Up in the Clouds: Balloon Voyages

“10. It is absolutely forbidden to any traveller to throw overboard ballast, or any packet whatever.

“11. No passenger can carry up with him luggage exceeding thirty pounds in weight, and occupying more space than a travelling-bag.

“12. Except in very rare cases, of which the captain alone shall be judge, it is absolutely forbidden to smoke on board, or on land within the vicinity of the balloon.”

The second ascent took place on the 18th of October, when Monsieur Nadar, nothing daunted by his former experience, again went up in his “Giant” from the Champ de Mars. On this occasion preliminaries were managed with greater success than on the former, and the event was regarded with much more general interest. Soldiers kept the ground; the Emperor himself was present, and conversed with the bold aeronaut on the subject of his balloon; George the First of Greece was there also, and the crowd which assembled to witness the ascent surpassed all expectation.

There were two peculiar features in this second ascent. It had been doubted whether the balloon, which was said to be capable of raising four-and-a-half tons, could carry more than thirteen men. In order to set this question at rest, a short preliminary flight was made with a rope attached to restrain the “Giant.” About thirty soldiers were then put into the car, who mounted to the extent of the rope, and were pulled down again. The other feature was that a balloon of more ordinary dimensions was let fly along with the “Giant,” to give, by contrast, a better idea of its size. The balloon used for this purpose was the “Godillot,” which had been used by the Emperor in the Italian campaign for reconnoitring the enemy.

After the usual delays which are inseparable from such displays, Monsieur Nadar, with eight friends, stepped into the car, the rope was let go, and the “Giant” rose slowly towards the clouds, grew “small by degrees and beautifully less,” until it finally disappeared about night-fall—being wafted along by a gentle south-easterly breeze.

Nothing more was heard of the aeronauts for the next two days, and their friends were becoming naturally very anxious about them, when at last a telegram came from Bremen, dated the 21st, which ran as follows:—

“Nadar’s balloon descended near Eystrup in Hanover. There were nine persons in it, of whom three were seriously, and two slightly injured.”

Other telegrams quickly followed stating that Monsieur Nadar had both legs dislocated; Monsieur Saint Felix had sustained severe fractures and contusions; and that Madame Nadar had also been severely injured.

It was stated that the voyagers would probably all have perished if Jules Godard (a celebrated aeronaut, who, with his brother Louis, accompanied Nadar), had not, at the risk of his life, climbed up the net-work, and cut a hole in the silk with a hatchet, so as to allow the gas to escape. By so doing, he stopped the furious course of the balloon, which was making truly gigantic bounds of from forty to fifty yards over the ground, with a violence that would soon have knocked the car to pieces!

A full and graphic, but inflated and sentimental account of the voyage—which was one of real and thrilling interest—is given by one of the voyagers, Monsieur Eugène Arnould, a reporter of the French newspaper La Nation. Had Monsieur Arnould confined himself to a simple statement of facts, he would have greatly increased the interest and power of his description. However, we must take him as we find him, and as his account is the most complete—and correct in the main, although exaggerated in detail—we present it to the reader.

“At nine o’clock at night (the same night on which they started) we were at Erquelines; we passed over Malines, and towards midnight we were in Holland. We rose up very high, but it was necessary to come down to see where we were. Ignorant of that, our position was a critical one. Below, as far as we could see, were marshes, and in the distance we could hear the roar of the sea. We threw out ballast, and, mounting again, soon lost sight of the earth. What a night! Nobody slept, as you may suppose, for the idea of falling into the sea had nothing pleasant about it, and it was necessary to keep a look-out in order to effect, if necessary, a descent. My compass showed that we were going towards the east—that is to say, towards Germany. In the morning, after a frugal breakfast made in the clouds, we re-descended. An immense plain was beneath us; the villages appeared to us like children’s toys—rivers seemed like little rivulets—it was magical. The sun shone splendidly over all. Towards eight o’clock we arrived near a great lake; there I found out our bearings, and announced that we were at the end of Holland, near the sea.

“We passed I know not how much time in contemplating the enchanting scene around us; but at length we all felt the necessity of going downwards to see where we were. Presently the balloon came so near to the earth that we could readily distinguish the tall chimneys of a great many flaming furnaces. ‘If we were to fall upon some of them,’ said Montgolfier anxiously. These furnaces told us very clearly that we were in Belgium, and, besides, the Flemish songs that continually reached our ears left no doubt upon the point. Godard, Nadar, all of us, called out frequently to the people below, ‘Where are we?’ but we got no other answer than shouts of laughter. There were two bells in the car, and Yon and myself rang them as hard as we could, while Nadar roared through his speaking-trumpet. I had an opportunity of observing that the purity of the air in no degree attenuates the quantity of false notes lodged in the throats of certain individuals. Our aerial Charivari at length provoked a corresponding one on earth, and we could hear dogs barking, ducks quacking, men swearing, and women screaming. All this had a droll effect; but time went on, the wind blew hard, it was dark night, and our balloon drove on with prodigious rapidity, and we were not able to tell exactly where we were. I could not see my compass, and we were not allowed to light a lucifer match under any pretext whatsoever. From the direction in which we had passed over Lille, we judged that we must be going towards the sea; Louis Godard fancied that he could see lighthouses. We descended again to within 150 yards of the earth. Beneath us we saw a flat marshy country of sinister aspect, and indicating plainly the neighbourhood of the coast. Every one listened with all his ears, and many fancied they heard the murmurs of the sea. The further we went on the more desert the country became: there was no light whatever, and it became more and more difficult to guess where we were going. ‘I am entirely out of my reckoning,’ exclaimed Louis Godard, ‘and my opinion is that the only thing we have to do is to descend at once.’ ‘What! here in the marshes!’ remonstrated all of us; ‘and suppose we are driven into the sea?’ The balloon went driving on still. ‘We cannot descend here,’ said Jules Godard; ‘we are over water.’ Two or three of us looked over the edge of the car, and affirmed that we were not over water, but trees. ‘It is water,’ Jules Godard persisted. Every one now looked out attentively; and, as the balloon descended a little, we saw plainly that there was no water, but without being able to say positively whether there were trees or not. At the moment when Jules Godard thought he saw water, Nadar exclaimed, ‘I see a railway.’ It turned out that what Nadar took for a railway was a canal running towards the Scheldt, which we had passed over a few minutes before. Hurrah for balloons! They are the things to travel in; rivers, mountains, custom-houses,—all are passed without let or hindrance. But every medal has its reverse; and, if we were delighted at having safely got over the Scheldt, we by no means relished the prospect of going on to the Zuyder Zee. ‘Shall we go down?’ asked Louis Godard. There was a moment’s pause. We consulted together. Suddenly I uttered a cry of joy; the position of the needle of my compass indicated that the balloon had made a half turn to the right, and was now going due east. The aspect of the stars confirmed this assertion. Forward! was now the cry. We threw out a little ballast, mounted higher, and started with renewed vigour with our backs turned to the depreciated Zuyder Zee. It was now three in the morning, and none of us had slept. Just as we began to try to sleep a little, my diabolical compass showed that the balloon was turning back again. ‘Where are you going to take us to?’ cried out Yon to the immense mass of canvas which was oscillating above our heads. Louis Godard again proposed to descend; but we said, ‘No! forward! forward!’ Two hours sped away without our being able to tell where we were. At five o’clock day broke, and broad daylight came on with marvellous rapidity. It is true that we were at a height of 980 metres. Novel-writers and others have so much abused descriptions of sunrise, on mountains and on the ocean, that I shall say little about this one, although it is not a common thing to see the horizon on fire below the clouds. The finest Venetian paintings could alone give an idea of the luxuriant tones of the heaven that we saw. Such dazzling magnificence led me to wonder that there is no revival of sun worship, since men must necessarily have some material representation of the divinity. It is true that the sun is not made in man’s image! We now had beneath us an immense plain, the same, probably, that we had passed over in the night. There is nothing more pleasant at first sight, nor more monotonous in the long-run, than the sort of country which forms at least one-third of Holland. There are miniature woods the size of bouquets, fields admirably cultivated and divided into little patches like gardens, rivers with extraordinary windings, microscopic roads, coquettish-looking villages, so white and so clean that I think the Dutch housewives must scour the very roofs of their houses every morning. In the midst of every village there is a jewel of a church with a shining steeple. While riding along at a height of 700 metres, we had beneath us a picture of Paul Potter’s fifty leagues square. All at once the tableaux became animated. The people below had perceived the balloon. We heard cries expressive of astonishment, fright, and even of anger; but the feeling of fright seemed to predominate. We distinctly saw women in their chemises look hurriedly out of windows and then rush back again. We saw chubby boys looking at us, and blubbering as if they were mad. Some men, more determined than the rest, fired off guns at us. I saw several mammas pointing us out to stubborn babies, with an attitude which seemed to say that our balloon was Old Bogy. Old women raised their hands against us, and at their signal many ran away, making the sign of the cross. It is evident that in some of these villages we were taken to be the devil in person. On this point it is apropos to cite a letter communicated to me which has been addressed to the Courrier de Hanovre. I translate it textually:—

“‘This morning, at about six o’clock, we saw passing over our heads, at a prodigious height, an immense round form, to which was suspended some thing which looked like a square house of a red colour. Some people pretend to have seen animated beings in this strange machine, and to have heard issuing from it superhuman cries. What think you, Mr Editor? The whole country is in a state of alarm, and it will be long before our people recover their equanimity.’

“At seven a.m. we crossed over a lake near Yssel; the wind then again pushed us in a new direction, nearly at right angles with that which we were taking before. In less than a quarter of an hour the balloon got into Westphalia near Renheim; then we crossed the great river Ems, the towns of Rheine and Ibbenbüren, and returned to Hanover a little above Osnabrück. We traversed, without deigning to take notice of them, a little chain of mountains, and by way, no doubt, of relaxation after so long a journey, went all round a lake which is called in German Dummersee. We then got into a great plain, through which runs a road. At this time the balloon became almost motionless. The reason of this was, that the heat of the sun had caused the gas to expand. The thermometer was then at 145 degrees (about 59 degrees Fahrenheit (No! editor)). Louis Godard was very uneasy about this dilation. After two or three oscillations, our aerial courser decided upon going off rapidly in an eastern direction, with about two degrees variation towards the north. This course would have taken us to Hamburg and the Baltic; but we were all so completely absorbed by the splendour of the tableau before us that we took little note of the change. Our hippogriff passed over Wagenfeld-Steyerberg, where there is a river which flows into the Weser. We came within sight of the great river and Nienburg, a considerable town on one of its banks. We saw a steamboat going down the river from the town. The view here was charming. A rustling of the silk of our balloon made us look upwards; the monster, under the influence of the sun, now very hot, was palpably swelling. As it would have been supremely ridiculous, after having made such a first-rate journey, to have treated the inhabitants of Nienburg with the spectacle of seeing us blown up—to say nothing of the consequences of such a catastrophe to our own limbs—we resolved to come down. The remaining bags of ballast were got in order, the ropes and the anchors prepared, and Godard opened the safety-valve. ‘The monster is disgorging!’ exclaimed Thirion. And the balloon did vomit forth its gas with a tremendous noise, which may be compared to the snoring of some gigantic animal. While our companion made this observation, we were descending at the rate of two metres to the second. ‘To the ropes! to the ropes!—hold on well!’ cried the brothers Godard, who seemed quite in their element, ‘take care of the shock!’ Every one climbed up to the ropes which attach the car to the circular handles underneath the balloon. Madame Nadar, whose sang-froid was truly magnificent, grasped two large ropes with her delicate hands. Nadar did the like, but at the same time put his arms round his wife so as to protect her body. I was on one side towards the middle of the sort of hurdle which serves as a balcony. I was on my knees and clinging to two ropes. Montgolfier, Thirion, and Saint Felix were near me. The balloon descended so rapidly that it gave us the vertigo. The air, which we had left so calm above, became a violent wind as we neared the earth. ‘We are going to throw down the anchors,’ said Godard, ‘hold tight!’ Ah! the car struck the earth with tremendous violence. I cannot imagine how it was that my arms were not broken. After the first terrible shock the balloon went up again, but the safety-valve was opened—it again fell—and we suffered a second shock, if not more violent, at least more painful to us than the first. Up we went again; the balloon dragged its anchors. Several times we thought we should be thrown out. ‘The anchors are broken,’ exclaimed Godard. The balloon beat the ground with its head, like a kite when it falls down. It was horrible. On we went towards Nienburg, at the rate of ten leagues an hour. Three large trees were cut through by the car, as clean as if by a woodman’s hatchet. One small anchor still remained to us. We threw it down, and it carried away the roof of a house. If the balloon had dragged us through the town we should, inevitably, have been cut to pieces. But fortunately it rose a little and then bumped against the ground again with as much violence as before. Every one of these shocks wrenched our limbs; to complete our misfortunes the rope of the safety-valve got loose from us, and the safety-valve shutting up we lost all hope of the balloon emptying itself. It went on by bounds of twenty-five, thirty, and forty metres from the earth, and continued to fall upon its head. Everything that stood in the way of the car was dashed to pieces.

“Jules Godard then tried, and accomplished, an act of sublime heroism. He clambered up into the netting, the shocks of which were so terrible that three times he fell on my head. At length he reached the cord of the valve, opened it, and the gas having a way of escape the monster ceased to rise but it still shot along in a horizontal line with prodigious rapidity. There were we squatting down upon the frail osier car. ‘Take care!’ we cried, when a tree was in the way. We turned from it, and the tree was broken; but the balloon was discharging its gas, and if the immense plain we were crossing had yet a few leagues, we were saved. But suddenly a forest appeared in the horizon; we must leap out at whatever risk, for the car would be dashed to pieces at the first collision with those trees. I got down into the car, and raising myself I know not how,—for I suffered from a wound in my knees, my trousers were torn,—I jumped, and made I know not how many revolutions, and fell upon my head. After a minute’s dizziness I rose. The car was then far off. By the aid of a stick I dragged myself to the forest, and having gone a few steps I heard some groans. Saint Felix was stretched on the soil frightfully disfigured; his body was one wound; he had an arm broken, the chest torn, and an ankle dislocated. The car had disappeared. After crossing a river I heard a cry. Nadar was stretched on the ground with a dislocated thigh; his wife had fallen into the river. Another companion was shattered. We occupied ourselves with Saint Felix, and Nadar and his wife. In trying to assist the latter I was nearly drowned, for I fell into the water and sank. They picked me up again, and I found the bath had done me good. By the assistance of the inhabitants the salvage was got together. Vehicles were brought; they placed us upon straw. My knees bled; my loins and head seemed to be like mince-meat; but I did not lose my presence of mind an instant, and for a second I felt humiliated at looking from the truss of straw at those clouds which in the night I had had under my feet. It was in this way we reached Rethem, in Hanover.

“In seventeen hours we had made nearly 250 leagues. Our course infernale had covered a space of three leagues. Now that it is over I have some shudderings. It does not signify! we have made a good journey, and I marvel to see with what indifference we may regard the most frightful death, for, besides the prospect of being dashed about on our way, we had that of gaining the sea; and how long should we have lived then? I am glad to have seen this—happier yet at having to narrate it to you. These Germans who surround us are brave people, and we have been as well cared for as the resources of the little spot will allow.

“P.S.—I have just reached Hanover with my companions, and re-open my letter to tell you so. The King has sent an aide-de-camp to us. Are we at the end of our reverses? At any rate, I am consoled to think they can no longer laugh at us in Paris. We have kept our promises, and more.”

Making some allowance for the palpable exaggeration of small details, this excitable Frenchman’s description of the ascent is the best that we have seen, therefore we have given it in full.

The accounts given by other members of the party corroborate most of it, and correct a few of its errors. For instance, where Monsieur Arnould represents the anchor as dragging off the roof of a house, another account states that it tore away one of the rafters; and while he tells us that large trees were “cut through by the car as clean as if by a woodman’s hatchet,” Monsieur Godard says that they were knocked down or uprooted! But, upon the whole, after comparing the several narratives, we are of opinion that, with all his tendency to exaggeration and the use of inflated language, Monsieur Arnould has found it impossible to convey by means of words an adequate conception of this, perhaps, the most wonderful and thrilling balloon voyage on record.

Many dangerous voyages of thrilling interest have been undertaken since this ascent of Monsieur Nadar. We shall just give a brief account of two of these, which occurred at a comparatively recent date, to show the reader that men are not to be deterred by the misfortunes of predecessors from prosecuting inquiries and experiments in this field.

A fête was held some years ago in the park of Mr North, Basford, near Nottingham. Amongst the amusements, it was arranged that Mr Coxwell should make a balloon ascent. The balloon was almost new, but not of very large dimensions. After it had been fully inflated, Mr Coxwell tried it, and found there would be some difficulty in ascending in it, owing to its weight. At this juncture, a Mr James Chambers, of Nottingham, who had previously made many ascents, stepped forward and offered to go in his stead, saying that he was lighter than Mr Coxwell, and that he wished to make the ascent. After some conversation, it was agreed that Chambers should go up, but Mr Coxwell told him not to attempt an ascent unless he felt quite confident that he could manage the balloon. Chambers replied that he had no fear about managing it, and accordingly he was allowed to make the ascent. The balloon rose steadily, and was carried somewhat rapidly in a north-easterly direction towards Nottingham. It proceeded as far as Arno Vale, when it was seen suddenly to collapse, while still at a considerable altitude, and then to fall quickly in an unshapely mass. Some young men who were near the spot where the balloon fell, hastened to render assistance. The balloon dropped into the car as it descended, completely covering it, and ultimately both fell in a field near Scout Lane, three miles from Nottingham. The car struck the ground and rebounded several feet, and then fell again, when it was seized and stopped by the young men, who had followed it. At the bottom of the car lay stretched the body of the unfortunate aeronaut. He was lifted out and found to be breathing, but quite insensible. He was conveyed to the nearest dwelling, and means were adopted to restore animation, but without effect. Two medical gentlemen, named Robertson and Maltby, afterwards saw him, and it was discovered that his left thigh was fractured, and some of the ribs on his left side were broken, but they considered it very probable that the unfortunate man had died through suffocation, as a handkerchief, which had been found in his mouth, had probably been placed there by himself when he found that he was in danger of being stifled by the gas from the collapsing balloon.

On another occasion, still more recent, a perilous balloon voyage was accomplished by an aeronaut named Vouens. He ascended from the Bellevue Gardens, near Huddersfield, in a balloon which was capable of containing 20,000 cubic feet of gas. Its height was 50 feet, and it expanded to 100 feet in circumference. Away floated the balloon in a westerly direction, oscillating for a considerable distance in a most extraordinary and unusual manner. Mr Vouens experienced a stronger breeze than he had anticipated, and, the current changing rapidly, his energy and knowledge as an aeronaut were very severely taxed. A fresh current drove him to the east for a time, but presently another gust unexpectedly sent him in the direction of Halifax, and thence towards Bradford, in a northerly course. After the lapse of twenty minutes the balloon and its occupant pierced the clouds. Mr Vouens then began to make observations for the purpose of selecting a suitable site on which to descend; and in a few minutes concentrated his attention upon a field in which a fête was being held. The breeze, however, carried him some three miles further, and a second time Mr Vouens attempted to lower himself in a field adjoining some farm-houses at Denholme. Cautiously opening the escape-valve, he continued the journey downwards and threw out the grapnels. Impetuous blasts of wind increased the difficulty of bringing the balloon to anchor. A strong wind prevailing, it became unmanageable, and drifted over fields and stone walls with amazing velocity. The flukes of the grapnels penetrated the ground and uprooted the earth as they followed in the wake of the balloon, while the aerial chariot dashed onwards, making, in its career, wide gaps in several stone walls. Mr Vouens, preparing to encounter the worst fate, wrapped the end of the cord which opens the escape-valve round one of his wrists, and, burying himself in the car, permitted the balloon to proceed until the breeze subsided, when, after the car had been thrice capsized, and every article which it contained thrown out, Mr Vouens, who received no injuries, anchored, and completed a voyage of many miles, which occupied half-an-hour in its accomplishment.

Chapter Nine.

War-Balloons

As the French were the first to teach mankind the art of navigating the air by means of balloons, so they were the first to set the example of applying them to the art of war.

It may not be generally known, perhaps, that balloons have actually been used in war. They were first introduced to this new field of action at Valenciennes in 1793, and the result of the experiment was a failure; not, however, owing to the fault of man, but to the unpropitious nature of the winds. The garrison, being hard pressed by the English and their allies, attached a letter, addressed to the National Assembly, to a small balloon, or parachute, and committed it to a breeze which blew in the direction of Paris. Towards evening the wind changed, and the faithless messenger fell into the enemy’s camp!

About the same time the subject of war-balloons was brought before the Committee of Public Safety, who commissioned a young captain of Engineers, named Coutelle, to make experiments, and report on the matter. He made a balloon twenty-seven feet in diameter, with a car to hold two persons, which, when filled with hydrogen gas, was capable of lifting about a quarter of a ton, and cost a little above 80 pounds. It was not intended that this balloon should go free. It was to be held down by two guy-ropes, each between four and five hundred yards in length, by which, when at the full length of its tether, the balloon was to be hauled about in any direction, pulled down, or allowed to rise in obedience to the wishes of the aeronaut, who was to communicate his orders by means of a system of signals. Reports of what he might be thus enabled to discover of the enemy’s position were to be written on slips of paper, put into small sandbags, and tossed overboard. Small coloured flags were attached to each bag, so that it might be easily observed in its descent.

After several satisfactory ascents to the height of above 500 feet had taken place—the balloon being held easily by ten men, five to each guy-rope—an order was given, in April 1794, for the formation of a company of military aeronauts—styled aerostiers, to which Coutelle was appointed captain-commandant. His company consisted of one lieutenant, one sergeant-major, one sergeant, two corporals, and twenty privates, who wore a dark blue uniform, with black velvet facings, and were armed with pistols and swords.

This new and peculiar company of aerostiers was very soon sent to join the army at Maubeuge, and was regarded with some ridicule and contempt by the rest of the army. Coutelle, however, took an effectual method of commanding respect. He begged that he and his men might be allowed to take part in a projected sortie. They were permitted, and went; an officer and private were wounded, and the corps behaved with such gallantry that it was from that time treated with becoming respect.

Ascents were made daily in the balloon for reconnoitring purposes, and the Austrians fired at their audacious and inquisitive enemy both with muskets and cannon, but without effect.

After a time the balloon was ordered to take the road, and join that part of the army which was marching on Charleroi. Its march through the country in leading-strings was curious to spectators and harassing to the aerostiers. The car, with all its appurtenances, was placed on a cart, over which the balloon was allowed to float at a height sufficient to admit of the passage of cavalry under it. Twenty men, marching in single file, held it down by twenty stays; but they had a sad time of it, for their charge was headstrong and restive, jerking and tugging at them continually, not only with its own inherent power of ascension, but with the irregular impetus derived from gusts and squalls of wind, which caused it to make sudden and violent charges against trees, houses, or whatever chanced to come in its way, and sometimes to beat its blunt forehead wildly on the ground as if it had been a monster in despair!

It reached Charleroi, however, on the 22nd of June, after a journey of three days, and took part in the battle of Fleurus on the 26th. A high wind rendered it necessary, on the day of battle, to fasten its guy-ropes to thirty horses—fifteen to each rope—and, thus secured, it remained in the air eight hours, passing from place to place, and making observations. Its services were so highly appreciated by the generals on that occasion that a second balloon was made and sent to the field of action. The first one, which was named l’Entreprenant, met with accidents which rendered it necessary that it should be sent to Maubeuge for repair; but it afterwards rejoined the army and took part in the battle of Aldenhoven, at the capture of Bonn, and at the operations before Ehrenbreitstein, in all of which it escaped without a wound, although frequently exposed to a furious fire of musketry and shells from the exasperated Austrians.

Nevertheless, its natural enemy, the wind, did not allow it to escape scatheless, as Coutelle shows in one of his letters. He writes thus:

“I received orders to make a reconnaissance of Mayence. I accordingly posted myself between our lines and the town, at about half cannon-shot distance. The wind was very high, so, to counteract its effects as far as lay in my power, I ascended alone, with two hundred pounds additional buoyancy. I was at a height of five hundred metres when three successive gusts dashed me to the ground with such violence that several portions of the car were smashed to bits. Each time the balloon darted up again with so much force that sixty-four men—thirty-two at each guy-rope—were dragged to some distance. Had the guys been made fast to grapnels, as had been suggested to me, they must infallibly have given way.”

Notwithstanding this rough treatment, the aerial warrior managed, during a lull in the wind, to count the number of the enemy’s guns.

But the successes of these war-balloons were sadly intermingled with reverses of fortune and harassing difficulties. The aeronauts had, indeed, won the respect and admiration of the army, but this did not compensate for the terribly fatiguing work of holding on, with scarcely a moment’s intermission, to the ropes of the intractable monsters during long and frequent marches. The second balloon at length succeeded in breaking loose, and was so much damaged as to become unserviceable, and the first one was afterwards found riddled with balls—destroyed, it was supposed, by its own men, who had become tired of the hardships to which they were continually subjected. The balloon was repaired, but was taken prisoner at Wurtzburg in September 1796, after a short but brilliant, and, it is said, useful career.

After this the war-ballooning fell into disrepute. Some attempts have been made in modern times to revive it, but these are not worth mentioning.

Chapter Ten.

Aerial Locomotives, etcetera

Having treated of the balloon in all its different aspects, it is both just and appropriate to conclude with an account of the theory and construction of that curious machine which is, according to some enthusiastic aeronauts, to supplant the balloon altogether, and enable us to accomplish that which has been one of the great aims and desires of mankind from the earliest ages, namely, the directing of our flight, or steering a course, not only through, but, if need were, in opposition to the winds.

Monsieur Nadar being, perhaps, the most zealous advocate of this machine, we draw our information chiefly from his writings. Of course the reader will understand that we do not support the views which we are about to set forth; neither, however, do we treat them lightly, because we have lived long enough to see proposals which, not many years ago, would have been deemed worthy of the most visionary of lunatics, carried out to a successful issue and reduced to sober facts.

When we hear of a flying machine which is to rise from the earth at the bidding of man, and, like the fabulous creations in the Arabian Nights’ Entertainment, dart through the air with passengers and luggage bound for definite localities, turning hither and thither, or alighting on the earth according to the will of a steersman—we confess to a feeling which is apt to wrinkle our visage with the smile of incredulity; but we sternly rebuke the smile, for we know that similar smiles wreathed the faces of exceedingly wise people when, in former days, it was proposed to drive ships and coaches by steam, and hold instantaneous converse with our friends across the Atlantic by means of electricity!

Let us therefore gravely consider the aerial locomotive.

Monsieur Nadar, as the reader already knows, scouts the idea of steering balloons.

In reference to this he states with truth that, “a balloon which presents to the action of the atmosphere a volume of from 22,000 to 42,000 (cubic) feet of a gas from ten to fifteen times lighter than air, is, by its very nature, smitten with incapacity to struggle against the slightest current, no matter what may be the resisting motive force which may be imparted to it. Both by its constitution, and by the medium which drives it hither and thither at the pleasure of the winds, it can never become a vessel. It is a buoy, and remains a buoy.”

Discarding, therefore, with contempt, the balloon as an aerial locomotive, he announces his belief that it is the screw which is destined to drive us, or clamber with us, into the blue vault above, and convey us from place to place. And here it is right to assure the reader that the theoretical power of the screw to accomplish the end in view is not a disputable question. It has been practically proved by models, and the only point that remains to be settled is the possibility of applying the power to machines large enough to carry human beings with a sufficient degree of safety to warrant risking the attempt.

Monsieur Nadar sets out with a statement which he deems self-evident, namely, that, “in order to contend against the air, we must be specifically heavier than the air”—a truth which was also, we are told, announced by the first Napoleon in the epigrammatic sentence, “There can be no progress without resistance.” From this the Frenchman proceeds to prove that, in order to command the air, it is necessary to support one’s-self upon it, instead of being at its mercy; that we can only rest upon that which resists, and that the air itself furnishes us amply with the needful resistance—it being “the same atmosphere which overturns walls, tears up by the root trees a century old, and enables ships to ascend impetuous currents.” Glowing with the ardour of a man whose faith is refreshingly great, he tells us that the time has at last come when the atmosphere must yield to man. “It is for man,” he says, “to restrain and subdue this insolent and abnormal rebellion, which has for so many years laughed at our vain efforts. We are in turn about to make it serve us as a slave, just as the water on which we launch the ship, as the solid earth on which we press the wheel!”

There is a toy called the spiralifer, which is common enough in towns, and which is, doubtless, known to almost every one. It consists of four flat fans attached to a spindle somewhat after the manner of the arms of a windmill. It is placed in a hollow tube and made to spin violently by pulling a string wound round the spindle. The result is that the spiralifer leaps out of the hollow tube and ascends powerfully as long as the violent spinning motion continues. If properly constructed, this toy acts with great force and certainty, and if the spinning motion could only be kept up, by any means, the ascent would be continued. The principal here involved is precisely the same as that which causes a windmill to turn, a screw-propeller to drive a ship, and a cork-screw to enter a cork. It is pressure against a resisting medium. Air is the resisting medium in the case of the mill; water and cork respectively in the other cases. The only difference between the windmill and the spiralifer is, that the first is moved by the air pressing against it, the other by itself, in its rotatory action, pressing against the air. If you turn a bottle upside down, and, while in that position, send a cork-screw up into the cork, you set in motion the same force which is applied in the spiralifer. As the screw screws itself up into the cork, so the spiralifer screws itself up into the air. Of course the screw remains sticking there when the motive power ceases, because of the density of the medium through which it moves, while the spiralifer, when at rest, sinks, because of the fluidity of the air; but the principle of motion in each is the same. The screw-propeller of a ship is just a spiralifer placed horizontally, acting on water instead of air, and having a vessel placed in front of it.

Now, Monsieur Nadar’s aerial locomotive is a huge spiralifer, made strong enough to carry up a steam-engine which shall keep it perpetually spinning, and, therefore, perpetually ascending. Perhaps we should have said that his locomotive is a huge machine to which several spiralifers are attached, so that while one set raises or (by reversing the engine) depresses it, other sets drive it sideways. The theory is perfect, and the practice has been successfully attempted in models. Messieurs Ponton d’Amécourt and de la Laudelle, we are told—“the one a man of the world, and the other a man of letters”—engaged the services of two skilled mechanics, Messieurs Joseph of Arras and J. Richard, who constructed models of machines which ascended the atmosphere, carrying their motive power (springs) along with them.