When the Englishman, with short sleeves and sight, first wrote to us in London, I was assured that “all the customary facilities for filling balloons would be found in the Vauxhall of Brussels,” and “that no doubt or hesitation need be felt on that score.”
But surely such discordant bickerings and confusion of languages, as we had, never before preceded the arrangements for this kind of work.
There was no money, no head, no gas, and no order in any step that had been taken, until I personally superintended the whole affair.
A certain amount of pressure and decision, however, brought this heterogeneous mixture of nationalities entirely to book, but they had me on one point, and at a tremendous advantage, namely, I was driven to fill the “Sylph” at the gas-works, and endeavour to transport it through the town.
This attempt was made in May, 1848, and on that occasion grey-eyed morn broke in with a high dawn and a reddish sky, an appearance which was interpreted as being very fine by those who assembled for an exciting view before breakfast.
We soon beat to quarters, as nautical men say, and, although we had “time by the forelock,” we were none too soon, as I was most anxious to be moving before the morning breezes were astir; and, though I had little time for noticing the barometer, still I had observed a decided drop, and did not altogether admire present appearances.
No sooner was the gas turned on than the “Sylph” began to display its proportions satisfactorily, and the lookers on threw themselves into various postures indicative of approbation.
“Ah! Monsieur Coxvel,” said one of the party, stroking down his beard, “you vil hav vun vary fine day; no vind, no nothink. Your transport vil no be difficile.”
Hereupon I glanced around the horizon, but returned the weather wise Belgian no reply. He then looked with such a scrutinizing glance, as to provoke an expression of discontent.
“Ah! vat you mean,” inquired he, “vy you frown?”