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    From the Earth to the Moon
    From the Earth to the Moon
    From the Earth to the Moon
    Ebook342 pages7 hours

    From the Earth to the Moon

    By Jules Verne

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    Nearly a century before NASA, a visionary novelist wrote this adventure classic about an international space race. Jules Verne's eerily prophetic fantasy unfolds at the close of the Civil War, as three artillerymen resolve to build a gun big enough to propel a manned rocket to the moon. Enlivened by broad satire, this rollicking tale recounts the launch of three astronauts from a Florida peninsula and their return to Earth in a splash landing.
    Acclaimed as "the man who invented the future," Verne wrote with uncanny accuracy about space, air, and underwater travel long before they were real possibilities. A pioneer of science fiction, he endowed his stories with a freshness and verve that keep them vital for modern readers. This edition features an excellent translation from the original French publication by Verne's foremost interpreter, Edward Roth, and 17 enchanting illustrations.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDover Publications
    Release dateJun 12, 2019
    ISBN9780486840680
    Author

    Jules Verne

    Beinahe wäre Klein-Jules als Schiffsjunge nach Indien gefahren, hätte eine Laufbahn als Seemann eingeschlagen und später unterhaltsames Seemannsgarn gesponnen, das vermutlich nie die Druckerpresse erreicht hätte. Glücklicherweise für uns Leser hindert man ihn daran: Der Elfjährige wird von Bord geholt und verlebt weiterhin eine behütete Kindheit vor bürgerlichem Hintergrund. Geboren am 8. Februar 1828 in Nantes, wächst Jules-Gabriel Verne in gut situierten Verhältnissen auf. Als ältester von fünf Sprösslingen soll er die väterliche Anwaltspraxis übernehmen, weshalb er ab 1846 in Paris Jura studiert. Jules Verne, der Vater der Science-Fiction-Literatur.

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    Reviews for From the Earth to the Moon

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    • 4/5
      First half Verne is very interested in the logistics of firing a vehicle to the moon. He spends a lot of time doing the math.The second half is more about the people and how they deal with the situation.
    • 5/5
      Surprisingly prescient in many ways, though some details were overlooked even by the standards of the time in which it was written (being shot out of canon capable of escape velocity – it's putting all its thrust into the initial shot and none thereafter, because it's not a missile – would cause sufficient g forces to kill you). Perhaps this is the fault of the characters, and not the author, but I cannot recall anyone involved having thought about how to get back.
    • 2/5
      So boring, and you know most of this won't work now so you're thinking what's the point. The tech talk was mostly over my head too.
    • 4/5
      According to the Introduction by Robert A. W. Lowndes, "From the Earth to the Moon" is the first story of a moon-flight using the rocket principle. The book was a success in its time, and given the incomplete publishing history I found, with the most recent edition published in 2006, is still a success. I would venture to say it has more to offer to today's audience than simply a classic adventure story, which it certainly remains. But it is also, today, a fascinating historical artifact, documenting to some extent the degree of scientific knowledge and sophistication of the 19th century audience. The story presents some scientific knowledge, which is useful; it presents other scientific conjectures which are laughable, but quaint (for instance, upon completion of the telescope, the country was awaiting word or sightings of settlements and "roaming herds of lunar animals"). Despite the antiquated science, the book continues to work as a classic adventure story, and Verne captures the excitement of the country's population monitoring the progress of the "great experiment"; it is easy to see why the book was a success, and it's enjoyable to consider the reactions of people reading it upon its initial publication.
    • 3/5
      Mostly rather dull, lacking the sense of dynamism and adventure of Verne's other classics, at least until the final third of the novel when Captain Nicholls properly joins the plot as Michel Ardan's and Barbicane's antagonist. The early part of the book reads too much like a dry Victorian technical manual on casting cannons. I also find it difficult to get past the now ridiculous science.
    • 3/5
      Once the Civil War has ended the members of the Baltimore Gun Club are without a purpose; they had been busy improving weaponry during the war. Their president, Impey Barbicane, has a compelling idea, however. They will build a giant cannon and send a projectile to the moon!

      The fourth of the Extraordinary Voyages series, this was first published in 1865. That was 104 years before the USA actually did send a man to the moon, and it’s interesting to read the “science” and compare Verne’s suppositions with what actually happened in 1969.

      Verne populates the novel with a colorful cast of characters. The members of the Gun Club are mostly veterans, and many had been severely injured on the battlefield: “Pitcairn calculated that in the Gun club there was not quite one arm for every four men, and only one leg for every three.” But these men are hardly disabled; they have the courage of their convictions and nothing will deter them from achieving their goals. There’s a great deal of humor in the interactions between the characters, as they argue among themselves what properties the cannon and projectile will have and where and when the launch will take place.

      It was an enjoyable adventure tale, though I admit to skimming over much of the scientific calculations. It’s easy to see why these Extraordinary Voyages have remained popular for over a century.
    • 5/5
      I had heard people talk about this book, but had never taken the time to read it. Written in 1865, it is amazing that Verne got most of the science right. The main difference between the book and the actual moon shot some 100 years later was the placement of the propulsion system. The dialogue seems rather basic and the book is probably geared to more of a middle school type audience. The explanations of all the problems to be overcome and the discussions of the solutions became tedious at times, but Verne was just showing he had considered this story very carefully. This is still a classic and I recommend it to any science fiction fan. Jules Verne was truly a man way ahead of his time.
    • 4/5
      While the science about the moon is certainly dated, this adventure is still chockful of enthusiastic suppositions about what might be on the moon. There were several sections which were dry calculations, but the chapters were short and the story kept moving. In fact, there were some assumptions Verne made which are very close to fact, and the troubles which the trio encounter in their projectile mirrored some of those of Apollo 13, many years later--and the characters prefigure some of the resolutions (think about the problems with oxygen). All in all, I enjoyed the read.
    • 3/5
      A very quaint period piece with some satire and hyperbole thrown in for fun.
    • 5/5
      Fucking hilarious
    • 4/5
      What a quirky little book! The synopsis sounds ridiculous by today's standards; design a 900 foot cannon to shoot a huge ball to the moon using cotton impreganted with some highly flammable substance as 'fuel' (called Pyroxite)
      And yet the book is laced with good sound science that one would expect to find in a modern hard SF book! The distance to the moon is known as is its orbital velocity and details such as the apogee and perigee of the moon are figured into the itineray. Its all jolly good fun with a mild poke at the Americans-even though the main characters are American and it reads as if written by an American, at times one detects the odd poke at the 'Yankees' as Verne's character refers to his colleagues.

      A group called the Gun Club form with the intention of making bigger and better arms, but when peace is declared its members feel somehow deprived of an enemy to fight and so must look elsewhere. Then up pops the idea of a huge gun, bigger than anything they have seen before, and it will be used to fire a cannon at the moon to gain relations with the selenites up there (i.e. colonise!) and plant the American flag declaring the world theirs! But thats how people thought back in the day, and bear in mind this was written over 100 years before the 1969 moon landing!

      All in all quite incredible and great fun!
    • 4/5
      Whoa, thank goodness I didn't read the back cover of the book, or else several fun surprises would be spoiled.

      Holy Verne, it's been so long since my last fix of his work. Two years perhaps. From the Earth to the Moon is light but still well written. This book was published in 1865, more than a hundred years (!) prior to the first successful moon landing by the men of Apollo 11.

      I'm not able to prove all the scientific calculation and details described so eloquently here, but they're sure as hell convincing enough. Again, Verne never ceases to amaze me with his knack of making technical details to be interesting.

      He actually made some correct predictions, such as:
      1. the country who successfully sent a manned mission to the moon is the US. Well, he did manage to include a French guy to join the mission - nationalistic interest perhaps?
      2. the two states contesting to be the launch site were Florida and Texas. Yep, and Florida won too in real life.
      3. the shape of the capsule and there were three people on board. Remember Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins?

      Verne did see far into the future. And he complemented all of those with wisecracking humor in between. Je vous adore beaucoup, monsieur!

      Distance is an empty word, distance does not exist!
      Believe in the power of imagination and let it flow, because you'll never know what the future holds.

    Book preview

    From the Earth to the Moon - Jules Verne

    Club

    Chapter 1

    THE ARTILLERISTS

    IT WAS DURING the great Civil War of the United States, that a new and very influential club started in Baltimore, Maryland. Everybody knows the astonishing energy with which the military instinct suddenly developed itself in that shipbuilding, engineering, and commercial nation. Shopkeepers who had hardly ever heard of West Point, jumped from their counters into the position of captains, colonels and even generals. Their knowledge of the art of war soon almost equalled that of the great masters of the old world, and, like them too, they won victories by enormous discharges of bullets, men, and greenbacks.

    But in gunnery especially the Americans even surpassed their brethren in Europe. Not that their arms ever reached a higher degree of precision; but they were constructed on a scale of such extraordinary dimensions that ranges were soon attained that had never before been known. As far indeed as regards plunging fire, flank fire, horizontal fire, oblique fire, raking fire, or reverse fire, the English, the French, the Prussians, had very little to learn; but even today the best European cannons, howitzers, and mortars are only mere pocket pistols in comparison to the formidable engines of the American artillery.

    This is not surprising. The Yankees, the best mechanics on earth, are natural born engineers, as the Italians are natural born musicians, and the Germans are natural born philosophers. It is therefore the most natural thing in the world to see them bring their daring ingenuity to bear on the art of gunnery. Hence their colossal cannons, far less useful, indeed, than their sewing machines, but quite as astonishing and much more bewildering. The huge monsters devised by Parrot, Dahlgren, Rodman, are well known. And the Armstrongs, the Pallisers, the Whitworths, the Treville de Beaulieus, the Krupps, had nothing for it but to surrender gracefully to their American rivals.

    Accordingly, during the terrible struggle between the North and the South, artillery ruled the roost in America; every day the Union journals chronicled enthusiastically the new inventions; in every country store, in every bar room throughout the land, the air resounded with rifled cannon, columbiads, swamp angels; and nearly every green grocer’s clerk went crazy from calculating difficult problems about the long range.

    The moment an American conceives an idea, he gets another American to share it with. If they are three, they elect a president and two secretaries; if four, they nominate a vice president, and the society takes action; if five, they call a stated meeting and the club is established. That is exactly what happened at Baltimore. The first inventor of a new cannon associated himself with the first man who cast it and with the first man who bored it. Such was the nucleus of the Gun Club. A month after its formation, its register contained the names of 1,800 effective, and 30,575 corresponding, members.

    It was an imperative condition on everyone wishing to join this club, an absolute sine qua non, that he should have invented or at least improved a cannon—or if not a cannon, a firearm of some kind. Still the inventors of fifteen shooters, of revolving carabines, or of sabre pistols and such small fry, enjoyed but slight consideration among the members of the Gun Club. Here, as throughout the nation at large, the artillery men overshadowed everybody else.

    The reputation they obtain, as a learned orator of the Club said one day, is in proportion to the masses of their cannon, and in exact ratio with the square of the distance reached by their projectiles. A comical application of Newton’s law of terrestrial gravitation.

    The Gun Club once founded, you can easily figure to yourself the results soon reached by the inventive genius of the Americans. The new war engines assumed proportions still more colossal, so that the shells they discharged often killed people who were quietly engaged at their occupations miles beyond the target. Such inventions naturally soon left far behind them the timid instruments of European artillery. Just figure it out a little for yourself.

    Once, in the good old times, it was thought to be a pretty respectable performance, if a thirty-six pounder, at a distance of three hundred feet, pierced, by a flank shot, thirty-six horses and sixty-eight men. That was only the art in its infancy. It has made some progress since. The Rodman cannon threw a ball weighing half a ton a distance of seven miles, and could have easily stretched five hundred horses and three hundred men. For a time the Gun Club seriously entertained the idea of convincing the world of such tremendous energy by a grand ocular demonstration. But though the horses might possibly be brought together, unfortunately the men upon whom it was proposed to operate objected so decidedly that the idea was unwillingly abandoned; so this great scientific question is left unsettled to the present day.

    One thing, however, is quite certain: the effect of these cannons was very destructive. At every discharge, the combatants fell before them like grass before the mowing machine. In comparison with such projectiles what was the famous ball that, at Coutras in 1587, in the wars of Henry IV, put twenty-five men hors de combat? Or that other which, at Zorndorff in 1758, when Frederic II was fighting the Russians, killed forty men? Or the one thrown by the Austrian cannon at Kesselsdorf in 1745, which at every discharge made seventy enemies bite the sod? What were even those wonderful guns of Jena and Austerlitz that had so often decided the day? These terrible engines of death would be considered mere children’s playthings in the Federal War! At the battle of Gettysburg, a conical projectile, shot by a rifled cannon, struck down 173 Confederates, and in the retreat across the Potomac, a Rodman ball sent 215 Southerners out of this wicked world without giving them even time to bless themselves. We must here likewise make mention of a formidable mortar invented by J. T. Marston, a most distinguished member and the Honorary Secretary of the Gun Club. This mammoth piece of ordnance at first excited universal enthusiasm, but its results by no means gratified the general expectation, for it burst at its first public trial, and killed a large number of the spectators, men, women, and children—337 all told.

    These eloquent figures speak sufficiently for themselves. Nothing we can say could add to their effect. Accordingly we shall conclude this part of the subject by giving the following result, obtained after much calculation by W. G. Pitcairn, Esq., the statistician of the Gun Club. By dividing the number of victims who had fallen beneath bullets and balls, by the number of the active members of the Gun Club, he found that each one of the latter had killed, on an average, 2,375⅙ men. Even a hasty glance at the number must convince the disinterested reader that the only avowed objects of this learned society were: first, the annihilation of the human race—of course on grounds strictly philanthropical—and second, the improvement of cannon as the best instruments of civilization. The Gun Club was in fact a Society of Exterminating Angels—though at heart they were, no doubt, the very best fellows in the world.

    It is hardly necessary to add that these Americans, brave as fire, by no means confined their speculations to theory; they tested them by frequent practical experience. You could find in the Club Register officers of every grade, lieutenants and generals; soldiers of every age, blushing debutants in the career of arms and grizzly veterans still standing solid at their posts. Many had fallen in the battlefield, and their names were all carefully recorded on the Roll of Honor. And many who had returned still bore on their persons the marks of their unquestioned intrepidity. Crutches, wooden legs, artificial arms, iron hands, gutta percha jaws, silver skulls, platina noses, false teeth—nothing was wanting to the collection; and W. J. Pitcairn, the statistician already mentioned, calculated that in the Gun Club, on an average, there was only one arm for every four men, and one pair of legs for every six.

    But such trifling considerations never disturbed the equanimity of these valiant artillery men, and their bosoms swelled with proper pride, and they congratulated each other with justifiable emotion whenever the New York Herald’s battle bulletin announced that the number of the slain was ten times greater than that of all the bullets, balls, and shells counted together.

    One day, however, a sad and miserable day, peace was signed by the survivors of the war; the roaring of the artillery ceased; the mortars grew dumb; howitzers tightly muzzled, and cannons with their heads hanging downwards, were dragged off to the arsenals; the balls were piled into pretty pyramids; the bloody tracks of war began to fade away; the cotton plants grew to an enormous size on the richly manured fields; mourning garments began to disappear from the streets; and the Gun Club remained plunged in a lethargy profound, exanimate, and hopeless.

    A few irrepressible workers, to be sure, unremitting drudges, would still keep on figuring at ballistic calculations and dreaming of gigantic shells and cyclopean howitzers. But, without practice, wherefore such vain theories? Accordingly the club rooms became gradually deserted; the waiters dozed in the antechambers; the newspapers, unread, grew mouldy on the files; the dark corners resounded with mournful snores; and the members of the Gun Club, once so bustling, so noisy, so exuberant, now reduced to silence by a disastrous peace, sulkily dawdled away their days and nights in reveries of platonic artillery!

    This is abominable, exclaimed Tom Hunter, one evening, wearily stretching his wooden legs, a splendid pair of Palmer’s best. Nothing to do! Nothing to hope for! What a miserable existence! Where is the grand old time when the cannon from Federal Hill woke us up every morning with its joyous detonations?

    Those happy days are gone, sang Billsby the brave, jolly as ever, though one of his eyes was only glass. "That was a time to live in! You invented your cannon; it was hardly cast before you could try it on the enemy. Then on your return to the camp you got a shake hands from Little Mac, or an encouraging nod from Sherman. But now the generals are all back at their counters, sanding their sugar, watering their whiskey, and making the women believe that cotton is wool. Ah! the melancholy days are come indeed, and Othello’s occupation is gone!"

    It’s a fact, Billsby! cried old Colonel Bloomsbury, quite energetically. Our fate has been pretty rough. Take myself for instance! I gave up the oyster packing business forever, to go to the war. I went to the war, I learned how to fight, I took my share in everything going, for nearly five years. A life of excitement and adventure became a second nature to me. Where am I now? Here, a shattered hulk, stranded high and dry, with nothing to do but put my hands in my pockets!

    The gallant old Colonel must have desired himself to be understood figuratively. Never again, poor fellow, could he put his hands in his pockets. The pockets indeed were plentiful enough, but what had become of the hands nobody ever knew—they had been blown off—arms and all—on the Fourth of July, 1864, by the bursting of a columbiad in the works before Petersburg. The Colonel had offered a liberal reward for their recovery, but it had never been claimed.

    And not a thing likely to turn up! cried J. T. Marston, scratching with his iron fingers a part of his head where the skull had been replaced by gutta percha. Not a shadow of a cloud in the political horizon! At a time, too, when so much has been left undone in the science of artillery! Even this very morning, I, the individual now talking to you, completed the drawing, with plan, section, elevation and all, of a mortar destined to work a revolution in the annals of warfare!

    You don’t say so? asked Tom Hunter, somewhat hurriedly, thinking perhaps of Marston’s last experiment.

    Yes, it is all finished, replied the latter. "But what will be the good of so many studies mastered, of so many difficulties vanquished? Isn’t it working for nothing and finding yourself? We Yankees seem determined to live in peace for the next hundred years, so that even Greeley is alarmed, and in this morning’s Tribune comes out in an article showing that we shall increase so fast before the century is out that we shall be obliged to eat each other up for want of room."

    Still, Marston, replied the Colonel, they are always fighting in Europe for something or other.

    Well? what of it?

    Why, we might see what we could do over there, and if our services were accepted—

    What are you thinking of, Colonel? exclaimed Billsby, even his artificial eye flashing with horror. Study ballistics for the benefit of our natural enemies!

    Better do even that than do nothing at all, retorted the Colonel.

    You’re right, Colonel, said Marston. Still we must not think of such a thing.

    Why not? asked the Colonel.

    Because, replied Marston, the folks of the old world entertain ideas regarding promotion singularly unconformable with our American notions. These people think that you should never become commander in chief without having commenced as lieutenant! That’s as much as to say you should never point a gun without having commenced by casting it! Now I call all that—

    Absurd nonsense! cried Hunter. But I know it is useless to argue with such people, and now I don’t see anything else left for us to do except to raise tobacco in Virginia, or dig oil wells in Pennsylvania.

    What’s that? exclaimed Marston, in a voice that rang like a trumpet on the morning of a battle. Do we so soon forget the grand and lofty aims for which our club was called into existence? Are we not most solemnly pledged to devote the remaining years of our lives to the improvement of all kinds of firearms? Do you imagine that no opportunity will ever occur again for trying the range of our projectiles? That the atmosphere will never again flash with the fire of our red artillery? That no international difficulty will ever occur again which will allow us to declare war on some transatlantic power? Will the French never run down one of our steamers? Will the English be very anxious to settle the Alabama claims? Will the Spaniards never fire at our flag, mistaking us for fillibusters?

    I’m afraid not, Marston, answered Bloomsbury. The incidents to which you refer are too good to be likely to occur soon. And even if they did take place, we should never profit by them! France, England and Spain may bully us to their hearts’ content! Let them bully! We have made up our minds to have peace for a hundred years, and peace we shall have! Thin-skinned Americans are getting out of date. The conscription and the taxes have so much disgusted us with war, that we are all fast becoming a nation of women!

    Humiliating thought! cried Billsby.

    Degrading thought! repeated Hunter.

    Both humiliating and degrading, if true! cried Marston, vehemently. And true I am afraid it is! There are a thousand reasons cut and dry for fighting, and yet fight we shall not! We economize legs and arms for people who hardly use them!—Hold on! Did not America once belong to the British?"

    So they say, at least, answered Hunter, curious to know what Marston was driving at.

    Well then, should not Great Britain in her turn belong to the Americans? asked Marston with a triumphant air.

    That would be only justice, exclaimed Billsby.

    Well, you go and propose that to President Grant; how will he receive you?

    He would send us off with a flea in our ear, mumbled Billsby, between the only four teeth the war had left him.

    I shall never vote for him again, cried Marston.

    Never shall Grant obtain a vote from me! cried all these invalid warriors with one voice.

    And now to conclude; resumed Marston; my new mortar is designed, and if I am not furnished pretty soon with the opportunity of testing it on a real battle field, I shall first send in my resignation as member of the Gun Club; then I will buy a ticket and travel as far west as the Pacific Railroad will take me—never to return!

    And we shall all follow you—never to return! unanimously replied all his hearers.

    In fact, things by this time had come to such a pass that the club was threatened with immediate dissolution, when all at once an unexpected event prevented the occurrence of a catastrophe so much to be regretted.

    The very morning after the conversation detailed above, each member of the club received a circular worded as follows:

    "Baltimore, Md.­

    "October 3, 186–.

    "The President of the Gun Club has the honor to announce to his associates that at the stated meeting of the 5th instant, he will lay before them a communication calculated to interest them profoundly. Accordingly, he entreats them not to fail being present on said important occasion.

    "Their devoted colleague,

    "J. P. Barbican,

    "P. G. C."

    Chapter 2

    THE PRESIDENT’S COMMUNICATION

    AT EIGHT O’CLOCK on the evening of October 5, the rooms of the Gun Club, 24 Monument Square, were crowded to suffocation. All the members residing in Baltimore or the neighborhood had been on hand almost since midday. As to the corresponding members, the trains had been landing them at all hours, and even at eight o’clock the cry was still they come. The immense hall could not hold half of them. The neighboring rooms were closely packed: the passages were jammed: there was not a square inch of room to spare even on the grand staircase that ornamented the front of the building. All the streets in the neighborhood were so thronged, that the city cars stopped running for six hours. It had leaked out somehow that the President of the Gun Club had a very strange communication to make that evening, and everyone in Baltimore, rich and poor, white and colored, was intensely curious to know its nature. In spite of the vast numbers, however, it was not a noisy crowd; the most exciting, contradictory and absurd rumors passed from mouth to mouth, but only in whispers; fear of losing anything by loud talking kept them all comparatively still; though, of course, they bustled and jostled, crushed and pushed, and elbowed and shouldered, with all that liberty of action peculiar to a people accustomed to self government, and never backward in exercising its privileges.

    That evening, in Baltimore, no amount of money could purchase a ticket of admission into the grand hall; it was reserved exclusively for the most distinguished members, resident or correspondent: even the ladies had to stay outside: the Mayor and the City Council fared no better, having to stand in the passages, where they could see nothing, and with outstretched ear trying to catch as well as they could all that was going on.

    The hall itself presented a spectacle at once startling and interesting. The decorations of the vast apartment were wonderfully appropriate. Tall pillars, formed of cannons fitted to each other in fishing rod style, stout mortars serving as the bases, sustained the light, airy, lace-like cast-iron trusses of the roof. Trophies, made of blunderbusses, arquebusses, linstocks, carabines, matchlocks, all kinds of firearms, ancient and modern, were grouped in picturesque array along the lofty walls. Gas blazed forth from chandeliers made of thousands of glittering revolvers, whilst girandoles of pistols and candelabras of guns piled in circles, completed the splendid illumination. Models of cannons, specimens of gun metal, breech-sights riddled with bullets, target plates pierced by the balls of the Gun Club, rammers and sponges in varied assortment, shells strung like pearls, grape shot twisted into necklaces, fireballs formed into garlands—in a word—an endless variety of an artillery man’s complete stock of tools and materials surprised and pleased the eye by their symmetrical arrangement, and almost made you think that their object was decoration rather than destruction.

    In a most conspicuous position could be seen, carefully protected from the dust by a magnificent glass shade, a shapeless mass of iron, rent and twisted by the action of powder—the precious remains of J. T. Marston’s giant cannon.

    At the extremity of the hall, the President, attended by four secretaries, occupied an elevated platform. His seat, supported by a sculptured gun carriage, affected the form of a thirty-two-inch mortar; it was pointed at an angle of eighty-six degrees and suspended by the trunnions, so that the President could swing himself at pleasure as in a rocking chair, a convenience sometimes very desirable on account of the great heat. On the desk, which was a large wrought-iron plate supported by six carronades, lay an ink bottle of exquisite taste, made of a beautiful Biscayan rifle splendidly carved; beside it stood a detonating bell, which, on touching the button, went off with a report as loud as a pistol shot. Many a time, during the stormy debates, the ringing crack of this new fashioned bell, sharp and stunning as it was on ordinary occasions, altogether failed to make itself heard above the stentorian voices of the excited disputants.

    In front of the desk, benches arranged in zigzag, like the circumvallations of an entrenchment, formed a succession of bastions and curtains where the members of the Gun Club took their seats, and this evening indeed it could be said with truth that

    Warriors thronged the rampart heights.

    They knew the President’s nature well enough to be certain that he would not have called them together unless for some very grave reason.

    J. P. Barbican was about fifty years of age, calm, cold, austere, remarkably serious, and of all men perhaps the most taciturn and reserved; punctual as a chronometer, of a temper that nothing could ruffle, and of a resolution that nothing could shake. With no pretensions to chivalry, he rather courted dangerous—even rash—adventures, but he went into them coolly, and with a head full of practical ideas. He was rather an extreme specimen of the New Englander, the Northern settler, the descendant of Cromwell’s Ironsides, and, therefore, the implacable foe of all cavaliers, whether they showed themselves as royalists in the old world, or republicans in the new. In a word, he was a cast-iron Yankee.

    A native of the State of Maine, he had made an immense fortune in the lumber trade and shipbuilding; in the early part of the war he had equipped and sent to the field a whole regiment almost entirely at his own expense. His extraordinary genius for gunnery was soon known and highly appreciated, and though his name seldom appeared in the papers, his was the master hand that directed most of the great artillery operations by land and water. Fertile in expedients, bold to rashness in his ideas, he contributed powerfully to the progress of this branch of the service, and gave experimental researches an extraordinary impulse.

    He was of about middle size and—rare exception in the Gun Club—his limbs were whole. His strongly marked features singularly resembled those given to Uncle Sam by the illustrated papers, only without their humor or grotesqueness. Severe, perhaps even harsh, they seemed to have been drawn with a square and ruler. If, as it is said, you can tell a man’s real disposition by looking at his profile, Barbican must have possessed energy, audacity, and imperturbability, each in an extreme degree.

    At this moment he was resting motionless in his seat, silent, absorbed, concentrated, his face almost concealed by one of those tall stove pipe hats which seem to be screwed on to American craniums.

    His associates chatted noisily around him, but he hardly seemed conscious of their presence; they asked questions, they ventured answers, they launched into regions of the wildest speculation, keeping a close eye in the meantime on the slightest movement of their President: it was all in vain: they were still as far as ever from getting at the difficult x of his inexcitable placidity.

    But the moment the last stroke of eight o’clock had been struck by the fulminating timepiece of the great hall, the President rose to his feet as suddenly as if he had been shot up by a spring; in an instant all noise ceased; the vast assembly was still as death, as the orator, in a slightly emphatic tone, commenced his long-expected speech:

    "Gentlemen:

    Too long, as you well know, has a barren peace been steeping the members of the Gun Club in the mire of a listless inactivity. After a most exciting and eventful, but unhappily too brief, period of a few years, we have been compelled to abandon our labors and come to a complete stand still on the path of progress. I do not hesitate to say aloud, and I care not who hears me, that another war coming from any quarter whatsoever, got up under any pretense whatsoever, if it only once more put arms in our hands, I should hail with delight—

    Certainly! cried the excitable Marston. We must get up another war!

    Hear! hear! broke in the assembly on all sides, intensely interested.

    But war, continued the President, "at present is impossible, and, whatever may be the expectations of the honorable gentleman who has just interrupted me, it is my well founded opinion that many a year must elapse before we shall again hear our cannons

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