intention to tell falsehoods, but that they
often deceived themselves very amusingly.
Thus, it has been asserted, that when you
attained a great elevation, the air became so
rarefied that you could not breathe, and that
small objects, being thrown out of the balloon,
could not fall, and stuck against the side of
the car. Also, that wild birds, being taken
up and suddenly let loose, could not fly properly,
but returned immediately to the car
for an explanation. One aëronaut declared
that his head became so contracted by his
great elevation, that his hat tumbled over his
eyes, and persisted in resting on the bridge of
his nose. This assertion was indignantly
rebutted by another aëronaut of the same
period, who declared that, on the contrary,
the head expanded in proportion to the elevation;
in proof of which he stated, that on his
last ascent he went so high that his hat burst.
Another of these romantic personages
described a wonderful feat of skill and daring
which he had performed up in the air. At
an elevation of two miles, his balloon burst
several degrees above "the equator" (meaning,
above the middle region of the balloon),
whereupon he crept up the lines that attached
the car, until he reached the netting that
enclosed the balloon; and up this netting he
clambered, until he reached the aperture, into
which he thrust—not his head—but his
pocket handkerchief! Mr. Monck Mason,
to whose "Aëronautica" we are indebted for
the anecdote, gives eight different reasons to
show the impossibility of any such feat having
ever been performed in the air. One of these
is highly graphic. The "performer" would
change the line of gravitation by such an
attempt: he would never be able to mount
the sides, and would only be like the squirrel
in its revolving cage. He would, however,
pull the netting round—the spot where he
clung to, ever remaining the lowest—until
having reversed the machine, the balloon
would probably make its escape, in an elongated
shape, through the large interstices of
that portion of the net-work which is just
above the car, when the balloon is in its
proper position! But the richest of all these
romances is the following brief statement:—
A scientific gentleman, well advanced in
years, (who had "probably witnessed the experiment
of the restoration of a withered pear
beneath the exhausted receiver of a pneumatic
machine'') was impressed with a conviction,
on ascending to a considerable height in a
balloon, that every line and wrinkle of his
had totally disappeared, owing, as he
said, to the preternatural distension of his
skin; and that, to the astonishment of his
companion, he rapidly began to assume the
delicate aspect and blooming appearance of
his early youth!

These things are all self-delusions. A bit
of paper or a handkerchief might cling to the
outside of the car, but a penny-piece would,
undoubtedly, fall direct to the earth. Wild
birds do not return to the car, but descend in
circles, till, passing through the clouds, they
see whereabouts to go, and then they fly downwards
as usual. We have no difficulty in
breathing; on the contrary, being "called
upon," we sing a song. Our head does not
contract, so as to cause our hat to extinguish
our eyes and nose; neither does it expand to
the size of a prize pumpkin. We see that it
is impossible to climb up the netting of the
balloon over-head, and so do not think of
attempting it; neither do we find all the lines
in our face getting filled up, and the loveliness
of our "blushing morning" taking the
place of a marked maturity. These fancies
are not less ingenious and comical than that
of the sailor who hit upon the means of using
a balloon to make a rapid voyage to any part
of the earth. "The earth spins round," said
he, "at a great rate, don't it? Well, I'd go
up two or three miles high in my balloon, and
then 'lay to,' and when any place on the
globe I wished to touch at, passed underneath
me, down I'd drop upon it."

But we are still floating high in air. How do
we feel all this time? "Calm, sir—calm and
resigned." Yes, and more than this. After
a little while, when you find nothing happens,
and see nothing likely to happen (and you
will more especially feel this under the careful
conduct of the veteran Green), a delightful
serenity takes the place of all other sensations,
—to which the extraordinary silence, as
well as the pale beauty and floating hues
that surround you, is chiefly attributable.
The silence is perfect—a wonder and a rapture.
We hear the ticking of our watches. Tick!
tick!—or is it the beat of our own hearts?
We are sure of the watch; and now we think
we can hear both.

Two other sensations must, by no means,
be forgotten. You become very cold, and
desperately hungry. But you have got a
warm outer coat, and travelling boots, and
other valuable things, and you have not left
behind you the pigeon-pie, the ham, cold beef,
bottled ale and brandy.

Of the increased coldness which you feel on
passing from a bright cloud into a dark one,
the balloon is quite as sensitive as you can be;
and, probably, much more so, for it produces
an immediate change of altitude. The expansion
and contraction which too romantic
gentlemen fancied took place in the size of
their heads, does really take place in the balloon,
according as it passes from a cloud of
one temperature into that of another.

We are now nearly three miles high.
Nothing is to be seen but pale air above—
around—on all sides, with floating clouds
beneath. How should you like to descend in
a parachute?—to be dangled by a long line
from the bottom of the car, and suddenly to
be "let go," and to dip at once clean down
through those grey-blue and softly rose-tinted
clouds, skimming so gently beneath us? Not
at all: oh, by no manner of means- thank