below will never allow any man to tell him that he never saw a steering balloon.
Near Newmarket we examine the ground, but it is woody, and unfavourable for a descent; so up we go again, brushing tree-tops on our way over Lord Rutland's park. Clear of this, we open the valve and fall once more. At fifty feet high out goes the grapnel, and is immediately surrounded by a score of men. And so down we come, fair and softly, after nearly eighty miles of air travelling. Mr. Spencer proceeds to deflate the balloon, and in this operation we catch him with our camera, and so take our very last picture of this memorable day—this time, however, with a full three-seconds exposure, for the light is not what it was. Then, the balloon having been most marvellously packed into the basket, we scale a cart and trot off, with many jolts and joggles, for Newmarket station, and with little love for road travelling after nearly four hours in the "City of York" balloon. And so home, as our old friend Pepys might have said, with much pretty discourse, and vowing that many things might be worse than an afternoon in a balloon; while in time of war, when one might snap the merry camera on the wrathsome foe below in all his dispositions and devices, and in good safety drop the joyous bombshell upon the top of his hapless head—forsooth what a fine thing must be that!
