THE DUTIES OF THE RICH IN CHRISTIAN SOCIETY.
NO. II.
POLITICAL DUTIES.
In order to discuss clearly and profitably the various duties of the rich in Christian society, it is necessary to distinguish and divide them into distinct classes, and under the classes to separate particular duties from each other. We shall make our division on the principle of proceeding from the most general, or those which relate to society in its most extensive sense, to those which are less general, relating to society in its more specific and determinate sense, and finally to those which are the most particular, relating to separate portions and members of society, to the family and to the individual.
Society, in the most extensive sense with which we are concerned in these essays, is political society as organized in our own republic by federal, state, and municipal constitutions and laws. We venture to assume that it may be called a Christian society. It is so, however, in a wider, more general, and less determinate sense than the church, or than a purely Catholic state. We call it a Christian society, in this sense, that its fundamental moral principles have been derived from the Christian law; that its organic life is an outcome from Christian civilization. It does not, however, exclude from itself those who are not Christians, provided they conform to its moral principles and to the laws founded upon them. A Catholic citizen has duties to a state which is pagan. He has duties to a state
which professes to be Christian, but adopts a schismatical or heretical perversion of Christianity as the religion of the state. But he has many more duties, because he stands in a much closer and more honorable relation to a state which is based on the moral principles of Christianity, and not identified with any ecclesiastical form which is hostile to his conscience. All Catholic citizens of our republic have political duties, modified, multiplied, and intensified by the extent and quality of the rights which they possess, and the greatness of the interests which they have at stake in the welfare of the commonwealth. The wealthy class have in common with their fellow-citizens all these duties, and additional ones peculiar to themselves.
The general reasons which prove this last proposition apply with equal force to all who belong to the wealthy class, even though they do not profess to be, in any sense of the term, Christians. The first of these reasons is, that the rich have succeeded in great measure to the advantages formerly possessed by the class of nobles. Even in those countries where the noble class still subsists, it is chiefly as a wealthy and educated class, and by the personal superiority of individuals belonging to it in the professions of arms and statesmanship, that it wields actual power. Moreover, the wealthy bourgeoisie has gained ground upon it and invaded its formerly exclusive sphere, winning
for itself, as in England, for instance, a place in the real aristocracy. In our own country, where hereditary rank does not exist, it has a clear field. It has no special rights in the political order, and is not, therefore, strictly and completely the successor of the noble class in our ancestral British constitution. Yet, by the very fact of being a wealthy class, it does possess, and ought to possess, a certain pre-eminence, influence, and real though indirect power in public affairs. Men of superior intellectual ability, men of learning and letters, those who fill the higher professional positions, and office-holders, belong to the same class; partly because their position in many instances gives them at least a moderate share of wealth, but chiefly because they have power by their very position, and are able to influence and direct the disposition of wealth even when they do not personally possess it. By this very fact, they have duties to the commonwealth—they are not mere private persons, but public persons. They are important and distinguished members of the community, and, as such, have a greater responsibility to society and the state than others. This will not be disputed as a general statement. We do not intend to go into a minute and detailed exposition of all the particulars which it includes and comprehends. We confine ourselves, for the present, to certain specific duties of those who are rich in the literal and technical sense. And what we have to say of them is, that they ought to fulfil the duties which were annexed to the privileges of the class to which they succeeded, in so far as they have inherited those privileges.
However grossly feudal barons may have in a multitude of instances abused their privileges and their powers, the Christian idea of their state was always
that their privileges and powers were entrusted to them for the common good. Sound political philosophy and common sense accord with the higher teaching of Christianity. It would be, therefore, a great change for the worse, a miserable regression in civilization, if a mere moneyed aristocracy, possessing privileges without corresponding duties, took the place of an aristocracy of birth, obliged by its nobility to render the most important services to the state. A mere caste existing for itself, having no end but the selfish exaltation and enjoyment of its members, with no purpose except to live in fine houses, wear fine clothes, drink choice wines, drive about in sumptuous equipages, and finally get buried in great pomp under stately monuments, would be the most anti-Christian, the most despicable, the most odious of constitutions—and would be succeeded by Communism.
The rich have political duties: they are bound to be a bulwark and a tower of strength to the state, an ornament to the commonwealth not only bright, but useful; as a quaint epitaph of the seventeenth century designates a certain eminent citizen, “of Hartford Town the Silver Ornament.” We presuppose in those men of wealth of whom we speak, as a matter of course, honesty and probity. Swindlers, gamblers, dishonest speculators, bribe-takers, and the whole set of vampires swollen with the blood of the state and of individuals, are excluded. It is those who have inherited or acquired their wealth honestly who are able to serve the state. It is not necessary to go more into detail regarding the ways and methods in which they can do so. We are content merely to indicate their ability and obligation to do it in general terms, and pass on to other topics.
One of these other topics relates to a duty of Catholic citizens which is properly classed under the head of political duties, but which we do not consider precisely as a duty to the state as such, but as one which Catholics owe to themselves, to their own personal rights of conscience, and to religion. We call it, nevertheless, a political duty, because it has to be performed by them as citizens, and in the exercise of their political rights. This is the duty of guarding and defending their liberty of conscience against any encroachment which may be attempted by any political party, or any legislation contrary to the letter or spirit of our fundamental law. This duty, which is one of all Catholic citizens indiscriminately, devolves especially on those whose wealth, education, intellectual power, or social and political position gives them a special opportunity and ability to fulfil it. Such persons are the natural chiefs and leaders of the Catholic laity; they are in the front rank; and they are bound to give the example, encouragement, and direction to the great body which they need and justly look for.
What can be more base and cowardly than for those who have a higher place in society than their fellows, and who have ordinarily risen from the ranks of the poor, laboring class of our Catholic people, to desert or regard with apathy that sacred cause for which their ancestors suffered and died, and for the sake of which they have sought an asylum in this free country, where they have found success and prosperity? Here they have found that inestimable boon, liberty of conscience, freedom to profess and practise their religion, and to provide for their posterity the means of doing the same. They are bound to use all the power and influence
which God has given them to preserve and perpetuate these rights, and to protect the more helpless classes of their fellow-Catholics, the poor, the orphans, the sick, the outcasts of society, in the enjoyment of their religious rights. This includes a great deal. First and foremost at the present moment is liberty of education. Besides this, there are the rights of religious instruction and sacraments for those who are in the army and navy, in hospitals, asylums, and prisons, and in those institutions where children are justly or unjustly placed by the civil authority as vagrants. In short, everywhere, where the state takes hold of the individual, or exercises a right of control over any lesser corporation which takes hold of him, in such a way that there is a chance for tyranny over his conscience, and the violation or abridgment of his religious rights and liberty in the interest of sectarianism or secularism, it is the duty of the most eminent Catholic laymen to become, together with their bishops and priests, the champions of the oppressed.
Does any one say that there is no need of vigilance or action, because there is no danger that our rights will be disregarded or infringed? We think he is in error. “Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.” And as one proof that Catholics in this republic have need to exercise this vigilance, we will cite an example of the disastrous consequences which have followed from the neglect of it in another republic.
The Confederation of the Swiss Cantons established and guaranteed in the most solemn and explicit manner the liberty of religion for Catholics and Protestants alike. Nevertheless, the liberty of the Catholic Church has been taken away in the most flagrant manner, even in the Catholic Cantons, by tyrannical federal
and cantonal legislation. Fifty religious establishments were suppressed at one blow. Since that time,—that is, since 1848—religious houses and schools have been forcibly suppressed at Ascona, Lugano, Mendrisio, and Bellinzona, and the diocesan seminaries at Pollegio and Aargau. Nearly all the Catholic schools in most of the mixed cantons have been changed into mixed schools, and in Thurgau they have been all suppressed. No priest can be admitted to the exercise of his functions who has studied at any Jesuit college. The catechism of the bishop in whose diocese Aargau is situated, the Bible History of Schuster, and the Moral Theologies of Gury and Kenrick, have been interdicted by the civil authority. Prohibitions have been issued against missions, retreats, the publication of the Jubilee, and the devotions of the Month of Mary. In Aargau, no youth can embrace the ecclesiastical state without the leave of the cantonal assembly, before which august and holy tribunal he must pass two examinations. In the Catholic canton of Ticino, the cantonal assembly arrogates to itself the right of changing the destination of religious foundations, fixing and regulating the election, installation in benefices, and official functions of beneficiaries, erecting new parishes and abolishing existing ones. The placet of the civil authority is requisite for all ecclesiastical decrees of the bishops and the Pope under penalty of fines varying from five to five thousand francs. In several cantons civil marriage is obligatory. In short, the Catholics of Switzerland are in an enslaved and insupportable condition, as is proved by a memorial of the whole body of the Swiss Episcopate, in which these and many other particulars are given.[158]
The profession of liberalism affords no guarantee to Catholics against the most flagrant and cruel oppression. Neither is there any security in the mere fact that the form of government is democratic or republican. Everywhere, as well in countries called Catholic as in those which are not, under republican as well as under monarchical constitutions, the price of liberty is unceasing vigilance and activity. Catholics must rely entirely on themselves, and not delegate the office of protecting them to any party or ruling power. This is necessary in the United States as well as in Switzerland. We do not ascribe to the majority of the non-Catholic citizens of our federal republic or of any state a disposition to abridge our liberty. But it is not the majority which really governs. Principles, maxims, arguments, watch-words, measures, are initiated by a few persons. Majorities are carried along by leaders, orators, writers for the press, they know not why, how, or toward what end. There is danger, therefore, though not from the American people, from the masters of state-craft, but from restless, revolutionary spirits, from violent sectarian leaders, from ambitious demagogues, from parties which may start up and be violently impelled by sudden excitements.
The conclusion of all this is, that the élite of the Catholic laity are bound to understand the sound Catholic principles of public law and right which are involved in the relation of liberty of conscience and religion to the sovereignty of the state, under our American republican institutions. They are bound to instruct those who are uneducated in their rights and obligations as citizens. They are bound to set before the public the grounds and reasons
of Catholic rights, as based on the natural and divine law, and the American constitution. And they are bound to exclude unprincipled, ignorant demagogues from the leadership of the Catholic people by taking it themselves, and in that position opposing with all their might every political scheme for giving the state a usurped power over conscience and religion. Those who are incapable of doing anything else in this direction can at least aid by their wealth the Catholic press in diffusing true and just ideas, and advocating Catholic rights.
[158] See Dublin Review for October, 1871.
TRAVELS IN THE AIR.
About ninety years ago, on the memorable 21st of November, 1783, the Parisian world had a sensation which can never be repeated. On that day, men for the first time dared to trust themselves in a balloon, which was to be freed entirely from the earth, and take, as we may say, its chance as to the time and manner in which it was to return to it. One can easily imagine the intense excitement and admiration which must have filled the hearts of the spectators, and the feelings of triumph, though mingled, it must needs have been, with some apprehension, on the part of the occupants of the car, the Marquis d’Arlandes and M. Pilâtre de Rozier, when they for the first time, trusting themselves to the care of their new machine, invented only a few months previously, were carried by it into the unknown region of the clouds. Fortunately, this first free ascent was a success; if it had not been, who knows how long further experiments in aeronautics might have been postponed by prohibitory laws or by the fears of men, both of which would certainly have been quite justifiable? As it was, this first excursion served as a stimulus to other attempts, and the number which have
been made since then is beyond all estimate. It is certain, however, that the immense majority of them have been every way as successful as this first one was, and many, of course, very much more so. The danger of balloon ascents is really very trifling; accidents occur hardly once in a hundred times, and very seldom, when they do occur, involve the loss of life. It is hardly more dangerous to travel by balloon than by railway or steamer, and certainly very much more agreeable.
If our reader desires a most convincing proof of this last statement, we cannot do better than to refer him to a book bearing the title which stands at the head of this article, and imported by Lippincott & Co. We must confess to having become somewhat enthusiastic on the subject of balloons since reading this book, and hardly think any one else who even looks at it can fail to have something of the same feeling. By a mere glance at it one is introduced to quite a new world, and to read it is the next best thing to going up above the clouds one’s self. It is illustrated by six beautiful chromo-lithographs, and has a hundred and twenty other illustrations.
Mr. Glaisher, the editor, is a thoroughly scientific man, possessed of remarkable steadiness and coolness, as his name would imply, and as the accounts of his voyages sufficiently demonstrate. He is one of the best meteorologists in the world, and it is in the interests of science that his ascents have been made. But, together with the accounts of his own excursions, he gives others by three French gentlemen, also accomplished aeronauts, and whose enthusiasm on the subject almost equals our own, and practically perhaps surpasses it, for we find that M. Tissandier seems to have had no objection to starting from Calais when the wind was blowing straight out toward the German Ocean. These gentlemen, MM. Flammarion, De Fonvielle, and Tissandier, just named, often made long journeys, landing at a point quite remote from that of starting—a thing almost out of the question for Mr. Glaisher, for, as he pathetically remarks, “whatever part of England we start from, in one hour we may be over the sea.” His endeavor rather was, in the short time allotted him, to rush for the upper regions of the atmosphere, in order that he might there, as well as on the way up and down, make observations on temperature, electricity, magnetism, sound, solar radiation, the spectrum, ozone, direction of wind (for this, as before remarked, his opportunity was limited), actinic effects of the sun, density of the clouds, etc., and he consequently went up quite beleaguered with instruments, as the illustration “Mr. Glaisher in the car” clearly shows. The effects of great elevation on the human constitution naturally did not escape his attention, nor that of his companion and aeronaut, Mr. Coxwell; he says that, on one occasion, “at the height of three miles and a
half, Mr. Coxwell said my face was of a glowing purple, and higher still, both our faces were blue. Truly a pleasing state of things!”
But three miles and a half was a small elevation for Mr. Glaisher. In several of his ascents, he rose to the height of about five miles, on one occasion meeting with dense clouds all the way up. Certainly such clouds are not common, except in “our old home”; but such a day as that must have been even an Englishman could hardly have called “fine.” His third ascent, on September 5, 1862, was the most interesting of all; in this he rose to the astonishing height of seven miles, or 37,000 feet. Probably our readers have generally been accustomed to see in their atlases, by the side of the enormous congeries of mountains which usually forms the frontispiece, a small picture of a balloon, with “highest point ever reached by man,” or words to that effect, appended to it, at the elevation of 23,000 feet; with a reference to the name of Gay-Lussac. But this ascent, made on September 15, 1804, is entirely insignificant now, compared with this stupendous one, to a point a mile and a half above the summit of the Himalaya Mountains, into regions where only one-quarter of the atmosphere lay above the aeronauts, and where it was rarefied about in the same proportion. If their faces were blue at four miles, what were they now?
The account of this ascent is very exciting, and at the same time places Mr. Glaisher’s qualities as an observer in the most favorable light. In company with Mr. Coxwell, who was his pilot as usual, he left Wolverhampton at about one o’clock, and attained the height of five miles in about fifty minutes. Think of that, compared with the trouble of ascending an Alpine peak, where, after
many hours of most exhausting labor, one can only get three miles above the sea! And Mr. Glaisher, instead of having to strain every muscle in his body, was able to sit quiet, and calmly observe the barometer, thermometer, etc. The balloon was, however, revolving so rapidly that he failed in taking photographic views. Mr. Coxwell had more exhausting work in the management of the balloon, and was panting for breath when they were three miles high. For two miles more, however, Mr. Glaisher “took observations with comfort.” But, “about 1h. 52m., or later,” he made his last reading; after this he could not see the divisions of the instruments, and asked Mr. Coxwell to help read them. They probably were beginning to think it was time to see about coming down; but in order to do so, the valve-rope had to be pulled, and it was caught in the rigging above, owing to the rotatory motion of the balloon. The thermometer was about ten degrees below zero; Mr. Glaisher was fast becoming insensible, and Mr. Coxwell’s hands were almost useless from numbness. Still, something had to be done, for they were rising a thousand feet every minute; and accordingly, Mr. Coxwell climbed into the ring of the balloon, and pulled the rope with his teeth. He has the proud distinction of having been five or six feet higher above the earth than any other man, for of course they immediately began to descend. On coming back to the car, he found his companion quite insensible; after a few minutes, Mr. Glaisher came to himself, as they sank from that terrible elevation, to which it is probably impossible for man safely to ascend. But, like a thoroughly scientific man, as he is, he had observed his sensations to the last. First, his arms and
legs gave out; and his neck became weak, so that his head fell over to one side; he shook himself, and noticed that he “had power over the muscles of his back, and considerably so over those of the neck.” This suddenly left him, however, and the sense of sight immediately afterward; as for hearing, he could not tell, as there was probably nothing to hear at that height. He fell back helpless, resting his shoulder on the edge of the car. The next words he heard were “temperature” and “observation”; it can hardly be supposed that these were the first words Mr. Coxwell employed to rouse him, though they were probably the best. Then “the instruments became dimly visible.” Immediately on recovering, he says: “I drew up my legs, which had been extended, and took a pencil in my hand to begin observations.” Is not this characteristic?
Perhaps it may not be clear how it can be proved that the height of seven miles was attained on this occasion. It is, of course, well known that the elevation of a balloon is determined, as that of a mountain-peak usually is, by the barometer; and this method is very accurate, though, if there be a rapid motion upward or downward, the barometer may lag a little. Still, it gives the absolute height, and also the rate of ascent or descent, with sufficient accuracy for all practical purposes. By this instrument Mr. Glaisher had found that, just before he became insensible, they were 29,000 feet high, and ascending at the rate of 1,000 feet a minute; when he recovered after the lapse of thirteen minutes, they were 26,000 feet high, and descending 2,000 feet a minute. These data are sufficient to determine the greatest height attained; but Mr. Coxwell also, on coming down from the ring, happened to glance at the aneroid
barometer, and afterward remembered pretty nearly the direction of its hand; its reading confirms the conclusion got by the other method. A minimum thermometer agreed in the same result. They landed safely at about twenty minutes to three, the whole excursion having taken only a little over an hour and a half. The illustration called “Mr. Glaisher insensible at the height of seven miles” is one of the most remarkable in the book, and most readers will probable turn to it repeatedly. It represents the supreme and critical moment; Mr. Coxwell is in the ring, and is just loosening the valve-rope. His hands, his companion tells us, were black when he came down; and Mr. Glaisher generally means what he says.
It is not every one who will care to compete with these gentlemen in making lofty ascents; and it is not probable that they had any merely ambitious motives in undertaking to soar so high. Mr. Glaisher’s enthusiasm for and interest in science are perfectly genuine; and his results, which are of course only hinted at in these popular accounts which he gives of his excursions, are very valuable. It is not likely that any one else could have accomplished so much as he did. Still, though they were not led on by ambition, their achievement on the occasion just mentioned is one which must discourage others who may be; for it would be very difficult and dangerous to attempt to do purposely what they did only as it were accidentally, and which they would not have done had they known its peril. There are, it is true, some remarkable effects, such as the blackening of the sky (as well as of the hands of the aeronauts), which cannot be so well attained at lower altitudes; but still, substantially the same can be enjoyed at heights of four or five
miles, and really the most beautiful ones are presented as soon as we rise above the clouds. The effect seems to us, judging from the illustrations, to be especially magical when the canopy (or carpet, as it may more properly be called from our new point of view) is complete, so as to reach to the horizon, and shut out all view or idea of the earth completely. Many of the pictures illustrate this well. One would seem to lose all sense of height or of being in a dangerous position; the quiet sea of clouds beneath can never seem very distant, owing to the impossibility of judging of the real dimensions of its rolling waves; and these waves seem, by their apparent solidity yet softness, almost to invite a fall. And one seems to be entirely in a new state of existence; the change is more complete than could be obtained by travelling to the other side of the globe; and yet it can be realized in the space of five or ten minutes on any ordinary cloudy day. There above, with the dark-blue sky overhead, with the glorious bright sun in it lighting up the masses of white vapor below, far from all the dust, noise, and confusion of the lower sphere, what an exhilaration must the aeronaut feel, if indeed his eye is not entirely employed on the divisions of his barometer and the pages of his note-book! The idea of such a vision is almost enough to make one’s enthusiasm for ballooning equal that of M. de Fonvielle, who, however, was willing to put up even with lower elevations; for he says that in his younger days he “was ready to be shut up in a sky-rocket, provided that its projectile power were carefully calculated, and that it were provided with a parachute”! If the sky-rocket could only be sent above the clouds—but, on the whole, one would probably be calmer, enjoy the view
more thoroughly, and take in its various features better, in the car of our present beautiful and majestic, though somewhat unmanageable, vehicle.
And yet in all respects the balloon is not unmanageable. Its rise and fall can be regulated with great exactness; and by means of the pretty invention of the guide-rope, due to the celebrated English aeronaut, Mr. Green, its final fall to the earth, if a violent wind is not blowing, can be made very easy. This rope hangs down three or four hundred feet below the car, and as it touches the ground, and then coils up upon it, the weight and the descending power of the balloon are continually and gradually lessened. And by parting with gas or ballast, the ascent and descent can always be most carefully adjusted; so much so, indeed, that one has to be somewhat careful. Once M. Tissandier, on making a second ascent with no more ascending power at his disposal, was obliged to regret that he had not gone without his breakfast; the least little alteration of weight affects the equilibrium so much that the loss of a chicken-bone which he thoughtlessly once threw out, he says, “certainly caused us to rise from twenty to thirty yards.” One can certainly rise or fall without much difficulty; the only danger is that too much gas may escape after the ballast is exhausted, or when there is only a small supply on hand, and that the descent may be too rapid. Mr. Glaisher twice at least came down so hard as to break nearly all his instruments; but once this was in a manner intentional, for the wind had been drifting him out toward the sea, and on discovering through an opening in the clouds that it was almost directly under him, he had only the alternative of coming down with a
rush or being drowned. On another occasion, M. de Fonvielle descended with a party in the Giant balloon in a rapid and inevitable manner, owing to the escape of gas; but records, besides the breaking of the instruments, only that “one of the travellers had his face covered with blood, another was wounded by a thermometer, and a third complained of a pain in his leg.” One curious danger there is, however, about even a quiet descent which is worth noticing. The last-named gentleman had just made a very successful excursion without an aeronaut; and, on coming down, his grapnel had caught in a tree near the edge of a forest. The sequel shall be in his own words:
“At this moment, I was deceived by an optical illusion which might have had dangerous results, and I call the attention of my readers to it in case they may ever be tempted to undertake the management of an aerostat. Let them never get out of the car till it is fairly landed upon the soil. Let them be perfectly sure that no solution of continuity exists between the car and the earth before they think of stepping out of it, for their eyes, accustomed to the immense proportions of things above the clouds, have lost their power of appreciating dimensions. Objects appear so small on the earth’s surface during a descent that great trees look like mere blades of grass. At this moment I believed we had descended upon heath bushes, and we were at the top of the high trees. I had actually got one leg out of the car, and was preparing to leap down!”
If a strong wind is blowing, it is not so easy to descend. The horizontal motion of the balloon is beyond the control of gas or ballast. MM. de Fonvielle and Tissandier set out once in a high wind; they came down on a plain, were dragged across it, and over the tops of some trees, which broke and crashed as they passed; again they rushed over some ploughed
ground, where they were finally rescued by some peasants. What was their velocity during this remarkable trip? On consulting maps and watches, they found they had come forty-eight miles from Paris in thirty-five minutes, or the rate of eighty miles an hour; in the air, however, they probably travelled faster, and in the last five minutes of “dragging” not so fast.
But “dragging” is not the worst thing that can happen when there is a high wind. Let aeronauts beware how they attempt to anchor in such circumstances before coming tolerably near to the ground. The grapnel was once let out at the height of about sixty yards when they were skimming along with great velocity, and at first took no hold, but finally caught in the edge of a small pond. The wind, however, took revenge on the balloon, which now suddenly refused to obey its impulse:
“I was busily engaged,” says M. Tissandier, “in stowing away the loose bottles, that might have injured us seriously in case of bumping, when I heard a sharp cracking sound, and Duruof [their pilot] immediately cried out, ‘The balloon has burst!’ It was too true; the Neptune’s side was torn open, and transformed suddenly into a bundle of shreds, flattening down upon the opposite half. Its appearance was now that of a disc surrounded with a fringe. We came to the ground immediately. The shock was awful. Duruof disappeared, I leaped into the hoop, which at that instant fell upon me, together with the remains of the balloon and all the contents of the car. All was darkness; I felt myself rolled along the ground, and wondered if I had lost my sight, or if we were buried in some hole or cavern. An instant of quiet ensued, and then the loud voice of Duruof was heard exclaiming: ‘Now come from under there, you fellows!’ We hastened to obey the voice of the commander, and found that the car had turned over upon us, and shut us up like mice in a trap!”
What next? They had fallen
from a height of about two hundred feet, and yet were not much bruised: but the very wind that had caused their disaster helped them out of it; in fact, their balloon was transformed into a kind of gigantic kite, and let them down pretty easily.
But let us get up above the clouds again. That is the place really to enjoy life. Once there, one hardly thinks about coming down or its difficulties; the earth is out of sight, and almost out of mind. We are sailing along, perhaps at a quicker rate than that of an express train; but the motion is as imperceptible as that immensely more rapid one of the magnificent planetary projectile on which we are whirling through space. For the clouds are moving with us, and, though they are breaking up and changing their forms, we cannot see that they move as a mass. Occasionally, through a break, we may see the earth, or be saluted from it, as M. Flammarion once was to his great surprise, by cries of “A balloon! a balloon!” when he was quite unaware of there being any hole through which the balloon could be seen. Sounds, by the way, will go up much better than they will come down; the reason of this is the lesser density of the air above. Of course we feel no wind, for the wind is taking us with it: so that even the cold at any ordinary height and at any season usual for ballooning is not troublesome. Sometimes, indeed, it is warmer aloft than below; on the occasion of the eighty-mile-per-hour voyage, just mentioned, the thermometer was actually at eighty-two degrees at the height of a little over half a mile, while below it stood at fifty-five. The balloon is as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar; M. Flammarion assures us that he once filled a tumbler with water till it was brimming over, so that not another drop could be
added; but not a drop was spilled by the movement of their vehicle, though it was travelling with the speed of a locomotive, and alternately rising and falling to the extent of several hundred yards.
His account of a journey from Paris into Prussia, made in a beautiful moonlight summer night, gives a most delightful idea of this most agreeable of all modes of travelling. They left Paris about two hours before sunset, and had a fine afternoon sail. The weather was cloudy, and rain came on at half-past nine; but what of that? One is quite superior to rain in a balloon, or, if not, may easily become so. They throw out a little ballast, and rise above the rain-cloud. The cloud soon breaks away, finding that it cannot embarrass their movements, and the country beneath becomes visible. They see a bright light in a house, and hear the sound of dance music played by an orchestra. It is a ball. They cross the frontier at Rocroi. The lines of its fortifications are dimly seen in the moonlight. No examination of passports or luggage for them. (On another excursion, however, we are told, when they were sailing along near the ground, two gendarmes rode up in hot haste, calling out, “Vos passe-ports, messieurs!” but were dismissed with a polite request to step up and verify them, accompanied by a shower of ballast.) The moon comes out brightly as they enter Belgium. They sail over the Meuse, and M. Flammarion greets enthusiastically the home of his youth:
“Beautiful river, I welcome thee! Near thy banks, on the old mountain which overlooks thy fertile plain, I was born. Little did I think, whilst playing some childish game within sound of the murmur of thy ripple, that I should some day cross over thy stream suspended to
this light, aerial globe! Thy peaceful waters flow towards the Rhine and the North Sea, into which they fall, and are lost for ever. Thus is it with our own brief existence, flowing towards the regions of cold and mystery, to vanish some day in that unknown ocean into which we must all descend.”
Certainly, it is a pity that he takes such a gloomy view of life.
The pilot, M. Godard, rouses him from his reverie.
“See, mon ami, how beautiful this is! Do not dream of days gone by. Are not those the lights of Namur, some six or eight leagues distant? And see, there is Huy, and beyond it again Liège! Here we are right over Belgium, and we may cross a corner of Holland, perhaps, before we enter Prussia!”
The Belgian blast-furnaces soon light up the landscape beneath them, and the noises of the workshops, mingled with the deep sound of the river, rise to their ears.
The dawn begins to break. In fact, through the whole night a faint gleam of twilight has been seen in the north; but now it begins to take effect on the clouds and air around them. The light increases.
“Although the air above is more or less veiled by light mists, we can distinguish the country before three o’clock as clearly as at mid-day. Our course follows the edge of some considerable forests situated on our right hand. These plains (are they plains?) have a very different aspect from those on French territory. In place of the regular patches of fields which lie upon the surface in parallel lines, the country here is composed of fields of every size and form, like the various provinces on a colored map; most of which are surrounded by hedges as they are in England.”
They are wafted along into Prussia. On the right, Luxemburg and Trèves are visible; on the left, Holland, even to the shore of the North Sea.
“The Rhine flows along with its silver ripple in the distance.... All nature is silent, save from time to time the timid chirping of some little bird; when, suddenly, a vast golden streak of light breaks forth from the east, and caresses the highest clouds of the atmosphere, clothing them in rosy and golden tints.”
The illustration representing this sunrise is magnificent, as the sight must have been in the highest degree. What could be more inspiring than to be borne along amid the glorious clouds of morning toward the rising sun—the cheering influence of whose beams the balloon itself seems to feel, as, dried and expanded by their heat, it rises proudly into the sky—with the Rhine glistening before us, and the green plains and forests of Germany inviting us to continue our voyage?
They hear the sound of church-bells, and, soon after, that of cannon.
“From minute to minute the voice of this gracious apparatus of civilization and progress growled among the clouds. It was the artillery of Mülheim preparing itself for the next war.
“The ancient city of Cologne forms beneath us a regular semicircle soldered to the left bank of the Rhine. Unless one examined it attentively, it might be taken for a moderate-sized snail sticking to the thin branch of a tree.”
Poor M. Flammarion thought he was going to enjoy his sail some time longer, perhaps all day. But his inexorable aeronaut thought differently. There was very little ballast and no breakfast; it was probable that the wind would rise, and that they would come to grief. His word was law; so the valve-rope was pulled, the French flag run up, and down they came at Solingen, near Düsseldorf, 330 miles from Paris, which distance had been accomplished in twelve hours and a half. The good-natured Germans rushed
up to help them; the greatest difficulty was to prevent them from smoking near the balloon.
This journey is a fair example of what balloon travelling may be in skilful hands. Of course it has its disadvantages. The principal one is obvious; that you can only go just where the wind will take you; but there is an advantage corresponding to this in the quietness and steadiness of the motion, and it is not at all improbable that, with the rapid advances which are being made continually in the science of meteorology, the laws of winds will be ascertained sufficiently to enable the aeronaut to find one which will carry him in the general direction in which he wants to go, on most occasions, by choosing a proper elevation. Certainly this can often be done, as in the case of M. Tissandier’s trip from Calais over the German Ocean. A lower breeze brought them back to land. The difficulty remaining is that of changing our elevation. On the present system, this requires a loss of gas or ballast, which cannot be kept up indefinitely. An ingenious plan has been proposed by Gen. Meusnier—to have a double balloon, one outside the other: the inner one is filled with gas, the space between the two with air; into the outer one more air is forced by an air-pump when we wish to descend, and allowed to escape when we wish to rise. The compressed air is itself heavier than the air surrounding, and the compressed gas in the inner balloon is also less buoyant than before. This is applying the principle of the bladder of the fish to aerostatics. The Giant was constructed on this plan, but it does not appear that the practicability of using it in this way was ever tested.
“Still, notwithstanding the great utility and advantages of the balloon
pure and simple, we certainly shall never be able to lay out our course with it with all the accuracy that could be desired, and it is probable that we shall never be able to bring it down precisely at the point we wish to reach. To accomplish this, we must have something that will go against the wind; we must have something which takes hold on the air; we must, in short, be able to fly. It should be noticed, however, that a flying machine, when invented, will not necessarily supersede the balloon; it will have its advantages, and the balloon will have its own; probably, for mere pleasure travelling, the latter will always be preferable, or certainly would be except for the inconveniences attending its landing, especially when the wind is high.
It may be said, perhaps, as above, “a flying machine, when invented”; for it really seems as if some practical invention of this kind must before long be realized. It can hardly be doubted that the bird must be the model, to some extent, of its construction; and it would seem to be worth while to take instantaneous photographs of birds in flight, in order to discover what really are the positions which the wing successively assumes. The photographs of this kind, of men walking, which have been taken, told us a great deal which we did not know before about a movement which seems so very familiar and easy. It seems probable, with regard to flying, as M. Flammarion intimates, that the impulse is a very sudden one, at least during a part of the stroke; so that the thin resisting medium has, as it were, a certain kind of solidity and firmness.
Various machines for flying have been made, and a tolerable success attained. One is lately reported in Philadelphia. There seems to be no impossibility in taking up enough
force, at least by the aid of balloon power, to give a considerable velocity in a calm to our air-ship; but it may as yet be doubted whether it would be able to contend against the ordinary velocity which winds have even a short distance above the surface of the earth. In Mr. Glaisher’s ascents, the wind was blowing, on the average, four times as fast above as below. This could generally be avoided by keeping near the ground.
But after all, what aspiring man really longs for is not to have a flying machine to carry him, but to have his own wings, and some power strong enough to move them. With the motive powers known at present, this seems to be beyond our reach; but who knows? Heat and motion are now understood to be convertible, and perhaps the sun’s rays may yet be found powerful enough to raise us into the air. But then—look out for clouds. The sun melted the wings of Icarus; the shade would melt ours.
Flying may yet be realized; and it is well enough to look forward to what may be in store in the future; but let us also not undervalue what we already have. The beauty of the form of the balloon necessarily implies a certain perfection in it, as the majesty of a full-rigged line-of-battle ship clearly shows a perfection which no actual results gained by cheese-box Monitors can ever gainsay. Our present air-ship is a noble product of human genius, and its resources are by no means yet exhausted.
Even a captive balloon is not a bad affair, and may be used for travelling purposes, though it may seem a contradiction to say so. A “captive” is simply one which is fastened by a rope so that it cannot ascend above a certain height. If fastened to a fixed object, it serves only as a means to take people up for a view or to
make scientific observations: but if attached to a moving body, it is a very pleasant vehicle to ride in, or could easily be made so. Our French aeronauts were once pulled in this way through the streets of a town, and at another time were towed for some distance at the height of five hundred feet by a number of their excitable countrymen. But it must be acknowledged that on the whole a captive is not so pleasant to ride in as a free balloon. Besides the feeling of exultation accompanying a free ascent, it also has the advantage of being really a great deal more comfortable. The captive, being restrained by the rope, feels the full force of whatever wind there is, and is moreover apt to be tipped over considerably when the breeze is strong. Nevertheless, going up in one is a tolerably popular amusement when the opportunity is offered, though hardly enough so to make it profitable for the proprietors. This is one of the miserable difficulties about the pursuit of science, that experiments cost something, and often it is very troublesome to raise the necessary funds. Free ascensions have, however, been common enough for a good deal more to have been accomplished in the way of experiment and observation than has usually been the case, and Mr. Glaisher’s example deserves to be generally
followed. The balloon itself may do a good deal towards the investigation of the laws of the atmospheric currents, the knowledge of which would be so useful for its own guidance, as well as in answering questions concerning storms and climate. Mr. Glaisher, on January 12, 1864, met with a warm current of air from the southwest, more than half a mile in depth; and he considers that this may, perhaps, be an aerial Gulf Stream, and increase the warming effect which that celebrated current no doubt produces on the western and northern coasts of Europe.
But we must not dwell longer on his scientific results, or those of his friends on the other side of the Channel. In fact, it is time that we should come down from the clouds, and occupy ourselves with the affairs of this base and grovelling lower world. We should like to do it gradually, but, as is the case with the balloon itself, our descent must needs be accompanied by something of a shock. It is with difficulty that we can persuade ourselves to quit, even in imagination, those magnificent regions so near to us and yet practically so far away; which all of us could see even now in ten minutes if our balloon was ready—would that it were!—and which, if the art of flying progresses with due rapidity, we may yet see some time before we die.