Also, How am I "assisting progress of Military Science?" Balloon calmer, and not wobbling, thank Heaven! Begin to enjoy the view. How beastly cold it is up here, though! Passing over St. Paul's—suggest to fellow passenger that with a bomb, or better still a pistol, one could "pot" the Dome. Passenger (funny man) says, "Why not try a parashoot?" I laugh heartily, and nearly fall over side. Aëronaut, roughly, "wishes to goodness I'd keep still." I wish to goodness he'd make the Balloon keep still—don't say this, however.
Somewhere over Essex. See distant sea. Aëronaut says, "There's no end of a wind springing up." Heavens! Believe we are drifting out to sea! But I didn't want to "assist progress of Naval Science"—only "Military." Tell Aëronaut this. He says, he's "just going down." Talks as if he were "going down" to breakfast—after "getting up," as we have done! Rather a good joke for mid-air. But is it mid-air? We are descending rapidly. Digestion this time left up in clouds. Tearing along over fields. Balloon pitching and tossing violently. Grapnel thrown out. Catches a cow. Cow runs with us. Idiot! Why can't it stand steady?
Awful crash! Bump, bang, whack! Balloon explodes with fearful report. Yet no reporters present! Remember nothing more. Wake up, and find myself in Hospital of an Essex town. Query—Have I, or have I not, "assisted the progress of Military Science?"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
The Marsh King's Daughter. One of Warne & Co.'s publications for children's amusement, but the illustrations by Jessie Currie are too highly curried, or rather coloured, and the effect is hard and theatrical. By the way, Miss Currie's genius is a trifle wilful; for example, take this situation, which she has chosen to illustrate,—"She ... pointed to a horse. He mounted upon it, and she sprang before him, and held tightly by the mane." Now, asks the Baron, taking for granted the "sprang" is for "sprang up," how would ordinary talent depict this scene? Why, certainly, by showing the girl mounted on the horse, holding on by the mane in front of the man, and the man up behind. Not so Miss Currie. She puts the good man—apparently an Amateur Monk—astride the horse, and she riding behind, holding lightly as it appears, with one hand the broad red crupper, and, with the other, probably, some portion of the Amateur Monk's dressing-gown. But genius must not be fettered.
Æsop Redivivus is delightful, if only for the reappearance of the quaint old woodcuts—some of which, however, the Baron is of opinion, never belonged to the original edition—yet, with a polite bow to Mary Boyle, he would venture to observe that, in his opinion, the revivification is an excellent idea rather thrown away. Whether it would have been better for more or less Boyleing, he is not absolutely certain, but perhaps the notion required a somewhat different treatment. The best of the fables is The Sly Stag, which, according to the woodcut, ought to have been a goat. But there may be some subtle humour in the frequent incongruity between a fable and its pictorial illustration.
The Baron de Book-worms.
