The Impact of the President's Announcement

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.

It is impossible to describe the effect of the honorable president’s final words. There were cries, shouts, roars, hurrahs, and every other kind of outburst the American language could provide. The scene was one of indescribable confusion and uproar. They shouted, clapped, and stamped on the hall floor. Even if all the weapons in the museum had fired at once, they could not have made a louder noise. This should come as no surprise. Some cannoneers are 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.

Barbicane remained calm amid the excited uproar. Perhaps he wanted to say a few more words to his colleagues, for he gestured for silence. His powerful alarm bell had been worn out by its violent ringing. But no one paid attention to his request. Soon he was pulled from his seat and passed from the hands of his loyal colleagues into the arms of an equally 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.

Nothing can astonish an American. People often say that “impossible” is not a French word. They have clearly been misled by the dictionary. In America, everything is easy and simple. Mechanical difficulties are overcome before they arise. No true Yankee would have allowed even the appearance of a difficulty between Barbicane’s proposal and its fulfillment. For them, no sooner is something said than it is 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.

The president’s triumphant progress continued throughout the evening. It was a full torchlight procession. Irish, Germans, French, Scotch, all the diverse peoples who made up Maryland’s population shouted in their own languages. Their “vivas,” “hurrahs,” and “bravos” mingled in an outburst of indescribable 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.

At that moment of crisis, the moon shone with calm splendor, as if she understood all the excitement about her. Her intense light outshone all the surrounding lights. The Yankees all turned to gaze at her brilliant orb. They blew her kisses and called her all kinds of loving names. Between eight o’clock and midnight, an optician on Jones’-Fall Street made his fortune selling 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.

Midnight arrived, and the excitement showed no signs of fading. It spread equally among all classes of citizens. Scientists, shopkeepers, merchants, porters, chairmen, and “greenhorns” alike were stirred to their very core. A national enterprise was at stake. People from every level of society poured into the streets. Crowds also poured out from the quays along the Patapsco and the ships in the basins. They were drunk with joy, gin, and whisky. Everyone chatted, argued, debated, disputed, and applauded. They ranged from the gentleman lounging on a barroom sofa with a glass of sherry-cobbler before him to the waterman getting drunk on 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.

Around two a.m., however, the excitement began to fade. President Barbicane reached his house bruised and squeezed almost as flat as a mummy. Even Hercules could not have withstood such an outburst of enthusiasm. The crowd gradually left the squares and streets. Four railways converged at Baltimore from Philadelphia, Washington, Harrisburg, and Wheeling. They carried the diverse crowd away to the four corners of the United States, and the city became relatively calm.

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 next day, thanks to the telegraph, five hundred newspapers and journals took up the question. They included daily, weekly, monthly, and twice monthly publications. They examined every aspect of the question, from physics, weather, economics, and morality to its effects on politics and civilization. They debated whether the moon was a finished world or destined to change further. Did it resemble Earth before Earth had an atmosphere? What would its hidden hemisphere look like to us on Earth? For now, the question was simply how to send a projectile to the moon. Yet everyone had to see that this would be the beginning of a series of experiments. All had to hope that America would someday uncover the deepest secrets of that mysterious world. Some even seemed to fear that conquering it might seriously upset the balance of power in 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.

Once the project was being discussed, not a single paragraph suggested any doubt that it could be achieved. All the papers, pamphlets, and reports praised its advantages. So did all the journals published by scientific, literary, and religious societies. Several organizations sent the Gun Club countless letters of congratulations, along with offers of immediate help and money. They were 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.

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.

From that day on, Impey Barbicane became one of the greatest citizens of the United States, a kind of Washington of science. One example, among many others, shows how deeply the whole nation honored this one man.

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.

A few days after this memorable meeting of the Gun Club, the manager of an English company made an announcement. He planned to produce “Much ado about Nothing” at the Baltimore theatre. But the public saw the title as an insult to Barbicane’s project. They broke into the auditorium, smashed the benches, and forced the unlucky director to change his playbill. A sensible man, he bowed to the public’s wishes and replaced the offending comedy with “As you like it”. For many weeks, he made fabulous profits.