Seeing Further (18 page)

The ballomania which ensued over the next two years is often remembered in terms of the sudden rage for balloon fashion accessories which seized Paris (and to some extent London). This might now be termed Montfgolfier merchandising. Both the Musée de l’Air at Le Bourget and the Blythe House section of the Science Museum, London, are crammed with a wild selection of these astonishing, and sometimes rather beautiful, artefacts. They include popular prints, paintings, satirical cartoons, fans, snuffboxes, teapots, chinaware, lampshades, tobacco pipes, ladies’ garters, milk jugs, hair clips, coat buttons, desk handles, parasols, pen-holders, and even (at Le Bourget) a ceramic toilet bowl with ‘Bon Voyage’ glazed on the interior.

But the element that Banks truly distrusted in ballomania was its demagogic potential. His secretary, Dr Charles Blagden FRS, a chemist who also worked for Cavendish and travelled frequently in France, perhaps encouraged
these misgivings. So in August 1783 he informed Banks: ‘all Paris is in an uproar about the flying machines’. In October he noted: ‘It appears that the enthusiasm, I almost said madness, which prevailed in Paris on the subject of balloons, has taken a turn more characteristic of the [French] nation, and is converted into a most violent party spirit. Ridicule and invective, verse and prose, are employed without mercy on this occasion.’

Blagden enjoyed passing on comic or frankly scabrous material. He obtained a French satirical pamphlet purporting to recount ‘the supposed conversations between the three animals which went up in [Montgolfier’s] globe’ at Versailles. The cockerel (symbol of France) seemed somewhat subdued on its return to earth, and ‘all the animals’ complained about the novel experience of air-sickness.

Blagden also gleefully reported the open war in Paris between supporters of hot air and those of hydrogen, quoting an unacademic phrase of Dr Alexander Charles:
‘La belle cacade que Faujas et Montgolfier ont fait.’
He then added primly: ‘I know no decent English translation of this term
[cacade].’
Banks (a product of Eton and Oxford) knew of course that
cacade
meant
a heap of shit.
Blagden concluded sententiously: ‘Every thing that occurs relative to this business makes me rejoice that during all the Heat & Enthusiasm of our Neighbours we retained in this country a true Philosophical Tranquillity.’

A year later, in September 1784, he was happy to pass on the opinion of his friend, the distinguished French chemist Claude Berthollet. ‘Aerostatic globes and Animal Magnetism have, during the whole of this past year, so filled people’s heads in this country that
useful research
has been utterly neglected.’ Blagden added pointedly that this now expressed the view of ‘the soberer part’ of the French Academy.

French ballooning certainly generated the most powerful outpouring of popular feeling. It also assembled enormous crowds in Paris, full of dangerous utopian dreams and heady aspirations. The kind of eyewitness account of such balloon launches which would have alarmed Banks is well illustrated
by Le Tableau de Paris,
1 December 1783:

Yet such wild enthusiasm could strongly appeal to a British physician and inventor like Dr Erasmus Darwin. Though Darwin was a Fellow of the Royal Society (elected in 1761), he was also part of a radical and nonconformist network of provincial philosophers, and a leading light of the Lunar Society based in Birmingham and Derby. Moreover he was a poet.

Darwin saw the Montgolfiers as the pioneers of a new age, and was untroubled by Banks’ scientific reservations or patriotic anxieties. He celebrated the Montgolfiers’ early flights in a long, ecstatic passage from his poem
The Loves of the Plants
(eventually published in 1789). A botanical description of a flying thistle-seed from Canto 2, ‘Air’, was suddenly transformed into an image of an airborne French balloon:

Darwin presents the Montgolfier balloon’s ascent first as seen from
below,
as the watching crowd gaze upwards, torn between rapture and terror:

Then Darwin ascends to the imagined view from
above,
looking out from the aeronaut’s basket, at the very edge of the stratosphere. The aeronaut gazes down upon the Earth, but also upwards at the stars revealed above him. He observes the clouds and the weather systems. He even sees (like the future astronauts) the curvature of the planet itself, in the blue horizon-line of the ocean:

Finally, in a quite extraordinary passage, Darwin sends the balloon on a fantasy voyage right through the solar system. Here science is frankly abandoned for science fiction. ‘Rise, great Montgolfier! Urge thy venturous flight / High o’er the moon’s pale ice-reflected light.’ He sails past ‘the red eye’ of Mars, floats round Jupiter, and surges beyond Saturn with its ‘crystal rings’ and Herschel’s newly discovered ‘Georgian’ planet of Uranus. He elevates magnificently through the Milky Way, and the glittering constellations of the zodiac. He becomes a new North star, ‘to blaze eternal round the wondering pole’, a beckoning light to all future space ‘mariners’.
(The Loves of the Plants,
1789, Canto 2, lines 27–66.)

British journalists, though more sceptical than poets, were not entirely immune to such fantasy journeys either. They also saw the immense possibilities of balloon flight, and responded to the first reports of the French experiments. A long article on ballooning in the
Monthly Review
at the end of 1783 concluded:

It was exactly this kind of ballomania and unscientific speculation that Joseph Banks is reputed to have dismissed out of hand. Yet the recent publication of Banks’
Scientific Correspondence,
¹
and a re-examination of the Royal Society archives suggests a more complex and intriguing state of affairs.

First, it turns out that no fewer than fifty letters on the subject of ballooning were exchanged between Banks and his scientific correspondents between 1783 and 1786. Not only Banks himself, but several other Fellows of the Royal Society (besides Darwin) were evidently fascinated by ballooning, and became far more closely involved than has been previously assumed.

It is also clear that the latest balloon news, including extensive cuttings from the French newspapers, and many ‘a parcel of pamphlets and journals’, was regularly supplied to Banks not only by Charles Blagden, but also by Banks’ personal assistant and librarian at Soho Square, the Swedish botanist Jonas Dryander.

This began in September 1783 when Dryander excitedly passed on a package from Paris:
‘Journal de Paris
from August to September 17 is just come. I have only had time to turn over some of the last numbers to hunt for information about the great aerostatique experiment. I’ll copy here the description of the machine…’

Banks continued to receive such detailed reports of all the French balloon ascents throughout the rest of 1783 and 1784. He was informed that the French Academy of Sciences, under his opposite number the Marquis de Condorcet, had appointed an official commission to investigate ‘aerostation’, and were funding further ascents by Pilâtre de Rozier. He also received various communications from Barthélemy Faujas de Saint-Fond, a geologist and official from the Jardin du Roi, who had set himself up as a commercial promoter of ballooning in France. Saint-Fond published one of the earliest books on the subject,
Descriptions des Experiences des Machines Aerostatiques de MM Montgolfier;
Banks had obtained his own copy by the end of November 1783.

Apart from Blagden, Dryander and Saint-Fond, Banks’ most important source of balloon information was Benjamin Franklin, by then in his seventies and wise in the ways of both men and machines. It has not been appreciated how significant this contact was. Franklin’s ‘two papers’, submitted to the Society in November 1783, were in reality just part of an extensive exchange of confidential letters and ballooning documents between him and Banks, amounting to no fewer than sixteen items, which continued virtually unbroken from July 1783 to April 1785.

Banks’ fascination with ballooning is expressed much more openly to Franklin than to anyone else. In September 1783 he wrote: ‘Most agreeable are the hopes you give me … I consider the present day which has opened a Road in the Air, as an Epoch … the more immediate Effect it will have upon the concerns of mankind, [is] greater than anything since the invention of Shipping …’

It was to Franklin, rather than to Blagden, that Banks wrote so warmly on 28 November 1783, immediately after the Montgolfiers’ first manned flight.

If not a ‘ballomaniac’, Franklin was certainly in favour of balloons. He had interviewed Joseph Montgolfier and the Marquis d’Arlandes at the American Embassy, the evening after that first manned flight. He had also witnessed Dr Charles’s first ascent by hydrogen balloon from the Tuilleries on 1 December, and sent Banks a most eloquent account. ‘All Paris was out, either about the Tuilleries, on the quays and bridges, in the fields, the streets, at the windows, or on the tops of houses …’

It was after this flight that Franklin was reported to have made his famous remark, when asked what was the use of a balloon: ‘I replied –
what’s the use of a newborn baby?’
Perhaps he was inspired by Banks’ earlier reference to ‘the Infant Knowledge’.

Banks again wrote enthusiastically to Franklin on 9 December:

The question now became, what were the realistic applications of ‘Practical flying’, as opposed to theories and fantasies?

Indeed it was not at first clear, either to the Royal Society or the French Academy of Sciences, what the true purpose or possibilities of ballooning really were. In fact ‘flight’ was itself a novel and surprisingly unexplored concept, despite an extensive literary tradition from Icarus and Pegasus onwards. What, in practice, could balloons actually do for mankind, except provide a hazardous journey interspersed with fine aerial ‘Prospects’?
²

According to Saint-Fond they might, for example, provide observation platforms: for military reconnaissance, for sailors at sea, for chemists analysing the Earth’s upper atmosphere, or for astronomers with their telescopes. It is notable that most of these applications were based on the notion of a
tethered
balloon. In fact many of the Montgolfiers’ early experiments were made with tethered aerostats, held to the ground by various ingenious forms of harness, guy ropes or winches.

Despite his poetical effusions, Erasmus Darwin’s first practical idea of balloon-power was paradoxically that of shifting payloads along the ground. He suggested to his friend Richard Edgeworth that a small hydrogen balloon might be tethered to an adapted garden wheel-barrow, and used for transporting heavy loads of garden manure up the steep hills of his Irish estate. This convenient aerial skip would allow one man to shift ten times his normal weight. Indeed it might revolutionise manual labour.