s lifted in, and the balloon allowed to
mount some twenty feet, frantically held by ropes by the crowd below. It
descended again, Madame Duruof got out, and in her place came tumbling
in a splendid fellow, some six feet four high, broad-chested to boot,
who instantly made supererogatory the presence of half a dozen of the
bags of ballast that lay in the bottom of the car.

It was an anxious moment, with the excited multitude spread round far as
the eye could reach, the car leaping under the swaying balloon, and the
anxious, hurried men straining at the ropes. But I remember quite well
sitting at the bottom of the car and wondering when the new-comer would
finish getting in. I dare say he was nimble enough, but his full arrival
seemed like the paying out of a ship's cable.

This was Fred Burnaby, only Captain then, unknown to fame, with Khiva
unapproached, and the wilds of Asia Minor untrodden by his horse's
hoofs. His presence on the grounds was accidental, and his undertaking
of the journey characteristic. He had invited some friends to dine
with him that night at his rooms, then in St. James's Street. Hearing
of the proposed balloon ascent, he felt drawn to see the voyagers off,
purposing to be home in time to dress for dinner. The defection of the
Thirty appearing to leave an opening for an extra passenger, Burnaby
could not resist the temptation. So with a hasty _Au revoir!_ to his
companion, the Turkish Minister, he pushed his way through the crowd
and dropped into the car.

I always forgot to ask him how his guests fared. As it turned out, he
had no chance of communicating with his servant before the dinner hour.
The arrival of Burnaby exceeded by one the stipulated number of
passengers, and Coxwell was anxious for us to start before any more got
in. For a minute or two we still cling to the earth, the centre of an
excited throng that shout, and tug at ropes, and run to and fro, and
laugh, and cry, and scream "Good-bye" in a manner that makes our
proposed journey seem dreadful in prospect. The circle of faces look
fixedly into ours; we hear the voices of the crowd, see the women
laughing and crying by turns, and then, with a motion that is absolutely
imperceptible, they all pass away, and we are in mid-air where the echo
of a cheer alone breaks the solemn calm.

I had an idea that we should go up with a rush, and be instantly in the
cold current of air in view of which the preparation of extra raiment,
the nat