ART. II.--_Aerial Voyages._

_Travels in the Air._ By JAMES GLAISHER, F.R.S., CAMILLE FLAMMARION,

W. DE FONVIELLE, and GASTON TISSANDIER. Edited by JAMES GLAISHER,

F.R.S. With 125 illustrations. London: Richard Bentley and Son. 1871.

A few years ago a Frenchman, apostrophising the Genius of Humanity as

none but a Frenchman can do, took the liberty of reproaching that

metaphorical being for its extreme backwardness in one department of

duty. He called upon it to 'march,' an injunction which his countrymen

are so fond of issuing that they sometimes forget to tell you where,

or to state the reason why. The present age, he intimated, demanded

this movement: the coming generations would be greatly disappointed if

it were not accomplished. 'One effort,' said he encouragingly to the

Genius, 'and the future is thine (_l'avenir t'appartient_)!' The

crooked places, he promised, should be made straight, and the rough

ones delightfully smooth. There should be no more mountains (Pyrenees

or otherwise), and the valleys should become as level as the plains!

And what does the reader suppose was the duty in respect of which the

genius in question was so shamefully in arrear? It was, says M.

Farcot, in the matter of aerostation. How is it, asked this

individual, somewhat sharply, that man, who is so anxious to conquer

everything and everybody (except, we might add, himself), should not

have made greater exertions to subdue the sole element which continues

in a state of rebellion? How is it that a being who has such

magnificent forces at command, and can traverse the ocean with an ease

and a rapidity which the fleetest denizens of the deep cannot surpass,

should suffer himself to be outstripped in the air by an insignificant

fly? M. Farcot could not comprehend it; M. Farcot would not submit to

it. He therefore offered his services to mankind as the precursor of a

new era, in which the balloon was to become the prominent figure, and

entreated the object of his invocation to wake up, and with a single

bound to overleap the gulf that lay between it and its greatest

triumphs.

We are not in a position to state whether the genius in question

listened favourably to M. Farcot's fervid appeal; but it is certain

that his hopes have not yet been realized. The balloon has always

appeared to possess such splendid capabilities that it is no wonder

its admirers never weary of predicting a brilliant future for the

machine. Considering the prominent part which Frenchmen have played in

the history of aerostation, it will be readily understood that the

apparatus commenced its career with a dash and _élan_ which led

mankind to anticipate that it would accomplish marvellous things, and

become one of the foremost agents in the great work of civilization.

Our lively neighbours, ever on the alert for glory until their recent

misfortunes, and probably so still, were charmed with the idea of

conquering a new region, though it contained nothing but clouds, and

were by no means insensible to the vanity of riding in the air, though

in most cases they went up, like their famous sovereign, simply to

come down again.

Many years have elapsed--nearly a century--since Pilâtre de Rozier and

the Marquis d'Arlandes made their daring voyage into the atmosphere in

the car of a fire-balloon, this being the first excursion ever

attempted by living creatures, if we except three anonymous animals, a

sheep, a duck, and a cock, which were sent up in the previous month,

and returned in safety to the earth. But as yet, though the machine

has rendered considerable service to science, and will doubtless

assist in the solution of many interesting problems, it is a thing of

promise rather than of performance. It is still in a rudimentary

state, and should be received, says M. Glaisher, simply 'as the first

principle of some aerial instrument which remains to be suggested.'

Potentially, it may include the germ of some great invention, just as

Hiero's eolipile and Lord Worcester's 'water-commanding' engine

contained a prophecy of the most masterly of human machines--the steam

giants of Watt. But to apply the well-known metaphor of Franklin,

when asked what was the use of a balloon, we may say that the

'infant' has not grown up into a man.

Within the last twelve months, however, this largest of human

toys--the plaything of pleasure seekers, and the cynosure of all eyes

at _fêtes_ and tea-gardens--has been converted into a useful machine,

though under the pressure of circumstances which every philanthropist

must deeply deplore.

Of course, when the balloon was presented to mankind, one of the first

thoughts which suggested itself to our combative race was this--'Can

we turn it to any account in war? Will it assist us in killing our

enemies, or capturing their fortresses?' And when we remember that the

machine was reared amongst the most military people in Europe, can we

doubt that as Napoleon's great question respecting the Simplon road

was, whether it would carry cannon, so the chief point with a

Frenchman would be, whether a balloon could be rendered of any service

in a battle? Not many years were suffered to elapse before regular

experiments were instituted with this view. An aerostatic school was

established at Meudon, a company of aeronauts, under the command of

Colonel Coutelle, was formed, and a number of balloons constructed by

Couté were distributed amongst the divisions of the French army, not

even forgetting the troops despatched to Egypt. At the sieges of

Maubeuge, Charleroi, Mannheim, and Ehrenbreitstein the invention was

found to be of some value for purposes of reconnoitring; and previous

to the battle of Fleurus, Coutelle and an officer spent several hours

in the air, studying the positions of the Austrians, and this with

such effect that their information materially assisted General Jourdan

in gaining the victory. The machine was, of course, held captive

during the process, but its tether was easily extended by means of a

windlass, and thus the occupants were enabled to soar above the

enemy's fire.

More than once it has been proposed to build huge balloons, and

freight them with shells and other missiles, which might be

conveniently dropped down upon a hostile corps, or 'plumped' into the

midst of a beleaguered town. With a view to the demolition of the

fortress of St. Juan de Ulloa, during the war between Mexico and the

United States, Mr. Wise suggested the construction of an enormous

air-ship, which was to carry up a quantity of bombs and torpedoes,

and, whilst securely moored in the atmosphere by means of a cable

several miles in length, it would be in a position to rain down death

upon the devoted place. To its honour, however, the American

Government declined the use of such an aerial battery.

Fortunately--we think we may say fortunately--for the interests of

mankind, the balloon has not succeeded to any considerable extent as a

military machine. Even the Jesuit Lana felt inclined to weep over his

abortive project (he did pray over it) when he considered how easy it

would be for warlike marauders to set the stoutest walls and ramparts

at defiance, and to hurl destruction into any city they might select.

Let us hope that the balloon is destined for more pacific purposes.

The range of modern guns, and the difficulty of manoeuvring so

rudderless an apparatus, seem to cut it off from a career of glory. If

employed for purposes of reconnoitring purely, and kept in a captive

condition, it may occasionally render service by darting suddenly into

the atmosphere, and taking a glimpse of the enemy's position or

movements. But, then, a tethered balloon, as M. de Fonvielle

intimates, belongs neither to the air nor the earth; it is a creature

compelled to serve two masters, and therefore cannot do its duty to

either; but, whilst attempting to obey the commands of its rulers

below, it is forced to yield to the caprice of the breezes above. If

free, asks M. Simonin, and if the wind were everything the aerial

heroes could wish; if, moreover, the balloon, charged with the most

formidable fulminates, were carried direct to the hostile camp, could

they expect to find the enemy massed for a review or a manoeuvre

precisely at the spot over which they sailed, and could they time

their discharges so beautifully, having due regard to the speed of the

machine, that their projectiles should explode at the most fitting

moment for damaging their foes? Happily, in neither of the two

greatest struggles of recent times--how recent none need say, for the

scent of blood is yet on the soil of Virginia, and the bones of Teuton

and Gaul still lie blended on the fields of France--has the balloon

brought itself into formidable confederacy with Krupp cannon or the

murderous mittrailleuse.

War, however, the greatest of scourges, is sometimes compelled, in the

good providence of God, to yield an incidental harvest of blessings.

Liberty has often been entrusted to the keeping of the bayonet, and

civilization has more than once depended upon the explosive virtues of

charcoal and saltpetre. It is not impossible that the recent

investment of Paris may ultimately lead to the development of aerial

navigation on a scale which would gladden the heart of M. Farcot, and

almost satisfy the expectations of some of the greatest enthusiasts in

the art. We allude, of course, to the employment of the balloon for

postal purposes. During the recent siege of that city--we mean, of

course, by the Germans, and not by Frenchmen themselves--upwards of

fifty of these aerial packets sailed from the beleaguered metropolis

with despatches for the outer world. They conveyed about

two-and-a-half millions of letters, representing a total weight of

about ten tons. Most of them took out a number of pigeons, which were

intended to act as postmen from the provinces. One, called _Le Général

Faidherbe_, was furnished with four shepherds' dogs, which it was

hoped would break through the Prussian lines, carrying with them

precious communications concealed under their collars. The greater

number of these balloons were under the management of seamen,

sometimes solitary ones, whose nautical training, it was naturally

supposed, would qualify them more especially for the duties of aerial

navigation. More than one fell into the hands of the enemy, having

dropped down right amongst the Prussians. In some of these cases the

crews were generally made prisoners, but in others they effected their

escape; and more than once their despatches were preserved in a very

remarkable way--in one instance being secreted in a dung cart, and in

another being rescued by a forester, and conveyed to Buffet, the

aeronaut of the _Archimède_, who had been sent out in search of them,

and had traversed the hostile lines on his errand. Many of these

postal vessels were carried to a considerable distance, some landing

in Belgium, Holland, or Bavaria; whilst one, _La Ville d'Orléans_, was

swept into Norway, and came to anchor about 600 miles north of

Christiania. A few, unhappily, never landed at all. _Le Jacquard_,

which left the Orleans railway station on the 28th November, with a

bold sailor for its sole occupant, disappeared like many a gallant

ship. It was last observed above Rochelle, and probably foundered at

sea, as some of its papers were picked up in the Channel. _Le Jules

Favre_ (the second of that name), which set out two days subsequently,

has arrived nowhere as yet; and one of the last of these

mail-balloons, the _Richard Wallace_, is missing, as much as if it had

sailed off the planet into infinite space. So long as these machines

continued to be launched by day, they were exposed to a fusillade

whilst traversing the girdle of the Prussian guns, the bullets

whistling round them even at an elevation of 900 or 1,000 mètres. To

avoid this peril it became necessary to start them by night, although

the disadvantages of nocturnal expeditions, in which no light could be

carried, and consequently the barometer could not be duly read, were

held by many to outweigh all the dangers attaching to German

projectiles.

Let us now attempt an imaginary voyage through the air, availing

ourselves as much as possible of the experience of the gentlemen whose

excursions are chronicled in the work which heads this article. A more

attractive volume cannot well be imagined. It is the production of one

Englishman and three Frenchmen. Mr. Glaisher is well known, in

companionship with Mr. Coxwell, as our greatest authority on the

subject. All his visits to the clouds have been for scientific

purposes, and if the question,

Quis crederet unquam

Aerias hominem carpere posse vias?

could be put in reference to any man, it might surely be applied to

him, for he has had the honour of ascending higher than any other

mortal from Icarus to Gay-Lussac. MM. Flammarion, Fonvielle, and

Tissandier are all enthusiasts in the matter of ballooning; the second

of these gentlemen having expressed his willingness to be shot up into

the air in connection with a sky-rocket, provided its projectile force

could be duly regulated and a proper parachute were attached. In the

narratives of their numerous ascents, there is necessarily some degree

of sameness; but the whole are not only thoroughly readable, but

thoroughly enjoyable to the last. The illustrations to the book are

really superb. As a mere portfolio of sky-sketches, it is well worth

the price. Not unreasonably indeed, one of the writers expresses his

hope that the work will form a kind of epoch in the history of the

subject, 'for it is the first time that artists have gone up in

balloons for the purpose of familiarizing the eyes of the public with

a series of aerial scenes.' We have charts of triple texture, showing,

first, the path of the machine through the air; secondly, the

geography of the country over which it passed; and thirdly, the

gradations of light and darkness during the expedition, these being so

arranged as to answer point for point. We have also pictures in which

the balloon is seen in almost every phase of adventure--sweeping

through the clouds, plodding through the snow, cruising amongst the

stars by night, exploding in the sky, plunging into the sea, dragging

on the ground, caught in the trees, stranded amongst the sheepfolds,

or tumbling upon the coast and struggling madly to escape the pursuing

billows. But we have also some gorgeous views of cloud-land, with its

marvellous scenery; now silvered with the pale radiance of the moon or

the stars, now drenched in the golden glories of the setting sun--at

one time darkening into night under the gathering thunderstorm, at

another fantastically illuminated with haloes and many-tinted spectra;

and through all these wonderful fields of air, a tiny sphere, a mere

bubble of the sky, with a bubble or two of human breath attached, may

be seen pursuing its noiseless way as if it had escaped for ever from

this turbulent earth.

Before we start, however, the great question is, Dare we start at all?

Well might the first aerial navigator, like the anonymous hero _qui

fragilem, truci commisit pelago ratem primus_, shudder at his own

audacity as he launched his miserable vessel upon the untraversed

deep. When it was first determined to send up some human beings to the

clouds in a Montgolfier, it was by no means an unnatural suggestion

that the experiment should be tried upon a couple of criminals; but

French valour would not permit even French rascality to carry off the

honour of the exploit, and Pilâtre de Rozier indignantly protested

that vile malefactors ought not to have 'the glory of being the first

to rise in the air.' Brave men, however, whose courage could not be

impeached even in the fieriest hour of battle, have been known to

shrink from a balloon when they would have calmly faced a battery. A

gallant field-marshal, says Flammarion, 'who had never hesitated to

advance through the discharge of cannon and musketry,' declared more

than once that he would not, for a whole empire, ascend even in a

captive machine! On the other hand, it is related of an old woman (who

had been an inmate of Lambeth workhouse for forty years, and who, on

losing her son at the age of seventy-five, exclaimed, 'I felt sure I

should never bring up that poor child!') that being asked on her

hundredth birthday what treat she would like by way of celebrating the

occasion, the ancient female decided upon an excursion in the great

balloon then tethered at Chelsea. Her wish was granted, and she

enjoyed a ride in the atmosphere at the foot of this huge floating

gasometer, which was fettered to the earth by a cable of two thousand

feet in length. The fair sex, indeed, have never exhibited much

timidity in dealing with balloons. Out of the seven hundred persons

carried up in the air at various times by the veteran Green, not less

than one hundred and twenty were females. 'If,' hinted he to

Fonvielle, 'you wish balloons to become popular in France, begin by

taking women in them; men will be sure to follow!' Does not this

accord to the letter with George Stephenson's dictum, that feminine

influence would draw a man from the other side of the globe when

nothing else would move him? Not that we think the advice was

specially needed for France, for the first lady who made an ascent was

a Frenchwoman, Mme. Thiblé; and the first lady who met her death on an

aerial excursion was Mme. Blanchard, who belonged to the same nation.

First of all, then, we ought to see the balloon before it is inflated.

There it lies, a vast expanse of varnished silk, or calico, or

india-rubber cloth, enveloped in netting, and covering many a square

yard of ground with its flabby, crumpled form. Nothing more lifeless

and uninteresting can well be conceived than the huge shape which, in

a short time, will lift itself by degrees from the soil, like a giant

creeping gradually into consciousness, and then standing erect in all

the pride of its newly-discovered powers, will expand into one of the

most stately and picturesque machines ever invented by man. It is even

possible to sympathise with M. Flammarion in his heroics when he

imagines an aeronaut addressing it in language of mingled insult and

adulation:--

"Inert and formless thing, that I can now trample under my

feet, that I can tear with my hands, here stretched dead

upon the ground--my perfect slave--I am about to give thee

life, that thou mayest become my sovereign! In the height

of my generosity I shall make thee even greater than

myself! O vile and powerless thing! I shall abandon myself

to thy majesty, O creature of my hands, and thou shalt

carry my kingdom unto thine own element, which I have

created for thee; thou shalt fly off to the regions of

storms and tempests, and I shall be forced to follow thee!

I shall become thy plaything; thou shalt do what thou wilt

with me, and forget that I gave thee life!"

For many reasons, carburetted hydrogen, or coal gas, is the agent

employed to give levity to the machine. In the earlier days of

aerostation, hydrogen presented strong temptations. It is the lightest

of the gases, being upwards of fourteen times rarer than atmospheric

air, and therefore it was naturally regarded as the element best

fitted to do man's bidding, and to drag him nearest to the stars. But

hydrogen is an expensive article, and needs an elaborate apparatus for

its production, whereas coal gas is burnt in every civilized street,

and may be obtained in any quantity by connecting a flexible tube with

the nearest tap. In the still darker ages of aeronautic science, it is

well known that heated air was the element employed; and, going back

into yet more benighted times, we find that Father Lana proposed to

give buoyancy to copper globes by filling them, as an Hibernian once

remarked, with a vacuum; whilst another worthy Père, Galien of

Avignon, gravely suggested that balloons should be inflated with

attenuated air, brought down from mountain tops in bags prepared for

the purpose, in which case they would, of course, ascend to similar

heights!

Let us now enter the car. The huge monster above us is swaying to and

fro in the breeze, and struggling for freedom like some giant soul

which has done its work on earth and is eager to reach its native

skies. The cords which hold us captive are loosed, and, as if by

instinct, we grasp the nearest rope, or hold fast to the wicker work,

to secure ourselves from the effects of our sudden translation--we

might almost say projection--through the air. But the first feeling is

one of surprise. We find ourselves perfectly stationary, whilst,

strange to say, the earth--the great solid globe on which we recently

stood, with all its towers and temples, its gazing crowds and

spreading landscapes--is seen shooting downwards in space with

frightful velocity! Worse still, glancing upwards, the sky appears to

be falling, as if the ceiling of the universe had given way; and

yonder big dark cloud, which seemed to be motionless when we took our

seat, is now tumbling headlong upon us, and will, infallibly, crush

our balloon like a moth. It requires some little consideration to

correct this delusion, and satisfy ourselves that here, as in many of

the moral and social phenomena of life, the change is in us, and not

in the world itself.

As we rise, the view below grows more expansive, but, at the same

time, it appears to flatten. The hills are planed down, the valleys

are filled up, and the rich undulations and inequalities which

contribute so much to the picturesque are in a great measure lost to

the aerial eye. We seem to be hovering over a huge, variegated

ordnance map, tinted for the most part with green; its rivers looking

like silver ribbons, its railways like ruled lines, its woods

represented by patches of verdure, and its towns exhibiting grooves or

gutters for streets, and kitchen areas for squares.

This effect is the more striking when we look perpendicularly down

upon tall, slender objects like steeples, pillars, or elevated

statues. The Monument of London becomes a mere gilded speck on the

pavement. The hapless column in the Place Vendôme, now overthrown by

the hands of Frenchmen themselves, was described by an aeronaut as a

kind of 'pin stuck head downwards in a cushion.' A view of the statue

of Napoleon, as seen from on high, is given by M. Flammarion, and

presents a ludicrous picture, the figure being crushed into a sort of

black amorphous lump, which would be utterly unintelligible were it

not that the shadow exhibits something of the human form, and not

inaptly suggests some strong reflections respecting the fallen

fortunes of the imperial dynasty. In fact, the landscape seems to be

flattened as if some great roller had passed over it, and ironed out

all the prominences in order to reduce it to one vast plain.

This appearance may be qualified by another, which, however, is not

visible to every voyager. Without going so far as to imagine that the

earth will display any portion of its convexity, we certainly should

not expect it to assume a concave aspect to the eye. Yet, for the same

reason that the sky above us looks like a great vault, and that the

clouds overhead slope down towards the horizon, if sufficiently

extended, the landscape beneath us should appear to be similarly

hollowed were it surveyed from a corresponding elevation. In some

degree, and to some susceptible minds, this curious impression is

realized in a balloon. The central parts of the expanse below seem to

sink and assume a dish-like form, so that, as M. Flammarion observes,

we float between two vast concavities, the blue dome of heaven resting

upon the green and shallow but inverted dome of earth.

But can we witness all this without a sensation of giddiness? Is not

our enjoyment of the scene marred by a strong disposition to vertigo,

such as is natural to human heads when raised to perilous altitudes?

This tendency, however, is far less prevalent than might be expected

in the car of a balloon. Professor Jacobi, who could not look down

from a lofty building without dizziness, made his first, perhaps his

only ascent without experiencing the least swimming of the brain. The

chief feeling of an aeronaut, according to M. Simonin, is one of

elation; his sense of individuality becoming so triumphant that he

glances down upon the poor wretched globe he has left grovelling in

its sins and sorrows, with a species of pity which is probably very

much akin to contempt! But this sentiment, according to M. Flammarion,

may be combined with another of a much more equivocal description. 'I

also felt,' says this gentleman, 'a vague desire to throw myself out

of the balloon. Though feeling convinced that it would be certain

death, I was under the influence of a mild temptation to allow myself

to fall, and my death became, for the moment, a matter of indifference

to me.' The lofty air with which this is written, and the supreme

_nonchalance_ displayed, are eminently characteristic of the soil, or

rather of the sons of France. 'Let me live or let me die,' he seems to

say; 'whether I float in these pure ethereal regions, victorious over

all the evils of earth, or whether my body lies shattered on those

rocks below, a mass of featureless pulp, is a question of no

consequence to Camille Flammarion! He is perfectly content whether he

figures as an aerial conqueror or as a poor, palpitating corpse!'

We continue rising. The balloon will, of course, persist in doing so

until the weight of the included gas and of the entire apparatus

exactly balances an equal bulk of the surrounding air. Starting from

the earth with all its buoyant power in hand, it would soon acquire a

considerable momentum were it not controlled by the resistance of the

atmosphere, which reduces its motion to a steady, uniform ascent. This

presumes, however, that nothing transpires to alter its gravity. The

addition of a few rain-drops to the machine would infallibly slacken

its speed, whilst the fall overboard of one of the passengers would

convert it for the time into a runaway balloon. When Mr. Cocking

severed his parachute from the great _Nassau_, the latter, huge as it

was, bounded aloft with such swiftness that whilst the poor fellow was

descending to death, the two aeronauts seemed to be mounting to

destruction, either by the bursting of the balloon or the stifling

emission of gas.

In another way, also, too rapid a start may lead to dangerous

consequences. In 1850, MM. Bixio and Barral took their places in the

car of a balloon inflated with pure hydrogen. Their object in using

this lightest of all aerial fluids was to climb to an elevation of

thirty or forty thousand feet; but not having made due allowance for

its buoyancy, the machine, when released, shot through the air like a

ball from a gun. The envelope expanded so rapidly that it bulged down

upon the aeronauts and shrouded them completely, the car being slung

at too slight a distance below. Struggling like men beneath a fallen

tent, one of them, in his endeavours to extricate himself, tore a hole

in the great bag, from which the gas poured upon them, producing

illness and threatening suffocation. Precipitately they began to sink,

and it was only by tossing everything overboard that they succeeded in

landing safely on the earth. They had traversed a bed of clouds 9,000

feet in thickness, reached a height of 19,000 feet, and then performed

the return journey all in the space of little more than three quarters

of an hour.

Higher and higher we mount. Shall not we knock our sublime heads

against the stars, if we continue to ascend in this indefinite way?

How rapidly we move, and what curious effects vertical travelling may

involve, a single illustration will suggest. Aeronauts may enjoy a

spectacle which, at the first mention, might almost recall the

retrograde movement of the solar shadow on the dial of Ahaz--namely,

that of two sunsets in one day. An early balloonist, M. Charles, was

very much impressed by this vision. When he left the earth for an

evening excursion, the great luminary had just disappeared, but, said

the Frenchman, proudly, 'he rose again for me alone!' 'I had the

pleasure of seeing him set twice on the same day.' For was the

spectacle such as the dwellers on the soil may command, by permitting

the orb to sink behind some elevation, and then mounting it so as to

bring him again into view--thus playing at bo-peep with the lord of

day. For, continued M. Charles, still more proudly, 'I was the only

illuminated object; all the rest of nature being plunged into shadow!'

But now, looking aloft, we observe a mass of clouds, towards which we

are rapidly speeding. There are mountains of snow and great

threatening rocks, against which it seems as if our fragile vessel

would inevitably be dashed. The novice in aerial navigation almost

instinctively holds his breath as he sees the distance narrowing

between his frail skiff and these frowning piles, and awaits the awful

collision. But they open as if by magic, and the balloon glides into

the midst without a shock, or a tremor in its frame. We are then

enveloped for a time in a sort of obscurity, but we have nothing to

fear, for the machine might travel blindfold without dread of the

slightest obstruction in these pathless expanses. Destitute of every

object which could serve as a guide, we proceed until we emerge into

sunshine once more, and then, looking down, we see the clouds through

which we have entered closing like a trap-door after us, and shutting

us out from the dear old world, where we lead such a life of charmed

misery.

Sometimes, however, it seems impossible to rise above the 'smoke and

stir of this dim spot, which men call earth.'

In an ascent from Wolverton, in June, 1863, Mr. Glaisher passed

through an extraordinary succession of fogs and showers and

rain-clouds; and though he soared to a height of 23,000 feet, the

balloon was unable to extricate itself from its earthly entanglements.

Following a fine rain came a dry fog, which continued for some

distance; this traversed, the aeronauts entered a wetting fog, and

subsequently a dry one again. When three miles in height, they

imagined that they would certainly break through the clouds, but, to

their great surprise, nebulous heaps lay above them, beneath them, and

all around them. Up they clambered, but at an elevation of four miles

dense masses still hung overhead as if to forbid any further progress,

and two clouds with fringed edges specially attracted their attention,

from the fact that they were unmistakeably nimbi, although formations

of this latter class are mostly creatures of the nether sky. On

returning, a heavy rain fell pattering on the balloon at an altitude

of three miles, and then, lower down, for a space of 5,000 feet, they

passed through a curious snowy discharge, the air being full of icy

crystals, though the season was high summer.

It is not often, however, that the atmosphere is in this nebulous

condition throughout so large a portion of its depth. For days

together terrestrials may be enveloped in fog and rain, and in that

case must wait patiently until the clouds please to roll off, and

drench some other locality; but if at such seasons we were to jump

into a balloon, we might soon pass out of the watery zone and soar

into the jocund sunshine. Continuing our ascent, therefore, through

the dense tract of moisture we first entered, our machine at last

lifts its head joyously above the surface, and shaking off the cloudy

spray, bounds into a new sphere, where the great giver of light glows

with unadulterated ray. We are, in fact, in a new world. We are

completely cut off from our native earth by a huge continent of

vapour, which appears to have been suddenly petrified into rock.

'Above our heads,' writes Mr. Glaisher, 'rises a noble

roof, a vast dome of the deepest blue. In the east may

perhaps be seen the tints of a rainbow on the point of

vanishing; in the west, the sun silvering the edges of

broken clouds. Below these light vapours may rise a chain

of mountains, the Alps of the sky, rearing themselves one

above the other, mountain above mountain, till the highest

peaks are coloured by the setting sun. Some of these

compact masses look as if ravaged by avalanches, or rent by

the irresistible movement of glaciers. Some clouds seem

built up of quartz, or even diamonds: some, like immense

cones, boldly rise upwards; others resemble pyramids whose

sides are in rough outline. These scenes are so varied and

beautiful that we feel we could remain for ever to wander

above these boundless plains.'

As we ascend, however, a serious question comes into play. To the

first adventurer we may suppose that it would present itself with

alarming force. Shall we be able to breathe safely in yonder upper

regions, where the air is so thin that the lungs must work 'double

shift,' as it were, to procure their necessary supply? At the earth's

surface, it is well known that the atmosphere presses upon every

square inch with a force of from fourteen to fifteen pounds. A column

of air forty miles in height resting upon a man's hat, would, of

course, crush it flat upon his head in a moment, were it not for an

equal resistance within; and, but for the same cause (the equal

diffusion of pressure at the same level), we should all go staggering

along under our burden of thirty thousand pounds--such is our share of

the atmospheric load--or, if laid prostrate, should find ourselves

incapable of rising. But of course the pressure grows smaller as we

ascend, for the simple reason that the height of the column above us

continually decreases. Seeing, moreover, that we are adapted by our

organization to existence at the bottom of this aerial ocean, it is

natural to expect that at considerable elevations some sensible

disturbance of our functions will ensue. At the height of three miles

and three-quarters the barometer, which stands at about thirty inches

at the level of the sea, has sunk to fifteen inches, exhibiting a

pressure of some seven-and-a-half pounds to the square inch, and

showing that as much of the atmosphere in weight is below us as there

is above. Reaching an elevation of between five and six miles, the

mercury would be found to mark ten inches only, representing a

pressure of five pounds to the square inch, and proving that

two-thirds of the aerial ocean had been surmounted, leaving a thin

third alone to be traversed. The following table, as given by Mr.

Glaisher, will, however, best express this decline of density:--

'At the height of 1 mile the barometer reading is 24·7 in.

" 2 miles " " 20·3 "

" 3 " " " 16·7 "

" 4 " " " 13·7 "

" 5 " " " 11·3 "

" 10 " " " 4·2 "

" 15 " " " 1·6 "

" 20 " " " 1·0 " less.'

One indication of increasing rarity in the air is to be found in the

lowering of the point at which water boils. On the surface of the

earth ebullition takes place, as is well known, at 212° Fahr.; but at

the top of a mountain like Mont Blanc, where the pressure is so much

lightened, and the liquid therefore encounters so much less resistance

to its vaporous propensities, it will pass into steam at a temperature

of about 178°. At still greater elevations this point becomes so

ridiculously reduced--if the expression may be employed--that we might

plunge our hand into the fluid when in full simmer, or drink it in the

form of tea when absolutely boiling. Of course, under such

circumstances, it would be impossible to extract the full flavour of

that generous herb unless the process were carried on under artificial

pressure, and therefore the most gentle and legitimate of all

stimulants must lose much of its potency if decocted at 20,000 feet

above the level of the sea.

Another little circumstance is very significant. In opening a flask of

pure water at the earth's surface, we should not expect the cork to

fly out with an explosion as if it were a flask of Clicquot's

sprightliest champagne; but this is what occurs when we reach an

altitude where the external pressure is slight compared with the

spring of the imprisoned air. In dealing with a bottle of frisky

porter or highly impatient soda-water, it may be well to act

cautiously, lest the cork should go like a shot through the envelope

of the balloon; and in drinking the contents it will be wise to wait

till the effervescence has subsided, lest the same results should

arise as those which were experienced by the Siamese king, when,

instead of mixing his soda powders in his goblet, he put the acid and

the alkali separately into his stomach, and left them to settle their

affinities there.

Whilst urging his way aloft, therefore, the novice will probably call

to mind some of the accounts he has read of poor animals which have

been tormented and philosophically murdered in the receiver of an

air-pump. He will remember how miserable butterflies and other insects

have been unable to use their wings, and, after a few flutterings,

have fallen motionless; or how helpless mice, after gasping for a time

in hopeless distress, have expired, unwilling martyrs to science. And

can he enter such an attenuated atmosphere as the one above him

without undergoing some of their agonies, though in a milder and less

fatal form? For, on ascending a lofty mountain, the traveller is soon

reminded that his lungs are dealing with a much thinner fluid than

they inhaled below. Long before he reaches the summit he finds that

his drafts upon the atmosphere are increased in consequence of its

tenuity, and that the requisite supply can only be obtained with much

pulmonary toil. His head begins to ache, a feeling of nausea is

frequently induced, and sometimes he experiences the taste of blood in

the mouth, or the scent of the same fluid in the nostrils. With

throbbing temples and tottering limbs, he drags himself to the peak,

and then probably throws himself upon the rock utterly exhausted, his

first sentiment being one of relief that the ascent is well over, and

his next one of regret that the descent is not already accomplished.

But in estimating the results in such a case, we must remember the

great physical exertion which has been incurred. Every traveller who

plants himself upon the summit of the Dôme du Gouté must have lifted

as many pounds avoirdupois as he weighs, to say nothing of his baggage

and personal accoutrements, to a height of some 15,000 feet in the

atmosphere by the sheer force of his own muscles. To carry one's own

body about is scarcely regarded as porter's work, but what

particularly stout man would ever dream of reaching the Grand Plateau,

or even attempt to scale the Great Pyramid, without a troop of

attendants to drag him to the top? In a balloon, however, all this

expenditure of strength is spared. The aeronaut arrives at an

elevation far higher than the tallest peak in Europe without

squandering as much force as would be required to grind an ounce of

coffee. Here, therefore, the influences of rarefied air may be tested

without any of the complications arising from previous fatigue or

present muscular exhaustion.

Now, the results, as noted by different voyagers, are by no means

accordant. In his first ascent, Mr. Glaisher found his pulse throbbing

at the rate of a hundred per minute, when he had reached a height of

18,844 feet. At 19,415 feet, his heart began to palpitate audibly. At

19,435, it was beating more vehemently, his pulse had accelerated its

pace, his hands and lips were dyed of a dark bluish hue, and it was

with great difficulty that he could read his philosophical

instruments. At 21,792 feet (upwards of four miles), he seemed to lose

the power of making the requisite observations, and a feeling

analogous to sea-sickness stole over him, though there was no heaving

or rolling in the balloon. Of course, we may well suppose that

different individuals will be differently affected. There are some

terrestrials who suffer little from sea-sickness, whilst there are

others who can scarcely cross the bar of a river without incurring the

agonies of that abominable complaint. But Mr. Glaisher seems to be of

opinion that the balloon voyager may speedily master the _maladie de

l'air_, and become quite at home at any elevation hitherto attained.

It is a matter of simple acclimatization. In his own case, he found

that he could breathe without inconvenience at a height of three or

four miles, whereas his first sallies into that region, as we have

seen, were productive of considerable discomfort; and though he

regards an altitude of six or seven miles as the frontier line of

natural respiration, with a possible reserve in favour of its

extension, he hints that artificial appliances may, perhaps, be

devised for freighting the aerostat with the fluid in suitable

quantity, and so enlarging the sphere of atmospheric enterprise. We

are not certain whether this hint has reference to an apparatus for

condensing the air; but it is a pleasant fancy, whether practicable or

not, to picture a couple of excursionists feeding their lungs by

compressing the thin medium around them into pabulum of the needful

density.

There is another enemy, however, to encounter, and it is probably to

this more than to the attenuation of the air that the painful effects

in question are attributable. We allude to the extreme cold of the

upper skies. The atmosphere has its polar regions as well as the

earth. There frost builds no solid barriers it is true, but his

invisible ramparts are a surer defence against intrusion than bulwarks

of granite. Even at a height of three or four miles, explorers are apt

to find their extremities benumbed, and their faces turning purple or

blue. In a night ascent in 1804, Count Zambeccari, who subsequently

met his death in consequence of his balloon taking fire, was so

severely handled by the frost that he lost the use of his fingers, and

was compelled to have some of them amputated. On one occasion, Mr.

Coxwell, having laid hold of the grapnel with his naked hand, cried

out in pain that he was scalded, which is precisely the punishment

inflicted by metallic objects upon all who grasp them incautiously in

arctic latitudes, when the temperature is exceedingly low.

Combining, therefore, these two causes, the rarefaction of the upper

air, and the crushing influences of frost, we may readily understand

why so many bold adventurers have been smitten with asphyxia when

pushing their way into such untrodden solitudes. When Andreoli and

Brioschi ascended from Padua, in 1808, to a prodigious height, the

latter sank into a state of torpor, and shortly afterwards the former

found that he had lost the use of his left arm. In the instance

already alluded to, when Zambeccari was so mangled by the cold, he and

Dr. Grassetti both became insensible, and their companion alone

retained the control of his faculties.

On one memorable occasion, Mr. Glaisher and Mr. Coxwell rose to a

region which had certainly never been visited before, and most

probably will not be speedily visited again. The precise elevation

they reached could only be guessed, but it could scarcely be less than

35,000 feet, and might possibly extend to 37,000 feet, or seven miles.

This famous ascent was made in 1862 from Wolverhampton. When the

aeronauts had soared to a height of some 29,000 feet, about

five-and-a-half miles, Mr. Glaisher suddenly discovered that one arm

was powerless, and when he tried to move the other, it proved to have

been as suddenly stripped of its strength. He then endeavoured to

shake himself, but, strange to say, he seemed to possess no limbs. His

head fell on his left shoulder, and on his struggling to place it

erect, it reeled over to the right. Then his body sank backwards

against the side of the car, whilst one arm hung helplessly downwards

in the air. In a moment more, he found that all the muscular power

which remained in his neck and back had deserted him at a stroke. He

tried to speak to his companion, but the power of speech had departed

as well. Sight still continued, though dimly; but this, too, speedily

vanished, and darkness, black as midnight, drowned his vision in an

instant. Whether hearing survived, he could not tell, for there was no

sound to break the silence of those lofty solitudes. Consciousness

certainly remained; but the mind had ceased to control the body, and

the reins of power seemed to have slipped for ever from his grasp. Was

this the way men died? And did one faculty after another desert the

soul in its extremity, as servile courtiers steal away from the

presence of royalty when its last hour has arrived? Soon afterwards

consciousness itself disappeared.

Fortunately, this insensibility was not of long duration. He was

roused by Mr. Coxwell, but, at first, could only hear a voice

exhorting him to 'try.' Not a word could he speak, not an object could

he see, not a limb could he move. In a while, however, sight returned;

shortly afterwards he rose from his seat, and then found sufficient

tongue to exclaim, 'I have been insensible!' 'You have,' was the

reply; 'and I too, very nearly!'

At the time Mr. Glaisher was smitten with paralysis, Mr. Coxwell had

climbed up to the ring of the balloon, in order to free the

valve-rope, which had become entangled. There, his hands were so

frozen that he lost the use of them, and was compelled to drop down

into the car. His fingers were not simply blue, but positively black

with cold, and it became necessary to pour brandy over them to restore

the circulation. Observing on his return that Mr. Glaisher's

countenance was devoid of animation, he spoke to him, but, receiving

no reply, at once drew the conclusion that his companion was in a

state of utter unconsciousness. He endeavoured to approach, but found

that he himself was lapsing into the same condition. With wonderful

presence of mind, however, he attempted to open the valve of the

balloon, in order that they might escape from this deadly region, but

his hands were too much benumbed to pull the rope. In this fearful

extremity, he seized the rope with his teeth, dipped his head

downwards two or three times, and found to his relief that the machine

was rapidly descending into a more genial sphere. Fortunately, the

voyagers reached the ground in safety, without feeling any lasting

mischief from their audacious excursion; but it would be difficult to

invent a scene better calculated to make the nervous shudder than that

of a balloon floating at a height of nearly seven miles, with its

occupants awaking from a state of insensibility to discover that their

limbs were utterly powerless, that the rope which might enable them to

descend was dangling beyond their reach, and that there they must

remain until the cold, which had turned every drop of water into ice,

should eat away the feeble relics of vitality from their frames.

We proceed. We are now cruising in the full glare of the sun. The rays

of that luminary beat upon us with scorching force; but whilst the

head seems to be in the Sahara, the feet may be in Spitzbergen. For

here, as on the top of a snow-clad mountain, the temperature of the

air is one thing, the direct heat of the sun is quite another. The

difference may amount to thirty or forty degrees in an ordinary

ascent, and of course, becomes more noticeable the higher the flight.

The thin air and scanty vapour of the upper regions furnish us with

flimsy clothing; whilst in the nether world we wrap the dense medium

round us like a mantle, and keep our caloric within our frames.

Is there any law, however, by which the decrease of temperature can be

expressed? Seeing that the atmosphere is divided, as it were, into

various storeys, these being formed of changing currents, or fugitive

strata of clouds, each with its peculiar charge of heat, is it

possible that any fixed principle of decline can be detected?

Take a few results. On leaving the ground, where the temperature was

50° (in the afternoon of the 31st of March, 1863), the thermometer

indicated 33½° at one mile, 26° at two miles, 14° at three miles, 8°

at 3¾ miles, where a bed of air heated to 12° was entered, and then at

an elevation of 4½ miles, the instrument had fallen to zero. In

descending, the temperature rose to 11° at about three miles in

height, it sank to 7° in passing a cold layer, afterwards increased to

18½° at two miles, to 25½° at one mile, and finally settled at 42° on

the ground.

Again, on starting (17th July, 1862), the temperature at the surface

was 59°, at 4,000 feet, it was 45°, and at 10,000 feet it had sunk to

26°. For the next 3,000 feet it remained stationary, during which

time the aeronauts donned additional clothing, in anticipation of a

severe interview with the Frost King; but to their great surprise, the

thermometer rose to 31° at 15,500 feet, and to 42° at 19,500 feet, by

which time they found it necessary to divest themselves of their

winter habiliments. Sometimes, indeed, the changes of temperature

experienced are startling and unaccountable. At an elevation of 20,000

feet, Barral and Bixio, whilst enveloped in a cloud, found their

thermometer at 15° Fahr. Above this cloud, at a height of 23,127 feet,

the instrument had sunk to 38° below zero, making a difference of not

less than 54° of heat between the two points. Judging from this

observation, might we not expect to find all the moisture at those

cheerless altitudes curdled into ice? and if our globe is sheathed in

an envelope of frozen particles, is the fact wholly without meaning in

reference to the aurora and other meteorological phenomena?

From such capricious data, it would seem impossible to extract any

definite law; but it has been assumed by many that, taking all things

into account, the temperature decreases one degree for every 300 feet

of elevation. Putting the matter more exactly, there is, according to

Flammarion, a mean abatement of one degree for every 345 feet where

the sky is clear, and of one degree for every 354 feet when the

heavens are overcast; the decline being quicker when the day is hot

than when it is cold, and in the evening than in the morning. Mr.

Glaisher, however, feels himself compelled to repudiate this theory of

a steady, constant diminution of heat. The results of all his midday

experiments amounted to this:--

'The change from the ground to 1,000 feet high was 4° 5´

with a cloudy sky, and 6° 2´ with a clear sky. At 10,000

feet high it was 2° 2´ with a cloudy sky, and 2° with a

clear sky. At 20,000 feet high the decline of temperature

was 1° 1´ with a cloudy sky, and 1° 2´ with a clear sky. At

30,000 feet the whole decline of temperature was found to

be 62°. Within the first 1,000 feet the average space

passed through for 1° was 223 feet with a cloudy sky, and

162 feet with a clear sky. At 10,000 feet the space passed

through for a like decline was 455 feet for the former, and

417 feet for the latter; and above 20,000 feet high the

space with both states of the sky was 1,000 feet nearly for

a decline of 1°. As regards the law just indicated, it is

far more natural and far more consistent than that of a

uniform rate of decrease.'

It should be carefully observed that these conclusions refer to

ascents by day; and that by night the temperature augments within

certain limits, as Marcet showed, and as numerous experiments have

confirmed.

Scarcely less interesting is the question as to the moisture in the

atmosphere. Does it decline according to any graduated law? From a

large number of observations it has been concluded that the watery

vapour increases up to a certain elevation (varying with the season of

the year, the hour of the day, and the condition of the sky), and

then, having reached this maximum, we find that the air grows

continually drier the further we climb. Upon this simple fact much of

the physical happiness of our globe depends, for it is the moisture in

the lower regions which arrests the efflux of caloric, preserves it

for home consumption, and assists the earth in the kindly production

of its fruits.

Meanwhile, the rays of the sun playing with unchecked fervour upon the

balloon, have been heating and expanding the gas. Lightened also by

the dissipation of the moisture contracted in the cloudier portion of

the ascent, it probably occurs to the voyager, particularly if he is

prone to take alarming views of events, that as the machine rises into

a rarer atmosphere the envelope may distend until it actually bursts.

Nor is this apprehension, however painful to the nerves, wholly

without foundation. Looking up at the flimsy globe above his head, he

will observe that it is now fully inflated, though purposely left

somewhat flaccid when the journey commenced; and, possibly, he may

observe signs of the sun's action on its sides, as if it were

blistering under the solar beams. Brioschi, the Neapolitan astronomer,

wishing to soar higher than Gay-Lussac, who had reached 23,000 feet on

his way to the stars, was stopped on his ambitious flight, as Icarus

had been before him, by getting too near the sun. He had no wings to

melt, it is true, but he had a balloon to rupture, and the swollen

tissue accordingly gave way, though, happily, without involving him in

the fate of the presumptuous youth. Will it be credited, however, that

any aeronaut could deliberately make an ascent with the express

intention of bursting his balloon himself? Yet this has been done

without pre-engaging a coroner, and without the slightest wish to

commit scientific suicide. The individual by whom this perilous

experiment was performed was Mr. Wise, the American. He argued that if

the explosion were neatly managed, the collapsing envelope would act

as a sort of parachute, the lower part retreating into the upper, and

forming a concavity which would present sufficient resistance to

ensure a safe and steady descent. Nor were his expectations wholly

disappointed. Having risen through a thunderstorm to a height of

13,000 feet, he fired his magazine of hydrogen gas. The car rushed

down with awful rapidity, supported, however, by the relics, like a

torn umbrella, and alighted upon the ground without inflicting any

great violence upon the daring navigator. Not many weeks afterwards,

he repeated the exploit, if such it may be called, and in exploding

the gas tore the silk receptacle from top to bottom; but, with equal

good fortune, he arrived at the earth without a broken limb, the

machine having taken a spiral course in falling, which enabled him to

descend with uniform velocity.

Having now reached the highest point to which our aerostat will mount

so long as its weight continues unchanged, we surrender ourselves to

the guidance of the current in which we are involved. In rising to a

moderate elevation, a balloon will sometimes shoot through more than

one of these aerial streams. Mr. Foster detected the existence of four

distinct currents in one experiment, namely, from the E.N.E., N.,

S.W., and S.S.E., and on the following day found there were three,

namely, from the E.N.E., S.E., and S.S.W. Sometimes an upper and an

under current may move in opposite directions. Had it not been for

this fact, M. Tissandier's _début_ in the clouds might have terminated

in his death in the ocean. Ascending with M. Duruof from Calais under

somewhat rash and defiant circumstances, their balloon was borne out

to sea, not towards the English coast, which might, perhaps, have been

reached, but right up the North Sea, where they would probably have

perished. Fortunately, after proceeding for some distance, they

observed a fleet of _cumuli_ steering for Calais at a depth of some

3,000 feet below, and by dropping into this counter stream they were

floated back to land.

There is no subject of greater moment to aeronauts than the

determination of the atmospheric currents. Upon this question in a

great measure depends the utility of ballooning as an art. We should

certainly consider that ocean navigation was in a despicable condition

if the utmost we could do for a vessel was to commit it, preciously

freighted with our own persons, to the wind and waves, without a sail

to propel it or a rudder to guide it in any particular direction. Yet

this is pretty much the state of aerial seamanship, except for

purposes of vertical travelling. If it could be ascertained that

streams flowed to different quarters at different elevations--river

rolling over river--then it might be easy to book our balloon for some

special point of the compass. But the atmosphere is comparatively

unexplored in this respect, and it will require long study before any

definite conclusions can be formed, even if such should be ever

realized.

That there is some degree of certainty in air-currents may be

indicated by a curious fact mentioned by Flammarion, namely, that the

traces of his various voyages are all represented by lines which had a

tendency to curve in one and the same general direction. 'Thus,' says

he, 'on the 23rd June, 1867, the balloon started with a north wind

directly towards the south-south-west, and, after a while, due

south-west, when we descended. A similar result was observed in every

excursion, and the fact led me to believe that above the soil of

France the currents of the atmosphere are constantly deviated

circularly, and in a south-west-north-east-south direction.'

Still more curious is a fact which Mr. Glaisher may be said to have

discovered.

We are accustomed to talk much of the Gulf Stream. It is as popular a

marine phenomenon as the Great Sea Serpent. For some time it has

figured in meteorology as the subtle agent to which all climatic

eccentricities, and not a few climatic advantages, are ascribed; but

what shall we say to a genuine 'aeria Gulf Stream?' What, to a stream

flowing through the atmosphere in kindly correspondence with the

beneficent current which sweeps through the Atlantic below?

On the 12th January, 1864, Mr. Glaisher left the earth, where a

south-east wind was prevailing. At a height of 1,300 feet he was

surprised to enter a warm current, 3,000 feet in thickness, which was

flowing from the south-west, that is, in the direction of the Gulf

Stream itself. At the elevation in question the temperature, according

to the usual calculation, should have been 4° or 5° lower than that at

the ground, whereas it was 3½° higher. In the region above, cold

reigned, for finely-powdered snow was falling into this atmospheric

river. Here, therefore, was a stream of heated air previously

unsuspected, which, if its course is steady, as it appears to be

during winter, constitutes a prodigious accession to our resources,

and adds another to the many meteorological blessings the world

enjoys.

'The meeting with this south-west current (writes Mr.

Glaisher) is of the highest importance, for it goes far to

explain why England possesses a winter temperature so much

higher than our northern latitudes. Our high winter

temperature has hitherto been mostly referred to the

influence of the Gulf Stream. Without doubting the

influence of this natural agent, it is necessary to add the

effect of a parallel atmospheric current to the oceanic

current coming from the same regions--a true aerial Gulf

Stream. This great energetic current meets with no

obstruction in coming to us, or to Norway, but passes over

the level Atlantic without interruption from mountains. It

cannot, however, reach France without crossing Spain and

the lofty range of the Pyrenees, and the effect of these

cold mountains in reducing its temperature is so great that

the former country derives but little warmth from it.'

The velocity of these atmospheric streams must, of course, differ

considerably; but, however rapid may be their motion, the balloonist

will not fail to notice the feeling of personal immobility which gives

such a peculiar character to aerial travelling. We can hardly realize

the idea of being transported, say, from London to Dover, without

experiencing sundry jars of the muscles or tremors of the nerves, even

if we escape, as is by no means certain, the chances of a collision;

but M. Flammarion remarks in reference to one of his journies, that

the distance accomplished was a hundred and twenty miles, 'during the

whole of which time we never felt ourselves in motion at all.' No

better illustration of this exemption from the jerks and joltings of

terrestrial locomotion could be given than a simple experiment. A

tumbler was filled with water till the liquid stood bulging over the

brim. The balloon was travelling with the velocity of a railway train,

and sometimes rising, sometimes falling, through hundreds of feet at a

time, yet not a single drop of the fluid was swung out of the glass!

Striking as the fact is, it would be still more surprising if it were

otherwise; for, having once entered a current of air, and surrendered

our machine to its guidance, we become, as it were, part of the medium

in which we are immersed. The balloon has no longer any will of its

own, or of its occupants, except for purposes of ascent or descent. It

glides along with the stream, and, coming athwart no obstructions, it

knows none of the bumpings to which more grovelling vehicles are

exposed. Hence results another consequence which will scarcely escape

attention, namely, that here, in the very place of winds, we

experience no wind whatever. You may sit in the car of a balloon

without undergoing much danger from draughts. There are no fierce

gales to encounter, and therefore there are no weather-beaten mariners

aloft. If we come to a spot where two breezes meet in battle, or, if

two currents of differing directions were so sharply defined that the

upper part of the machine could emerge into the superior stream whilst

the lower part was in the keeping of the inferior, then very

unpleasant results might ensue; but these are not events which aerial

navigators have frequently to record in the serener regions aloft.

And as all motion seems to have ceased, except what is due to the

rotatory action of the balloon, so all sound appears to have expired.

On earth we have nothing to compare with the awful stillness of these

airy solitudes. Some noise--be it the sighing of the wind, the

pattering of the rain, the fall of a crumbling particle of rock--will

break the tranquillity of the vale, the loneliest wilderness, the

loftiest peak. But here nature appears to be voiceless, and silence,

'the prelude of that which reigns in the interplanetary space,' seems

to be a consecrated thing, as if it were destined to remain

uninterrupted until the Trumpet of Judgment shall wake the world.

But did we say we were in absolute solitude? If so, imagine the

startled look of an aeronaut when, on issuing from a cloud, he sees

before him, at the distance of some thirty or forty yards, the figure

of another balloon! If a feeling of horror creeps over him at the

sight, he might well be pardoned, for his first thought would

doubtless be that it was some phantom of the air sent to lure him to

destruction, as the Flying Dutchman is reported to do with mariners at

sea. One remarkable feature, however, instantly attracts his

attention. The car of the stranger is placed in the centre of a huge

disc, consisting of several concentric circles--the interior one being

of yellowish white, the next pale blue, the third yellow, followed by

a ring of greyish red, and, finally, by one of light violet. That car,

too, is occupied. Its tenants are engaged in returning the scrutiny,

and their attitudes express equal surprise. By-and-bye, one of them

lifts his hand; but that is just what one of the aeronauts has done.

Another motion is made, and this is imitated to the letter. A laugh

from the living voyagers follows. They have discovered that the

stranger is an optical apparition, for on examination it is found to

correspond with their own machine, line for line, rope for rope, and

man for man, except that they, the living ones, are not surrounded by

a glory as if they were resplendent saints.

This beautiful phenomenon is due to the reflection or diffraction of

light from the little vesicles of vapour, and must not be confounded

with the ordinary shadow of the balloon which, under fitting

conditions, and in a more or less elongated form, generally appears to

accompany us like some spectral shark in pitiless pursuit of an

infected ship.

It is now time, however, to commence our homeward voyage. In other

words, we must tumble perpendicularly to the earth, but so regulate

our fall that no bones shall be broken, and no concussion, if

possible, sustained. To do this from an elevation of three or four

miles must strike us as a vastly more dangerous problem than the

ascent to a similar height. The valve at the top of the balloon

affords us the means of diminishing its relative levity by a gradual

discharge of the gas. But this process must be cautiously performed,

otherwise the machine may start off like a steed which is suddenly

inspired with a new life when its face is turned towards its home.

Hence the necessity of retaining a proper amount of ballast to control

its impatient descent. If it should sink too rapidly, the emptying of

a bag or two will check its pace, and even give it an upward turn for

the time, so that the aeronauts, in rising again, will sometimes hear

a pattering upon the balloon, which proves to be the very shower of

sand they have just ejected.

So delicately, indeed, does the machine respond to any alteration in

its weight, that once, when M. Tissandier threw out the bone of a

chicken he had been assisting to consume, his companion gravely

reproved him, and, on consulting the barometer, he was compelled to

admit that this small act of imprudence had caused them to 'rise from

twenty to thirty yards!'

Not unfrequently it happens that a balloon has to dive through such

heavy clouds, or through such a rainy region, that its weight is

considerably increased by the deposited moisture. In passing through a

dense stratum, 8,000 feet in thickness, Mr. Coxwell's aerostat, on one

occasion, became so loaded that, though he had reserved a large amount

of ballast, which was hurled overboard as fast as possible, the

machine sped to the earth with a shock which fractured nearly all the

instruments.

Lunardi, having ascended from Liverpool in July, 1785, found himself

without ballast, and in a balloon insufficiently inflated. He was

carried out to sea, retaining of course the power of sinking, which,

however, he did not wish to exercise, as he was almost without the

means of rising. To lighten the machine, he tossed off his hat, and

even this insignificant article afforded him some relief. Soon

afterwards, he removed his coat, and this enabled him to mount a

little higher, and bear away towards the land. To escape a

thunder-cloud, he subsequently divested himself of his waistcoat, and

finally succeeded in grappling the earth in a cornfield near

Liverpool, spite of his improvidence in the matter of ballast.

It is under such circumstances, however, that we discover the value of

the long rope suspended from the car, and which may be let out to the

depth of some hundreds of feet. It is a clever substitute for ballast,

with this great-advantage, that it is retained, not lost; and that it

may also be used as a kind of flexible buffer to break the force of

the descent. When the balloon is sinking, every inch of the rope which

rests upon the ground relieves it of an equivalent portion of its

weight: the process is tantamount to the discharge of so much ballast,

and, therefore, the rapidity of the descent is not only lessened, but

possibly the downward course of the machine may be arrested some time

before it reaches the soil; should it mount again, every coil of the

cable lifted from the earth adds to its gravity. In cases where the

aeronaut has from any cause lost the mastery of his vessel, this

self-manipulating agency may preserve him from a fatal reception,

whilst, on the other hand, he has it in his power, by letting out gas

when the balloon is balanced in the air, to lower himself (other

conditions being favourable) as peaceably as he chooses.

The _Géant_ of Nadar, with a weight of 7,000 to 8,000 lbs., in

descending on one occasion, after all the ballast had been exhausted,

rushed down towards the earth with the speed of an ordinary railway

train, and yet, thanks to the guide-rope, no serious accident

occurred, though the instruments were all broken, and a few contusions

were sustained. This admirable contrivance was introduced by that

'ancient mariner' of the air, Mr. Green.

In returning to our native soil, however, one of the most dangerous

conditions which can arise is the prevalence of a thick fog, or the

necessity for ploughing our way through a dense cloud. Under such

circumstances, how do we know where the earth lies? Not that we are

likely to miss it--the great fear is that we may hit it too soon, and

too forcibly. It is then that the value of the barometer is most fully

appreciated. This instrument does for the aeronaut what the compass

does for the sailor. But the observer must be prompt and careful in

his reading, for if the descent is rapid, the least inattention may

result in a fractured collarbone, or a couple of shattered bodies.

Presuming, however, that, as we sink through the cloudy trap-door by

which we entered the upper sky, we find all clear below, the old

familiar earth again bursts upon our view. For a few moments the

planet appears to be shooting upwards with considerable velocity. It

is like a huge rock which has been aimed at our little balloon, or a

star which has shot madly from its sphere, and is hastening to crush

us on our return from our sacrilegious voyage. By throwing out a

quantity of ballast, however, as if in defiance, we seem to check it

in its course, and if it continues to approach, it does so with

moderate speed. But we soon discover the deceit, and learn (probably

to our chagrin) that it is not the world which is troubling itself to

meet us, but we who are doing obeisance in our own puniness to its

irresistible will.

In one sense, indeed, the appearance of a balloon in the sky is always

the signal for a certain amount of commotion. Dogs begin to bark

furiously, poultry begin to run to and fro in evident alarm, whilst

cattle stand gazing in astonishment or scamper off in terror, as

people used to do--so we suppose--when hippogriffs were in the habit

of alighting at their doors. One French aeronaut remarks very drily

that the best mode of obtaining a correct estimate of the population

of any given district is to approach it in a balloon, for then every

individual rushes out of doors to look at the visitor, and so 'the

people can be counted like marbles.' Another states that in passing

over Calais the only figure that did not lift its head to gaze at the

travellers was the Duc de Guise, whose bust in the Place d'Armes was

incapable, for good reasons, of paying them that act of homage.

Other things being duly considered, the chief business of a balloonist

in descending is to select an open and unincumbered locality. To plump

down upon a cathedral, or impale his car upon the top of a spire; to

allow it to alight amongst the clashing trees of a forest, or to

attempt to ground it amongst the chimneys and gables of a crowded

town, would be pretty much the same as for a sailor to run his vessel

amongst the breakers, or to drive it full tilt against the nearest

lighthouse. The experienced navigator knows where to throw out his

grapnel, and this, digging into the soil or catching in the rocks, or

laying hold of any object from a tree to a tombstone, will bring the

big airship to anchor, and enable the crew, with a little management,

to disembark.

But having landed, what kind of a reception shall we encounter? That

is a question of some little consequence. There are two ways of

dealing with aeronauts: the first is to invite them to dinner and

offer them beds for the night; the other is to make an extortionate

claim for damages, or carry them before the magistrates as

trespassers. The latter practice is much in vogue in rustic regions.

You have scarcely leaped out of the car than up there comes an angry

farmer, vociferating loudly, gesticulating frantically, and when he

sees his fences broken down, and his crops trampled under foot by a

crowd of villagers who rush to the spot to inspect the stranger from

the clouds, his wrath rises to the boiling point (far below 212°

Fah.), and the brute threatens immediate arrest, or appears to be on

the eve of inflicting personal chastisement. In some instances,

attempts have been made to distrain upon the balloon, _damage

feasant_, as lawyers would say, though it would have puzzled the

bumpkins to determine how such an unmanageable object could be safely

lodged in the village pound.

When the first hydrogen balloon fell at Gonesse, near Paris (1783), a

most extraordinary scene was witnessed. The inhabitants of the village

were struck with terror upon seeing an unknown monster descending from

the sky. A genuine dragon could not have excited more consternation.

Was it some fabulous animal realized in the flesh, or was it the great

fiend in proper (or improper) person? On all sides they fled. Many

sought an asylum at the house of the _curé_, who thought that the

wisest mode of dealing with the intruder was to subject it to

exorcism. Under his guidance they proceeded falteringly to the spot

where it lay, heaving with strange contortion. They waited to see what

effect the good man's presence would produce, but the creature seemed

to be utterly insensible to his fulminations. At length one of the

crowd, more intrepid than the rest, took aim with his fowling-piece,

and tore it so severely with the shot that it began to collapse

rapidly; whereupon the rest, summoning up courage, darted forward and

battered it with flails or gashed it with pitchforks. The outrush of

gas was so great that they were driven back for the time, but when the

dying monster appeared exhausted, the peasants fastened it to the tail

of a horse and drove it along until the carcase was utterly

dismembered.

The rustics who witnessed the first descent in England--Lunardi's, in

Hertfordshire--shrank from the aeronaut as a very equivocal personage,

because he had arrived on what they called the 'devil's horse.' Nor

are these terrors wholly extinct in the present day, for Flammarion

gives a description (with the pencil as well as the pen) of a descent

in which men appear to be flying, children screaming, and animals

scampering, whilst the balloon with its flags and streamers, waving

fantastically on each side like long arms or tentaculæ, is regarded by

them as some formidable being coming from the clouds. 'It is the devil

himself!' they exclaim.

But having anchored, and escaped all the perils due to chimney-tops or

infuriated farmers, the first question we put will doubtless

be--Where are we? A more unfortunate query could scarcely be

propounded. It expresses the greatest of all the infirmities under

which the balloon labours--namely, that no mortal can tell us

beforehand where we shall alight. Would it not be rather inconvenient

if a traveller, on setting out from Derby, were unable to say whether

he should land at Liverpool or at Hull, at Brighton or at

Berwick-upon-Tweed? For aught we know, we might find ourselves, after

ascending from the most central part of England, hovering over the

Irish Sea or the English Channel, with simple power to rise into the

clouds or plunge into the waves, but with none to choose any

horizontal path or enter any particular port. Whilst drifting

tranquilly along in a current, we could hardly fail to ask whether no

means could be adopted for propelling balloons in the air as is the

case with vessels on the water. Put out our oars? Unhappily they would

do little to assist our progress, for, however broad their blades,

they would meet with small resistance from the thin medium into which

they were dipped. Rely upon paddle-wheels? Just as bad! There is no

dense fluid like water to grip, and the floats would spin around

almost as vainly as if they were worked in the receiver of an

air-pump. Besides, the inflated globe with its suspended car does not

constitute a rigid and inflexible whole, and if it did, the attempt to

drive it against or athwart a current, in its present form, would be

like rowing a man-of-war, with all its canvas stretched, right in the

teeth of a gale.

It would be impossible in an article like this to glance at the

innumerable schemes which have been propounded for the guidance and

propulsion of balloons. Wonderful ingenuity has been expended upon the

subject. In one project, for example, the waste gas, instead of being

idly discharged, was to be conveyed into an apparatus from which it

would issue with a centrifugal force capable--so it was fondly

supposed--of urging the aerostat in any given direction. In another,

the balloon itself was to be converted into a kind of screw, so that

when turned by means of a small engine, it should advance at each

motion through a space proportioned to the distance between the

threads of this monster spiral. M. Farcot gives us a description, in a

little treatise on Atmospheric Navigation,[48] of a _petit navire

aèrien de plaisance_, framed like a flying whale, 100 yards in length,

with an extensive gallery slung below, and fitted up with fins or

wings, by means of which it is to be propelled. The picture of this

marvellous structure is so enchanting, that we feel an irrepressible

desire to mingle with the passengers who seem to be lounging

luxuriously over the balcony, and who are evidently as much at home as

if they were taking a pleasure excursion in a steamer on Windermere or

the Lake of Geneva. M. Dupuy de Dôme not long since received a grant

from the French Government to enable him to construct a fish-like

machine to be worked by a screw, and assisted by a sort of swimming

bladder. Indeed, a large number of persons, either doubting or

despairing of man's power to master the balloon in its ordinary form,

rest their hopes upon the construction of machines which, whether

lighter or heavier than the air, shall be driven through the

atmosphere by brute force, if it may be so called. Mr. Glaisher does

not, of course, share in these views. He tells us that he has

attempted no improvement in the management of the balloon, that he

found it was wholly at the mercy of the winds, and that he saw no

probability of any method of steering it being ever discovered.

Fonvielle and Tissandier, on the other hand, whilst admitting that the

machine is still in its infantile stage, complain that the engineers

have not yet brought all their resources to bear upon the subject, and

entertain some vague notion that what has been done for locomotives,

for steamboats, and ordinary sailing vessels, will surely be done for

the ships of the air, forgetting that the problem to be solved is not

exactly how you shall skim the surface of the water in a boat, but

rather how you could drive a frigate through the fluid with its sails

set when sunk to a depth of many feet, and this with the whole body of

water in motion in a different direction. M. Flammarion remarks that a

bird is much heavier than its bulk of air, yet the eagle and the

condor, massive as they are, soar with ease to the tops of the tallest

rocks; and shall man, he inquires (especially a Frenchman, to whom the

empire of the air properly belongs[49]), be beaten by a bird? M.

Flammarion declines. M. Farcot positively refuses.

For all purposes of aerial travelling, however, the painful fact

remains, which may, perhaps, be most summarily expressed by saying

that there is no Bradshaw for balloons. When the day comes in which it

can be announced that 'highflyers' or 'great aerials' will leave

Trafalgar-square for Paris or Dublin, weather permitting, at a

certain hour; or that balloon trains will regularly ply between Hull

and Hamburg, or, better still, that a Cunard or Collins line of

atmospheric steamers has been established between London and New York,

then the apparatus will be admitted into the noble army of machines

which, like the ship, the locomotive, the steam-engine, the spinning

jenny, the telescope, the mariner's compass, the electric telegraph,

and many others, have rendered such splendid service to mankind.

Some dozen years ago, indeed, an aerial ship, intended to traverse the

Atlantic, was announced as in course of construction in America, by

Mr. Lowe. Weighing from three to four tons in itself, it was to

possess an ascending power equal to twenty-two tons. Its capacity was

to be five times larger than that of any previous machine. Fifteen

miles of cord were to be employed in the network alone. Beneath the

car a boat thirty feet in length was to be slung, and this skiff was

to be fitted up with masts, sails, and paddle-wheels, in order that

the crew might take to the water in case their balloon failed them at

sea. Copper condensers were to be attached, in order that additional

gas might be driven into the globe, or surplus gas abstracted, as

occasion demanded, the object of this contrivance being to enable the

navigators to raise or lower themselves without wasting any precious

material. The ship was to be directed by an apparatus containing a fan

like that of a winnowing machine, and this was to be worked by an

Ericsson's caloric engine of four-horse power. Various ingenious

appliances, amongst others a sounding line one mile in length to show

the course of the atmospheric currents, were to be adopted, and it was

confidently hoped that this _Great Eastern_ of the atmosphere, which

was to be styled the _City of New York_, would cross the Atlantic in

not less than three days, and possibly in two! We regret to say that

it has not yet put into any European port, though its arrival would be

hailed with more satisfaction than the first steamship, the _Sirius_,

was in America.

Let it not be supposed, however, that the balloon, even in its present

rudimentary condition, is available for frivolous or exceptional

purposes alone--for the former, when it is used as a brilliant

supplement to some display of fireworks; for the latter, when we

happen to be locked up in some steel-begirded city. For scientific

objects it may be difficult to overrate its value as a 'floating

observatory,' and we cannot refrain from sharing in M. Fonvielle's

chagrin when he tells us how, on one occasion, after preparing to view

an eclipse from a lofty elevation, he found that his aeronaut was not

ready to set out until the eclipse was over; or how on another, when

all had been arranged to make a sally amongst the November meteors on

one of their grand gala nights, he found, on arriving at the spot,

that the workmen had taken to flight in consequence of the escape of

the gas, and that his only chance was to go up the 'day after the

fair.' Many uses also may be found for captive balloons. Half in jest,

M. Flammarion inquires, whether these might not be pleasantly employed

in traversing the deserts where camels or dromedaries constitute the

ordinary means of conveyance. How uncomfortable is a seat upon the

back of one of these brutes--what patience it requires to endure the

tearing, jerking motions of these ships of the wilderness--most

wanderers in the East well know, and perhaps painfully remember.

Suppose, then, that an aerostat were harnessed to a dromedary and

drawn peacefully along, whilst the traveller sat softly in the

car--reading, smoking, sleeping, dreaming--without a single jolt to

mar his enjoyment, would not this be a blessed improvement in

locomotion? Half in jest, too, we might carry the idea a little

further, and ask whether, if balloons occupied by delicate voyagers

were attached to steamers, and allowed to float at a sufficient

height, so as to reduce the see-saw motion of the vessels to an

imperceptible quantity, the pains of that abhorrent malady,

sea-sickness, might not be avoided in crossing the Channel, or making

small marine excursions?

So, many homely uses for captive balloons might be imagined. A

traveller in Russia gives an account of a church at St. Petersburg

with a lofty spire crowned with a large globe, upon which stood an

angel supporting a cross. The figure began to bend, and great fears

were entertained lest it should come down with a terrible crash. How

could it be repaired was the question? To erect a proper scaffold

would involve a formidable expense, and yet to reach the object

without it seemed utterly impracticable, for the spire was covered

with gilded copper, and looked more unscaleable than the Matterhorn. A

workman, however, undertook the task. The plates of metal had been

attached by nails which were left projecting. Furnished with short

pieces of cord, looped at both extremities, he slung one end over a

nail, and placing his feet in the other, raised himself a short

distance: this enabled him to reach a little higher and fasten another

loop over another nail, and so by repeating the process, and mounting

from stirrup to stirrup, he crawled up, until by a still more daring

manoeuvre he threw a cord over the globe, and then finally

clambered to the side of the figure. A ladder of ropes was next drawn

up, and the rest of the work became comparatively easy of execution;

but with a captive balloon the needful materials might have been sent

up, and the angel put in repair, without costing an anxious thought,

or jeopardising either life or limb.

How far it is possible to employ a balloon for purposes of exploration

in quarters which are naturally inaccessible, or at any rate difficult

of approach, must be a question dependent in no small degree upon the

power of replenishing the machine with gas or heated air. It would,

doubtless, be a fine thing if men could thus sail over all the

obstructions which fence in the two poles, and pry into the Antarctic

continent, or solve the problem of a hidden Arctic sea. Many years ago

Mr. Hampton designed, and we believe completed, a big Montgolfier,

which was to be employed in the search after Sir John Franklin. The

machine was to be inflated by means of hot air produced by the agency

of a great stove; but, if the necessity for a supply of the ordinary

gas was thus avoided, the demand for fuel in regions where neither

timber nor coal could be had (blubber, indeed, might perhaps have been

procured), must have proved an insuperable difficulty, and the

enterprise would probably have terminated in leaving the aeronauts

stranded on some icy waste, without any better means of return than

were possessed by the poor lost ones themselves.

Let us not part from this subject, however, without informing the

reader that if M. Flammarion's views are correct, it is the most

important topic under the sun. 'For,' says he, with the look of a

prophet and the tone of a poet, 'when the conquest of the air shall

have been achieved, universal fraternity will be established upon the

earth, everlasting peace will descend to us from heaven, and the last

links which divide men and nations will be severed.' Without laying

any stress upon the oracular form of this prediction--and the

indefinite 'when' may conceal some sly reference to the Greek

Kalends--we regret to say that we cannot join in his jubilant

conclusion. Our firm persuasion is, that in the present state of

affairs, seeing that so large a portion of the world's revenue is

squandered upon fighting purposes, one of the first steps which would

be taken in case the 'conquest of the air' were perfected to-morrow,

would be to fit out a fleet of war-balloons, to raise a standing army

of aeronauts, to add a new and afflictive department to our annual

estimates, and to encourage the Chancellor of the Exchequer to make

another assault upon the match-sellers, and probably to double our

income-tax without compunction.