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[Illustration:  FRIGHTFUL SHOCK SUSTAINED BY BEAU BIGSBY ON BEING SUDDENLY BROUGHT FACE TO FACE WITH ONE OF THOSE DISTORTING MIRRORS.]

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OUR PORTFOLIO.

“Up in a balloon, boys!”—­Macbeth.

TOURS, FIFTH WEEK Of THE REPUBLIC, 1870.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO:  To all men of lofty ambition I would recommend a balloon excursion.  The higher you get, the smaller and more insignificant do earthly things appear.  A balloon is the best pulpit imaginable from which to preach a sermon upon the littleness of mundane realities, first—­because no one can hear you, and your congregation cannot therefore be held responsible for indifference to your teaching; and second—­because at that height you are fully impressed with the truth of what you say.

Aspirations of whatever kind, all longings and emotions of the “Excelsior” order, all appeals to “look aloft,” come handier when you can “do” them in an aerial car.

You will pardon this philosophic digression in respect to the peculiar feelings of a man who has just been “up in a balloon.”  Our air-ship had been anchored in the Champ de Mars two days, waiting for a fair wind.  An hour before we started, a Yorkshireman, who had evidently never seen such a creation before, annoyed me with incessant questions as to what it was.  His large, wondering, stupid eyes never ceased gazing at the monster as it tugged heavily at the stake which held it.  “Na’ wha’ maun that be?” he exclaimed, starting back as it gave a very violent jerk.  I could stand it no longer, and thus broke forth:—­

“See here, my good fellow, you’ve got plenty of cheek to be bothering me with your confounded ridiculous questions; and so I’ll answer you once for all.  What you see tied fast there is called a balloon, and it’s only a French method of drawing Englishmen’s teeth.”  He left me—­I trust not in anger; but that was the last I saw of the Yorkshireman.

We got off, (M.  GODARD and I) about four o’clock P.M., and ascended steadily till Paris, with its rim of fortifications, looked more like the crater of a volcano than anything else.  I brought out my opera-glass as we moved in the direction of Versailles, and reconnoitred the situation.  In a field adjoining the palace I saw an object that looked like a post driven into the ground, and capped with a large-sized clam-shell.  GODARD levelled his glass and examined it.  His lip curled proudly with scorn as he said:—­

“That is the butcher himself, WILLIAM of Prussia.  The clam-like appearance you notice is due to the baldness of his head.”