ballooners themselves, who, it was said, had become disgusted with the hardships to which they were exposed. It was, repaired, but fell into the hands of the enemy at Wurtzburg, September 17th, 1796.
Meanwhile Coutelle, now a chef de bataillon, had resumed the direction of the Institute at Meudon.
From this period, notwithstanding the importance attached to the subject by the National Assembly, war-ballooning appears to have fallen into disuse. Whether or no this result may be attributed to want of zeal on the part of the officers who succeeded Coutelle in charge of the companies, we cannot say. The experiment itself had certainly proved a success. In a line of operations extending over one hundred and fifty French leagues, along the Sambre, Meuse, and Rhine, from Maubeuge by Charleroi, Liege, Aix-la-Chapelle, Cologne, Bonn, Coblentz, Mayence, and Mannheim to Strasbourg, the two balloons had been available whenever and wherever they were needed. For this service three permanent establishments had been found amply sufficient. Experience had also proved that the balloons would retain their gas for a considerable length of time. L'Entreprenant, filled at Maubeuge on June 18th, was fit for duty at Namur at the end of July. Neither had the difficulties attendant on the transport of the machines, when inflated, proved as great as had been anticipated. Whether passing in or out of fortified towns, across ramparts and ditches, or guided by men along the line of march, towed by horses, as at Fleurus, or by men in boats, as at the passage of the Meuse, the difficulties had never proved insurmountable; while the important nature of the services rendered on many occasions were allowed by friends and foes. Nevertheless the service fell into disrepute. Coutelle, now a colonel, had returned to duty with the engineer corps; and the establishment at Meudon, deprived of its chief, like the "compagnies aérostiers," soon ceased to exist.
Although balloons were not used in the campaign in Italy, in 1796, as is sometimes erroneously asserted, nor indeed in any of the Napoleonic campaigns, Buonaparte would seem to have been alive to their military importance. On the departure of the expedition to Egypt in 1798, he commissioned Conté to form a corps of ballooners out of the remains of the "compagnies aérostiers." Their equipage, however (which had been provided on an extensive scale), fell into the hands of the British cruisers; and the only service they performed was the construction of a huge tri-coloured Montgolfier, which was sent up at Cairo on the 9th "Vendemiare," 1799 (the fête day of the Republic), and disappeared in the desert, to the great education of crowds of the faithful.
On the recommendation of a commission of engineer officers, it was now directed that the study of aerostation should form part of the course at the engineer establishments at Metz, to which the remains of the balloon Télémaque, were made over, and where, says M. le Colonel Augoval, "they long remained, a mouldering enigma amongst the college stores."
L'Entreprenant, which had also found its way back into French hands, was sold with the other effects of the Institut Aéronautique, at Meudon, in 1802. It then became the property of the English aeronaut, Robertson. Subsequently, and under a new name, it figured, we believe, at Vauxhall Gardens, and other public places.
Out of Work.
The winter is round again—
Will winter and want ne'er part?—
And the frost is back on the pane,
And the frost is back at the heart.
There's starlight up in the sky,
And there's firelight over the way;
But the stars are all too high,
And fires are for those that pay.
I tramp in the cold grey morn,
I tramp when the daylight lags,
'Till my bleeding feet are torn,
On these merciless London flags;
And I stare as the folk go by,
Their faces so cold and hard,
That I think of the stones that lie
In the hell of the workhouse yard.
"Dear soul I have nothing to give,"
Is all that the best reply;
"How is it you care to live,
There is nothing to do but to die."
And others scoff as they walk—
"Oh, yes! we know you of old;
You have plenty of pitiful talk,
And brass is the beggar's gold."
Yet I ask neither silver nor bread,
I merely seek for a wage;
But somehow, they say, the markets are dead,
And it's only the fault of the age!
Still I rend that far away,
Somewhere in the glowing west,
There are realms without rent to pay,
And the labourer's lot is the best.
And oft in the long dark hours
I dream of the tales they tell,
Till the breath of the prairie flowers
Steals over me like a spell.
And I smile on my own broad farm,
While the children around me call,
"Now, father, we fear no harm,
There's room enough for us all."
But I woke too soon to my pains,
And, waking, I hear once more
The din of the market wains,
Heaven-laden with rich men's store.
They pass with the music of birds,
And I hear men shout as they go;
But the very cheer of their words
Falls into my heart like snow.
Still I ask for the goods of none,
And I ask for the alms of none;
But murmur, "Thy will be done,
If it be that I starve alone."
For I trust that the good God knows—
And they tell me His ways are just—
That the winter will bring its woes,
That some must fall in the dust.
Yet ever I tramp and strive
For the labour that will not come,
For the loaf that keeps alive.
And the hope that makes a home.
Are they never to come again?
Ah, me! for that land in the west.
Is there none will lend the train
That takes us away to our rest?
