deserves applause. Gay precursor of suicide!
Notable pioneer of death! But why lingers the
Frenchman? Have we not all paid our twenty-
five cents to see him die, and does the Gaul
dare to hesitate?

No; he is but sending up another pioneer
balloon to see which way the wind blows. It
is all safe; the wind blows in from the Hudson
towards the land. He will not be carried to
sea, so the Atlantic will have one victim the
less. His course will be inland. Some tree-top
will then catch him, or he will beat out his
brains against some warehouse roof.

The wind is high, but it blows the right way.
It is rather late in the year for balloon experiments,
somebody in the crowd says, regretfully;
but if the breeze does not quicken, it is still a
reasonably good day for an ascent.

Now, the Frenchman runs about in the ring
like a newly-caught mouse in a cage-trap, and
prepares for the great moment. The balloon
sways and bellies in the wind; it strains, and
drags, and struggles, like a greyhound pulling at
a leash; it is eager to rise into its own element;
it disdains the earth, for it was made for the air
alone.

Now, under the open neck of it, the Frenchman
and his partners drag the barrel of straw,
and close at hand the wicker car is placed, with
its long cords ready to be attached. Excitement
becomes painfully intense. The assistants drag
at the foot ropes that hold the swaying balloon
still tied fast at the top to the rope-dancer's
horizontal cord. The Frenchman, with a light,
disappears inside the balloon, the neck of which
is placed over the orifice of the tub which
contains the lighted straw. The hot air from
this straw will inflate the balloon, and render it
as buoyant as gas. When full, the orifice will
be tied up and the car attached. What is to
become of the French Icarus when the heated
air escapes? I find no one who can inform
me; but the American rowdy has no thought
of the future or the past; he lives entirely
in the present.

The balloon fills fast, its paper sides grow
tense, the ropes are taut; it will be in three
minutes, somebody says, fit to cork up. Even
the smiling policemen are now busy in a
brotherly way, hauling or tugging on detentive
ropes. Suddenly, from inside the tent comes the
voice of the agitated Frenchman: "Fire! fire!
get to me some water! Vite, vite, water! give
me!"

Instantly an over-zealous policeman dashes a
pail of water over the part of the balloon nearest
to him, and it breaks through like blotting-
paper.

There is an angry laugh in the crowd, as if the
whole thing were a trick. The Frenchman
emerges, pale, stern, and frightened, and sets to
work with paste and paper to patch up the large
area of damaged surface. He explains that the
inside of the balloon was not on fire, but that it
was so heated that he feared it would ignite,
upon which he called out "water," and the
policeman, thinking it was on fire, instead of
handing in the water, dashed it on the outside
paper.

But the people are not satisfied.

"He never meant to go up at all," says one.

"Thunder!" says another, "if I haven't a
good mind to go in and squash the darned
bladder altogether."

"Let's sail in," says an ugly customer, who
seems inclined to join in a row.

In vain the band struck up, for at that
moment some rascal cut the rope, and down
came fifty feet of paper in a rustling avalanche
on the Frenchman and his loquacious assistants.
Then a hearty laugh broke from the crowd, and
all their anger melted in a moment.

I really pitied the poor French Belphegor, as,
heedless of the crowd's anger, he knelt over the
hill of torn wet smoky paper, trying to drag it
into shape, and still patch it up for departure
into space. Never was a man more vexed and
hurt at Providence for not being allowed to
throw his poor little life away.

But one of his assistants, a lean blackleg-looking
man, will not let the moment of good
humour pass again into anger.

"Money, money," cry several voices.

The lean man leaps upon a table (an American
is always ready to make a public speech, even if
he has only got one listener, and that listener
stone deaf):

"Fellow-citizens! I guess you are all right-down
disappointed at this balloon not going
up. I can assure you no one is more
disappointed than this brave bully boy, my friend
Monsoo Goujat, who has a bet of seven hundred
dollars depending on this very ascent; but the
wind is too high, I tell you, fellow-citizens, and
this accident now will prevent the ascent this
afternoon. It will be necessary to cover the
lower ten feet of the balloon with canvas or
some uninflammable substance. But don't you
listen, fellow-citizens, to anything any one says,
for this bully boy would go up now if we would
let him; but we won't—no, siree—we won't."

(Frenchman stamped and made a gesture of
impatience and unsubdued will.)

"The ascent will, therefore, take place on this
same spot (weather permitting) next Wednesday,
at two o'clock, and Monsoo Goujat, to convince
you of the certainty of that ascent, will order
your money to be returned to you at the gate,
where those who wish it may receive instead,
tickets for admission next Wednesday." (Cheers.)

I suppose the weather did not permit, for
I looked in Wednesday's Stinger and saw no
mention of the paper balloon. I left for England
soon after, so do not know whether my resolute
French friend, Monsieur Icarus, ever ventured
upon his daring flight.

Election or Bunkum speeches are a large
class of American sensations. They are spoken
in the House of Representatives, or on the
Mississippi wharf, while the steam-boat is stopping
for passengers. They are full of the
most extravagant metaphors and the most
startling oddities. I cannot refrain from quoting
one of the best I ever read—a speech