"Up in a balloon, boys!"--_Macbeth_.
TOURS, FIFTH WEEK Of THE REPUBLIC, 1870.
DEAR PUNCHINELLO: To all men of lofty ambition I would recommend a
balloon excursion. The higher you get, the smaller and more
insignificant do earthly things appear. A balloon is the best pulpit
imaginable from which to preach a sermon upon the littleness of mundane
realities, first--because no one can hear you, and your congregation
cannot therefore be held responsible for indifference to your teaching;
and second--because at that height you are fully impressed with the
truth of what you say.
Aspirations of whatever kind, all longings and emotions of the
"Excelsior" order, all appeals to "look aloft," come handier when you
can "do" them in an aerial car.
You will pardon this philosophic digression in respect to the peculiar
feelings of a man who has just been "up in a balloon." Our air-ship had
been anchored in the _Champ de Mars_ two days, waiting for a fair wind.
An hour before we started, a Yorkshireman, who had evidently never seen
such a creation before, annoyed me with incessant questions as to what
it was. His large, wondering, stupid eyes never ceased gazing at the
monster as it tugged heavily at the stake which held it. "Na' wha' maun
_that_ be?" he exclaimed, starting back as it gave a very violent jerk.
I could stand it no longer, and thus broke forth:--
"See here, my good fellow, you've got plenty of cheek to be bothering me
with your confounded ridiculous questions; and so I'll answer you once
for all. What you see tied fast there is called a balloon, and it's only
a French method of drawing Englishmen's teeth." He left me--I trust not
in anger; but that was the last I saw of the Yorkshireman.
We got off, (M. GODARD and I) about four o'clock P.M., and ascended
steadily till Paris, with its rim of fortifications, looked more like
the crater of a volcano than anything else. I brought out my opera-glass
as we moved in the direction of Versailles, and reconnoitred the
situation. In a field adjoining the palace I saw an object that looked
like a post driven into the ground, and capped with a large-sized
clam-shell. GODARD levelled his glass and examined it. His lip curled
proudly with scorn as he said:--
"That is the butcher himself, WILLIAM of Prussia. The clam-like
appearance you notice is due to the baldness of his head."
I only said: "Can it be possible?" and we moved on. How my blood
throbbed as we cavorted through the blue depths of heaven! I was far
from feeling blue myself, and GODARD said that if anything I was green.
The bearings of the remark did not strike me at the time, as a
cannon-ball from the direction of Versailles whirled within twenty feet
of the balloon and lifted the right flank (a military expression) of my
moustache into your subscriber's eye, notwithstanding it was waxed with
LOUVET'S best, warranted to keep each hair _en règle_, even in the worst
gales. From that moment I renounced LOUVET. Following the cannon-shot
came a miscellaneous assortment of small projectiles, which had the
effect of creating some excitement among the atmospheric _animalculae_,
but failed to disturb the serenity of M. GODARD or myself. When about
ten miles from Blois I detected what I supposed was a large vein of
chalk-pits. It was very white, and apparently motionless. My companion
expressed his surprise at the difficulty I had in distinguishing objects
correctly, and seemed to lose patience.
"_Bigarre_, you no know zat? It ees ze dirty Proosien linen vashed out,
and hoong zere to dry!"
I told him in Arabic that he needn't get his back up; but he understood
me not, and continued playing with the cats which we were transporting
to Tours to protect the Commissary stores from the ravages of the rats
that the Prussians had despatched to eat up the provisions of the
garrison. Towards night I began to have a queer sensation in the
stomach. It wasn't like sea-sickness, nor like the feeling produced by
swinging. If a man just recovering from the effects of his first cigar
were offered a bowl of hot goose-grease for supper, I suppose he would
have felt as I felt. At the moment a queer twinge took me; I ejaculated:
"Oh! Lord!"
"Vat ees de matter?" inquired GODARD. If the man had had any other
nationality, I might have talked sense to him; but he was a Frenchman,
so I said:--
"Do you love me?"
"Do I loves you?"
"Yes!" I roared frantically, "do you love me?"
"_Begaire_ I dunno, but I zinks so."
"Then," said I, dimly discerning a chance of relief from my suffering,
"throw me out as ballast."
"Oh, _horrible! horrible! Mon Dieu!_ vat a man!"
I turned my sickly gaze upon him and saw that he was deadly pale, and
that the perspiration stood out in great drops upon his forehead. The
explanation was plain enough--he took me for a maniac. I would have
protested and moved the previous question, but taking a small phial from
his pocket he broke off the head and threw the contents in my face. Ten
seconds later I was totally oblivious, and upon recovering found myself
in this place, where such strange things are going on that my fingers
prick to write them.