EFFECT OF PRESIDENT BARBICANE’S COMMUNICATION.
It is impossible to depict the effect produced by
the last words of the honourable president. What
cries! what vociferations! What a succession
of groans, hurrahs, cheers, and all the onomatopoeia
of which the American language is so full. It
was an indescribable hubbub and disorder. Mouths,
hands, and feet made as much noise as they could.
All the weapons in this artillery museum going off
at once would not have more violently agitated the
waves of sound. That is not surprising; there
are cannoneers nearly as noisy as their cannons.
Barbicane remained calm amidst these enthusiastic
clamours; perhaps he again wished to address some
words to his colleagues, for his gestures asked for
silence, and his fulminating bell exhausted itself
in violent detonations; it was not even heard.
He was soon dragged from his chair, carried in triumph,
and from the hands of his faithful comrades he passed
into those of the no less excited crowd.
Nothing can astonish an American. It has often
been repeated that the word “impossible”
is not French; the wrong dictionary must have been
taken by mistake. In America everything is easy,
everything is simple, and as to mechanical difficulties,
they are dead before they are born. Between the
Barbicane project and its realisation not one true
Yankee would have allowed himself to see even the
appearance of a difficulty. As soon said as done.
The triumphant march of the president was prolonged
during the evening. A veritable torchlight procession—Irish,
Germans, Frenchmen, Scotchmen—all the heterogeneous
individuals that compose the population of Maryland—shouted
in their maternal tongue, and the cheering was unanimous.
Precisely as if she knew it was all about her, the
moon shone out then with serene magnificence, eclipsing
other lights with her intense irradiation. All
the Yankees directed their eyes towards the shining
disc; some saluted her with their hands, others called
her by the sweetest names; between eight o’clock
and midnight an optician in Jones-Fall-street made
a fortune by selling field-glasses. The Queen
of Night was looked at through them like a lady of
high life. The Americans acted in regard to her
with the freedom of proprietors. It seemed as
if the blonde Phoebe belonged to these enterprising
conquerors and already formed part of the Union territory.
And yet the only question was that of sending a projectile—a
rather brutal way of entering into communication even
with a satellite, but much in vogue amongst civilised
nations.
