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Read Ebook: A Balloon Ascension at Midnight by Hall George Eli Ross Gordon Illustrator
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Illustrator: Gordon Ross
A BALLOON ASCENSION AT MIDNIGHT
LIMITED TO THIRTY COPIES ON IMPERIAL JAPAN VELLUM OF WHICH FIFTEEN ARE FOR SALE.
"There is no conquest to which the entire human race aspires more ardently than the Empire of the Air."
AEROSTATION
A BALLOON ASCENSION AT MIDNIGHT
BY GEORGE ELI HALL
WITH SILHOUETTES BY GORDON ROSS
PAUL ELDER AND MORGAN SHEPARD San Francisco 1902
"Upwards of five hundred thousand two-legged animals without feathers lie around us, in horizontal positions; their heads all in night-caps, and full of the foolishest dreams."
We had agreed, my companion and I, that I should call for him at his house, after dinner, not later than eleven o'clock.
This athletic young Frenchman belongs to a small set of Parisian sportsmen, who have taken up "ballooning" as a pastime.
After having exhausted all the sensations that are to be found in ordinary sports, even those of "automobiling" at a breakneck speed, the members of the "A?ro Club" now seek in the air, where they indulge in all kinds of daring feats, the nerve-racking excitement that they have ceased to find on earth.
When we reached the vacant lot at the huge gas works of St. Denis, where our balloon was being inflated, I could not help feeling a bit alarmed at the sight of that little bubble--only a few hundred cubic metres--and the very small basket which were soon to take us up in the air.
Had we taken with us another small sack of ballast, our balloon could not have left the earth. In other words, its ascensional force was almost balanced by the weight it was expected to carry. After rising a few hundred feet, and finding a cooler current, which slightly condensed the gas, the "Rolla" ceased to ascend. We were met by a gentle breeze from the north west, and began to cross Paris, a couple of hundred yards above the city.
It would take the pen of a Carlyle to describe our mysterious flight over Paris at midnight. The impression was so startling that for an hour we never spoke above a whisper.
Owing to the increasing coolness of the atmosphere, our balloon had a slight, though constant, tendency to descend. But we easily kept our altitude by occasionally throwing overboard a spoonful or two of ballast.
After ascertaining that we would not come in contact with the towers of Notre Dame or the sharp edges of the Eiffel Tower, we decided to keep the same distance, and let the breeze do the rest.
At our feet Paris is breathing, like a monster with a million eyes.
On the right, at the very top of Montmartre, and looming up in the glow that surrounds it, stands the white Basilica of the Sacred Heart, with its colossal marble statue of the Redeemer watching over the city.
The great boulevards roll out in every direction like ribbons of fire; we can hear, as we sail over them, the muffled rumbling of a thousand carriages, and we watch them as they dodge each other in their complicated course.
A cry, a call, from time to time, reaches our ears; but the others are lost in the mighty silence above us.
"There is the Op?ra," whispers the owner, as he points to a square silhouette, bathed in a lake of electric light.
I seem to have no fear, merely the sensation of relief that follows an irrevocable decision; with the feeling that we are tasting a forbidden fruit, breaking some divine and primeval law. All our faculties are concentrated in our eyes, and they feast on this wonderful sight.
"Those dark pits that dot the surface of Paris are gardens," explains the owner, "innumerable private parks; and most Parisians live and die without ever suspecting their existence."
We cross the Place de la Bastille, soaring above the bronze column, with its graceful statue of Liberty, whose useless wings of metal seem childish and a bit ridiculous as we pass on.
A long and purple fissure that cuts the city in twain marks the Seine, long before we reach it. The "Rolla" feels the cool current that rises above the waters. A few handfuls of sand thrown overboard, and we resume our former position.
Our eyes are now accustomed to these weird and unusual effects, and few details of the picture escape us. In the distance another bright spot, Bullier, the students' ball, in the heart of the Latin quarter. That obscure mass beyond must be the Luxembourg and its gardens.
An ocean of darkness and silence opens up before us; we sail into it. The breeze freshens, and the glowing blaze of Paris soon fades away in the distance.
From now on the minutes drag, in the awful silence of this mysterious night, and every moment is heavy with anxiety. Those hours are endless, really hard to live, until at last the gray dawn steps out of the horizon.
Nature begins to awaken, and, with the first gleam of daylight, slowly the world comes back to life.
The first cry of a quail or the cackle of a pheasant is a delight to our ears. A dog barks and another howls. Lazy and sleepy peasants, leading huge oxen, drag themselves out of their farms, on their way to a hard day's work in the fields. The cocks crow lustily, and, in the distance, from the little town of Nemours, comes the melodious call of a bugle, arousing "Pitou," the French "Tommy Atkins," from his sleep.
The sun drives away the soft gray mist that lingers over the meadows; a few shadows here and there still mark the wooded valleys; but they soon melt away, and a glorious summer morning, in the beautiful land of Burgundy, bursts upon us from every side.
"Oh! qui n'a pas senti son coeur battre plus vite, A l'heure o? sous le ciel l'homme est seul avec Dieu!"
We are now passing over the little hamlet of Uri, and the voice of a cuckoo-clock tells us the hour, as it pipes up in the breeze its five double notes.
"The temperature is very even," remarks the captain, "and there is no danger of it rising or falling unexpectedly, at least not for an hour or more. We might as well travel with the guide-rope, and skip along close to the earth."
He slips the line overboard and lowers it carefully to the ground.
The guide-rope, though a mere cable, about two hundred feet in length, is a very delicate accessory to a balloon, and the most important after the anchor. When in operation, one end of the rope is attached to the basket, and a quarter or a fifth of its length is allowed to drag on the surface of the earth, where it regulates automatically the air-ship's aerostatic equilibrium.
If the balloon has a tendency to fall, an additional portion of the guide-rope drops upon the ground. Instantly the "Rolla" is relieved of that much weight, and soon resumes its former altitude.
On the other hand, should its tendency be to rise, the extra amount of rope that it hauls up with it means for the "Rolla" a few pounds more to carry, and it gradually falls back to its original position.
It has also the serious advantage of saving gas, and sand ballast as well.
The farmers who can not understand this new method of locomotion are all eager to tug at the guide-rope, thinking we have decided to land.
The children, who are playing scarecrow with the ravenous birds in the orchards, scream with astonishment and delight. An old woman folds her hands over her mouth like a megaphone, and asks:
A flock of sheep stampedes at the sight of our shadow moving upon the earth, and disappears in a cloud of dust.
We glide peacefully over meadows and swamps, clearing hedges and trees, dragging the guide-rope behind us. As we pass over a lake in the park of an ideal country seat, we see the "Rolla" reflected in the clear waters below.
Even at this moderate height, the farms look like children's playhouses, with their curly little lambs, their wooden horses, and painted cows; and as we approach a curve on the railroad track, a train puffs by like a mechanical toy, and whistles a friendly salute.
Here the captain calls my attention to a dark line of clouds in the north west.
"If our balloon obeys as it should, we will soon have some fun," says the captain, as we reach the first trees of a thick forest.
The "Rolla" is so sensitive that by merely hauling in a few yards of the guide-rope, we gently descend on the tops of the trees, lightly skipping from one to the other; we brush by an elm, a poplar, or an ash, and as we pass, pick their fresh green leaves.
This weird performance is fascinating beyond words. I have never heard of a "promenade" on the crest of a forest, and I wonder now and then if I am dreaming.
Such accuracy of movement is only possible with a very small balloon, in the early hours of the day, and with a perfectly even temperature. Of course, it is always dangerous, as a slight mistake would instantly lead to a hopeless disaster.
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