I have much to say of
      the climate of the planet; of its wonderful alternations of heat
      and cold, of unmitigated and burning sunshine for one fortnight,
      and more than polar frigidity for the next; of a constant
      transfer of moisture, by distillation like that in vacuo, from
      the point beneath the sun to the point the farthest from it; of a
      variable zone of running water; of the people themselves; of
      their manners, customs, and political institutions; of their
      peculiar physical construction; of their ugliness; of their want
      of ears, those useless appendages in an atmosphere so peculiarly
      modified; of their consequent ignorance of the use and properties
      of speech; of their substitute for speech in a singular method of
      inter-communication; of the incomprehensible connection between
      each particular individual in the moon with some particular
      individual on the earth—a connection analogous with, and
      depending upon, that of the orbs of the planet and the
      satellites, and by means of which the lives and destinies of the
      inhabitants of the one are interwoven with the lives and
      destinies of the inhabitants of the other; and above all, if it
      so please your Excellencies—above all, of those dark and hideous
      mysteries which lie in the outer regions of the moon—regions
      which, owing to the almost miraculous accordance of the
      satellite’s rotation on its own axis with its sidereal revolution
      about the earth, have never yet been turned, and, by God’s mercy,
      never shall be turned, to the scrutiny of the telescopes of man. All this, and more—much more—would I most willingly detail. But,
      to be brief, I must have my reward. I am pining for a return to
      my family and to my home; and as the price of any farther
      communication on my part—in consideration of the light which I
      have it in my power to throw upon many very important branches of
      physical and metaphysical science—I must solicit, through the
      influence of your honorable body, a pardon for the crime of which
      I have been guilty in the death of the creditors upon my
      departure from Rotterdam. This, then, is the object of the
      present paper. Its bearer, an inhabitant of the moon, whom I have
      prevailed upon, and properly instructed, to be my messenger to
      the earth, will await your Excellencies’ pleasure, and return to
      me with the pardon in question, if it can, in any manner, be
      obtained. “I have the honor to be, etc., your Excellencies’ very humble
      servant,

      “HANS PFAALL.”

      Upon finishing the perusal of this very extraordinary document,
      Professor Rub-a-dub, it is said, dropped his pipe upon the ground
      in the extremity of his surprise, and Mynheer Superbus Von
      Underduk having taken off his spectacles, wiped them, and
      deposited them in his pocket, so far forgot both himself and his
      dignity, as to turn round three times upon his heel in the
      quintessence of astonishment and admiration. There was no doubt
      about the matter—the pardon should be obtained. So at least
      swore, with a round oath, Professor Rub-a-dub, and so finally
      thought the illustrious Von Underduk, as he took the arm of his
      brother in science, and without saying a word, began to make the
      best of his way home to deliberate upon the measures to be
      adopted. Having reached the door, however, of the burgomaster’s
      dwelling, the professor ventured to suggest that as the messenger
      had thought proper to disappear—no doubt frightened to death by
      the savage appearance of the burghers of Rotterdam—the pardon
      would be of little use, as no one but a man of the moon would
      undertake a voyage to so vast a distance. To the truth of this
      observation the burgomaster assented, and the matter was
      therefore at an end. Not so, however, rumors and speculations. The letter, having been published, gave rise to a variety of
      gossip and opinion. Some of the over-wise even made themselves
      ridiculous by decrying the whole business; as nothing better than
      a hoax. But hoax, with these sort of people, is, I believe, a
      general term for all matters above their comprehension. For my
      part, I cannot conceive upon what data they have founded such an
      accusation. Let us see what they say:

      Imprimus. That certain wags in Rotterdam have certain especial
      antipathies to certain burgomasters and astronomers. Don’t understand at all. Secondly. That an odd little dwarf and bottle conjurer, both of
      whose ears, for some misdemeanor, have been cut off close to his
      head, has been missing for several days from the neighboring city
      of Bruges. Well—what of that? Thirdly. That the newspapers which were stuck all over the little
      balloon were newspapers of Holland, and therefore could not have
      been made in the moon. They were dirty papers—very dirty—and
      Gluck, the printer, would take his Bible oath to their having
      been printed in Rotterdam. He was mistaken—undoubtedly—mistaken. Fourthly, That Hans Pfaall himself, the drunken villain, and the
      three very idle gentlemen styled his creditors, were all seen, no
      longer than two or three days ago, in a tippling house in the
      suburbs, having just returned, with money in their pockets, from
      a trip beyond the sea. Don’t believe it—don’t believe a word of it. Lastly. That it is an opinion very generally received, or which
      ought to be generally received, that the College of Astronomers
      in the city of Rotterdam, as well as other colleges in all other
      parts of the world,—not to mention colleges and astronomers in
      general,—are, to say the least of the matter, not a whit better,
      nor greater, nor wiser than they ought to be. ~~~ End of Text ~~~

Notes to Hans Pfaal

      (*1) NOTE—Strictly speaking, there is but little similarity
      between the above sketchy trifle and the celebrated “Moon-Story”
      of Mr. Locke; but as both have the character of _hoaxes_
      (although the one is in a tone of banter, the other of downright
      earnest), and as both hoaxes are on the same subject, the
      moon—moreover, as both attempt to give plausibility by scientific
      detail—the author of “Hans Pfaall” thinks it necessary to say, in
      _self-defence,_ that his own _jeu d’esprit_ was published in the
      “Southern Literary Messenger” about three weeks before the
      commencement of Mr. L’s in the “New York Sun.” Fancying a
      likeness which, perhaps, does not exist, some of the New York
      papers copied “Hans Pfaall,” and collated it with the
      “Moon-Hoax,” by way of detecting the writer of the one in the
      writer of the other.