On August 25, 1835, the New York Sun began telling its readers that the moon was occupied. Not merely alive — civilized. Unicorns grazing, zebras the size of dogs, horned bears, winged people with glossy copper-colored hair, and beavers that walked upright on two legs, carried their young in their arms, and built huts with smoke curling out of them. America believed every word.
The first great moon hoax in American history landed 123 years before NASA existed, and nobody has ever topped it.
A telescope with a 24-foot lens
The setup was almost too good. The Sun ran a six-part series crediting the discoveries to Sir John Herschel — a genuinely renowned astronomer, and the son of the even more renowned William Herschel, who had discovered Uranus. The paper said the findings came from a supplement to the Edinburgh Journal of Science. Herschel, it explained, was in South Africa, working with a vast new telescope built on an entirely new principle, its lens measuring 24 feet across.
Every load-bearing detail was true enough to hold weight. Herschel really was in South Africa. He really was scanning the sky, watching for Halley's Comet, which was due sometime in 1835. And it was an age when the impossible arrived on a schedule: the raincoat in 1823, toy balloons in 1824, the electromagnet in 1825, the microphone in 1827, Braille in 1829, the sewing machine in 1830, the mechanical calculator in 1835. A lens that could pick out rivers and livestock on the lunar surface was not, in that decade, an outrageous thing to imagine.
Batman, in Latin
The prose is thick and Victorian and, read today, a slog — but the inventory is glorious. Nine species of mammal. Thirty-eight species of forest tree. A small kind of reindeer, the elk, the moose, the horned bear, and the biped beaver, which resembled the earthly beaver in every respect except its missing tail and its invariable habit of walking upright on two feet. It carries its young in its arms like a human being and moves with an easy gliding motion, the account said, and from the smoke in nearly all of its huts, there is no doubt of its being acquainted with the use of fire.
Then came the residents. Four feet tall, furred everywhere but the face, with membrane wings folded against their backs from shoulder to calf. The author named them Vespertilio Homo — Latin for bat man. Watching three parties of them walking toward a small wood, the narrator observed that these creatures were evidently engaged in conversation, hands and arms moving with emphasis, and concluded: We hence inferred that they were rational beings.
Fire-using, tailless, bipedal beavers with unicorns for neighbors. Honestly, who wouldn't want that to be real?
Everybody bought it
Papers across the country reprinted the story within a week. The Philadelphia Inquirer told readers on August 29 that if these things were seen, we must believe that there is indeed more in the universe than is dreamt of in our philosophies. Religious groups started working out how to get missionaries up there. A delegation of scientists from Yale traveled to New York hunting for the original journal articles and got walked office-to-office by Sun employees until they gave up and went home to New Haven, never realizing they'd been played.
The real author was a British writer named Richard Adams Locke, who published without a byline. He claimed he'd meant to mock the public's gullibility, not exploit it — but once the thing took off, the Sun had no interest in confessing. The paper had been selling around 8,000 copies a day. By the afternoon of August 25 you couldn't find an unsold copy anywhere; by the end of the run, circulation had doubled. The Sun packaged the series as a pamphlet and sold that too, then, since neither had illustrations, sold lithographs. One of them, titled Lunar Animals, sits in the Library of Congress.
Edgar Allan Poe was the loudest debunker, sputtering that not one person in 10 discredited it and that a professor of mathematics at a Virginia college had assured him he had no doubt of the truth of the whole affair. Poe's outrage may not have been entirely pure. He first had to satisfy himself that Locke hadn't lifted his own story about a man who flew to the moon by hot air balloon. Once satisfied, he called Locke's work genius.
Publisher Benjamin Day never admitted the hoax. Three weeks later he ran an editorial arguing it hardly mattered whether the moon story was true, since it had usefully distracted a public torn up by the fight over the abolition of slavery. And Sir John Herschel, unreachable in South Africa, had no idea he'd become the most talked-about man in America.
In 1835 Americans were told the moon held unicorns, winged bat-people and two-legged beavers who built huts and lit fires — and believed it so completely that Yale sent scientists to New York to track down the source. Today, as many as one in five Americans refuse to believe two men in spacesuits stood on that same moon.
One skeptical dude at Rocketdyne
A century and a half later, the direction of belief reversed. The modern moon hoax theory traces to one man: Bill Kaysing, a Navy officer in World War II who worked at Rocketdyne from 1956 to 1963, the company behind the Saturn V engine. He wasn't an engineer or a physicist. He was a technical writer — head of the department — with access to Mercury, Gemini, Atlas and Apollo documents. He said colleagues told him a crewed mission to the moon was possible but bringing that crew home alive was not. A hunch bloomed into conviction, and watching Neil Armstrong step onto the surface on July 20, 1969, only hardened it. In 1976 he self-published We Never Went to the Moon, America's $30 billion swindle. It inspired the 1978 film Capricorn One and a theory that anywhere from six to 20 percent of Americans hold today. Kaysing later claimed NASA murdered the Challenger crew to keep them quiet.
The counterarguments never land, because they're not really arguments. The physicist David Robert Grimes calculated that a hoax involving 400,000 people would have cracked in under four years. There are no stars in the photos for the same reason there are none in space shuttle or Mir imagery — the sun never switches off, and starlight can't compete. The flag was mounted on a rod so it wouldn't droop; what looked like fluttering was the pole vibrating as the astronauts let go. Armstrong's boot print holds because moon dust has sharp edges that stick, and there's no weather to smooth it away.
What we'll believe, and what we won't
Out past the neon, in the Mojave scrub around Las Vegas, tourists point at a stretch of desert and say that's where it was filmed. Online, a clip circulates of Stanley Kubrick confessing he shot the whole thing — an interview dated May 1999, two months after Kubrick died on March 8. It's an actor, from a movie called Shooting Stanley Kubrick.
Apollo got squeezed between American optimism and the sour years that followed — Vietnam, Watergate, the energy crisis — and then we stopped going in 1972 and didn't return for 50 years, which reads to a cynic like an admission. So we'll accept moon Nazis, a hollow moon that rings like a bell, an artificial moon watching us. Just not two men in 1969 standing on it.
It really is a shame about the beavers.
