earth’s satellite, could
not the moon, when in her perihelion, pass so near the sun as by
evaporation to get rid of all those gaseous substances?”
“It is possible, friend Nicholl, but not probable.”
“Why not?”
“Because—Faith I do not know.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Michel, “what hundred of volumes we might make of
all that we do not know!”
“Ah! indeed. What time is it?” asked Barbicane.
“Three o’clock,” answered Nicholl.
“How time goes,” said Michel, “in the conversation of scientific men
such as we are! Certainly, I feel I know too much! I feel that I am becoming
a well!”
Saying which, Michel hoisted himself to the roof of the projectile, “to
observe the moon better,” he pretended. During this time his companions
were watching through the lower glass. Nothing new to note!
When Michel Ardan came down, he went to the side scuttle; and
suddenly they heard an exclamation of surprise!
“What is it?” asked Barbicane.
The president approached the window, and saw a sort of flattened sack
floating some yards from the projectile. This object seemed as motionless as
the projectile, and was consequently animated with the same ascending
movement.
“What is that machine?” continued Michel Ardan. “Is it one of the bodies
which our projectile keeps within its attraction, and which will accompany
it to the moon?”
“What astonishes me,” said Nicholl, “is that the specific weight of the
body, which is certainly less than that of the projectile, allows it to keep so
perfectly on a level with it.”
“Nicholl,” replied Barbicane, after a moment’s reflection, “I do not know
what the object it, but I do know why it maintains our level.”
“And why?”
“Because we are floating in space, my dear captain, and in space bodies
fall or move (which is the same thing) with equal speed whatever be their
weight or form; it is the air, which by its resistance creates these differences
in weight. When you create a vacuum in a tube, the objects you send
through it, grains of dust or grains of lead, fall with the same rapidity. Here
in space is the same cause and the same effect.”
“Just so,” said Nicholl, “and everything we throw out of the projectile
will accompany it until it reaches the moon.”

“Ah! fools that we are!” exclaimed Michel.
“Why that expletive?” asked Barbicane.
“Because we might have filled the projectile with useful objects, books,
instruments, tools, etc. We could have thrown them all out, and all would
have followed in our train. But happy thought! Why cannot we walk outside
like the meteor? Why cannot we launch into space through the scuttle?
What enjoyment it would be to feel oneself thus suspended in ether, more
favored than the birds who must use their wings to keep themselves up!”
“Granted,” said Barbicane, “but how to breathe?”
“Hang the air, to fail so inopportunely!”
“But if it did not fail, Michel, your density being less than that of the
projectile, you would soon be left behind.”
“Then we must remain in our car?”
“We must!”
“Ah!” exclaimed Michel, in a load voice.
“What is the matter,” asked Nicholl.
“I know, I guess, what this pretended meteor is! It is no asteroid which is
accompanying us! It is not a piece of a planet.”
“What is it then?” asked Barbicane.
“It is our unfortunate dog! It is Diana’s husband!”
Indeed, this deformed, unrecognizable object, reduced to nothing, was
the body of Satellite, flattened like a bagpipe without wind, and ever
mounting, mounting!

CHAPTER VII.
A MOMENT OF INTOXICATION

Thus a phenomenon, curious but explicable, was happening under these
strange conditions.
Every object thrown from the projectile would follow the same course
and never stop until it did. There was a subject for conversation which the
whole evening could not exhaust.
Besides, the excitement of the three travelers increased as they drew near
the end of their journey. They expected unforseen incidents, and new
phenomena; and nothing would have astonished them in the frame of mind
they then were in. Their overexcited imagination went faster than the
projectile, whose speed was evidently diminishing, though insensibly to
themselves. But the moon grew larger to their eyes, and they fancied if they
stretched out their hands they could seize it.
The next day, the 5th of November, at five in the morning, all three were
on foot. That day was to be the last of their journey, if all calculations were
true. That very night, at twelve o’clock, in eighteen hours, exactly at the full
moon, they would reach its brilliant disc. The next midnight would see that
journey ended, the most extraordinary of ancient or modern times. Thus
from the first of the morning, through the scuttles silvered by its rays, they
saluted the orb of night with a confident and joyous hurrah.
The moon was advancing majestically along the starry firmament. A few
more degrees, and she would reach the exact point where her meeting with
the projectile was to take place.
According to his own observations, Barbicane reckoned that they would
land on her northern hemisphere, where stretch immense plains, and where
mountains are rare. A favorable circumstance if, as they thought, the lunar
atmosphere was stored only in its depths.

“Besides,” observed Michel Ardan, “a plain is easier to disembark upon
than a mountain. A Selenite, deposited in Europe on the summit of Mont
Blanc, or in Asia on the top of the Himalayas, would not be quite in the
right place.”
“And,” added Captain Nicholl, “on a flat ground, the projectile will
remain motionless when it has once touched; whereas on a declivity it
would roll like an avalanche, and not being squirrels we should not come
out safe and sound. So it is all for the best.”
Indeed, the success of the audacious attempt no longer appeared
doubtful. But Barbicane was preoccupied with one thought; but not wishing
to make his companions uneasy, he kept silence on this subject.
The direction the projectile was taking toward the moon’s northern
hemisphere, showed that her course had been slightly altered. The
discharge, mathematically calculated, would carry the projectile to the very
center of the lunar disc. If it did not land there, there must have been some
deviation. What had caused it? Barbicane could neither imagine nor
determine the importance of the deviation, for there were no points to go by.
He hoped, however, that it would have no other result than that of
bringing them nearer the upper border of the moon, a region more suitable
for landing.
Without imparting his uneasiness to his companions, Barbicane
contented himself with constantly observing the moon, in order to see
whether the course of the projectile would not be altered; for the situation
would have been terrible if it failed in its aim, and being carried beyond the
disc should be launched into interplanetary space. At that moment, the
moon, instead of appearing flat like a disc, showed its convexity. If the
sun’s rays had struck it obliquely, the shadow thrown would have brought
out the high mountains, which would have been clearly detached. The eye
might have gazed into the crater’s gaping abysses, and followed the
capricious fissures which wound through the immense plains. But all relief
was as yet leveled in intense brilliancy. They could scarcely distinguish
those large spots which give the moon the appearance of a human face.
“Face, indeed!” said Michel Ardan; “but I am sorry for the amiable sister
of Apollo. A very pitted face!”
But the travelers, now so near the end, were incessantly observing this
new world. They imagined themselves walking through its unknown

countries, climbing its highest peaks, descending into its lowest depths.
Here and there they fancied they saw vast seas, scarcely kept together under
so rarefied an atmosphere, and water-courses emptying the mountain
tributaries. Leaning over the abyss, they hoped to catch some sounds from
that orb forever mute in the solitude of space. That last day left them.
They took down the most trifling details. A vague uneasiness took
possession of them as they neared the end. This uneasiness would have
been doubled had they felt how their speed had decreased. It would have
seemed to them quite insufficient to carry them to the end. It was because
the projectile then “weighed” almost nothing. Its weight was ever
decreasing, and would be entirely annihilated on that line where the lunar
and terrestrial attractions would neutralize each other.
But in spite of his preoccupation, Michel Ardan did not forget to prepare
the morning repast with his accustomed punctuality. They ate with a good
appetite. Nothing was so excellent as the soup liquefied by the heat of the
gas; nothing better than the preserved meat. Some glasses of good French
wine crowned the repast, causing Michel Ardan to remark that the lunar
vines, warmed by that ardent sun, ought to distill even more generous
wines; that is, if they existed. In any case, the far-seeing Frenchman had
taken care not to forget in his collection some precious cuttings of the
Medoc and Cote d’Or, upon which he founded his hopes.
Reiset and Regnaut’s apparatus worked with great regularity. Not an
atom of carbonic acid resisted the potash; and as to the oxygen, Captain
Nicholl said “it was of the first quality.” The little watery vapor enclosed in
the projectile mixing with the air tempered the dryness; and many
apartments in London, Paris, or New York, and many theaters, were
certainly not in such a healthy condition.
But that it might act with regularity, the apparatus must be kept in perfect
order; so each morning Michel visited the escape regulators, tried the taps,
and regulated the heat of the gas by the pyrometer. Everything had gone
well up to that time, and the travelers, imitating the worthy Joseph T.
Maston, began to acquire a degree of embonpoint which would have
rendered them unrecognizable if their imprisonment had been prolonged to
some months. In a word, they behaved like chickens in a coop; they were
getting fat.

In looking through the scuttle Barbicane saw the specter of the dog, and
other divers objects which had been thrown from the projectile, obstinately
following them. Diana howled lugubriously on seeing the remains of
Satellite, which seemed as motionless as if they reposed on solid earth.
“Do you know, my friends,” said Michel Ardan, “that if one of us had
succumbed to the shock consequent on departure, we should have had a
great deal of trouble to bury him? What am I saying? to etherize him, as
here ether takes the place of earth. You see the accusing body would have
followed us into space like a remorse.”
“That would have been sad,” said Nicholl.
“Ah!” continued Michel, “what I regret is not being able to take a walk
outside. What voluptuousness to float amid this radiant ether, to bathe
oneself in it, to wrap oneself in the sun’s pure rays. If Barbicane had only
thought of furnishing us with a diving apparatus and an air-pump, I could
have ventured out and assumed fanciful attitudes of feigned monsters on the
top of the projectile.”
“Well, old Michel,” replied Barbicane, “you would not have made a
feigned monster long, for in spite of your diver’s dress, swollen by the
expansion of air within you, you would have burst like a shell, or rather like
a balloon which has risen too high. So do not regret it, and do not forget this
—as long as we float in space, all sentimental walks beyond the projectile
are forbidden.”
Michel Ardan allowed himself to be convinced to a certain extent. He
admitted that the thing was difficult but not impossible, a word which he
never uttered.
The conversation passed from this subject to another, not failing him for
an instant. It seemed to the three friends as though, under present
conditions, ideas shot up in their brains as leaves shoot at the first warmth
of spring. They felt bewildered. In the middle of the questions and answers
which crossed each other, Nicholl put one question which did not find an
immediate solution.
“Ah, indeed!” said he; “it is all very well to go to the moon, but how to
get back again?”
His two interlocutors looked surprised. One would have thought that this
possibility now occurred to them for the first time.

“What do you mean by that, Nicholl?” asked Barbicane gravely.
“To ask for means to leave a country,” added Michel, “When we have not
yet arrived there, seems to me rather inopportune.”
“I do not say that, wishing to draw back,” replied Nicholl; “but I repeat
my question, and I ask, ‘How shall we return?’”
“I know nothing about it,” answered Barbicane.
“And I,” said Michel, “if I had known how to return, I would never have
started.”
“There’s an answer!” cried Nicholl.
“I quite approve of Michel’s words,” said Barbicane; “and add, that the
question has no real interest. Later, when we think it is advisable to return,
we will take counsel together. If the Columbiad is not there, the projectile
will be.”
“That is a step certainly. A ball without a gun!”
“The gun,” replied Barbicane, “can be manufactured. The powder can be
made. Neither metals, saltpeter, nor coal can fail in the depths of the moon,
and we need only go 8,000 leagues in order to fall upon the terrestrial globe
by virtue of the mere laws of weight.”
“Enough,” said Michel with animation. “Let it be no longer a question of
returning: we have already entertained it too long. As to communicating
with our former earthly colleagues, that will not be difficult.”
“And how?”
“By means of meteors launched by lunar volcanoes.”
“Well thought of, Michel,” said Barbicane in a convinced tone of voice.
“Laplace has calculated that a force five times greater than that of our gun
would suffice to send a meteor from the moon to the earth, and there is not
one volcano which has not a greater power of propulsion than that.”
“Hurrah!” exclaimed Michel; “these meteors are handy postmen, and
cost nothing. And how we shall be able to laugh at the post-office
administration! But now I think of it—”
“What do you think of?”
“A capital idea. Why did we not fasten a thread to our projectile, and we
could have exchanged telegrams with the earth?”

“The deuce!” answered Nicholl. “Do you consider the weight of a thread
250,000 miles long nothing?”
“As nothing. They could have trebled the Columbiad’s charge; they could
have quadrupled or quintupled it!” exclaimed Michel, with whom the verb
took a higher intonation each time.
“There is but one little objection to make to your proposition,” replied
Barbicane, “which is that, during the rotary motion of the globe, our thread
would have wound itself round it like a chain on a capstan, and that it
would inevitably have brought us to the ground.”
“By the thirty-nine stars of the Union!” said Michel, “I have nothing but
impracticable ideas to-day; ideas worthy of J. T. Maston. But I have a
notion that, if we do not return to earth, J. T. Maston will be able to come to
us.”
“Yes, he’ll come,” replied Barbicane; “he is a worthy and a courageous
comrade. Besides, what is easier? Is not the Columbiad still buried in the
soil of Florida? Is cotton and nitric acid wanted wherewith to manufacture
the pyroxyle? Will not the moon pass the zenith of Florida? In eighteen
years’ time will she not occupy exactly the same place as to-day?”
“Yes,” continued Michel, “yes, Maston will come, and with him our
friends Elphinstone, Blomsberry, all the members of the Gun Club, and they
will be well received. And by and by they will run trains of projectiles
between the earth and the moon! Hurrah for J. T. Maston!”
It is probable that, if the Hon. J. T. Maston did not hear the hurrahs
uttered in his honor, his ears at least tingled. What was he doing then?
Doubtless, posted in the Rocky Mountains, at the station of Long’s Peak, he
was trying to find the invisible projectile gravitating in space. If he was
thinking of his dear companions, we must allow that they were not far
behind him; and that, under the influence of a strange excitement, they were
devoting to him their best thoughts.
But whence this excitement, which was evidently growing upon the
tenants of the projectile? Their sobriety could not be doubted. This strange
irritation of the brain, must it be attributed to the peculiar circumstances
under which they found themselves, to their proximity to the orb of night,
from which only a few hours separated them, to some secret influence of
the moon acting upon their nervous system? Their faces were as rosy as if
they had been exposed to the roaring flames of an oven; their voices

resounded in loud accents; their words escaped like a champagne cork
driven out by carbonic acid; their gestures became annoying, they wanted
so much room to perform them; and, strange to say, they none of them
noticed this great tension of the mind.
“Now,” said Nicholl, in a short tone, “now that I do not know whether we
shall ever return from the moon, I want to know what we are going to do
there?”
“What we are going to do there?” replied Barbicane, stamping with his
foot as if he was in a fencing saloon; “I do not know.”
“You do not know!” exclaimed Michel, with a bellow which provoked a
sonorous echo in the projectile.
“No, I have not even thought about it,” retorted Barbicane, in the same
loud tone.
“Well, I know,” replied Michel.
“Speak, then,” cried Nicholl, who could no longer contain the growling
of his voice.
“I shall speak if it suits me,” exclaimed Michel, seizing his companions’
arms with violence.
“ It must suit you,” said Barbicane, with an eye on fire and a threatening
hand. “It was you who drew us into this frightful journey, and we want to
know what for.”
“Yes,” said the captain, “now that I do not know where I am going, I
want to know why I am going.”
“Why?” exclaimed Michel, jumping a yard high, “why? To take
possession of the moon in the name of the United States; to add a fortieth
State to the Union; to colonize the lunar regions; to cultivate them, to
people them, to transport thither all the prodigies of art, of science, and
industry; to civilize the Selenites, unless they are more civilized than we
are; and to constitute them a republic, if they are not already one!”
“And if there are no Selenites?” retorted Nicholl, who, under the
influence of this unaccountable intoxication, was very contradictory.
“Who said that there were no Selenites?” exclaimed Michel in a
threatening tone.
“I do,” howled Nicholl.

“Captain,” said Michel, “do not repeat that insolence, or I will knock
your teeth down your throat!”
The two adversaries were going to fall upon each other, and the
incoherent discussion threatened to merge into a fight, when Barbicane
intervened with one bound.
“Stop, miserable men,” said he, separating his two companions; “if there
are no Selenites, we will do without them.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Michel, who was not particular; “yes, we will do
without them. We have only to make Selenites. Down with the Selenites!”
“The empire of the moon belongs to us,” said Nicholl.
“Let us three constitute the republic.”
“I will be the congress,” cried Michel.
“And I the senate,” retorted Nicholl.
“And Barbicane, the president,” howled Michel.
“Not a president elected by the nation,” replied Barbicane.
“Very well, a president elected by the congress,” cried Michel; “and as I
am the congress, you are unanimously elected!”
“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! for President Barbicane,” exclaimed Nicholl.
“Hip! hip! hip!” vociferated Michel Ardan.
Then the president and the senate struck up in a tremendous voice the
popular song “Yankee Doodle,” while from the congress resounded the
masculine tones of the “Marseillaise.”
Then they struck up a frantic dance, with maniacal gestures, idiotic
stampings, and somersaults like those of the boneless clowns in the circus.
Diana, joining in the dance, and howling in her turn, jumped to the top of
the projectile. An unaccountable flapping of wings was then heard amid
most fantastic cock-crows, while five or six hens fluttered like bats against
the walls.
Then the three traveling companions, acted upon by some unaccountable
influence above that of intoxication, inflamed by the air which had set their
respiratory apparatus on fire, fell motionless to the bottom of the projectile.

CHAPTER VIII.
AT SEVENTY-EIGHT THOUSAND FIVE
HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN LEAGUES

What had happened? Whence the cause of this singular intoxication, the
consequences of which might have been very disastrous? A simple blunder
of Michel’s, which, fortunately, Nicholl was able to correct in time.
After a perfect swoon, which lasted some minutes, the captain,
recovering first, soon collected his scattered senses. Although he had
breakfasted only two hours before, he felt a gnawing hunger, as if he had
not eaten anything for several days. Everything about him, stomach and
brain, were overexcited to the highest degree. He got up and demanded
from Michel a supplementary repast. Michel, utterly done up, did not
answer.
Nicholl then tried to prepare some tea destined to help the absorption of a
dozen sandwiches. He first tried to get some fire, and struck a match
sharply. What was his surprise to see the sulphur shine with so
extraordinary a brilliancy as to be almost unbearable to the eye. From the
gas-burner which he lit rose a flame equal to a jet of electric light.
A revelation dawned on Nicholl’s mind. That intensity of light, the
physiological troubles which had arisen in him, the overexcitement of all
his moral and quarrelsome faculties—he understood all.
“The oxygen!” he exclaimed.
And leaning over the air apparatus, he saw that the tap was allowing the
colorless gas to escape freely, life-giving, but in its pure state producing the
gravest disorders in the system. Michel had blunderingly opened the tap of
the apparatus to the full.

Nicholl hastened to stop the escape of oxygen with which the atmosphere
was saturated, which would have been the death of the travelers, not by
suffocation, but by combustion. An hour later, the air less charged with it
restored the lungs to their normal condition. By degrees the three friends
recovered from their intoxication; but they were obliged to sleep themselves
sober over their oxygen as a drunkard does over his wine.
When Michel learned his share of the responsibility of this incident, he
was not much disconcerted. This unexpected drunkenness broke the
monotony of the journey. Many foolish things had been said while under its
influence, but also quickly forgotten.
“And then,” added the merry Frenchman, “I am not sorry to have tasted a
little of this heady gas. Do you know, my friends, that a curious
establishment might be founded with rooms of oxygen, where people whose
system is weakened could for a few hours live a more active life. Fancy
parties where the room was saturated with this heroic fluid, theaters where
it should be kept at high pressure; what passion in the souls of the actors
and spectators! what fire, what enthusiasm! And if, instead of an assembly
only a whole people could be saturated, what activity in its functions, what
a supplement to life it would derive. From an exhausted nation they might
make a great and strong one, and I know more than one state in old Europe
which ought to put itself under the regime of oxygen for the sake of its
health!”
Michel spoke with so much animation that one might have fancied that
the tap was still too open. But a few words from Barbicane soon shattered
his enthusiasm.
“That is all very well, friend Michel,” said he, “but will you inform us
where these chickens came from which have mixed themselves up in our
concert?”
“Those chickens?”
“Yes.”
Indeed, half a dozen chickens and a fine cock were walking about,
flapping their wings and chattering.
“Ah, the awkward things!” exclaimed Michel. “The oxygen has made
them revolt.”
“But what do you want to do with these chickens?” asked Barbicane.

“To acclimatize them in the moon, by Jove!”
“Then why did you hide them?”
“A joke, my worthy president, a simple joke, which has proved a
miserable failure. I wanted to set them free on the lunar continent, without
saying anything. Oh, what would have been your amazement on seeing
these earthly-winged animals pecking in your lunar fields!”
“You rascal, you unmitigated rascal,” replied Barbicane, “you do not
want oxygen to mount to the head. You are always what we were under the
influence of the gas; you are always foolish!”
“Ah, who says that we were not wise then?” replied Michel Ardan.
After this philosophical reflection, the three friends set about restoring
the order of the projectile. Chickens and cock were reinstated in their coop.
But while proceeding with this operation, Barbicane and his two
companions had a most desired perception of a new phenomenon. From the
moment of leaving the earth, their own weight, that of the projectile, and
the objects it enclosed, had been subject to an increasing diminution. If they
could not prove this loss of the projectile, a moment would arrive when it
would be sensibly felt upon themselves and the utensils and instruments
they used.
It is needless to say that a scale would not show this loss; for the weight
destined to weight the object would have lost exactly as much as the object
itself; but a spring steelyard for example, the tension of which was
independent of the attraction, would have given a just estimate of this loss.
We know that the attraction, otherwise called the weight, is in proportion
to the densities of the bodies, and inversely as the squares of the distances.
Hence this effect: If the earth had been alone in space, if the other celestial
bodies had been suddenly annihilated, the projectile, according to Newton’s
laws, would weigh less as it got farther from the earth, but without ever
losing its weight entirely, for the terrestrial attraction would always have
made itself felt, at whatever distance.
But, in reality, a time must come when the projectile would no longer be
subject to the law of weight, after allowing for the other celestial bodies
whose effect could not be set down as zero. Indeed, the projectile’s course
was being traced between the earth and the moon. As it distanced the earth,
the terrestrial attraction diminished: but the lunar attraction rose in

proportion. There must come a point where these two attractions would
neutralize each other: the projectile would possess weight no longer. If the
moon’s and the earth’s densities had been equal, this point would have been
at an equal distance between the two orbs. But taking the different densities
into consideration, it was easy to reckon that this point would be situated at
47/60ths of the whole journey, i.e., at 78,514 leagues from the earth. At this
point, a body having no principle of speed or displacement in itself, would
remain immovable forever, being attracted equally by both orbs, and not
being drawn more toward one than toward the other.
Now if the projectile’s impulsive force had been correctly calculated, it
would attain this point without speed, having lost all trace of weight, as well
as all the objects within it. What would happen then? Three hypotheses
presented themselves.
1. Either it would retain a certain amount of motion, and pass the point of
equal attraction, and fall upon the moon by virtue of the excess of the lunar
attraction over the terrestrial.
2. Or, its speed failing, and unable to reach the point of equal attraction, it
would fall upon the moon by virtue of the excess of the lunar attraction over
the terrestrial.
3. Or, lastly, animated with sufficient speed to enable it to reach the
neutral point, but not sufficient to pass it, it would remain forever
suspended in that spot like the pretended tomb of Mahomet, between the
zenith and the nadir.
Such was their situation; and Barbicane clearly explained the
consequences to his traveling companions, which greatly interested them.
But how should they know when the projectile had reached this neutral
point situated at that distance, especially when neither themselves, nor the
objects enclosed in the projectile, would be any longer subject to the laws
of weight?
Up to this time, the travelers, while admitting that this action was
constantly decreasing, had not yet become sensible to its total absence.
But that day, about eleven o’clock in the morning, Nicholl having
accidentally let a glass slip from his hand, the glass, instead of falling,
remained suspended in the air.

“Ah!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “that is rather an amusing piece of
natural philosophy.”
And immediately divers other objects, firearms and bottles, abandoned to
themselves, held themselves up as by enchantment. Diana too, placed in
space by Michel, reproduced, but without any trick, the wonderful
suspension practiced by Caston and Robert Houdin. Indeed the dog did not
seem to know that she was floating in air.
The three adventurous companions were surprised and stupefied, despite
their scientific reasonings. They felt themselves being carried into the
domain of wonders! they felt that weight was really wanting to their bodies.
If they stretched out their arms, they did not attempt to fall. Their heads
shook on their shoulders. Their feet no longer clung to the floor of the
projectile. They were like drunken men having no stability in themselves.
Fancy has depicted men without reflection, others without shadow. But
here reality, by the neutralizations of attractive forces, produced men in
whom nothing had any weight, and who weighed nothing themselves.
Suddenly Michel, taking a spring, left the floor and remained suspended
in the air, like Murillo’s monk of the Cusine des Anges.
The two friends joined him instantly, and all three formed a miraculous
“Ascension” in the center of the projectile.
“Is it to be believed? is it probable? is it possible?” exclaimed Michel;
“and yet it is so. Ah! if Raphael had seen us thus, what an ‘Assumption’ he
would have thrown upon canvas!”
“The ‘Assumption’ cannot last,” replied Barbicane. “If the projectile
passes the neutral point, the lunar attraction will draw us to the moon.”
“Then our feet will be upon the roof,” replied Michel.
“No,” said Barbicane, “because the projectile’s center of gravity is very
low; it will only turn by degrees.”
“Then all our portables will be upset from top to bottom, that is a fact.”
“Calm yourself, Michel,” replied Nicholl; “no upset is to be feared; not a
thing will move, for the projectile’s evolution will be imperceptible.”
“Just so,” continued Barbicane; “and when it has passed the point of
equal attraction, its base, being the heavier, will draw it perpendicularly to

the moon; but, in order that this phenomenon should take place, we must
have passed the neutral line.”
“Pass the neutral line,” cried Michel; “then let us do as the sailors do
when they cross the equator.”
A slight side movement brought Michel back toward the padded side;
thence he took a bottle and glasses, placed them “in space” before his
companions, and, drinking merrily, they saluted the line with a triple hurrah.
The influence of these attractions scarcely lasted an hour; the travelers felt
themselves insensibly drawn toward the floor, and Barbicane fancied that
the conical end of the projectile was varying a little from its normal
direction toward the moon. By an inverse motion the base was approaching
first; the lunar attraction was prevailing over the terrestrial; the fall toward
the moon was beginning, almost imperceptibly as yet, but by degrees the
attractive force would become stronger, the fall would be more decided, the
projectile, drawn by its base, would turn its cone to the earth, and fall with
ever-increasing speed on to the surface of the Selenite continent; their
destination would then be attained. Now nothing could prevent the success
of their enterprise, and Nicholl and Michel Ardan shared Barbicane’s joy.
Then they chatted of all the phenomena which had astonished them one
after the other, particularly the neutralization of the laws of weight. Michel
Ardan, always enthusiastic, drew conclusions which were purely fanciful.
“Ah, my worthy friends,” he exclaimed, “what progress we should make
if on earth we could throw off some of that weight, some of that chain
which binds us to her; it would be the prisoner set at liberty; no more
fatigue of either arms or legs. Or, if it is true that in order to fly on the
earth’s surface, to keep oneself suspended in the air merely by the play of
the muscles, there requires a strength a hundred and fifty times greater than
that which we possess, a simple act of volition, a caprice, would bear us
into space, if attraction did not exist.”
“Just so,” said Nicholl, smiling; “if we could succeed in suppressing
weight as they suppress pain by anaesthesia, that would change the face of
modern society!”
“Yes,” cried Michel, full of his subject, “destroy weight, and no more
burdens!”
“Well said,” replied Barbicane; “but if nothing had any weight, nothing
would keep in its place, not even your hat on your head, worthy Michel; nor

your house, whose stones only adhere by weight; nor a boat, whose stability
on the waves is only caused by weight; not even the ocean, whose waves
would no longer be equalized by terrestrial attraction; and lastly, not even
the atmosphere, whose atoms, being no longer held in their places, would
disperse in space!”
“That is tiresome,” retorted Michel; “nothing like these matter-of-fact
people for bringing one back to the bare reality.”
“But console yourself, Michel,” continued Barbicane, “for if no orb
exists from whence all laws of weight are banished, you are at least going to
visit one where it is much less than on the earth.”
“The moon?”
“Yes, the moon, on whose surface objects weigh six times less than on
the earth, a phenomenon easy to prove.”
“And we shall feel it?” asked Michel.
“Evidently, as two hundred pounds will only weigh thirty pounds on the
surface of the moon.”
“And our muscular strength will not diminish?”
“Not at all; instead of jumping one yard high, you will rise eighteen feet
high.”
“But we shall be regular Herculeses in the moon!” exclaimed Michel.
“Yes,” replied Nicholl; “for if the height of the Selenites is in proportion
to the density of their globe, they will be scarcely a foot high.”
“Lilliputians!” ejaculated Michel; “I shall play the part of Gulliver. We
are going to realize the fable of the giants. This is the advantage of leaving
one’s own planet and over-running the solar world.”
“One moment, Michel,” answered Barbicane; “if you wish to play the
part of Gulliver, only visit the inferior planets, such as Mercury, Venus, or
Mars, whose density is a little less than that of the earth; but do not venture
into the great planets, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune; for there the order
will be changed, and you will become Lilliputian.”
“And in the sun?”
“In the sun, if its density is thirteen hundred and twenty-four thousand
times greater, and the attraction is twenty-seven times greater than on the

surface of our globe, keeping everything in proportion, the inhabitants
ought to be at least two hundred feet high.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Michel; “I should be nothing more than a pigmy, a
shrimp!”
“Gulliver with the giants,” said Nicholl.
“Just so,” replied Barbicane.
“And it would not be quite useless to carry some pieces of artillery to
defend oneself.”
“Good,” replied Nicholl; “your projectiles would have no effect on the
sun; they would fall back upon the earth after some minutes.”
“That is a strong remark.”
“It is certain,” replied Barbicane; “the attraction is so great on this
enormous orb, that an object weighing 70,000 pounds on the earth would
weigh but 1,920 pounds on the surface of the sun. If you were to fall upon it
you would weigh—let me see—about 5,000 pounds, a weight which you
would never be able to raise again.”
“The devil!” said Michel; “one would want a portable crane. However,
we will be satisfied with the moon for the present; there at least we shall cut
a great figure. We will see about the sun by and by.”

CHAPTER IX.
THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DEVIATION

Barbicane had now no fear of the issue of the journey, at least as far as
the projectile’s impulsive force was concerned; its own speed would carry it
beyond the neutral line; it would certainly not return to earth; it would
certainly not remain motionless on the line of attraction. One single
hypothesis remained to be realized, the arrival of the projectile at its
destination by the action of the lunar attraction.
It was in reality a fall of 8,296 leagues on an orb, it is true, where weight
could only be reckoned at one sixth of terrestrial weight; a formidable fall,
nevertheless, and one against which every precaution must be taken without
delay.
These precautions were of two sorts, some to deaden the shock when the
projectile should touch the lunar soil, others to delay the fall, and
consequently make it less violent.
To deaden the shock, it was a pity that Barbicane was no longer able to
employ the means which had so ably weakened the shock at departure, that
is to say, by water used as springs and the partition breaks.
The partitions still existed, but water failed, for they could not use their
reserve, which was precious, in case during the first days the liquid element
should be found wanting on lunar soil.
And indeed this reserve would have been quite insufficient for a spring.
The layer of water stored in the projectile at the time of starting upon their
journey occupied no less than three feet in depth, and spread over a surface
of not less than fifty-four square feet. Besides, the cistern did not contain
one-fifth part of it; they must therefore give up this efficient means of
deadening the shock of arrival. Happily, Barbicane, not content with
employing water, had furnished the movable disc with strong spring plugs,

destined to lessen the shock against the base after the breaking of the
horizontal partitions. These plugs still existed; they had only to readjust
them and replace the movable disc; every piece, easy to handle, as their
weight was now scarcely felt, was quickly mounted.
The different pieces were fitted without trouble, it being only a matter of
bolts and screws; tools were not wanting, and soon the reinstated disc lay
on steel plugs, like a table on its legs. One inconvenience resulted from the
replacing of the disc, the lower window was blocked up; thus it was
impossible for the travelers to observe the moon from that opening while
they were being precipitated perpendicularly upon her; but they were
obliged to give it up; even by the side openings they could still see vast
lunar regions, as an aeronaut sees the earth from his car.
This replacing of the disc was at least an hour’s work. It was past twelve
when all preparations were finished. Barbicane took fresh observations on
the inclination of the projectile, but to his annoyance it had not turned over
sufficiently for its fall; it seemed to take a curve parallel to the lunar disc.
The orb of night shone splendidly into space, while opposite, the orb of day
blazed with fire.
Their situation began to make them uneasy.
“Are we reaching our destination?” said Nicholl.
“Let us act as if we were about reaching it,” replied Barbicane.
“You are sceptical,” retorted Michel Ardan. “We shall arrive, and that,
too, quicker than we like.”
This answer brought Barbicane back to his preparations, and he occupied
himself with placing the contrivances intended to break their descent. We
may remember the scene of the meeting held at Tampa Town, in Florida,
when Captain Nicholl came forward as Barbicane’s enemy and Michel
Ardan’s adversary. To Captain Nicholl’s maintaining that the projectile
would smash like glass, Michel replied that he would break their fall by
means of rockets properly placed.
Thus, powerful fireworks, taking their starting-point from the base and
bursting outside, could, by producing a recoil, check to a certain degree the
projectile’s speed. These rockets were to burn in space, it is true; but
oxygen would not fail them, for they could supply themselves with it, like

the lunar volcanoes, the burning of which has never yet been stopped by the
want of atmosphere round the moon.
Barbicane had accordingly supplied himself with these fireworks,
enclosed in little steel guns, which could be screwed on to the base of the
projectile. Inside, these guns were flush with the bottom; outside, they
protruded about eighteen inches. There were twenty of them. An opening
left in the disc allowed them to light the match with which each was
provided. All the effect was felt outside. The burning mixture had already
been rammed into each gun. They had, then, nothing to do but raise the
metallic buffers fixed in the base, and replace them by the guns, which
fitted closely in their places.
This new work was finished about three o’clock, and after taking all
these precautions there remained but to wait. But the projectile was
perceptibly nearing the moon, and evidently succumbed to her influence to
a certain degree; though its own velocity also drew it in an oblique
direction. From these conflicting influences resulted a line which might
become a tangent. But it was certain that the projectile would not fall
directly on the moon; for its lower part, by reason of its weight, ought to be
turned toward her.
Barbicane’s uneasiness increased as he saw his projectile resist the
influence of gravitation. The Unknown was opening before him, the
Unknown in interplanetary space. The man of science thought he had
foreseen the only three hypotheses possible—the return to the earth, the
return to the moon, or stagnation on the neutral line; and here a fourth
hypothesis, big with all the terrors of the Infinite, surged up inopportunely.
To face it without flinching, one must be a resolute savant like Barbicane, a
phlegmatic being like Nicholl, or an audacious adventurer like Michel
Ardan.
Conversation was started upon this subject. Other men would have
considered the question from a practical point of view; they would have
asked themselves whither their projectile carriage was carrying them. Not
so with these; they sought for the cause which produced this effect.
“So we have become diverted from our route,” said Michel; “but why?”
“I very much fear,” answered Nicholl, “that, in spite of all precautions
taken, the Columbiad was not fairly pointed. An error, however small,
would be enough to throw us out of the moon’s attraction.”

“Then they must have aimed badly?” asked Michel.
“I do not think so,” replied Barbicane. “The perpendicularity of the gun
was exact, its direction to the zenith of the spot incontestible; and the moon
passing to the zenith of the spot, we ought to reach it at the full. There is
another reason, but it escapes me.”
“Are we not arriving too late?” asked Nicholl.
“Too late?” said Barbicane.
“Yes,” continued Nicholl. “The Cambridge Observatory’s note says that
the transit ought to be accomplished in ninety-seven hours thirteen minutes
and twenty seconds; which means to say, that sooner the moon will not be
at the point indicated, and later it will have passed it.”
“True,” replied Barbicane. “But we started the 1st of December, at
thirteen minutes and twenty-five seconds to eleven at night; and we ought
to arrive on the 5th at midnight, at the exact moment when the moon would
be full; and we are now at the 5th of December. It is now half-past three in
the evening; half-past eight ought to see us at the end of our journey. Why
do we not arrive?”
“Might it not be an excess of speed?” answered Nicholl; “for we know
now that its initial velocity was greater than they supposed.”
“No! a hundred times, no!” replied Barbicane. “An excess of speed, if the
direction of the projectile had been right, would not have prevented us
reaching the moon. No, there has been a deviation. We have been turned out
of our course.”
“By whom? by what?” asked Nicholl.
“I cannot say,” replied Barbicane.
“Very well, then, Barbicane,” said Michel, “do you wish to know my
opinion on the subject of finding out this deviation?”
“Speak.”
“I would not give half a dollar to know it. That we have deviated is a fact.
Where we are going matters little; we shall soon see. Since we are being
borne along in space we shall end by falling into some center of attraction
or other.”
Michel Ardan’s indifference did not content Barbicane. Not that he was
uneasy about the future, but he wanted to know at any cost why his

projectile had deviated.
But the projectile continued its course sideways to the moon, and with it
the mass of things thrown out. Barbicane could even prove, by the
elevations which served as landmarks upon the moon, which was only two
thousand leagues distant, that its speed was becoming uniform—fresh proof
that there was no fall. Its impulsive force still prevailed over the lunar
attraction, but the projectile’s course was certainly bringing it nearer to the
moon, and they might hope that at a nearer point the weight, predominating,
would cause a decided fall.
The three friends, having nothing better to do, continued their
observations; but they could not yet determine the topographical position of
the satellite; every relief was leveled under the reflection of the solar rays.
They watched thus through the side windows until eight o’clock at night.
The moon had grown so large in their eyes that it filled half of the
firmament. The sun on one side, and the orb of night on the other, flooded
the projectile with light.
At that moment Barbicane thought he could estimate the distance which
separated them from their aim at no more than 700 leagues. The speed of
the projectile seemed to him to be more than 200 yards, or about 170
leagues a second. Under the centripetal force, the base of the projectile
tended toward the moon; but the centrifugal still prevailed; and it was
probable that its rectilineal course would be changed to a curve of some
sort, the nature of which they could not at present determine.
Barbicane was still seeking the solution of his insoluble problem. Hours
passed without any result. The projectile was evidently nearing the moon,
but it was also evident that it would never reach her. As to the nearest
distance at which it would pass her, that must be the result of two forces,
attraction and repulsion, affecting its motion.
“I ask but one thing,” said Michel; “that we may pass near enough to
penetrate her secrets.”
“Cursed be the thing that has caused our projectile to deviate from its
course,” cried Nicholl.
And, as if a light had suddenly broken in upon his mind, Barbicane
answered, “Then cursed be the meteor which crossed our path.”
“What?” said Michel Ardan.

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Nicholl.
“I mean,” said Barbicane in a decided tone, “I mean that our deviation is
owing solely to our meeting with this erring body.”
“But it did not even brush us as it passed,” said Michel.
“What does that matter? Its mass, compared to that of our projectile, was
enormous, and its attraction was enough to influence our course.”
“So little?” cried Nicholl.
“Yes, Nicholl; but however little it might be,” replied Barbicane, “in a
distance of 84,000 leagues, it wanted no more to make us miss the moon.”

CHAPTER X.
THE OBSERVERS OF THE MOON

Barbicane had evidently hit upon the only plausible reason of this
deviation. However slight it might have been, it had sufficed to modify the
course of the projectile. It was a fatality. The bold attempt had miscarried
by a fortuitous circumstance; and unless by some exceptional event, they
could now never reach the moon’s disc.
Would they pass near enough to be able to solve certain physical and
geological questions until then insoluble? This was the question, and the
only one, which occupied the minds of these bold travelers. As to the fate in
store for themselves, they did not even dream of it.
But what would become of them amid these infinite solitudes, these who
would soon want air? A few more days, and they would fall stifled in this
wandering projectile. But some days to these intrepid fellows was a
century; and they devoted all their time to observe that moon which they no
longer hoped to reach.
The distance which had then separated the projectile from the satellite
was estimated at about two hundred leagues. Under these conditions, as
regards the visibility of the details of the disc, the travelers were farther
from the moon than are the inhabitants of earth with their powerful
telescopes.
Indeed, we know that the instrument mounted by Lord Rosse at
Parsonstown, which magnifies 6,500 times, brings the moon to within an
apparent distance of sixteen leagues. And more than that, with the powerful
one set up at Long’s Peak, the orb of night, magnified 48,000 times, is
brought to within less than two leagues, and objects having a diameter of
thirty feet are seen very distinctly. So that, at this distance, the
topographical details of the moon, observed without glasses, could not be
determined with precision. The eye caught the vast outline of those

immense depressions inappropriately called “seas,” but they could not
recognize their nature. The prominence of the mountains disappeared under
the splendid irradiation produced by the reflection of the solar rays. The
eye, dazzled as if it was leaning over a bath of molten silver, turned from it
involuntarily; but the oblong form of the orb was quite clear. It appeared
like a gigantic egg, with the small end turned toward the earth. Indeed the
moon, liquid and pliable in the first days of its formation, was originally a
perfect sphere; but being soon drawn within the attraction of the earth, it
became elongated under the influence of gravitation. In becoming a
satellite, she lost her native purity of form; her center of gravity was in
advance of the center of her figure; and from this fact some savants draw
the conclusion that the air and water had taken refuge on the opposite
surface of the moon, which is never seen from the earth. This alteration in
the primitive form of the satellite was only perceptible for a few moments.
The distance of the projectile from the moon diminished very rapidly under
its speed, though that was much less than its initial velocity—but eight or
nine times greater than that which propels our express trains. The oblique
course of the projectile, from its very obliquity, gave Michel Ardan some
hopes of striking the lunar disc at some point or other. He could not think
that they would never reach it. No! he could not believe it; and this opinion
he often repeated. But Barbicane, who was a better judge, always answered
him with merciless logic.
“No, Michel, no! We can only reach the moon by a fall, and we are not
falling. The centripetal force keeps us under the moon’s influence, but the
centrifugal force draws us irresistibly away from it.”
This was said in a tone which quenched Michel Ardan’s last hope.
The portion of the moon which the projectile was nearing was the
northern hemisphere, that which the selenographic maps place below; for
these maps are generally drawn after the outline given by the glasses, and
we know that they reverse the objects. Such was the Mappa Selenographica
of Boeer and Moedler which Barbicane consulted. This northern
hemisphere presented vast plains, dotted with isolated mountains.
At midnight the moon was full. At that precise moment the travelers
should have alighted upon it, if the mischievous meteor had not diverted
their course. The orb was exactly in the condition determined by the
Cambridge Observatory. It was mathematically at its perigee, and at the

zenith of the twenty-eighth parallel. An observer placed at the bottom of the
enormous Columbiad, pointed perpendicularly to the horizon, would have
framed the moon in the mouth of the gun. A straight line drawn through the
axis of the piece would have passed through the center of the orb of night. It
is needless to say, that during the night of the 5th-6th of December, the
travelers took not an instant’s rest. Could they close their eyes when so near
this new world? No! All their feelings were concentrated in one single
thought:—See! Representatives of the earth, of humanity, past and present,
all centered in them! It is through their eyes that the human race look at
these lunar regions, and penetrate the secrets of their satellite! A strange
emotion filled their hearts as they went from one window to the other. Their
observations, reproduced by Barbicane, were rigidly determined. To take
them, they had glasses; to correct them, maps.
As regards the optical instruments at their disposal, they had excellent
marine glasses specially constructed for this journey. They possessed
magnifying powers of 100. They would thus have brought the moon to
within a distance (apparent) of less than 2,000 leagues from the earth. But
then, at a distance which for three hours in the morning did not exceed
sixty-five miles, and in a medium free from all atmospheric disturbances,
these instruments could reduce the lunar surface to within less than 1,500
yards!

CHAPTER XI.
FANCY AND REALITY

“Have you ever seen the moon?” asked a professor, ironically, of one of
his pupils.
“No, sir!” replied the pupil, still more ironically, “but I must say I have
heard it spoken of.”
In one sense, the pupil’s witty answer might be given by a large majority
of sublunary beings. How many people have heard speak of the moon who
have never seen it—at least through a glass or a telescope! How many have
never examined the map of their satellite!
In looking at a selenographic map, one peculiarity strikes us. Contrary to
the arrangement followed for that of the Earth and Mars, the continents
occupy more particularly the southern hemisphere of the lunar globe. These
continents do not show such decided, clear, and regular boundary lines as
South America, Africa, and the Indian peninsula. Their angular, capricious,
and deeply indented coasts are rich in gulfs and peninsulas. They remind
one of the confusion in the islands of the Sound, where the land is
excessively indented. If navigation ever existed on the surface of the moon,
it must have been wonderfully difficult and dangerous; and we may well
pity the Selenite sailors and hydrographers; the former, when they came
upon these perilous coasts, the latter when they took the soundings of its
stormy banks.
We may also notice that, on the lunar sphere, the south pole is much more
continental than the north pole. On the latter, there is but one slight strip of
land separated from other continents by vast seas. Toward the south,
continents clothe almost the whole of the hemisphere. It is even possible
that the Selenites have already planted the flag on one of their poles, while
Franklin, Ross, Kane, Dumont, d’Urville, and Lambert have never yet been
able to attain that unknown point of the terrestrial globe.

As to islands, they are numerous on the surface of the moon. Nearly all
oblong or circular, and as if traced with the compass, they seem to form one
vast archipelago, equal to that charming group lying between Greece and
Asia Minor, and which mythology in ancient times adorned with most
graceful legends. Involuntarily the names of Naxos, Tenedos, and
Carpathos, rise before the mind, and we seek vainly for Ulysses’ vessel or
the “clipper” of the Argonauts. So at least it was in Michel Ardan’s eyes. To
him it was a Grecian archipelago that he saw on the map. To the eyes of his
matter-of-fact companions, the aspect of these coasts recalled rather the
parceled-out land of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, and where the
Frenchman discovered traces of the heroes of fable, these Americans were
marking the most favorable points for the establishment of stores in the
interests of lunar commerce and industry.
After wandering over these vast continents, the eye is attracted by the
still greater seas. Not only their formation, but their situation and aspect
remind one of the terrestrial oceans; but again, as on earth, these seas
occupy the greater portion of the globe. But in point of fact, these are not
liquid spaces, but plains, the nature of which the travelers hoped soon to
determine. Astronomers, we must allow, have graced these pretended seas
with at least odd names, which science has respected up to the present time.
Michel Ardan was right when he compared this map to a “Tendre card,” got
up by a Scudary or a Cyrano de Bergerac. “Only,” said he, “it is no longer
the sentimental card of the seventeenth century, it is the card of life, very
neatly divided into two parts, one feminine, the other masculine; the right
hemisphere for woman, the left for man.”
In speaking thus, Michel made his prosaic companions shrug their
shoulders. Barbicane and Nicholl looked upon the lunar map from a very
different point of view to that of their fantastic friend. Nevertheless, their
fantastic friend was a little in the right. Judge for yourselves.
In the left hemisphere stretches the “Sea of Clouds,” where human reason
is so often shipwrecked. Not far off lies the “Sea of Rains,” fed by all the
fever of existence. Near this is the “Sea of Storms,” where man is ever
fighting against his passions, which too often gain the victory. Then, worn
out by deceit, treasons, infidelity, and the whole body of terrestrial misery,
what does he find at the end of his career? that vast “Sea of Humors,”
barely softened by some drops of the waters from the “Gulf of Dew!”

Clouds, rain, storms, and humors—does the life of man contain aught but
these? and is it not summed up in these four words?
The right hemisphere, “dedicated to the ladies,” encloses smaller seas,
whose significant names contain every incident of a feminine existence.
There is the “Sea of Serenity,” over which the young girl bends; “The Lake
of Dreams,” reflecting a joyous future; “The Sea of Nectar,” with its waves
of tenderness and breezes of love; “The Sea of Fruitfulness;” “The Sea of
Crises;” then the “Sea of Vapors,” whose dimensions are perhaps a little too
confined; and lastly, that vast “Sea of Tranquillity,” in which every false
passion, every useless dream, every unsatisfied desire is at length absorbed,
and whose waves emerge peacefully into the “Lake of Death!”
What a strange succession of names! What a singular division of the
moon’s two hemispheres, joined to one another like man and woman, and
forming that sphere of life carried into space! And was not the fantastic
Michel right in thus interpreting the fancies of the ancient astronomers? But
while his imagination thus roved over “the seas,” his grave companions
were considering things more geographically. They were learning this new
world by heart. They were measuring angles and diameters.

CHAPTER XII.
OROGRAPHIC DETAILS

The course taken by the projectile, as we have before remarked, was
bearing it toward the moon’s northern hemisphere. The travelers were far
from the central point which they would have struck, had their course not
been subject to an irremediable deviation. It was past midnight; and
Barbicane then estimated the distance at seven hundred and fifty miles,
which was a little greater than the length of the lunar radius, and which
would diminish as it advanced nearer to the North Pole. The projectile was
then not at the altitude of the equator; but across the tenth parallel, and from
that latitude, carefully taken on the map to the pole, Barbicane and his two
companions were able to observe the moon under the most favorable
conditions. Indeed, by means of glasses, the above-named distance was
reduced to little more than fourteen miles. The telescope of the Rocky
Mountains brought the moon much nearer; but the terrestrial atmosphere
singularly lessened its power. Thus Barbicane, posted in his projectile, with
the glasses to his eyes, could seize upon details which were almost
imperceptible to earthly observers.
“My friends,” said the president, in a serious voice, “I do not know
whither we are going; I do not know if we shall ever see the terrestrial globe
again. Nevertheless, let us proceed as if our work would one day by useful
to our fellow-men. Let us keep our minds free from every other
consideration. We are astronomers; and this projectile is a room in the
Cambridge University, carried into space. Let us make our observations!”
This said, work was begun with great exactness; and they faithfully
reproduced the different aspects of the moon, at the different distances
which the projectile reached.
At the time that the projectile was as high as the tenth parallel, north
latitude, it seemed rigidly to follow the twentieth degree, east longitude. We

must here make one important remark with regard to the map by which they
were taking observations. In the selenographical maps where, on account of
the reversing of the objects by the glasses, the south is above and the north
below, it would seem natural that, on account of that inversion, the east
should be to the left hand, and the west to the right. But it is not so. If the
map were turned upside down, showing the moon as we see her, the east
would be to the left, and the west to the right, contrary to that which exists
on terrestrial maps. The following is the reason of this anomaly. Observers
in the northern hemisphere (say in Europe) see the moon in the south—
according to them. When they take observations, they turn their backs to the
north, the reverse position to that which they occupy when they study a
terrestrial map. As they turn their backs to the north, the east is on their left,
and the west to their right. To observers in the southern hemisphere
(Patagonia for example), the moon’s west would be quite to their left, and
the east to their right, as the south is behind them. Such is the reason of the
apparent reversing of these two cardinal points, and we must bear it in mind
in order to be able to follow President Barbicane’s observations.
With the help of Boeer and Moedler’s Mappa Selenographica, the
travelers were able at once to recognize that portion of the disc enclosed
within the field of their glasses.
“What are we looking at, at this moment?” asked Michel.
“At the northern part of the ‘Sea of Clouds,’” answered Barbicane. “We
are too far off to recognize its nature. Are these plains composed of arid
sand, as the first astronomer maintained? Or are they nothing but immense
forests, according to M. Warren de la Rue’s opinion, who gives the moon an
atmosphere, though a very low and a very dense one? That we shall know
by and by. We must affirm nothing until we are in a position to do so.”
This “Sea of Clouds” is rather doubtfully marked out upon the maps. It is
supposed that these vast plains are strewn with blocks of lava from the
neighboring volcanoes on its right, Ptolemy, Purbach, Arzachel. But the
projectile was advancing, and sensibly nearing it. Soon there appeared the
heights which bound this sea at this northern limit. Before them rose a
mountain radiant with beauty, the top of which seemed lost in an eruption
of solar rays.
“That is—?” asked Michel.
“Copernicus,” replied Barbicane.

“Let us see Copernicus.”
This mount, situated in 9° north latitude and 20° east longitude, rose to a
height of 10,600 feet above the surface of the moon. It is quite visible from
the earth; and astronomers can study it with ease, particularly during the
phase between the last quarter and the new moon, because then the shadows
are thrown lengthways from east to west, allowing them to measure the
heights.
This Copernicus forms the most important of the radiating system,
situated in the southern hemisphere, according to Tycho Brahé. It rises
isolated like a gigantic lighthouse on that portion of the “Sea of Clouds,”
which is bounded by the “Sea of Tempests,” thus lighting by its splendid
rays two oceans at a time. It was a sight without an equal, those long
luminous trains, so dazzling in the full moon, and which, passing the
boundary chain on the north, extends to the “Sea of Rains.” At one o’clock
of the terrestrial morning, the projectile, like a balloon borne into space,
overlooked the top of this superb mount. Barbicane could recognize
perfectly its chief features. Copernicus is comprised in the series of ringed
mountains of the first order, in the division of great circles. Like Kepler and
Aristarchus, which overlook the “Ocean of Tempests,” sometimes it
appeared like a brilliant point through the cloudy light, and was taken for a
volcano in activity. But it is only an extinct one—like all on that side of the
moon. Its circumference showed a diameter of about twenty-two leagues.
The glasses discovered traces of stratification produced by successive
eruptions, and the neighborhood was strewn with volcanic remains which
still choked some of the craters.
“There exist,” said Barbicane, “several kinds of circles on the surface of
the moon, and it is easy to see that Copernicus belongs to the radiating
class. If we were nearer, we should see the cones bristling on the inside,
which in former times were so many fiery mouths. A curious arrangement,
and one without an exception on the lunar disc, is that the interior surface of
these circles is the reverse of the exterior, and contrary to the form taken by
terrestrial craters. It follows, then, that the general curve of the bottom of
these circles gives a sphere of a smaller diameter than that of the moon.”
“And why this peculiar disposition?” asked Nicholl.
“We do not know,” replied Barbicane.

“What splendid radiation!” said Michel. “One could hardly see a finer
spectacle, I think.”
“What would you say, then,” replied Barbicane, “if chance should bear us
toward the southern hemisphere?”
“Well, I should say that it was still more beautiful,” retorted Michel
Ardan.
At this moment the projectile hung perpendicularly over the circle. The
circumference of Copernicus formed almost a perfect circle, and its steep
escarpments were clearly defined. They could even distinguish a second
ringed enclosure. Around spread a grayish plain, of a wild aspect, on which
every relief was marked in yellow. At the bottom of the circle, as if
enclosed in a jewel case, sparkled for one instant two or three eruptive
cones, like enormous dazzling gems. Toward the north the escarpments
were lowered by a depression which would probably have given access to
the interior of the crater.
In passing over the surrounding plains, Barbicane noticed a great number
of less important mountains; and among others a little ringed one called
Guy Lussac, the breadth of which measured twelve miles.
Toward the south, the plain was very flat, without one elevation, without
one projection. Toward the north, on the contrary, till where it was bounded
by the “Sea of Storms,” it resembled a liquid surface agitated by a storm, of
which the hills and hollows formed a succession of waves suddenly
congealed. Over the whole of this, and in all directions, lay the luminous
lines, all converging to the summit of Copernicus.
The travelers discussed the origin of these strange rays; but they could
not determine their nature any more than terrestrial observers.
“But why,” said Nicholl, “should not these rays be simply spurs of
mountains which reflect more vividly the light of the sun?”
“No,” replied Barbicane; “if it was so, under certain conditions of the
moon, these ridges would cast shadows, and they do not cast any.”
And indeed, these rays only appeared when the orb of day was in
opposition to the moon, and disappeared as soon as its rays became oblique.
“But how have they endeavored to explain these lines of light?” asked
Michel; “for I cannot believe that savants would ever be stranded for want
of an explanation.”

“Yes,” replied Barbicane; “Herschel has put forward an opinion, but he
did not venture to affirm it.”
“Never mind. What was the opinion?”
“He thought that these rays might be streams of cooled lava which shone
when the sun beat straight upon them. It may be so; but nothing can be less
certain. Besides, if we pass nearer to Tycho, we shall be in a better position
to find out the cause of this radiation.”
“Do you know, my friends, what that plain, seen from the height we are
at, resembles?” said Michel.
“No,” replied Nicholl.
“Very well; with all those pieces of lava lengthened like rockets, it
resembles an immense game of spelikans thrown pellmell. There wants but
the hook to pull them out one by one.”
“Do be serious,” said Barbicane.
“Well, let us be serious,” replied Michel quietly; “and instead of
spelikans, let us put bones. This plain, would then be nothing but an
immense cemetery, on which would repose the mortal remains of thousands
of extinct generations. Do you prefer that high-flown comparison?”
“One is as good as the other,” retorted Barbicane.
“My word, you are difficult to please,” answered Michel.
“My worthy friend,” continued the matter-of-fact Barbicane, “it matters
but little what it resembles, when we do not know what it is.”
“Well answered,” exclaimed Michel. “That will teach me to reason with
savants.”
But the projectile continued to advance with almost uniform speed
around the lunar disc. The travelers, we may easily imagine, did not dream
of taking a moment’s rest. Every minute changed the landscape which fled
from beneath their gaze. About half past one o’clock in the morning, they
caught a glimpse of the tops of another mountain. Barbicane, consulting his
map, recognized Eratosthenes.
It was a ringed mountain nine thousand feet high, and one of those circles
so numerous on this satellite. With regard to this, Barbicane related
Kepler’s singular opinion on the formation of circles. According to that

celebrated mathematician, these crater-like cavities had been dug by the
hand of man.
“For what purpose?” asked Nicholl.
“For a very natural one,” replied Barbicane. “The Selenites might have
undertaken these immense works and dug these enormous holes for a refuge
and shield from the solar rays which beat upon them during fifteen
consecutive days.”
“The Selenites are not fools,” said Michel.
“A singular idea,” replied Nicholl; “but it is probable that Kepler did not
know the true dimensions of these circles, for the digging of them would
have been the work of giants quite impossible for the Selenites.”
“Why? if weight on the moon’s surface is six times less than on the
earth?” said Michel.
“But if the Selenites are six times smaller?” retorted Nicholl.
“And if there are no Selenites?” added Barbicane.
This put an end to the discussion.
Soon Eratosthenes disappeared under the horizon without the projectile
being sufficiently near to allow close observation. This mountain separated
the Apennines from the Carpathians. In the lunar orography they have
discerned some chains of mountains, which are chiefly distributed over the
northern hemisphere. Some, however, occupy certain portions of the
southern hemisphere also.
About two o’clock in the morning Barbicane found that they were above
the twentieth lunar parallel. The distance of the projectile from the moon
was not more than six hundred miles. Barbicane, now perceiving that the
projectile was steadily approaching the lunar disc, did not despair; if not of
reaching her, at least of discovering the secrets of her configuration.

CHAPTER XIII.
LUNAR LANDSCAPES

At half-past two in the morning, the projectile was over the thirteenth
lunar parallel and at the effective distance of five hundred miles, reduced by
the glasses to five. It still seemed impossible, however, that it could ever
touch any part of the disc. Its motive speed, comparatively so moderate,
was inexplicable to President Barbicane. At that distance from the moon it
must have been considerable, to enable it to bear up against her attraction.
Here was a phenomenon the cause of which escaped them again. Besides,
time failed them to investigate the cause. All lunar relief was defiling under
the eyes of the travelers, and they would not lose a single detail.
Under the glasses the disc appeared at the distance of five miles. What
would an aeronaut, borne to this distance from the earth, distinguish on its
surface? We cannot say, since the greatest ascension has not been more than
25,000 feet.
This, however, is an exact description of what Barbicane and his
companions saw at this height. Large patches of different colors appeared
on the disc. Selenographers are not agreed upon the nature of these colors.
There are several, and rather vividly marked. Julius Schmidt pretends that,
if the terrestrial oceans were dried up, a Selenite observer could not
distinguish on the globe a greater diversity of shades between the oceans
and the continental plains than those on the moon present to a terrestrial
observer. According to him, the color common to the vast plains known by
the name of “seas” is a dark gray mixed with green and brown. Some of the
large craters present the same appearance. Barbicane knew this opinion of
the German selenographer, an opinion shared by Boeer and Moedler.
Observation has proved that right was on their side, and not on that of some
astronomers who admit the existence of only gray on the moon’s surface. In
some parts green was very distinct, such as springs, according to Julius

Schmidt, from the seas of “Serenity and Humors.” Barbicane also noticed
large craters, without any interior cones, which shed a bluish tint similar to
the reflection of a sheet of steel freshly polished. These colors belonged
really to the lunar disc, and did not result, as some astronomers say, either
from the imperfection in the objective of the glasses or from the
interposition of the terrestrial atmosphere.
Not a doubt existed in Barbicane’s mind with regard to it, as he observed
it through space, and so could not commit any optical error. He considered
the establishment of this fact as an acquisition to science. Now, were these
shades of green, belonging to tropical vegetation, kept up by a low dense
atmosphere? He could not yet say.
Farther on, he noticed a reddish tint, quite defined. The same shade had
before been observed at the bottom of an isolated enclosure, known by the
name of Lichtenburg’s circle, which is situated near the Hercynian
mountains, on the borders of the moon; but they could not tell the nature of
it.
They were not more fortunate with regard to another peculiarity of the
disc, for they could not decide upon the cause of it.
Michel Ardan was watching near the president, when he noticed long
white lines, vividly lighted up by the direct rays of the sun. It was a
succession of luminous furrows, very different from the radiation of
Copernicus not long before; they ran parallel with each other.
Michel, with his usual readiness, hastened to exclaim:
“Look there! cultivated fields!”
“Cultivated fields!” replied Nicholl, shrugging his shoulders.
“Plowed, at all events,” retorted Michel Ardan; “but what laborers those
Selenites must be, and what giant oxen they must harness to their plow to
cut such furrows!”
“They are not furrows,” said Barbicane; “they are rifts.”
“Rifts? stuff!” replied Michel mildly; “but what do you mean by ‘rifts’ in
the scientific world?”
Barbicane immediately enlightened his companion as to what he knew
about lunar rifts. He knew that they were a kind of furrow found on every
part of the disc which was not mountainous; that these furrows, generally
isolated, measured from 400 to 500 leagues in length; that their breadth

varied from 1,000 to 1,500 yards, and that their borders were strictly
parallel; but he knew nothing more either of their formation or their nature.
Barbicane, through his glasses, observed these rifts with great attention.
He noticed that their borders were formed of steep declivities; they were
long parallel ramparts, and with some small amount of imagination he
might have admitted the existence of long lines of fortifications, raised by
Selenite engineers. Of these different rifts some were perfectly straight, as if
cut by a line; others were slightly curved, though still keeping their borders
parallel; some crossed each other, some cut through craters; here they
wound through ordinary cavities, such as Posidonius or Petavius; there they
wound through the seas, such as the “Sea of Serenity.”
These natural accidents naturally excited the imaginations of these
terrestrial astronomers. The first observations had not discovered these rifts.
Neither Hévelius, Cassin, La Hire, nor Herschel seemed to have known
them. It was Schroeter who in 1789 first drew attention to them. Others
followed who studied them, as Pastorff, Gruithuysen, Boeer, and Moedler.
At this time their number amounts to seventy; but, if they have been
counted, their nature has not yet been determined; they are certainly not
fortifications, any more than they are the ancient beds of dried-up rivers;
for, on one side, the waters, so slight on the moon’s surface, could never
have worn such drains for themselves; and, on the other, they often cross
craters of great elevation.
We must, however, allow that Michel Ardan had “an idea,” and that,
without knowing it, he coincided in that respect with Julius Schmidt.
“Why,” said he, “should not these unaccountable appearances be simply
phenomena of vegetation?”
“What do you mean?” asked Barbicane quickly.
“Do not excite yourself, my worthy president,” replied Michel; “might it
not be possible that the dark lines forming that bastion were rows of trees
regularly placed?”
“You stick to your vegetation, then?” said Barbicane.
“I like,” retorted Michel Ardan, “to explain what you savants cannot
explain; at least my hypotheses has the advantage of indicating why these
rifts disappear, or seem to disappear, at certain seasons.”
“And for what reason?”

“For the reason that the trees become invisible when they lose their
leaves, and visible again when they regain them.”
“Your explanation is ingenious, my dear companion,” replied Barbicane,
“but inadmissible.”
“Why?”
“Because, so to speak, there are no seasons on the moon’s surface, and
that, consequently, the phenomena of vegetation of which you speak cannot
occur.”
Indeed, the slight obliquity of the lunar axis keeps the sun at an almost
equal height in every latitude. Above the equatorial regions the radiant orb
almost invariably occupies the zenith, and does not pass the limits of the
horizon in the polar regions; thus, according to each region, there reigns a
perpetual winter, spring, summer, or autumn, as in the planet Jupiter, whose
axis is but little inclined upon its orbit.
What origin do they attribute to these rifts? That is a question difficult to
solve. They are certainly anterior to the formation of craters and circles, for
several have introduced themselves by breaking through their circular
ramparts. Thus it may be that, contemporary with the later geological
epochs, they are due to the expansion of natural forces.
But the projectile had now attained the fortieth degree of lunar latitude, at
a distance not exceeding 40 miles. Through the glasses objects appeared to
be only four miles distant.
At this point, under their feet, rose Mount Helicon, 1,520 feet high, and
round about the left rose moderate elevations, enclosing a small portion of
the “Sea of Rains,” under the name of the Gulf of Iris. The terrestrial
atmosphere would have to be one hundred and seventy times more
transparent than it is, to allow astronomers to make perfect observations on
the moon’s surface; but in the void in which the projectile floated no fluid
interposed itself between the eye of the observer and the object observed.
And more, Barbicane found himself carried to a greater distance than the
most powerful telescopes had ever done before, either that of Lord Rosse or
that of the Rocky Mountains. He was, therefore, under extremely favorable
conditions for solving that great question of the habitability of the moon;
but the solution still escaped him; he could distinguish nothing but desert
beds, immense plains, and toward the north, arid mountains. Not a work
betrayed the hand of man; not a ruin marked his course; not a group of

animals was to be seen indicating life, even in an inferior degree. In no part
was there life, in no part was there an appearance of vegetation. Of the three
kingdoms which share the terrestrial globe between them, one alone was
represented on the lunar and that the mineral.
“Ah, indeed!” said Michel Ardan, a little out of countenance; “then you
see no one?”
“No,” answered Nicholl; “up to this time, not a man, not an animal, not a
tree! After all, whether the atmosphere has taken refuge at the bottom of
cavities, in the midst of the circles, or even on the opposite face of the
moon, we cannot decide.”
“Besides,” added Barbicane, “even to the most piercing eye a man cannot
be distinguished farther than three and a half miles off; so that, if there are
any Selenites, they can see our projectile, but we cannot see them.”
Toward four in the morning, at the height of the fiftieth parallel, the
distance was reduced to 300 miles. To the left ran a line of mountains
capriciously shaped, lying in the full light. To the right, on the contrary, lay
a black hollow resembling a vast well, unfathomable and gloomy, drilled
into the lunar soil.
This hole was the “Black Lake”; it was Pluto, a deep circle which can be
conveniently studied from the earth, between the last quarter and the new
moon, when the shadows fall from west to east.
This black color is rarely met with on the surface of the satellite. As yet it
has only been recognized in the depths of the circle of Endymion, to the
east of the “Cold Sea,” in the northern hemisphere, and at the bottom of
Grimaldi’s circle, on the equator, toward the eastern border of the orb.
Pluto is an annular mountain, situated in 51° north latitude, and 9° east
longitude. Its circuit is forty-seven miles long and thirty-two broad.
Barbicane regretted that they were not passing directly above this vast
opening. There was an abyss to fathom, perhaps some mysterious
phenomenon to surprise; but the projectile’s course could not be altered.
They must rigidly submit. They could not guide a balloon, still less a
projectile, when once enclosed within its walls. Toward five in the morning
the northern limits of the “Sea of Rains” was at length passed. The mounts
of Condamine and Fontenelle remained—one on the right, the other on the
left. That part of the disc beginning with 60° was becoming quite

mountainous. The glasses brought them to within two miles, less than that
separating the summit of Mont Blanc from the level of the sea. The whole
region was bristling with spikes and circles. Toward the 60° Philolaus stood
predominant at a height of 5,550 feet with its elliptical crater, and seen from
this distance, the disc showed a very fantastical appearance. Landscapes
were presented to the eye under very different conditions from those on the
earth, and also very inferior to them.
The moon having no atmosphere, the consequences arising from the
absence of this gaseous envelope have already been shown. No twilight on
her surface; night following day and day following night with the
suddenness of a lamp which is extinguished or lighted amid profound
darkness—no transition from cold to heat, the temperature falling in an
instant from boiling point to the cold of space.
Another consequence of this want of air is that absolute darkness reigns
where the sun’s rays do not penetrate. That which on earth is called
diffusion of light, that luminous matter which the air holds in suspension,
which creates the twilight and the daybreak, which produces the umbrae
and penumbrae, and all the magic of chiaro-oscuro, does not exist on the
moon. Hence the harshness of contrasts, which only admit of two colors,
black and white. If a Selenite were to shade his eyes from the sun’s rays, the
sky would seem absolutely black, and the stars would shine to him as on the
darkest night. Judge of the impression produced on Barbicane and his three
friends by this strange scene! Their eyes were confused. They could no
longer grasp the respective distances of the different plains. A lunar
landscape without the softening of the phenomena of chiaro-oscuro could
not be rendered by an earthly landscape painter; it would be spots of ink on
a white page—nothing more.
This aspect was not altered even when the projectile, at the height of 80°,
was only separated from the moon by a distance of fifty miles; nor even
when, at five in the morning, it passed at less than twenty-five miles from
the mountain of Gioja, a distance reduced by the glasses to a quarter of a
mile. It seemed as if the moon might be touched by the hand! It seemed
impossible that, before long, the projectile would not strike her, if only at
the north pole, the brilliant arch of which was so distinctly visible on the
black sky.

Michel Ardan wanted to open one of the scuttles and throw himself on to
the moon’s surface! A very useless attempt; for if the projectile could not
attain any point whatever of the satellite, Michel, carried along by its
motion, could not attain it either.
At that moment, at six o’clock, the lunar pole appeared. The disc only
presented to the travelers’ gaze one half brilliantly lit up, while the other
disappeared in the darkness. Suddenly the projectile passed the line of
demarcation between intense light and absolute darkness, and was plunged
in profound night!

CHAPTER XIV.
THE NIGHT OF THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-
FOUR HOURS AND A HALF

At the moment when this phenomenon took place so rapidly, the
projectile was skirting the moon’s north pole at less than twenty-five miles
distance. Some seconds had sufficed to plunge it into the absolute darkness
of space. The transition was so sudden, without shade, without gradation of
light, without attenuation of the luminous waves, that the orb seemed to
have been extinguished by a powerful blow.
“Melted, disappeared!” Michel Ardan exclaimed, aghast.
Indeed, there was neither reflection nor shadow. Nothing more was to be
seen of that disc, formerly so dazzling. The darkness was complete. and
rendered even more so by the rays from the stars. It was “that blackness” in
which the lunar nights are insteeped, which last three hundred and fifty-four
hours and a half at each point of the disc, a long night resulting from the
equality of the translatory and rotary movements of the moon. The
projectile, immerged in the conical shadow of the satellite, experienced the
action of the solar rays no more than any of its invisible points.
In the interior, the obscurity was complete. They could not see each other.
Hence the necessity of dispelling the darkness. However desirous Barbicane
might be to husband the gas, the reserve of which was small, he was
obliged to ask from it a fictitious light, an expensive brilliancy which the
sun then refused.
“Devil take the radiant orb!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “which forces us
to expend gas, instead of giving us his rays gratuitously.”
“Do not let us accuse the sun,” said Nicholl, “it is not his fault, but that of
the moon, which has come and placed herself like a screen between us and

it.”
“It is the sun!” continued Michel.
“It is the moon!” retorted Nicholl.
An idle dispute, which Barbicane put an end to by saying:
“My friends, it is neither the fault of the sun nor of the moon; it is the
fault of the projectile, which, instead of rigidly following its course, has
awkwardly missed it. To be more just, it is the fault of that unfortunate
meteor which has so deplorably altered our first direction.”
“Well,” replied Michel Ardan, “as the matter is settled, let us have
breakfast. After a whole night of watching it is fair to build ourselves up a
little.”
This proposal meeting with no contradiction, Michel prepared the repast
in a few minutes. But they ate for eating’s sake, they drank without toasts,
without hurrahs. The bold travelers being borne away into gloomy space,
without their accustomed cortege of rays, felt a vague uneasiness in their
hearts. The “strange” shadow so dear to Victor Hugo’s pen bound them on
all sides. But they talked over the interminable night of three hundred and
fifty-four hours and a half, nearly fifteen days, which the law of physics has
imposed on the inhabitants of the moon.
Barbicane gave his friends some explanation of the causes and the
consequences of this curious phenomenon.
“Curious indeed,” said they; “for, if each hemisphere of the moon is
deprived of solar light for fifteen days, that above which we now float does
not even enjoy during its long night any view of the earth so beautifully lit
up. In a word she has no moon (applying this designation to our globe) but
on one side of her disc. Now if this were the case with the earth—if, for
example, Europe never saw the moon, and she was only visible at the
antipodes, imagine to yourself the astonishment of a European on arriving
in Australia.”
“They would make the voyage for nothing but to see the moon!” replied
Michel.
“Very well!” continued Barbicane, “that astonishment is reserved for the
Selenites who inhabit the face of the moon opposite to the earth, a face
which is ever invisible to our countrymen of the terrestrial globe.”

“And which we should have seen,” added Nicholl, “if we had arrived
here when the moon was new, that is to say fifteen days later.”
“I will add, to make amends,” continued Barbicane, “that the inhabitants
of the visible face are singularly favored by nature, to the detriment of their
brethren on the invisible face. The latter, as you see, have dark nights of 354
hours, without one single ray to break the darkness. The other, on the
contrary, when the sun which has given its light for fifteen days sinks below
the horizon, see a splendid orb rise on the opposite horizon. It is the earth,
which is thirteen times greater than the diminutive moon that we know—the
earth which developes itself at a diameter of two degrees, and which sheds
a light thirteen times greater than that qualified by atmospheric strata—the
earth which only disappears at the moment when the sun reappears in its
turn!”
“Nicely worded!” said Michel, “slightly academical perhaps.”
“It follows, then,” continued Barbicane, without knitting his brows, “that
the visible face of the disc must be very agreeable to inhabit, since it always
looks on either the sun when the moon is full, or on the earth when the
moon is new.”
“But,” said Nicholl, “that advantage must be well compensated by the
insupportable heat which the light brings with it.”
“The inconvenience, in that respect, is the same for the two faces, for the
earth’s light is evidently deprived of heat. But the invisible face is still more
searched by the heat than the visible face. I say that for you, Nicholl,
because Michel will probably not understand.”
“Thank you,” said Michel.
“Indeed,” continued Barbicane, “when the invisible face receives at the
same time light and heat from the sun, it is because the moon is new; that is
to say, she is situated between the sun and the earth. It follows, then,
considering the position which she occupies in opposition when full, that
she is nearer to the sun by twice her distance from the earth; and that
distance may be estimated at the two-hundredth part of that which separates
the sun from the earth, or in round numbers 400,000 miles. So that invisible
face is so much nearer to the sun when she receives its rays.”
“Quite right,” replied Nicholl.
“On the contrary,” continued Barbicane.

“One moment,” said Michel, interrupting his grave companion.
“What do you want?”
“I ask to be allowed to continue the explanation.”
“And why?”
“To prove that I understand.”
“Get along with you,” said Barbicane, smiling.
“On the contrary,” said Michel, imitating the tone and gestures of the
president, “on the contrary, when the visible face of the moon is lit by the
sun, it is because the moon is full, that is to say, opposite the sun with
regard to the earth. The distance separating it from the radiant orb is then
increased in round numbers to 400,000 miles, and the heat which she
receives must be a little less.”
“Very well said!” exclaimed Barbicane. “Do you know, Michel, that, for
an amateur, you are intelligent.”
“Yes,” replied Michel coolly, “we are all so on the Boulevard des
Italiens.”
Barbicane gravely grasped the hand of his amiable companion, and
continued to enumerate the advantages reserved for the inhabitants of the
visible face.
Among others, he mentioned eclipses of the sun, which only take place
on this side of the lunar disc; since, in order that they may take place, it is
necessary for the moon to be in opposition. These eclipses, caused by the
interposition of the earth between the moon and the sun, can last two hours;
during which time, by reason of the rays refracted by its atmosphere, the
terrestrial globe can appear as nothing but a black point upon the sun.
“So,” said Nicholl, “there is a hemisphere, that invisible hemisphere
which is very ill supplied, very ill treated, by nature.”
“Never mind,” replied Michel; “if we ever become Selenites, we will
inhabit the visible face. I like the light.”
“Unless, by any chance,” answered Nicholl, “the atmosphere should be
condensed on the other side, as certain astronomers pretend.”
“That would be a consideration,” said Michel.
Breakfast over, the observers returned to their post. They tried to see
through the darkened scuttles by extinguishing all light in the projectile; but

not a luminous spark made its way through the darkness.
One inexplicable fact preoccupied Barbicane. Why, having passed within
such a short distance of the moon—about twenty-five miles only—why the
projectile had not fallen? If its speed had been enormous, he could have
understood that the fall would not have taken place; but, with a relatively
moderate speed, that resistance to the moon’s attraction could not be
explained. Was the projectile under some foreign influence? Did some kind
of body retain it in the ether? It was quite evident that it could never reach
any point of the moon. Whither was it going? Was it going farther from, or
nearing, the disc? Was it being borne in that profound darkness through the
infinity of space? How could they learn, how calculate, in the midst of this
night? All these questions made Barbicane uneasy, but he could not solve
them.
Certainly, the invisible orb was there, perhaps only some few miles off;
but neither he nor his companions could see it. If there was any noise on its
surface, they could not hear it. Air, that medium of sound, was wanting to
transmit the groanings of that moon which the Arabic legends call “a man
already half granite, and still breathing.”
One must allow that that was enough to aggravate the most patient
observers. It was just that unknown hemisphere which was stealing from
their sight. That face which fifteen days sooner, or fifteen days later, had
been, or would be, splendidly illuminated by the solar rays, was then being
lost in utter darkness. In fifteen days where would the projectile be? Who
could say? Where would the chances of conflicting attractions have drawn
it to? The disappointment of the travelers in the midst of this utter darkness
may be imagined. All observation of the lunar disc was impossible. The
constellations alone claimed all their attention; and we must allow that the
astronomers Faye, Charconac, and Secchi, never found themselves in
circumstances so favorable for their observation.
Indeed, nothing could equal the splendor of this starry world, bathed in
limpid ether. Its diamonds set in the heavenly vault sparkled magnificently.
The eye took in the firmament from the Southern Cross to the North Star,
those two constellations which in 12,000 years, by reason of the succession
of equinoxes, will resign their part of the polar stars, the one to Canopus in
the southern hemisphere, the other to Wega in the northern. Imagination
loses itself in this sublime Infinity, amid which the projectile was

gravitating, like a new star created by the hand of man. From a natural
cause, these constellations shone with a soft luster; they did not twinkle, for
there was no atmosphere which, by the intervention of its layers unequally
dense and of different degrees of humidity, produces this scintillation.
These stars were soft eyes, looking out into the dark night, amid the silence
of absolute space.
Long did the travelers stand mute, watching the constellated firmament,
upon which the moon, like a vast screen, made an enormous black hole. But
at length a painful sensation drew them from their watchings. This was an
intense cold, which soon covered the inside of the glass of the scuttles with
a thick coating of ice. The sun was no longer warming the projectile with its
direct rays, and thus it was losing the heat stored up in its walls by degrees.
This heat was rapidly evaporating into space by radiation, and a
considerably lower temperature was the result. The humidity of the interior
was changed into ice upon contact with the glass, preventing all
observation.
Nicholl consulted the thermometer, and saw that it had fallen to
seventeen degrees (Centigrade) below zero.[3] So that, in spite of the many
reasons for economizing, Barbicane, after having begged light from the gas,
was also obliged to beg for heat. The projectile’s low temperature was no
longer endurable. Its tenants would have been frozen to death.
[3] 1° Fahrenheit.

“Well!” observed Michel, “we cannot reasonably complain of the
monotony of our journey! What variety we have had, at least in
temperature. Now we are blinded with light and saturated with heat, like the
Indians of the Pampas! now plunged into profound darkness, amid the cold,
like the Esquimaux of the north pole. No, indeed! we have no right to
complain; nature does wonders in our honor.”
“But,” asked Nicholl, “what is the temperature outside?”
“Exactly that of the planetary space,” replied Barbicane.
“Then,” continued Michel Ardan, “would not this be the time to make the
experiment which we dared not attempt when we were drowned in the sun’s
rays?
“It is now or never,” replied Barbicane, “for we are in a good position to
verify the temperature of space, and see if Fourier or Pouillet’s calculations

are exact.”
“In any case it is cold,” said Michel. “See! the steam of the interior is
condensing on the glasses of the scuttles. If the fall continues, the vapor of
our breath will fall in snow around us.”
“Let us prepare a thermometer,” said Barbicane.
We may imagine that an ordinary thermometer would afford no result
under the circumstances in which this instrument was to be exposed. The
mercury would have been frozen in its ball, as below 42° Fahrenheit below
zero it is no longer liquid. But Barbicane had furnished himself with a spirit
thermometer on Wafferdin’s system, which gives the minima of excessively
low temperatures.
Before beginning the experiment, this instrument was compared with an
ordinary one, and then Barbicane prepared to use it.
“How shall we set about it?” asked Nicholl.
“Nothing is easier,” replied Michel Ardan, who was never at a loss. “We
open the scuttle rapidly; throw out the instrument; it follows the projectile
with exemplary docility; and a quarter of an hour after, draw it in.”
“With the hand?” asked Barbicane.
“With the hand,” replied Michel.
“Well, then, my friend, do not expose yourself,” answered Barbicane,
“for the hand that you draw in again will be nothing but a stump frozen and
deformed by the frightful cold.”
“Really!”
“You will feel as if you had had a terrible burn, like that of iron at a white
heat; for whether the heat leaves our bodies briskly or enters briskly, it is
exactly the same thing. Besides, I am not at all certain that the objects we
have thrown out are still following us.”
“Why not?” asked Nicholl.
“Because, if we are passing through an atmosphere of the slightest
density, these objects will be retarded. Again, the darkness prevents our
seeing if they still float around us. But in order not to expose ourselves to
the loss of our thermometer, we will fasten it, and we can then more easily
pull it back again.”

Barbicane’s advice was followed. Through the scuttle rapidly opened,
Nicholl threw out the instrument, which was held by a short cord, so that it
might be more easily drawn up. The scuttle had not been opened more than
a second, but that second had sufficed to let in a most intense cold.
“The devil!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “it is cold enough to freeze a
white bear.”
Barbicane waited until half an hour had elapsed, which was more than
time enough to allow the instrument to fall to the level of the surrounding
temperature. Then it was rapidly pulled in.
Barbicane calculated the quantity of spirits of wine overflowed into the
little vial soldered to the lower part of the instrument, and said:
“A hundred and forty degrees Centigrade[4] below zero!”
[4] 218 degrees Fahrenheit below zero.

M. Pouillet was right and Fourier wrong. That was the undoubted
temperature of the starry space. Such is, perhaps, that of the lunar
continents, when the orb of night has lost by radiation all the heat which
fifteen days of sun have poured into her.

CHAPTER XV.
HYPERBOLA OR PARABOLA

We may, perhaps, be astonished to find Barbicane and his companions so
little occupied with the future reserved for them in their metal prison which
was bearing them through the infinity of space. Instead of asking where
they were going, they passed their time making experiments, as if they had
been quietly installed in their own study.
We might answer that men so strong-minded were above such anxieties
—that they did not trouble themselves about such trifles—and that they had
something else to do than to occupy their minds with the future.
The truth was that they were not masters of their projectile; they could
neither check its course, nor alter its direction.
A sailor can change the head of his ship as he pleases; an aeronaut can
give a vertical motion to his balloon. They, on the contrary, had no power
over their vehicle. Every maneuver was forbidden. Hence the inclination to
let things alone, or as the sailors say, “let her run.”
Where did they find themselves at this moment, at eight o’clock in the
morning of the day called upon the earth the 6th of December? Very
certainly in the neighborhood of the moon, and even near enough for her to
look to them like an enormous black screen upon the firmament. As to the
distance which separated them, it was impossible to estimate it. The
projectile, held by some unaccountable force, had been within four miles of
grazing the satellite’s north pole.
But since entering the cone of shadow these last two hours, had the
distance increased or diminished? Every point of mark was wanting by
which to estimate both the direction and the speed of the projectile.
Perhaps it was rapidly leaving the disc, so that it would soon quit the pure
shadow. Perhaps, again, on the other hand, it might be nearing it so much

that in a short time it might strike some high point on the invisible
hemisphere, which would doubtlessly have ended the journey much to the
detriment of the travelers.
A discussion arose on this subject, and Michel Ardan, always ready with
an explanation, gave it as his opinion that the projectile, held by the lunar
attraction, would end by falling on the surface of the terrestrial globe like an
aerolite.
“First of all, my friend,” answered Barbicane, “every aerolite does not
fall to the earth; it is only a small proportion which do so; and if we had
passed into an aerolite, it does not necessarily follow that we should ever
reach the surface of the moon.”
“But how if we get near enough?” replied Michel.
“Pure mistake,” replied Barbicane. “Have you not seen shooting stars
rush through the sky by thousands at certain seasons?”
“Yes.”
“Well, these stars, or rather corpuscles, only shine when they are heated
by gliding over the atmospheric layers. Now, if they enter the atmosphere,
they pass at least within forty miles of the earth, but they seldom fall upon
it. The same with our projectile. It may approach very near to the moon, and
not yet fall upon it.”
“But then,” asked Michel, “I shall be curious to know how our erring
vehicle will act in space?”
“I see but two hypotheses,” replied Barbicane, after some moments’
reflection.
“What are they?”
“The projectile has the choice between two mathematical curves, and it
will follow one or the other according to the speed with which it is
animated, and which at this moment I cannot estimate.”
“Yes,” said Nicholl, “it will follow either a parabola or a hyperbola.”
“Just so,” replied Barbicane. “With a certain speed it will assume the
parabola, and with a greater the hyperbola.”
“I like those grand words,” exclaimed Michel Ardan; “one knows directly
what they mean. And pray what is your parabola, if you please?”

“My friend,” answered the captain, “the parabola is a curve of the second
order, the result of the section of a cone intersected by a plane parallel to
one of the sides.”
“Ah! ah!” said Michel, in a satisfied tone.
“It is very nearly,” continued Nicholl, “the course described by a bomb
launched from a mortar.”
“Perfect! And the hyperbola?”
“The hyperbola, Michel, is a curve of the second order, produced by the
intersection of a conic surface and a plane parallel to its axis, and
constitutes two branches separated one from the other, both tending
indefinitely in the two directions.”
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Michel Ardan in a serious tone, as if they had
told him of some serious event. “What I particularly like in your definition
of the hyperbola (I was going to say hyperblague) is that it is still more
obscure than the word you pretend to define.”
Nicholl and Barbicane cared little for Michel Ardan’s fun. They were
deep in a scientific discussion. What curve would the projectile follow? was
their hobby. One maintained the hyperbola, the other the parabola. They
gave each other reasons bristling with x. Their arguments were couched in
language which made Michel jump. The discussion was hot, and neither
would give up his chosen curve to his adversary.
This scientific dispute lasted so long that it made Michel very impatient.
“Now, gentlemen cosines, will you cease to throw parabolas and
hyperbolas at each other’s heads? I want to understand the only interesting
question in the whole affair. We shall follow one or the other of these
curves? Good. But where will they lead us to?”
“Nowhere,” replied Nicholl.
“How, nowhere?”
“Evidently,” said Barbicane, “they are open curves, which may be
prolonged indefinitely.”
“Ah, savants!” cried Michel; “and what are either the one or the other to
us from the moment we know that they equally lead us into infinite space?”
Barbicane and Nicholl could not forbear smiling. They had just been
creating “art for art’s sake.” Never had so idle a question been raised at such

an inopportune moment. The sinister truth remained that, whether
hyperbolically or parabolically borne away, the projectile would never again
meet either the earth or the moon.
What would become of these bold travelers in the immediate future? If
they did not die of hunger, if they did not die of thirst, in some days, when
the gas failed, they would die from want of air, unless the cold had killed
them first. Still, important as it was to economize the gas, the excessive
lowness of the surrounding temperature obliged them to consume a certain
quantity. Strictly speaking, they could do without its light, but not without
its heat. Fortunately the caloric generated by Reiset’s and Regnaut’s
apparatus raised the temperature of the interior of the projectile a little, and
without much expenditure they were able to keep it bearable.
But observations had now become very difficult. the dampness of the
projectile was condensed on the windows and congealed immediately. This
cloudiness had to be dispersed continually. In any case they might hope to
be able to discover some phenomena of the highest interest.
But up to this time the disc remained dumb and dark. It did not answer
the multiplicity of questions put by these ardent minds; a matter which drew
this reflection from Michel, apparently a just one:
“If ever we begin this journey over again, we shall do well to choose the
time when the moon is at the full.”
“Certainly,” said Nicholl, “that circumstance will be more favorable. I
allow that the moon, immersed in the sun’s rays, will not be visible during
the transit, but instead we should see the earth, which would be full. And
what is more, if we were drawn round the moon, as at this moment, we
should at least have the advantage of seeing the invisible part of her disc
magnificently lit.”
“Well said, Nicholl,” replied Michel Ardan. “What do you think,
Barbicane?”
“I think this,” answered the grave president: “If ever we begin this
journey again, we shall start at the same time and under the same
conditions. Suppose we had attained our end, would it not have been better
to have found continents in broad daylight than a country plunged in utter
darkness? Would not our first installation have been made under better
circumstances? Yes, evidently. As to the invisible side, we could have
visited it in our exploring expeditions on the lunar globe. So that the time of

the full moon was well chosen. But we ought to have arrived at the end; and
in order to have so arrived, we ought to have suffered no deviation on the
road.”
“I have nothing to say to that,” answered Michel Ardan. “Here is,
however, a good opportunity lost of observing the other side of the moon.”
But the projectile was now describing in the shadow that incalculable
course which no sight-mark would allow them to ascertain. Had its
direction been altered, either by the influence of the lunar attraction, or by
the action of some unknown star? Barbicane could not say. But a change
had taken place in the relative position of the vehicle; and Barbicane
verified it about four in the morning.
The change consisted in this, that the base of the projectile had turned
toward the moon’s surface, and was so held by a perpendicular passing
through its axis. The attraction, that is to say the weight, had brought about
this alteration. The heaviest part of the projectile inclined toward the
invisible disc as if it would fall upon it.
Was it falling? Were the travelers attaining that much desired end? No.
And the observation of a sign-point, quite inexplicable in itself, showed
Barbicane that his projectile was not nearing the moon, and that it had
shifted by following an almost concentric curve.
This point of mark was a luminous brightness, which Nicholl sighted
suddenly, on the limit of the horizon formed by the black disc. This point
could not be confounded with a star. It was a reddish incandescence which
increased by degrees, a decided proof that the projectile was shifting toward
it and not falling normally on the surface of the moon.
“A volcano! it is a volcano in action!” cried Nicholl; “a disemboweling
of the interior fires of the moon! That world is not quite extinguished.”
“Yes, an eruption,” replied Barbicane, who was carefully studying the
phenomenon through his night glass. “What should it be, if not a volcano?”
“But, then,” said Michel Ardan, “in order to maintain that combustion,
there must be air. So the atmosphere does surround that part of the moon.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Barbicane, “but not necessarily.
The volcano, by the decomposition of certain substances, can provide its
own oxygen, and thus throw flames into space. It seems to me that the
deflagration, by the intense brilliancy of the substances in combustion, is

produced in pure oxygen. We must not be in a hurry to proclaim the
existence of a lunar atmosphere.”
The fiery mountain must have been situated about the 45° south latitude
on the invisible part of the disc; but, to Barbicane’s great displeasure, the
curve which the projectile was describing was taking it far from the point
indicated by the eruption. Thus he could not determine its nature exactly.
Half an hour after being sighted, this luminous point had disappeared
behind the dark horizon; but the verification of this phenomenon was of
considerable consequence in their selenographic studies. It proved that all
heat had not yet disappeared from the bowels of this globe; and where heat
exists, who can affirm that the vegetable kingdom, nay, even the animal
kingdom itself, has not up to this time resisted all destructive influences?
The existence of this volcano in eruption, unmistakably seen by these
earthly savants, would doubtless give rise to many theories favorable to the
grave question of the habitability of the moon.
Barbicane allowed himself to be carried away by these reflections. He
forgot himself in a deep reverie in which the mysterious destiny of the lunar
world was uppermost. He was seeking to combine together the facts
observed up to that time, when a new incident recalled him briskly to
reality. This incident was more than a cosmical phenomenon; it was a
threatened danger, the consequence of which might be disastrous in the
extreme.
Suddenly, in the midst of the ether, in the profound darkness, an
enormous mass appeared. It was like a moon, but an incandescent moon
whose brilliancy was all the more intolerable as it cut sharply on the
frightful darkness of space. This mass, of a circular form, threw a light
which filled the projectile. The forms of Barbicane, Nicholl, and Michel
Ardan, bathed in its white sheets, assumed that livid spectral appearance
which physicians produce with the fictitious light of alcohol impregnated
with salt.
“By Jove!” cried Michel Ardan, “we are hideous. What is that ill-
conditioned moon?”
“A meteor,” replied Barbicane.
“A meteor burning in space?”
“Yes.”

This shooting globe suddenly appearing in shadow at a distance of at
most 200 miles, ought, according to Barbicane, to have a diameter of 2,000
yards. It advanced at a speed of about one mile and a half per second. It cut
the projectile’s path and must reach it in some minutes. As it approached it
grew to enormous proportions.
Imagine, if possible, the situation of the travelers! It is impossible to
describe it. In spite of their courage, their sang-froid, their carelessness of
danger, they were mute, motionless with stiffened limbs, a prey to frightful
terror. Their projectile, the course of which they could not alter, was rushing
straight on this ignited mass, more intense than the open mouth of an oven.
It seemed as though they were being precipitated toward an abyss of fire.
Barbicane had seized the hands of his two companions, and all three
looked through their half-open eyelids upon that asteroid heated to a white
heat. If thought was not destroyed within them, if their brains still worked
amid all this awe, they must have given themselves up for lost.
Two minutes after the sudden appearance of the meteor (to them two
centuries of anguish) the projectile seemed almost about to strike it, when
the globe of fire burst like a bomb, but without making any noise in that
void where sound, which is but the agitation of the layers of air, could not
be generated.
Nicholl uttered a cry, and he and his companions rushed to the scuttle.
What a sight! What pen can describe it? What palette is rich enough in
colors to reproduce so magnificent a spectacle?
It was like the opening of a crater, like the scattering of an immense
conflagration. Thousands of luminous fragments lit up and irradiated space
with their fires. Every size, every color, was there intermingled. There were
rays of yellow and pale yellow, red, green, gray—a crown of fireworks of
all colors. Of the enormous and much-dreaded globe there remained
nothing but these fragments carried in all directions, now become asteroids
in their turn, some flaming like a sword, some surrounded by a whitish
cloud, and others leaving behind them trains of brilliant cosmical dust.
These incandescent blocks crossed and struck each other, scattering still
smaller fragments, some of which struck the projectile. Its left scuttle was
even cracked by a violent shock. It seemed to be floating amid a hail of
howitzer shells, the smallest of which might destroy it instantly.

The light which saturated the ether was so wonderfully intense, that
Michel, drawing Barbicane and Nicholl to his window, exclaimed, “The
invisible moon, visible at last!”
And through a luminous emanation, which lasted some seconds, the
whole three caught a glimpse of that mysterious disc which the eye of man
now saw for the first time. What could they distinguish at a distance which
they could not estimate? Some lengthened bands along the disc, real clouds
formed in the midst of a very confined atmosphere, from which emerged
not only all the mountains, but also projections of less importance; its
circles, its yawning craters, as capriciously placed as on the visible surface.
Then immense spaces, no longer arid plains, but real seas, oceans, widely
distributed, reflecting on their liquid surface all the dazzling magic of the
fires of space; and, lastly, on the surface of the continents, large dark
masses, looking like immense forests under the rapid illumination of a
brilliance.
Was it an illusion, a mistake, an optical illusion? Could they give a
scientific assent to an observation so superficially obtained? Dared they
pronounce upon the question of its habitability after so slight a glimpse of
the invisible disc?
But the lightnings in space subsided by degrees; its accidental brilliancy
died away; the asteroids dispersed in different directions and were
extinguished in the distance.
The ether returned to its accustomed darkness; the stars, eclipsed for a
moment, again twinkled in the firmament, and the disc, so hastily discerned,
was again buried in impenetrable night.

CHAPTER XVI.
THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE

The projectile had just escaped a terrible danger, and a very unforseen
one. Who would have thought of such an encounter with meteors? These
erring bodies might create serious perils for the travelers. They were to
them so many sandbanks upon that sea of ether which, less fortunate than
sailors, they could not escape. But did these adventurers complain of space?
No, not since nature had given them the splendid sight of a cosmical meteor
bursting from expansion, since this inimitable firework, which no Ruggieri
could imitate, had lit up for some seconds the invisible glory of the moon.
In that flash, continents, seas, and forests had become visible to them. Did
an atmosphere, then, bring to this unknown face its life-giving atoms?
Questions still insoluble, and forever closed against human curiousity!
It was then half-past three in the afternoon. The projectile was following
its curvilinear direction round the moon. Had its course again been altered
by the meteor? It was to be feared so. But the projectile must describe a
curve unalterably determined by the laws of mechanical reasoning.
Barbicane was inclined to believe that this curve would be rather a parabola
than a hyperbola. But admitting the parabola, the projectile must quickly
have passed through the cone of shadow projected into space opposite the
sun. This cone, indeed, is very narrow, the angular diameter of the moon
being so little when compared with the diameter of the orb of day; and up to
this time the projectile had been floating in this deep shadow. Whatever had
been its speed (and it could not have been insignificant), its period of
occultation continued. That was evident, but perhaps that would not have
been the case in a supposedly rigidly parabolical trajectory—a new problem
which tormented Barbicane’s brain, imprisoned as he was in a circle of
unknowns which he could not unravel.

Neither of the travelers thought of taking an instant’s repose. Each one
watched for an unexpected fact, which might throw some new light on their
uranographic studies. About five o’clock, Michel Ardan distributed, under
the name of dinner, some pieces of bread and cold meat, which were
quickly swallowed without either of them abandoning their scuttle, the glass
of which was incessantly encrusted by the condensation of vapor.
About forty-five minutes past five in the evening, Nicholl, armed with his
glass, sighted toward the southern border of the moon, and in the direction
followed by the projectile, some bright points cut upon the dark shield of
the sky. They looked like a succession of sharp points lengthened into a
tremulous line. They were very bright. Such appeared the terminal line of
the moon when in one of her octants.
They could not be mistaken. It was no longer a simple meteor. This
luminous ridge had neither color nor motion. Nor was it a volcano in
eruption. And Barbicane did not hesitate to pronounce upon it.
“The sun!” he exclaimed.
“What! the sun?” answered Nicholl and Michel Ardan.
“Yes, my friends, it is the radiant orb itself lighting up the summit of the
mountains situated on the southern borders of the moon. We are evidently
nearing the south pole.”
“After having passed the north pole,” replied Michel. “We have made the
circuit of our satellite, then?”
“Yes, my good Michel.”
“Then, no more hyperbolas, no more parabolas, no more open curves to
fear?”
“No, but a closed curve.”
“Which is called—”
“An ellipse. Instead of losing itself in interplanetary space, it is probable
that the projectile will describe an elliptical orbit around the moon.”
“Indeed!”
“And that it will become her satellite.”
“Moon of the moon!” cried Michel Ardan.
“Only, I would have you observe, my worthy friend,” replied Barbicane,
“that we are none the less lost for that.”

“Yes, in another manner, and much more pleasantly,” answered the
careless Frenchman with his most amiable smile.

CHAPTER XVII.
TYCHO

At six in the evening the projectile passed the south pole at less than forty
miles off, a distance equal to that already reached at the north pole. The
elliptical curve was being rigidly carried out.
At this moment the travelers once more entered the blessed rays of the
sun. They saw once more those stars which move slowly from east to west.
The radiant orb was saluted by a triple hurrah. With its light it also sent
heat, which soon pierced the metal walls. The glass resumed its accustomed
appearance. The layers of ice melted as if by enchantment; and
immediately, for economy’s sake, the gas was put out, the air apparatus
alone consuming its usual quantity.
“Ah!” said Nicholl, “these rays of heat are good. With what impatience
must the Selenites wait the reappearance of the orb of day.”
“Yes,” replied Michel Ardan, “imbibing as it were the brilliant ether, light
and heat, all life is contained in them.”
At this moment the bottom of the projectile deviated somewhat from the
lunar surface, in order to follow the slightly lengthened elliptical orbit.
From this point, had the earth been at the full, Barbicane and his
companions could have seen it, but immersed in the sun’s irradiation she
was quite invisible. Another spectacle attracted their attention, that of the
southern part of the moon, brought by the glasses to within 450 yards. They
did not again leave the scuttles, and noted every detail of this fantastical
continent.
Mounts Doerful and Leibnitz formed two separate groups very near the
south pole. The first group extended from the pole to the eighty-fourth
parallel, on the eastern part of the orb; the second occupied the eastern
border, extending from the 65° of latitude to the pole.

On their capriciously formed ridge appeared dazzling sheets, as
mentioned by Pere Secchi. With more certainty than the illustrious Roman
astronomer, Barbicane was enabled to recognize their nature.
“They are snow,” he exclaimed.
“Snow?” repeated Nicholl.
“Yes, Nicholl, snow; the surface of which is deeply frozen. See how they
reflect the luminous rays. Cooled lava would never give out such intense
reflection. There must then be water, there must be air on the moon. As little
as you please, but the fact can no longer be contested.” No, it could not be.
And if ever Barbicane should see the earth again, his notes will bear witness
to this great fact in his selenographic observations.
These mountains of Doerful and Leibnitz rose in the midst of plains of a
medium extent, which were bounded by an indefinite succession of circles
and annular ramparts. These two chains are the only ones met with in this
region of circles. Comparatively but slightly marked, they throw up here
and there some sharp points, the highest summit of which attains an altitude
of 24,600 feet.
But the projectile was high above all this landscape, and the projections
disappeared in the intense brilliancy of the disc. And to the eyes of the
travelers there reappeared that original aspect of the lunar landscapes, raw
in tone, without gradation of colors, and without degrees of shadow,
roughly black and white, from the want of diffusion of light.
But the sight of this desolate world did not fail to captivate them by its
very strangeness. They were moving over this region as if they had been
borne on the breath of some storm, watching heights defile under their feet,
piercing the cavities with their eyes, going down into the rifts, climbing the
ramparts, sounding these mysterious holes, and leveling all cracks. But no
trace of vegetation, no appearance of cities; nothing but stratification, beds
of lava, overflowings polished like immense mirrors, reflecting the sun’s
rays with overpowering brilliancy. Nothing belonging to a living world—
everything to a dead world, where avalanches, rolling from the summits of
the mountains, would disperse noiselessly at the bottom of the abyss,
retaining the motion, but wanting the sound. In any case it was the image of
death, without its being possible even to say that life had ever existed there.
Michel Ardan, however, thought he recognized a heap of ruins, to which
he drew Barbicane’s attention. It was about the 80th parallel, in 30°

longitude. This heap of stones, rather regularly placed, represented a vast
fortress, overlooking a long rift, which in former days had served as a bed
to the rivers of prehistorical times. Not far from that, rose to a height of
17,400 feet the annular mountain of Short, equal to the Asiatic Caucasus.
Michel Ardan, with his accustomed ardor, maintained “the evidences” of his
fortress. Beneath it he discerned the dismantled ramparts of a town; here the
still intact arch of a portico, there two or three columns lying under their
base; farther on, a succession of arches which must have supported the
conduit of an aqueduct; in another part the sunken pillars of a gigantic
bridge, run into the thickest parts of the rift. He distinguished all this, but
with so much imagination in his glance, and through glasses so fantastical,
that we must mistrust his observation. But who could affirm, who would
dare to say, that the amiable fellow did not really see that which his two
companions would not see?
Moments were too precious to be sacrificed in idle discussion. The
selenite city, whether imaginary or not, had already disappeared afar off.
The distance of the projectile from the lunar disc was on the increase, and
the details of the soil were being lost in a confused jumble. The reliefs, the
circles, the craters, and the plains alone remained, and still showed their
boundary lines distinctly. At this moment, to the left, lay extended one of
the finest circles of lunar orography, one of the curiosities of this continent.
It was Newton, which Barbicane recognized without trouble, by referring to
the Mappa Selenographica.
Newton is situated in exactly 77° south latitude, and 16° east longitude. It
forms an annular crater, the ramparts of which, rising to a height of 21,300
feet, seemed to be impassable.
Barbicane made his companions observe that the height of this mountain
above the surrounding plain was far from equaling the depth of its crater.
This enormous hole was beyond all measurement, and formed a gloomy
abyss, the bottom of which the sun’s rays could never reach. There,
according to Humboldt, reigns utter darkness, which the light of the sun and
the earth cannot break. Mythologists could well have made it the mouth of
hell.
“Newton,” said Barbicane, “is the most perfect type of these annular
mountains, of which the earth possesses no sample. They prove that the
moon’s formation, by means of cooling, is due to violent causes; for while,

under the pressure of internal fires the reliefs rise to considerable height, the
depths withdraw far below the lunar level.”
“I do not dispute the fact,” replied Michel Ardan.
Some minutes after passing Newton, the projectile directly overlooked
the annular mountains of Moret. It skirted at some distance the summits of
Blancanus, and at about half-past seven in the evening reached the circle of
Clavius.
This circle, one of the most remarkable of the disc, is situated in 58°
south latitude, and 15° east longitude. Its height is estimated at 22,950 feet.
The travelers, at a distance of twenty-four miles (reduced to four by their
glasses) could admire this vast crater in its entirety.
“Terrestrial volcanoes,” said Barbicane, “are but mole-hills compared
with those of the moon. Measuring the old craters formed by the first
eruptions of Vesuvius and Etna, we find them little more than three miles in
breadth. In France the circle of Cantal measures six miles across; at
Ceyland the circle of the island is forty miles, which is considered the
largest on the globe. What are these diameters against that of Clavius,
which we overlook at this moment?”
“What is its breadth?” asked Nicholl.
“It is 150 miles,” replied Barbicane. “This circle is certainly the most
important on the moon, but many others measure 150, 100, or 75 miles.”
“Ah! my friends,” exclaimed Michel, “can you picture to yourselves
what this now peaceful orb of night must have been when its craters, filled
with thunderings, vomited at the same time smoke and tongues of flame.
What a wonderful spectacle then, and now what decay! This moon is
nothing more than a thin carcase of fireworks, whose squibs, rockets,
serpents, and suns, after a superb brilliancy, have left but sadly broken
cases. Who can say the cause, the reason, the motive force of these
cataclysms?”
Barbicane was not listening to Michel Ardan; he was contemplating these
ramparts of Clavius, formed by large mountains spread over several miles.
At the bottom of the immense cavity burrowed hundreds of small
extinguished craters, riddling the soil like a colander, and overlooked by a
peak 15,000 feet high.

Around the plain appeared desolate. Nothing so arid as these reliefs,
nothing so sad as these ruins of mountains, and (if we may so express
ourselves) these fragments of peaks and mountains which strewed the soil.
The satellite seemed to have burst at this spot.
The projectile was still advancing, and this movement did not subside.
Circles, craters, and uprooted mountains succeeded each other incessantly.
No more plains; no more seas. A never ending Switzerland and Norway.
And lastly, in the canter of this region of crevasses, the most splendid
mountain on the lunar disc, the dazzling Tycho, in which posterity will ever
preserve the name of the illustrious Danish astronomer.
In observing the full moon in a cloudless sky no one has failed to remark
this brilliant point of the southern hemisphere. Michel Ardan used every
metaphor that his imagination could supply to designate it by. To him this
Tycho was a focus of light, a center of irradiation, a crater vomiting rays. It
was the tire of a brilliant wheel, an asteria enclosing the disc with its silver
tentacles, an enormous eye filled with flames, a glory carved for Pluto’s
head, a star launched by the Creator’s hand, and crushed against the face of
the moon!
Tycho forms such a concentration of light that the inhabitants of the earth
can see it without glasses, though at a distance of 240,000 miles! Imagine,
then, its intensity to the eye of observers placed at a distance of only fifty
miles! Seen through this pure ether, its brilliancy was so intolerable that
Barbicane and his friends were obliged to blacken their glasses with the gas
smoke before they could bear the splendor. Then silent, scarcely uttering an
interjection of admiration, they gazed, they contemplated. All their feelings,
all their impressions, were concentrated in that look, as under any violent
emotion all life is concentrated at the heart.
Tycho belongs to the system of radiating mountains, like Aristarchus and
Copernicus; but it is of all the most complete and decided, showing
unquestionably the frightful volcanic action to which the formation of the
moon is due. Tycho is situated in 43° south latitude, and 12° east longitude.
Its center is occupied by a crater fifty miles broad. It assumes a slightly
elliptical form, and is surrounded by an enclosure of annular ramparts,
which on the east and west overlook the outer plain from a height of 15,000
feet. It is a group of Mont Blancs, placed round one common center and
crowned by radiating beams.

What this incomparable mountain really is, with all the projections
converging toward it, and the interior excrescences of its crater,
photography itself could never represent. Indeed, it is during the full moon
that Tycho is seen in all its splendor. Then all shadows disappear, the
foreshortening of perspective disappears, and all proofs become white—a
disagreeable fact: for this strange region would have been marvelous if
reproduced with photographic exactness. It is but a group of hollows,
craters, circles, a network of crests; then, as far as the eye could see, a
whole volcanic network cast upon this encrusted soil. One can then
understand that the bubbles of this central eruption have kept their first
form. Crystallized by cooling, they have stereotyped that aspect which the
moon formerly presented when under the Plutonian forces.
The distance which separated the travelers from the annular summits of
Tycho was not so great but that they could catch the principal details. Even
on the causeway forming the fortifications of Tycho, the mountains hanging
on to the interior and exterior sloping flanks rose in stories like gigantic
terraces. They appeared to be higher by 300 or 400 feet to the west than to
the east. No system of terrestrial encampment could equal these natural
fortifications. A town built at the bottom of this circular cavity would have
been utterly inaccessible.
Inaccessible and wonderfully extended over this soil covered with
picturesque projections! Indeed, nature had not left the bottom of this crater
flat and empty. It possessed its own peculiar orography, a mountainous
system, making it a world in itself. The travelers could distinguish clearly
cones, central hills, remarkable positions of the soil, naturally placed to
receive the chefs-d’œuvre of Selenite architecture. There was marked out
the place for a temple, here the ground of a forum, on this spot the plan of a
palace, in another the plateau for a citadel; the whole overlooked by a
central mountain of 1,500 feet. A vast circle, in which ancient Rome could
have been held in its entirety ten times over.
“Ah!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, enthusiastic at the sight; “what a grand
town might be constructed within that ring of mountains! A quiet city, a
peaceful refuge, beyond all human misery. How calm and isolated those
misanthropes, those haters of humanity might live there, and all who have a
distaste for social life!”
“All! It would be too small for them,” replied Barbicane simply.

CHAPTER XVIII.
GRAVE QUESTIONS

But the projectile had passed the enceinte of Tycho, and Barbicane and
his two companions watched with scrupulous attention the brilliant rays
which the celebrated mountain shed so curiously over the horizon.
What was this radiant glory? What geological phenomenon had designed
these ardent beams? This question occupied Barbicane’s mind.
Under his eyes ran in all directions luminous furrows, raised at the edges
and concave in the center, some twelve miles, others thirty miles broad.
These brilliant trains extended in some places to within 600 miles of Tycho,
and seemed to cover, particularly toward the east, the northeast and the
north, the half of the southern hemisphere. One of these jets extended as far
as the circle of Neander, situated on the 40th meridian. Another, by a slight
curve, furrowed the “Sea of Nectar,” breaking against the chain of
Pyrenees, after a circuit of 800 miles. Others, toward the west, covered the
“Sea of Clouds” and the “Sea of Humors” with a luminous network. What
was the origin of these sparkling rays, which shone on the plains as well as
on the reliefs, at whatever height they might be? All started from a common
center, the crater of Tycho. They sprang from him. Herschel attributed their
brilliancy to currents of lava congealed by the cold; an opinion, however,
which has not been generally adopted. Other astronomers have seen in these
inexplicable rays a kind of moraines, rows of erratic blocks, which had been
thrown up at the period of Tycho’s formation.
“And why not?” asked Nicholl of Barbicane, who was relating and
rejecting these different opinions.
“Because the regularity of these luminous lines, and the violence
necessary to carry volcanic matter to such distances, is inexplicable.”

“Eh! by Jove!” replied Michel Ardan, “it seems easy enough to me to
explain the origin of these rays.”
“Indeed?” said Barbicane.
“Indeed,” continued Michel. “It is enough to say that it is a vast star,
similar to that produced by a ball or a stone thrown at a square of glass!”
“Well!” replied Barbicane, smiling. “And what hand would be powerful
enough to throw a ball to give such a shock as that?”
“The hand is not necessary,” answered Nicholl, not at all confounded;
“and as to the stone, let us suppose it to be a comet.”
“Ah! those much-abused comets!” exclaimed Barbicane. “My brave
Michel, your explanation is not bad; but your comet is useless. The shock
which produced that rent must have some from the inside of the star. A
violent contraction of the lunar crust, while cooling, might suffice to
imprint this gigantic star.”
“A contraction! something like a lunar stomach-ache.” said Michel
Ardan.
“Besides,” added Barbicane, “this opinion is that of an English savant,
Nasmyth, and it seems to me to sufficiently explain the radiation of these
mountains.”
“That Nasmyth was no fool!” replied Michel.
Long did the travelers, whom such a sight could never weary, admire the
splendors of Tycho. Their projectile, saturated with luminous gleams in the
double irradiation of sun and moon, must have appeared like an
incandescent globe. They had passed suddenly from excessive cold to
intense heat. Nature was thus preparing them to become Selenites. Become
Selenites! That idea brought up once more the question of the habitability of
the moon. After what they had seen, could the travelers solve it? Would they
decide for or against it? Michel Ardan persuaded his two friends to form an
opinion, and asked them directly if they thought that men and animals were
represented in the lunar world.
“I think that we can answer,” said Barbicane; “but according to my idea
the question ought not to be put in that form. I ask it to be put differently.”
“Put it your own way,” replied Michel.