"Perfectly well. It was at the time of the coronation
of Napoleon, in 1804. The aeronaut, Gernerin, sent up a
balloon at Paris, about eleven o'clock in the evening. It
bore the following inscription, in letters of gold: 'Paris,
25 Frimaire; year XIII; Coronation of the Emperor Napoleon
by his Holiness, Pius VII.' On the next morning,
the inhabitants of Rome saw the same balloon soaring
above the Vatican, whence it crossed the Campagna, and
finally fluttered down into the lake of Bracciano. So you
see, gentlemen, that a balloon can resist such velocities."

"A balloon--that might be; but a man?" insinuated Kennedy.

"Yes, a man, too!--for the balloon is always motionless
with reference to the air that surrounds it. What
moves is the mass of the atmosphere itself: for instance,
one may light a taper in the car, and the flame will not
even waver. An aeronaut in Garnerin's balloon would not
have suffered in the least from the speed. But then I
have no occasion to attempt such velocity; and if I can
anchor to some tree, or some favorable inequality of the
ground, at night, I shall not fail to do so. Besides, we
take provision for two months with us, after all; and there
is nothing to prevent our skilful huntsman here from furnishing
game in abundance when we come to alight."

"Ah! Mr. Kennedy," said a young midshipman, with
envious eyes, "what splendid shots you'll have!"

"Without counting," said another, "that you'll have