Up in the Clouds: Balloon Voyages by R. M. Ballantyne (reading women txt) 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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The period of flight was an hour and three-quarters, which, for those early days of the art, was a pretty long voyage. By throwing over ballast the voyagers ascended, and by letting off gas they descended at pleasure; and they observed that during an hour, while they were exposed to the sun’s rays, the gas was heated up to the temperature of fifty-five degrees of Fahrenheit’s scale, which had the effect of sensibly increasing the buoyancy of the balloon. They descended safely on the meadow of Nesle, about twenty-five miles from Paris.
But, not content with what he had accomplished, Monsieur Charles made a sudden resolve to have another flight alone. The shades of night were falling, and the sun had already set, when the enthusiastic aeronaut re-entered the car, and, casting off the grapnels, began his solitary night voyage. He was well rewarded. The balloon shot up with such celerity as to reach the height of about two miles in ten minutes, and the sun rose again to him in full orb! From his lofty station he watched it until it set again below the distant horizon. Probably Monsieur Charles was the first man in the world on whom the sun thus rose and set twice in the same day!
In such regions, at that romantic period of night, the aeronaut, as might have been expected, saw strange unearthly sights. Rising vapours concealed the lower world from view, and the moon shed her pale rays on accumulated masses of clouds, casting various hues over their fantastic and changing forms. No wonder that one thus surrounded by objects of awful grandeur and sublimity, left, as it were, more completely alone with God than any of his fellow-mortals, found it impossible to refrain from giving vent to his emotion in tears.
Monsieur Charles did not remain long at this elevation. As the cold was excessive, and night advancing, he deemed it prudent to descend; opened the safety-valve, out of which the gas rushed like a misty vapour with a whistling noise, and, after the lapse of a little more than half an hour, alighted in safety near the wood of Tour du Lay, having travelled about nine miles.
After this, balloon ascents became frequent. We cannot here give a particular account of each, even if it were desirable to do so, but, before passing to the consideration of the more recent voyages, we shall run over a few facts and incidents that occurred during the early period of aerial navigation.
The first lady who went up in a balloon was a Madame Thiblé. She ascended from Lyons on 28th June 1784 with a Monsieur Fleurant in a fire-balloon. This lady of Lyons mounted to the extraordinary elevation of 13,500 feet—at least so it was estimated. The flagstaff, a pole of fourteen pounds weight, was thrown out and took seven minutes to reach the ground. The thermometer dropped to minus 43 degrees Fahrenheit, and the voyagers felt a ringing sensation in their ears.
The first long voyage accomplished was about the same period, by a balloon constructed by Monsieur Robert, which was filled with hydrogen. It was 56 feet in height, and 36 in diameter. The Duke de Chartres ascended in it along with Robert and two others to a considerable height, and in five hours performed a voyage of 135 miles. This machine was furnished with a helm and four oars, for men still laboured under the erroneous belief that it was possible to direct the course of a balloon.
One of the most interesting balloon voyages of the last century was that of Monsieur Testu. He ascended from Paris on the 18th June 1786 in a balloon of glazed tiffany, 29 feet in diameter, which was constructed by himself. It was filled with hydrogen, and had wings as well as oars! When the aeronaut deemed it advisable to descend, he attempted to do so by using the wings. These had little or no power, but the gradual waste of gas lowered him until he alighted safely in a corn field in the plain of Montmorency. Here he began to collect stones without quitting the car; but while thus engaged, was seized by the proprietor of the field with a troop of peasants, who demanded indemnification for the damage alleged to have been done by him. Poor Testu assured them that his wings being broken, he was at their mercy, whereupon the stupid and ill-natured boors seized the stay of the balloon, which floated some height above the ground, and dragged him in triumph towards their village. Their triumph, however, was short-lived. Finding that the loss of his wings and some other articles had lightened him considerably, he quietly cut the cord and bade the clowns an abrupt farewell!
Testu then rose to the clouds, where he experienced the violence and witnessed the grandeur of a thunderstorm, the terrible nature of which was greatly increased when night closed in, while lightning flashed on all sides, thunder reverberated in the sky, and sleet fell copiously around him. On this voyage he saw some hunters in a field, and descended to observe them! He remained out all night, saw the sun set and rise, and finally alighted near the village of Campremi, about sixty-three miles from Paris.
The credit of the first aerial voyage made in Great Britain has usually been given to Vincenzo Lunardi, an Italian. There is ground for believing, however, that the first balloon voyage was performed by a Scotchman, as the following extract from Chamber’s Book of Days will show:—
“It is generally supposed that Lunardi was the first person who ascended by means of a balloon in Great Britain, but he certainly was not. A very poor man, named James Tytler, who then lived in Edinburgh, supporting himself and family in the humblest style of garret or cottage life by the exercise of his pen, had this honour. He had effected an ascent at Edinburgh on the 27th of August 1784, just nineteen days previous to Lunardi. Tytler’s ascent, however, was almost a failure, by his employing the dangerous and unmanageable Montgolfier principle. After several ineffectual attempts, Tytler, finding that he could not carry up his fire-stove with him, determined, in the maddening desperation of disappointment, to go without this his sole sustaining power. Jumping into his car, which was no other than a common crate used for packing earthenware, he and the balloon ascended from Comely Garden, and immediately afterwards fell in the Restalrig Road. For a wonder, Tytler was uninjured; and though he did not reach a greater altitude than 300 feet, nor traverse a greater distance than half a mile, yet his name must ever be mentioned as that of the first Briton who ascended with a balloon, and the first man who ascended in Britain.
“Tytler was the son of a clergyman of the Church of Scotland, and had been educated as a surgeon; but being of an eccentric and erratic genius, he adopted literature as a profession, and was the principal editor of the first edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Becoming embroiled in politics, he published a handbill of a seditious tendency, and consequently was compelled to seek a refuge in America, where he died in 1805, after conducting a newspaper at Salem, in New England, for several years.”
The voyage of Vincenzo Lunardi was made in September 1784. His letters to a friend, in which he comments on the manners and customs of the English, are very amusing. His balloon was of the ordinary spherical shape, made of the best oiled silk, about 520 yards of which were used in its construction. It was filled with hydrogen gas, and provided with car, oars, and wings. The car consisted simply of a wooden platform surrounded by a breast high railing, and the oars and wings were intended, the one to check, by a vertical motion, the rapidity of descent, and the other to act as sails when becalmed in the upper regions of cloudland. He requested permission to make Chelsea Hospital the scene of his first aerial exploit, and the Governor, Sir George Howard, with the full approval of His Majesty King George the Third, gave his consent. He accordingly made all necessary arrangements for an ascent, and his fondest expectations seemed about to be realised. He was, however, doomed to disappointment, owing to the failure of a rival balloon. Writing to a friend at this time he says, “The events of this extraordinary island are as variable as its climate. It was but lately everything relating to my undertaking wore a favourable and pleasing appearance, but I am at this moment overwhelmed with anxiety, vexation, and despair.”
This rival balloon was constructed by a Frenchman named De Moret, who, having succeeded in attracting a concourse of fifty or sixty thousand people to see his ascent, failed in the primary part of his undertaking,—that of filling his balloon. The people, after waiting patiently for three hours, and supposing “the whole affair an imposture, rushed in and tore it to pieces.” In consequence of this failure, and the riots with which it was followed, the Governor forbade Signor Lunardi to make his ascent from Chelsea Hospital grounds. He writes again to his friend, “The national prejudice of the English against France is supposed to have its full effect on a subject from which the literati of England expect to derive but little honour. An unsuccessful attempt has been made by a Frenchman, and my name being that of a foreigner, a very excusable ignorance in the people may place me among the adventurers of that nation, who are said to have sometimes distinguished themselves here by ingenious impositions.” In vain did he try to obtain another place to launch his aerial ship; he was laughed at and ridiculed as an impostor, and the colleague of De Moret. At length, after much exertion, he obtained leave to ascend from the ground of the Honourable Artillery Company. By twelve o’clock on the day fixed for the ascension, an immense mass of people had assembled, including the Prince of Wales. The filling of the balloon caused some delay, but, in order to keep the patience of the populace within control, it was only partially filled. At five minutes past two the balloon ascended amid the loud acclamations of the assembled multitudes, and Signor Lunardi had proved himself no impostor. He writes to his friend, “The stillness, extent, and magnificence of the scene rendered it highly awful. My horizon seemed a perfect circle, the terminating line several hundred miles in circumference; this I conjectured from the view of London, the extreme points of which formed an angle only a few degrees. It was so reduced on the great scale before me that I can find no simile to convey an idea of it. I could distinguish Saint Paul’s and other churches from the houses; I saw the streets as lines, all animated with beings whom I knew to be men and women, but which otherwise I should have had a difficulty in describing. It was an enormous bee-hive, but the industry of it was suspended. All the moving mass seemed to have no object but myself, and the transition from the suspicion, perhaps contempt, of the preceding hour, to the affectionate transport, admiration, and glory of the present moment, was not without its effect on my mind. It seemed as if I had left below all the cares and passions that molest mankind. I had not
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