From the Earth to the Moon - The Original Classic Edition. Verne Jules

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 encour-agement 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

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       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 bat-tle, 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 ac-commodate 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

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       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