CHAPTER XII
The decade that inaugurated dynamic man-flight had closed without fully demonstrating the capabilities of such aëroplanes as had been so far developed. No considerable altitude record had as yet been achieved. No very long cross-country flight had yet been attempted, though for many months the New York World had offered $10,000 for the first aërial voyage from Albany to New York, and the London Daily Mail had long offered $50,000 for a flight from London to Manchester. The uses of the aëroplane for scouting by land and sea had not been tested, much less its probable value in aggressive warfare. Such experiments were for the immediate future, as also the development of specialized types of machines for racing, for climbing, for burden bearing, for distance, for endurance, for landing on water, for rising from water, for protection of passengers from severe weather. To air men and spectators alike the future of the art promised to be quite as captivating as the past.
The first startling achievements to usher in the new decade were the great altitude flights. New world records followed in rapid succession all through the year 1910, with marked persistence and wonderful progress. Levels that had been regarded as the peculiar region of motor balloons were passed one after another, until the aviators vanished beyond the clouds, their limbs palsied with cold, and their aëroplane wings whitened with frost. Though the greatest prizes were not offered for this species of flight, and frequently none at all, it had an abiding fascination for both the flyers and the public. At the same time it proved to be as safe as it was theatrical and popular.
The starter in this exciting race for cloudland was Hubert Latham, already the official holder of the world’s altitude record. At Bouy, on January 7th, in presence of official witnesses, he rose in his Antoinette monoplane, describing a great upward spiral till his barometer recorded 1,050 meters; then returned to earth with like ease and precision, landing softly near his hangar, before his assistants, transported with enthusiasm. He had touched the goal of Gallic ambition, having driven his aëroplane to the height of one kilometer.
Latham’s tenure of the world’s altitude record quickly passed to his doughty rival, Louis Paulhan. At Los Angeles, on the twelfth of January, Paulhan, mounted on a Farman biplane, ascended 4,165 feet, as against Latham’s record of 3,444 feet. This was a great step upward, due not only to Paulhan’s prowess and dexterity, but also to the science and constructive skill of the less spectacular gentlemen in the designing room, workshop and laboratory.
Latham strove again for the world’s altitude record and gained it on July 7th at the second Rheims tournament, by driving his Antoinette to a height of 4,541 feet.[53] But again his victory was soon eclipsed; for two days later, Walter Brookins at Atlantic City ascended 6,175 feet in a Wright biplane. An American was thus the first to fly above one mile, as a Frenchman had been first to pass the 1-kilometer limit. The 2-kilometer and 2-mile elevations were exceeded before the close of the year, as shown by the following table, which also manifests a fair distribution of honors among various nations and types of machines:
| Feet | Aviator | Aëroplane | Place | Date |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 3,445 | Latham | Antoinette | Betheny Plain | January 7 |
| 4,165 | Paulhan | Farman | Los Angeles | January 12 |
| 4,541 | Latham | Antoinette | Rheims | July 7 |
| 6,175 | Brookins | Wright | Atlantic City | July 9 |
| 6,604 | Drexel | Blériot | Lanark, Sc. | August 11 |
| 8,271 | Morane | Blériot | Havre, France | September 3 |
| 8,406 | Chavez | Blériot | Issy | September 8 |
| 9,104 | Wijnmalen | Farman | Mourmelon | October 1 |
| 9,714 | Johnstone | Wright | Belmont Park | October 31 |
| 10,499 | Leganeaux | Blériot | Pau | December 9 |
| 11,474 | [54]Hoxsey | Wright | Los Angeles | December 26 |
Such lofty flights have proved a severe test of both the aëroplane and the pilot. In the lighter atmosphere the engine must turn the propeller at higher speed to secure the same thrust, and the aëroplane must sail faster to support the same weight as at the lower levels. Thus more power is required on high, though the explosive medium, being less dense, is less capable of exerting power. The driver has, therefore, to jockey his machine with assiduous care and alertness, at a time when he is least fitted for exertion, owing to fatigue, cold, and it may be, physical discomfort due to the great change of atmospheric pressure. But still, both aëroplane and pilot are capable of ascending well above any levels thus far attained.
After the triumphant altitude flights of 1910 the aëronautical skeptics could no longer contend that the aëroplane was useless in transportation and warfare, because of its inability to fly above high land or the usual range of the guns of battleships and coast fortifications. Most of the important mountain passes lie below 10,000 feet. The safe elevation for motor balloons menaced by terrene guns is taken to be much less than two miles, and in military practice they usually operate below the one-mile level. The aëroplanes, therefore, may not only cross mountain ranges, but may also scrutinize, or grievously molest, land forces, marine squadrons and perhaps even the great gaseous cruisers of the atmosphere, which they can far outspeed, and may even destroy.
The increase in speed of flight during 1910 was also quite remarkable. The official record by which Mr. Curtiss won the Bennett Aviation Contest at Rheims, in 1909, showed a speed of 47.04 miles an hour. Still higher velocities, ranging from 50 to 60 miles an hour, were reported later in that season from England and France. In 1910, however, at the Rheims aviation meet, Morane, with a Blériot monoplane, covered the 20-kilometer course in 12 minutes 45.2 seconds, or at an average speed of 66.2 miles an hour, showing a gain of forty per cent on Mr. Curtiss’s speed of the preceding year. Still better was achieved at the international tournament held at Belmont Park in 1910. Le Blanc in a 100-horse Blériot monoplane, especially designed for speed, covered nineteen laps of the 5-kilometer course at an average rate of 61 miles an hour, and his fastest lap at the rate of 71.68 miles an hour, thus exceeding Curtiss’s speed of the previous year by fifty per cent. Other spurts during the latter part of 1910 were reported to have attained nearly 80 miles an hour over a closed circuit, though perhaps not a level one. The best results were achieved with machines having high power engines, small surfaces and slight forward resistance.
The advance in long-distance flying in 1910 more than kept pace with the progress in speed. The best achievement at the close of the preceding year had been Farman’s flight of 144 miles at an average rate of 35.06 miles an hour in a closed circuit. At the Rheims aviation meet in 1910, Jan Olieslaegers, in a Blériot monoplane, driven by a Gnome engine, covered 244 miles in a rectangular course, at an average speed of 48.31 miles an hour. At Buc, on the 28th of October, an aviator of three months’ practice, Maurice Tabuteau, in a Maurice Farman biplane, driven by a Rénault engine, flew over a closed circuit, covering 288.8 miles at an average speed of 47.9 miles an hour. At Pau on December 21st, M. G. Leganeaux, in a Blériot monoplane, flew for the Michelin Cup, covering 516 kilometers or 320.6 miles in six hours and one minute, or at an average speed of 53¼ miles an hour—a splendid showing. Finally, at Buc, on December 30th, Tabuteau, flying for the annual Michelin prize, covered 362.66 miles in a Maurice Farman biplane with an 8-cylinder 60-horse Rénault motor. The average speed in this very long flight was 47.3 miles an hour, or practically the rate by which Curtiss won the international contest of the preceding year. Of course a considerably better showing of both distance and velocity could have been made on a longer course.
The world records for cross-country flying and for endurance and load illustrate both the increasing perfection of the machine and of the pilot’s skill and confidence. At Los Angeles, on January 19th, Mr. and Mrs. Paulhan, in a Farman biplane, flew together 21 miles overland from the aviation field to Redondo and Hermosa Beach and return. On January 31st Van der Born made a world’s duration record with a passenger on a Farman biplane, flying 1 hour 48 minutes 50 seconds. On March 5th, Henri Farman, who had previously twice broken the world’s duration record for a pilot with two passengers, set a new and astonishing pace at Mourmelon, by carrying Mr. Hevardson and Madame Frank in easy flight for 62.5 minutes on his new biplane. In France, on April 3d, Emile Dubonnet on his Tellier monoplane flew from Juvisy to La Ferte-Saint Aubin, a distance of 109 kilometers or 70 miles in 1 hour and 50 minutes, thus winning the ten-thousand-franc prize offered by La Nature for the first straightaway flight of 100 kilometers to be effected in less than two hours, over a previously indicated course. This fine record voyage was achieved in a machine never before thoroughly tried. At Chalons-sur-Marne, on April 8th, Daniel Kinet, a Belgian, mounted with a passenger on a Farman biplane driven by a 50-horse Gnome engine, broke the world’s record for duration and distance for two persons by flying round a closed circuit 2 hours 19¼ minutes, covering a distance of 152 kilometers, or 94 miles. On April 17th, H. Farman, with a passenger in his biplane, voyaged from Etampes to Orleans, 28 miles. Next day, Paulhan, mounting the same machine, flew 108 miles, and the following day 42 miles. This tour established a new cross-country record for total distance, for single stage distance with one passenger, and for duration and single stage distance with two passengers. During the same month Farman made a new record for four passengers by carrying three gentlemen for 1 hour and 4 minutes on his new biplane, spreading 47.6 feet. On June 9th, two French officers, Lieutenant Fequant piloting and Captain Marconnet observing, flew on a Farman biplane from Bouy to Vincennes, 145 kilometers, in two hours and a half, thus breaking the world’s cross-country distance and duration record for a pilot with a passenger. On June 13th, Charles K. Hamilton, in a Curtiss biplane, flew from New York to Philadelphia, a distance of 86 miles in 103 minutes, and returned the same day, thus completing 172 miles in one day. This was an exhibition flight made for The New York Times and the Philadelphia Ledger, for a sum reported to be $10,000. It was a sequel to Glenn H. Curtiss’s memorable flight on June 5th, down the Hudson River from Albany to New York, for the New York World’s $10,000 prize. Hamilton’s average speed was 50 miles an hour going and 51 miles returning. On August 29th, at Lille, Louis Bréguet is reported to have carried with him on a biplane of his make, five passengers, who, together with the gasoline, weighed 921 pounds. It may be added that the Bréguet biplane of that date was advertised and guaranteed to carry a cargo, or extra load, of 250 kilograms. It thus appears that by 1910 the aëroplane had grown powerful enough for an aërial cab service, and that it could carry sufficient explosive gelatine to derange a battleship.
The contest for cross-country records continued unabated all that memorable year. During the first three days of September, Jean Bielovucic, a youth of twenty-one, mounted on a new type of Voisin biplane, with but a few days’ practice, flew from Paris to Bordeaux, covering 540 kilometers, or 336 miles, in four stages, comprising altogether 6¼ hours on the wing. In spite of severe weather, at times, he beat the regular express train and established a new world’s record for cross-country straightaway distance flying with stops. On August 17th, Alfred Le Blanc, finished a six-stage tour round a hexagonal circuit northeast of Paris, with the finish at Issy, near Paris, covering a total distance of 785 kilometers, or 440 miles, in 12 hours 56.4 seconds effective time. On September 7th, Weyman flew with a passenger from Paris to Clermont near the Puy de Dome, covering 205 miles in one day, while trying for the Michelin prize of 100,000 francs, for a flight to the Puy de Dome inside of six hours. On December 18th, Thomas Sopwith, competing for the longest flight across the Channel and into Belgium, on a British-built aëroplane, flew from the Isle of Sheppy across the Channel, and landed at Beaumont, Belgium, covering a distance of 174 miles in 3.5 hours. At Buc, on November 27th, Laurens, in a 60-horse R. E. P. monoplane, flew with his wife 53 miles at an average speed of nearly 50 miles an hour. On December 22d, Lieutenant Cammerman, a French army officer, won the L. Weiller prize by flying across country with a passenger, 147 miles in 4 hours and 2 minutes.
These are but a few of the records which serve to illustrate the progress in cross-country flying during that year of strenuous and world-wide popular demonstrations. But the bare numerical statement of facts can give no conception of the delight and exultation aroused in millions of souls who witnessed or learned of these marvelous human achievements. They were the advancing triumph of a proud and fortunate generation, happy in realizing one of the fondest dreams of the ages. Often during one of these cross-country flights the aëroplane was accompanied by a swift railway train whose passengers were delirious with enthusiasm. The entire route was thronged with people assembled from afar. It was a general holiday for all the fortunate cities and villages along the way. Mills and factories blew their whistles and forgot the serious business of life, homes were deserted, schools were dismissed; the whole population for the time congregated in the open; bearded mechanics in their aprons, bare-armed housewives holding their children aloft, girls and boys with wondering eyes, all shouting, waving banners, throwing up hats, and hailing with tumultuous demonstration that strange and huge-winged creature gliding from horizon to horizon with the steadiness, precision and directness of a mighty projectile. But beyond stating the records of this season of aërial wonders, only a passing notice can be given to some of the more conspicuous events.
The most famous overland voyages of the season 1910 began with the race for the London Daily Mail prize of $50,000, offered by Lord Northcliffe for the first person who should fly from London to Manchester, 183 miles within twenty-four hours, with not more than two stops. An Englishman, Claude Grahame-White, comparatively new in the pilot’s art, was first to undertake that difficult and perilous adventure. Starting from London, without competitor, on April 24th, he flew in his Farman biplane, from London to Rugby, thence to Hademore, about halfway to Manchester, landing at a quarter past nine o’clock at night, after a four-hour trip, and hoping to reach Manchester next day. But during the night his aëroplane, which was left in the open, was damaged by the wind, thus necessitating repairs and a new start. On April 27th, while he was strenuously mending and adjusting his biplane for a new start, Louis Paulhan, who the day previously had arrived from France with a Farman biplane to enter the contest, was also vigorously setting up and adjusting his machine.
At half past five in the afternoon, Paulhan suddenly set out for Manchester. Mr. White, who was much fatigued and expecting to start on the morrow at dawn, after much-needed rest, learned toward six o’clock that his rival was on the wing, and hurriedly sailed from London, hoping by skill and good chance to overtake the flying Frenchman. The race was now the most exciting event in the world. The first flyers of France and England were competing for the greatest prize yet offered in the history of aviation, competing in a most modern and extraordinary race, attended with abundant danger and hardship. The contestants were evenly matched in mechanism and capability, but the Frenchman had gotten the march on the unwary Englishman. Paulhan followed the Northwestern Railway, at times outracing the special pilot train carrying his mechanics and supplies. At ten minutes after eight o’clock, he landed at Lichfield, having covered 115 miles. Mr. White had landed five minutes before eight near Roade, after flying fifty-nine miles.
Next morning, Paulhan sailed away at a quarter past four. Mr. White, hoping to overtake him, had started at dead of night and covered twenty miles before Paulhan had started. It was a heroic effort, but unavailing. At twelve minutes after five, Mr. White landed at Hademore, having completed two thirds of the entire journey. Twenty-five minutes later Paulhan landed on the outskirts of Manchester, greeted by a thousand persons. He had covered the whole distance in 4.2 hours, and had fulfilled all the essential conditions for winning the great prize.
The next world-famous aëroplane voyage was that of Glenn H. Curtiss for the New York World’s prize of $10,000 for the first aërial journey from Albany to New York, allowing two stops. Aviators had been yearning for this prize since the previous year, but had been too timidly shying at the dangers of the route. After most careful preparations for this voyage, Curtiss, bearing a letter from the Mayor of Albany to the Mayor of New York, sailed away at seven o’clock on Sunday morning, May 29th, accompanied by a New York Central special train, bearing his wife and a few friends and newspaper men. He landed an hour for supplies and adjustment at Camelot, 41 miles down the river, and thence flew to Spuyten Duyvil, at the northern extremity of New York, having completed the required distance, 128 miles, in 2 hours and 32 minutes, or at the rate of 50.52 miles per hour along the course. An hour later, he flew down the river to New York Harbor and landed on Governor’s Island, where he received a becoming ovation.
Perhaps the most exciting incident of the voyage to Mr. Curtiss was his transit of the Storm King Mountain. As he was flying through the narrow gap at this place he caught the down-rolling air on one side more than on the other, and dropped very suddenly sidewise 30 or 40 feet. By shifting his front control, he quickly gained headway and promptly righted his machine.
Commenting on Mr. Curtiss’s average speed of 50 miles an hour and his rugged course, Aëronautics makes comparison between his voyage and Paulhan’s great prize flight as follows:
“Paulhan took 4 hours 12 minutes elapsed time to cover 183 miles when he won the London Mail’s $50,000 and made it in two stages of 117 and 66 miles each. The 117 miles were covered in 2.39, a rate of nearly 44 miles per hour. A night’s sleep intervened and the remaining 66 miles were covered in 1.23, a rate of nearly 48 miles per hour. The average for the above was 44.37 miles per hour. Paulhan could have landed at almost any time and started again, whereas Curtiss could not have started if he had had to land in the water, and for the whole distance there was scarcely a suitable space for landing on the ground, as for nearly the entire way rocky, wooded hills with precipitous sides line the river.”
The most audacious and marvelous aëronautic exploit of the year was the flight of George Chavez across the Alps from Brig to Domodossola, in his attempt to win the prize of 70,000 francs offered by the Italian Aviation Society for the first aëroplane flight from Brig to Milan, a distance of 75 miles. From the nine volunteers for this contest who presented themselves to the committee in charge, five competitors were selected, and these for several days made tentative efforts to scale the lofty pass, but were baffled by the wind or fog. Finally at one-thirty, on September 23d, the conditions being favorable, Chavez rose, from Briegen-Berg, in his white-winged Blériot, spiraled upward 1,000 meters, circling around the vast amphitheater of the mountains, and in nineteen minutes appeared in magnificent career well above the Simplon Pass, probably 7,000 feet above the sea, whence he glided grandly down the Italian slope, parrying the rude cross winds and finally reaching Domodossola, where the enthusiasm was at its climax. Here he expected to land on a level spot to replenish his supplies, thence proceed over the easy remaining two thirds of his journey. But though the perilous pass had been crossed so successfully, disaster appeared in the valley when least expected. As the aëroplane was gliding thirty feet high over the level tract chosen for landing, it met a sudden gust, its wings collapsed, and it fell crashing to earth, pinioning its brave pilot under the débris.
Poor Chavez suffered severe wounds about the face and head, had both legs broken, and for some moments lay unconscious. But he was soon revived by his friends and taken to a hospital, where he died four days later. Thus ended the career of a brave and most promising youth of twenty-three. He had taken his pilot’s license only in February, 1910, yet had established a new world’s record on September 8th, by driving his Blériot to an elevation of 8,406 feet. He was of Peruvian parentage and born in Paris.
The exact nature of the accident was never ascertained, but it was surmised that the sudden starting of his engine preparatory to landing overstressed some part of the structure already fatigued from hard usage. However this be, the committee recognized that Chavez had with excellent skill covered all the really difficult and dangerous part of this journey. Accordingly they very generously waived the exact letter of the rules, and awarded him one half the prize, though he had completed but one third of the journey.
Quite as dangerous, spectacular and brilliant as the flight across the Alps, though less arduous, was Hubert Latham’s aërial voyage over Baltimore. On previous occasions cross-city flights had been made, but never one of such length or one executed under such exacting conditions. At various times aviators had flown above Paris, Rome, Berlin, etc. On October 14th Mr. White had flown across Washington, landing on a narrow street between the White House and War Department; on October 15th Leganeaux had flown above Paris with a passenger; but these were short flights over an uncharted course. Latham’s voyage was unique; for he had to follow a long and a prescribed course over the business section and closely built residence portion of the city. This great exploit was an exhibition flight made on the invitation of the Baltimore Sun for a sum of $5,000. It was to be made at the time of the Baltimore aviation tournament at Halethorpe, Md., and was calculated to be seen by half a million people; for the whole city was to be notified and would cease its usual activities to witness the rare and hazardous demonstration.
The voyage was triumphant and glorious in every feature. Starting from the aviation ground, seven miles south of Baltimore, about noon on November 7th, Latham drove his beautiful Antoinette about the field in an ascending spiral, like some imperial bird taking its bearings; then, chart in hand, deliberately sailed away over his elaborately prescribed journey. This was a figure 8 course with its bottom at the aviation field and its center at the Sun Building in the heart of Baltimore, the whole length being 22 miles. As the long-winged bird in majestic poise, with the intrepid rider on its back, approached in the distance, soaring 1,000 feet above the gleaming waters of the Chesapeake, the great bell of the City Hall sounded a mighty peal, and the whole populace responded in tumultuous chorus; whistles, bells and a myriad voices mingling their heartiest welcome to the bravest of aviators. With arrowlike speed and directness he rounded the center of the course at the Sun Building, then looped the vast northern half of the city, flying a thousand to three thousand feet high, more easily to parry the surging eddies of the northwest wind; rounded again the center of his course and then returned to the aviation field, where he landed with infinite coolness before the excited throng of applauding spectators, whose acclaim was all too feeble to express their mingled wonder, admiration and delight. The voyage lasted forty-two minutes and fulfilled perfectly every minute requirement, including a short circle and salutation before the home of Mr. Ross Winans, an invalid gentleman who had solicited this unique favor, and rewarded it with a gift of $500. It was the climax of the aviation week at Baltimore.
Among the many brilliant flights of that memorable year of strenuous piloting will long be remembered the voyage of the Hon. C. S. Rolls to Calais and return without landing, and that of Mr. Sopwith, already recounted; the splendid flight of Mr. Clifford B. Harmon in his Farman biplane from Mineola, Long Island, to a small rounded island before his house on the Connecticut shore, for the trophy offered by Country Life to the first person who should fly across Long Island Sound; Henri Farman’s flight of December 18th, for the Michelin long-distance prize, covering 288 miles, and establishing a new endurance record of 8 hours 23 minutes; Mlle. Helene Dutrieu’s flight of December 21st, for the Coupe Femina, covering 103¾ miles in 2 hours and 35 minutes in a Farman biplane. Interesting, too, were the first attempt to fly from Paris to Brussels with a passenger, when Mahieu and Manihé on starting were brought to bay by a vicious dog which violently attacked the propeller and was cut in two; and when Loridan and Fay landed on a tree, from which they descended by a ladder. After this followed the glorious voyage of Henri Wijnmalen, the youthful and many-sided Dutch sport, for the prize of 150,000 francs offered by the Automobile Club of France for the quickest aëroplane trip not exceeding 36 hours, with a passenger from Paris to Brussels and return. This voyage of some 320 miles was valiantly accomplished by Wijnmalen and his companion Dufour, in a day and a half, of 13.2 effective hours, and in weather for the most part windy or tempestuous. Finally to the foregoing list of splendid achievements must be added the glorious voyage of John Moisant, who in August flew with a passenger, by compass, from Paris to London, though he had never been over the route before and had only just learned to use an aëroplane.
The International Aviation Tournament of 1910, held at Belmont Park, Long Island, October 22d to 31st, was the most prominent and eventful meet of the year, and the second of its kind in history, as the meeting of the preceding year at Rheims was the first. The present meet was conducted by the Aëro Corporation, Limited, of New York, under the auspices and official sanction of the Aëro Club of America, representing the Federation Aëronautique Internationale.
This tournament was the annual aërial Olympic contest of the world, and should have been indicative not only of the aviator’s skill, but also of the state of national progress in the science and art of aëroplane construction. Unfortunately, however, for the prestige of the most deserving nations, the rules of the International Aëronautic Federation did not confine the contestants to the use of home-built machines, to prevent the glory of winning the international contest from passing to the nation which merely furnished the operator, a person who might be an illiterate jockey, and representative of a country wholly devoid of science. As luck decided, however, the highest honor in 1910 was won by a first-class French machine driven by a first-class English aviator.
In some respects the raw material and working elements of this meet were most satisfactory. The site is near the wealthiest and most populous center in America. The grounds are spacious and level, and provided with all the equipment of a great race course; the transportation facilities by carriage and by rail from the heart of New York are adequate to every requirement. The personnel of the meet comprised the most experienced and most devoted members of the Aëro Club of America, the oldest and strongest aëronautical body in the western world, and the only one representing the International Aëronautic Federation. It is true the season was late and the weather would probably be cold and tempestuous; the management was burdened by a costly license, whether just or unjust, imposed upon it as the price of immunity from patent litigation; the remaining time, after the final placement of the meet, was all too short for the myriad preparations to be made. But whatever the obstacles, physical or financial, the personnel was paramount, and naturally made the huge tournament a glorious triumph. It was the cardinal sporting event of the year.
The status of aviation was well represented in both pilots and machines. Twenty-seven aviators were entered on the program, many of them world famous. Of these Alfred Le Blanc, Hubert Latham, Emile Aubrun were the formidable champions of France in the contest for the James Gordon Bennett aviation trophy; Claude Grahame-White, James Radley, A. Ogilvie represented England; while Walter Brookins, J. A. Drexel, Charles K. Hamilton were enlisted as defenders of the coveted cup and of American prestige. All told, the aviators brought with them nearly two-score machines, ranging in capacity from 30 to 100 horse power. Of these about half were monoplanes and half biplanes, for the most part of French and American manufacture.
The prizes and remuneration awarded to the contestants were on a scale proportionate to their skill and number. All told the winnings aggregated more than $60,000. Further appropriations were made to cover the expenses of the aviators, and a further sum equal to about forty per cent of the winnings was paid for immunity from prosecution for possible infringement of an unlitigated patent. Considering the immense expenditures for buildings, for policing and other incidentals of the meet, it may be readily inferred that there was an ample deficit, and that the air men as a whole were much better rewarded than some of the sportsmen who gave so much time and labor to the organization of the tournament.
A conspicuous feature of the meet was the display of hardiness and skill of several of the aviators in facing the cold and tempestuous weather. This was particularly characteristic of Latham in his Antoinette monoplane, and of Ralph Johnstone and Arch Hoxsey in Wright biplanes. On October 27th Latham flew round the regular course for an hour when it was nearly impossible to turn the pylons against the fierce wind, while Johnstone and Hoxsey performed lofty altitude flights in a powerful gale which carried them backward, sometimes at the rate of 40 miles an hour. As a consequence they landed in the open country, remained overnight and returned next day. Johnstone was carried backward to Holtsville, 55 miles east of the aviation grounds, and Hoxsey was blown to Brentwood, 25 miles away, both landing at dusk in open fields, and both having attained great elevations: Hoxsey, 6,903 feet; Johnstone, 8,471 feet.
An interesting novelty of the aviation week, at least to Americans, were the erratic Demoiselle monoplanes, invented by Santos-Dumont and piloted by Garros and Audemars. These aëroplanes were notable as having the pilot under the sustaining plane, and the engine above with its direct mounted propeller. The lateral stability was enhanced by a low placement of the center of mass, and by a slight dihedral inclination of the wings. Furthermore, as there was not much leverage or surface in the rear double rudder, the flight was more stable than steady, like that of a propelled parachute. In fact, the little monoplanes pitched, rocked, and fluttered about so like huge butterflies as to provoke constant merriment. They gave a faint suggestion of how ludicrous aëroplane clowns could be made by one who has genius for such things.
Barring the stormy voyages above mentioned, the most memorable events of the tournament were the Gordon Bennett speed contest, the Statue of Liberty race and Johnstone’s great altitude flight. Of the numerous other performances little need be said, except that they contributed to the general success of an elaborate and most interesting program. They served the daily need of a costly tournament; they delighted vast throngs of spectators whose admission fees helped to promote the aërial sport; but they did not of themselves have more than local interest, or constitute an advance in the records of first-class achievement.
The chief race of the meet, the James Gordon Bennett speed contest, was scheduled for Saturday, October 29th. The prize of $5,000 and the coveted cup were to be awarded to the pilot who should make the best average speed in 20 laps over a 5-kilometer course, aggregating 100 kilometers, or 62.14 miles. The winner should have the distinguished honor of taking to his own country the next annual contest for the precious speed prize.
Grahame-White, England’s foremost aviator and strongest hope in the contest, brought forth his untried 100-horse Blériot in the calmest part of the day, and took wing a quarter before nine. He flew with steady poise and swift, well-sustained speed, completing the 100-kilometer distance in 1 hour 1 minute and 4.7 seconds, at an average speed of 61 miles an hour.
Le Blanc, the most likely winner of all, sailed at nine o’clock. He was mounted on a 100-horse Blériot with nearly flat wings, the swiftest monoplane of French manufacture. He was the boldest, sturdiest and most dexterous pilot in a nation of renowned aviators, the winner of unnumbered trophies, the “Vainquer de l’Est.” He now flew at unwonted speed, establishing new world records at every round of the course. It seemed evident to the timers that only an accident to this impetuous Frenchman could retrieve the glory of England and save that of America. Suddenly the accident came. In the last lap, when victory seemed assured, the gasoline failed; the monoplane shot downward, knocked off a telegraph pole, and, with broken frame and engine, fell crashing to earth, entangling the brave aviator. Le Blanc was cut and bruised about the forehead, and was taken to the hospital to be bandaged, not seriously injured but in a towering rage, suspecting that some trickery had given him a shortage of fuel. He had lost the day, though his average speed for the whole flight was 67 miles an hour as against Grahame-White’s speed of 61 miles.
No well-tried machine was available to defend the American prestige. Curtiss had constructed a new monoplane designed for speed, but though he had brought the cup to America, he was not chosen as one of its three defenders. The little Wright biplane of 61 horse power had flown a few minutes with great velocity, and was looked to with some confidence. Mounted by Walter Brookins, it set out with tremendous speed, but had only well started when the cylinders began to miss fire. Brookins turned toward the infield to land, struck the ground with terrific shock and tumbled violently on the field beside his broken machine. He, too, was taken to the hospital for treatment, but was not seriously injured.
It was now granted that Grahame-White would be the ultimate winner. Other aviators attempted to defeat him, but lacked either the necessary speed or endurance. The cup was accordingly taken from the nations that had done the most to develop the practical art of aëroplaning. Of these two nations, the one most deserving of victory, by virtue of its more careful preparation, was defeated by an extraordinary mishap, when victory was at hand; the other failed perhaps for want of preparation rather than from lack of manipulative or constructive skill.
Of the various highly coveted stakes the largest in monetary value was known as the Thomas F. Ryan Statue of Liberty Prize. This was a cash sum of $10,000, to be awarded to the properly qualified contestant who should fly from the aviation ground to and around the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, and return in the shortest time, the airline distance being 16 miles each way. The prize was founded by Mr. Thomas F. Ryan, whose son, Allan A. Ryan, was Chairman of the Committee on Arrangements of the tournament, and who though suffering with pain and ill-health, labored so indefatigably to insure the success of the event so germain to the aëronautical prestige of his country.
The Statue of Liberty race occurred on Sunday afternoon, October 30th, beginning just after three o’clock. Count De Lesseps in a 50-horse Blériot monoplane led the race, followed three minutes later by Grahame-White. They passed toward the southwest in perfect poise and vanished beyond the horizon unchallenged by an American contestant; for Moisant, the American champion, had shortly before injured his racing monoplane, and the other American racing machines had been damaged the week before, or had not yet been fully tested. But with admirable enterprise, Moisant telephoned Le Blanc, in New York, who was not racing because of the accident to his 100-horse Blériot the day previously, and offered the Frenchman $10,000 for his 50-horse Blériot monoplane. The sale was effected in time for the race that day. But for all that the enterprise seemed futile; for as Moisant was preparing to start, the others were returning, Grahame-White well in the lead, having overtaken De Lesseps. As these two aviators were receiving the applause of innumerable spectators and the felicitations of their friends, audacious Moisant, the impetuous soldier of fortune, and hero of the famous flight by compass from Paris to London, started toward the declining sun, just after four o’clock. He was determined to win by superior skill and daring. His prudent competitors had followed a circuitous southern route interspersed with landing places; but he flew like a maniac straight over the church spires and crowded buildings of Brooklyn, guided to his goal by a compass, rounded the Statue of Liberty at a great altitude and plunged homeward with all possible speed and directness. The megaphone announced his progress, which indicated some hope of victory so little expected and so much desired by the vast throng that stood gazing toward the western sun. In headlong career the swooping monoplane shot by the judges’ stand, circled and softly landed on the field, triumphant by 43 seconds over the 100-horse Blériot of Grahame-White. As the intrepid aviator approached the vast and delighted throng of spectators to acknowledge its noisy and tumultuous ovation, he was met by the chiefs of the tournament, draped in an American flag, and paraded before the grand stand, “which shook in its effort to do honor to the little air conqueror.” Ultimately, however, the prize was awarded to Count De Lesseps, because Moisant had failed to qualify properly, and Grahame-White had fouled the initial pylon.
The final day of the tournament was made memorable by Johnstone’s altitude flight. The best previous record was that of Wijnmalen to an elevation of 9,104 feet, made at Mourmelon, France. Johnstone ascended on a small Wright machine with powerful propellers adapted to rapid climbing, determined not only to surpass Wijnmalen but to exceed, if possible, the ten-thousand-foot level, and win the special prize offered for such achievement. He actually rose to the great elevation of 9,714 feet, but could not develop power enough to continue upward. On his descent he fully exhausted his fuel at 3,000 feet, and thence glided to earth, landing softly, 1 hour and 43 minutes from the time of starting.
Thus the greatest tournament of the year terminated with fine new laurels for the science and art of aviation; for the spectacular pilots and for the unseen men behind them—the scientific men in the laboratories, the designing rooms and the workshops. New standards had been established in speed, in altitude, in prowess and daring. In these elements, the spectators could hardly ask for a better exhibition. What is it to the onlooker to have an aëroplane go higher than the cumuli, since at that level a thousand feet makes no perceptible difference? What more could he wish in dexterity of manipulation and audacity in braving the elements? One thing more, doubtless, and that is, security and precision of flight in stormy weather. When these improvements shall have been effected much will have been added to both the sportive interest and practical utility of the aëroplane.
The most businesslike and crucial flying contest of the year was the famous “Circuit de l’Est,” organized by the Paris Matin. It was a competitive voyage over an irregular hexagonal course, lying generally northeast of Paris, and having its vertices at various cities to the east and north of the national capital. The main prize offered by the Matin was one hundred thousand francs for the first air man to complete the entire course, doing the first side of the hexagon on August 7th, and the succeeding sides in regular order on successive odd days of the month, the place and hour of starting each stage being assigned in advance. Various subsidiary prizes aggregating nearly a hundred thousand francs more, were available for meritorious performances at the various stages and stopping-places along the route. But there were also penalizations for those contestants who failed to start on schedule time and observe the rules of the course.
Fig. 41.—Map of the “Circuit de l’Est.”
The race began at Issy, near Paris, on August 7th, with eight aviators on the wing—Le Blanc, Aubrun, Leganeaux, Mamet, Lindpainter, Weyman. It terminated August 17th, headed by Alfred Le Blanc on his Blériot, and followed by Emile Aubrun on a Blériot, then by Weyman on a Farman, all three driven by Gnome engines actuating Chauvière propellers. Le Blanc completed the tour of six stages, covering an air-line distance of 488 miles, in 12 hours’ effective flying, or at the average rate of 40.6 miles per hour.
This long tour on schedule time over a rough and varied country in face of fog, wind and rain, was a most severe trial of the prowess and endurance of the brave pilots who had the hardiness and pertinacity to complete the voyage. Needless to add that it created unbounded enthusiasm among millions of people who witnessed the event, or read of it, and that the clocklike precision of the “grand raid” inspired new confidence in the practicability of the aëroplane.
A particularly impressive feature of the event was that many of its participants, the aviators, government officers, and members of the controlling committee, assembled at Issy and other posts of duty, not by rail, but by aëroplane, sailing across country from many directions and from great distances. This matter-of-fact procedure led many persons to believe that the period of mere demonstrations had approached its close, and that the epoch of practical utility was at hand; that after marveling so much at the aëroplane, with mingled faith and skepticism, people would next calmly turn it to practical use.
Though the progress in designing and constructing aëroplanes in 1910 did not keep pace with the wonderful advance in new records, still the inventors and manufacturers continued industriously to perfect the details of their best standard machines, and in a few instances to make radical innovations. The perfection in details of construction manifested itself in the public performance of aëroplanes, particularly in their greater reliability and their increased capabilities. The radical innovations were mainly experimental, and not generally exhibited, though none the less important for all that. Chief of these perhaps were the hydro-aëroplane developments of Fabre in France, and of Mr. Glenn H. Curtiss in America, which enabled the aviator to launch into the air directly from the water and to alight safely on the water, thus virtually adding a new and very important domain to the empire of dynamic flight.
Curtiss, in 1909, succeeded in landing his aëroplane safely on the water of Lake Keuka, first with sheet iron cylindrical floats under each wing, and a simple float well to the front of his protruding chassis, then with a hydroplane surface to the front as being more effective than the float. But when he attempted to glide up from the lake with this arrangement, he could not entirely clear the surface, though his aëroplane under the powerful thrust of her aërial screw, very nearly lifted from the water. Then he planned to use hydroplane floats, of hollow wing form, and of such size that they would buoy up the machine when at rest, and during motion would skim over the water like a skipping stone, till the biplane should acquire sufficient speed to rise by the dynamic reaction of the air. In the successful execution of this plan, however, he was anticipated by Fabre, who made the first successful flight from the water, on March 28th, 1910, at Martigues, France. But the Frenchman was not left to bear the palm alone. Early in the year 1911, Mr. Curtiss rose and landed successfully on the water at San Diego Bay, Cal., by means of a single float like a flatboat placed centrally under his biplane, seconded by small auxiliary floats at the wing ends. A full account of these valuable contributions to aviation is given in [Appendix V].
PLATE XXXI.
FABRE HYDRO-AËROPLANE.
Photo E. Levick, N. Y.
PAULHAN HYDRO-AËROPLANE.
Photo E. Levick, N. Y.
MOISANT METAL MONOPLANE.
(Courtesy A. J. Moisant.)
As shown in Plate XXXI, Fabre’s hydro-aëroplane was substantially a monoplane mounted on three richochet floats. It was propelled by a screw at the rear, and controlled in flight by the usual three-torque system, in this case consisting of horizontal rudders in front, vertical rudders front and rear, and suitable mechanism for twisting the wings. The floats were hollow to give them static buoyancy; they were curved fore and aft like wings, to give them dynamic lift, both in water and in air; they were elastically constructed with thin veneer bottoms and flexibly attached to the framing, so as to endure the severe buffeting, at high speeds, against the uneven water surface; they were capable of landing the machine safely on a sandy beach or meadow, as well as on the water. Indeed, a plan was conceived for rising and alighting on land and water indifferently.
Fig. 42.—Diagram of Curtiss Hydro-aëroplane. (Scientific American.)
The first machine weighed in flight 950 pounds and spread 280 square feet of surface, giving a loading of 3.4 pounds per square foot. It was driven by a 50-horse Gnome engine actuating a Chauvière propeller 7.5 feet in diameter. In the trials of March 28th, the machine cleared the water at a speed of 34 miles per hour, and flew about one-third of a mile, at an elevation of two to three yards; then at the will of the operator it alighted softly on the water.
The structural design of the Fabre monoplane was novel and unique, not to say radical. The wing framing consisted of a single Fabre trussed beam with ribs attached like the quills of a bird, over which was stretched the light sailcloth cover, then laced to the beam. The girder itself was formed of two ash planks eight inches wide by one-fourth inch thick trussed together by flat steel plates zigzagging trelliswise between them. As all parts of the beam cut the air edgewise it offered very little resistance, while at the same time being very strong. The ribs being attached only at one end allowed the sailcloth to be quickly slipped on and off for washing and proper care.
The characteristic features of Fabre’s wing construction were adopted by Paulhan in his novel and picturesque biplane shown in [Plate XXXI]. Trussed beams were used for all parts requiring considerable stiffness, the longitudinal ones being covered with fabric to reduce the resistance. The wings whose solid ribs were fastened only at their front ends were quite elastic, a quality conducive to stability, as long taught by writers[55] on aviation. In addition to the front rudder, there was at the rear a horizontal rudder with a vertical one just before it. To reduce the air resistance further the pilot and passenger were to sit tandem in a torpedo-shaped car with the 50-horse Gnome engine and fuel tank back of them. Beneath the longitudinal girders were two Farman skids flanked with the usual wheels, elastically connected. The machine, besides flying well, was readily demountable. The wings could be quickly removed, thus allowing the biplane to enter a door fifteen feet wide. The entire machine could be packed in a case 15½ feet long by 3¼ feet square, the whole case cubing less than six solid yards. Hundreds of them, therefore, could be stowed away in an ocean cruiser.
The flying quality of adequately designed flexible aëroplanes is well illustrated by the swallowlike monoplane shown in Fig. 43. This airy creation of the distinguished Austrian engineer, Igo Etrich, came into public prominence in the spring of 1910, though it had been developing privately for half a decade or more. On May 14th, near Vienna, it carried pilot Illner 84 kilometers in 80 minutes, at an elevation of 300 meters, thus surpassing all previous Austrian records for distance, duration and altitude. Its successor, Etrich IV, had wing tips still more turned up, and possessed such stability that during the meet at Johannisthal in October, Illner circled the pylons with his hands off the warping levers. At times he wheeled round curves of only ten meters radius, the whole machine tilted at an alarming angle, yet maintaining its poise with the natural ease and grace of a soaring albatross.
The prominent feature of Etrich’s monoplane was the elastic construction of its wings and tail. Across the rigid main bars of each wing were fastened numerous ribs with bamboo terminals, thus making the rear margin and tip of the wing flexible. Similarly the tail, or horizontal rudder, was framed of bamboo. Hence the pilot, by use of control wires, could flex both the wing margins and the tail up and down at will, to steer the machine, or he could let go the controls and allow the distorted surfaces to spring into their normal positions, and the machine to pursue the even tenor of its way. Moreover, the gusts and whirls in the air, on striking the elastic rear margins of the tail and wings, exert a propulsive effort. Thus could be utilized the wind’s energy of turbulence, as indicated by the present writer in 1893, in a paper on “Windgusts and Their Relation to Flight,” published in the Proceedings of the International Conference on Aërial Navigation of that year. In passing it may be remarked that many other aëroplane designers, notably Bréguet, have emulated Mr. Etrich, though unconsciously perhaps, in providing elastic ribs, hinges or pivots to permit the rear parts of the wings and tails of their machines to yield freely to intentional or unusual impulses, and then spring back to their normal positions.
Fig. 43.—The Etrich Monoplane of 1910.
The carefully elaborated monoplane of Robert Esnault-Pélterie, which had been steadily improving for eight years, had now attained great perfection of finish, and merited prominence in actual flight. As shown in [Plate XXIX], it had a general resemblance to the Antoinette, though differing throughout in its manifold details. The stream-line body was of steel tubing, braced with wire, and tightly covered with smooth fabric to reduce resistance. A five-cylinder R. E. P. motor in front connected directly with the two-blade propeller. The pilot sat between the wings with the passenger before him at the center of gravity, both having control levers when desired for instruction. The wings could be warped and the rudders, at the end of ample empennage planes, occupied the extreme rear as shown. An elastically cushioned skid between the two freely turning wheels served to absorb the shock of hard landing, though usually not touching the ground. The R. E. P. monoplane of 1910 was a very graceful, swift and strong machine, of marked efficiency.
As always happens in the many-minded development of a complex invention, the general exhibition and use of the aëroplane led toward uniformity of design. This became particularly noticeable during the world-wide demonstrations of 1909 and 1910. Whatever predilection the inventor might have for his own devices, he would rather cast them aside than lose at the tournament and in the market. Without a monopoly of the flying art, he could ill afford to retain too affectionately his own second-rate device in competition with a rival having a more effective one. Accordingly there was a judicious and general adoption of those devices which had proved best in practice, from whatever lowly intellect they had emanated. Thus there was a marked tendency to the general use of starting wheels, landing skids, large warping surfaces, and, in racing machines, to the stream line concentration of the load, and the severe elimination of resistance.
A few examples will illustrate this tendency to choose the most practical devices from the world’s general stock. The Wright brothers, who, following Maxim, had been ardent votaries of the forward horizontal rudder, discarded this in 1910 for the elastic rear horizontal rudder introduced by Etrich. At the same time they abandoned the antiquated catapult introduced by Langley, and adopted the combination of wheels and skids introduced by Farman. In their racing machine they no longer placed the aviator beside his engine, presenting a broad front to the wind, but, like Curtiss and foreign designers, they placed the driver and power plant in line, to diminish the atmospheric resistance. These manifold and timely improvements indicate clearly the advantages to mankind of an “open door” in a crescent art.
But if the Wrights adopted the most successful devices of their neighbors, these in turn were not slow to reciprocate that policy. There was ample recognition of the merit of the combination of warping sustainers and double rudder proposed by scientific men before the advent of power aëroplanes, and so admirably employed by the Wrights and Prof. Montgomery in their early coasting flights. The warping wing was quite generally used on monoplanes in 1910; not to mention the ailerons, which frequently were an adaptation of the same principle.
As further illustrations, it may be noted that Voisin brothers adopted the Farman ailerons and abandoned the cellular type of sustaining surface introduced by Hargrave, finding the vertical surfaces strongly frictional and unnecessary for lateral equilibrium, in presence of the ailerons. They also abandoned the forward horizontal rudder, seeing that it could very well be omitted. On the other hand, it must be observed that the Farmans, Sommer and Curtiss still retained the combined fore and aft rudder. Curtiss and Farman also tried their hands at monoplane construction, though without abandoning the biplane. The most famous monoplanists, however, held firmly to their first love. In this they were emulated by many new designers, Nieuport, Hanriot, Déperdussin, etc. These show a marked tendency to employ smoothly covered hulls shaped after the fish or torpedo.
To drive the little aëroplanes so far developed, especially the racers, there was a general preference for a single-screw propeller mounted directly on the engine shaft, though doubtless for machines weighing many tons a multiplicity of such propellers would be used. Theoretically the advantage of twin screws was conceded, but in practice they were employed by very few constructors. The Chauvière wooden propeller was the favorite in France, and was approved by the constructors of propellers elsewhere, at least in its general features. The Voisin firm, indeed, still adhered to the metal propeller, and occasionally some experimentalist employed the more venerable French screw consisting of radial sticks covered with fabric. But the great records in the sporting world were achieved with solid wooden propellers.
A special chapter would be required to describe the various motors, even cursorily. Their relative values, however, may be summarized in the following brief words by Réné Gasnier, in the Aërophile for November, 1910:
“Last year we had but few light types; this year there is no dearth of them, and at their head stands that admirable motor Gnome, which has enabled aviators to accomplish all their fine performances. At first many persons had no confidence in the future of the rotatory motor. One must bow to the facts; on considering the nature of this motor it is seen to be of an admirable simplicity. It is evidently the typical aviation motor, and an approach toward the veritable rotatory motor which later will be the turbine. Numerous motors of four to eight cylinders are very well spoken of, but none attain the lightness of the Gnome. Among the air-cooled motors the Esnault-Pélterie is remarkable for the series of trials it has endured, and among water-cooled motors we may cite the splendid performance of the Antoinette—2,100 kilometers in one week at the Bordeaux meeting. This would be quite a good run even in an automobile. It is noticeable that the aëroplane motor tends distinctly to differentiate itself from its senior, the automobile motor, and assume a type absolutely adapted to its special work. In addition to the greatest possible lightness, a demand now arises for a slight consumption of fuel, and a range of speed which is indispensable for landing. It is dangerous to descend rapidly with the motor at full speed; on the other hand, in cutting off the ignition to glide down, one risks not being able to restart the motor, if need be, while if the motor relax sufficiently the descent takes place in perfect security. It suffices to speed up at the right moment.”
The practical utility of aviation began now to be questioned. The aëroplane had passed the primary epoch of experimental development and was becoming a standard article of manufacture representing a considerable industry. But what was it all worth? Aviators had flown faster than the eagle, higher than the clouds, farther than the common distance from metropolis to metropolis. Schools were licensing new pilots from day to day. But what career had these before them, and what essential function in the affairs of humanity could they perform? Some, indeed, might fit themselves for aërial service in warfare, some for the pleasant profession of amusing and entertaining mankind; but in the serious business of life, what important rôle could the air men hope to play? This was the pertinent inquiry, and it was largely a question of the reliability and economy of the aëroplane. Improvement in these two elements might therefore receive attentive consideration in the immediate future.
The reliability of the aëroplane depends partly on its environment, partly on its plan and structure, partly on the skill of its pilot. The pilot’s skill had been admirably developed in the tournaments and public exhibitions. The aërodynamic design conducive to stability and steadiness, the structural design conducive to maximum strength and resiliency, uniformly proportioned to the stress and work of each part of the complex machine; and above all the design of the motor, to ensure it against a thousand foibles—all these could be improved by the patient methods of theoretical and experimental science. The environment could, of course, be chosen. At first only the most favorable regions need be attempted for regular transportation, regions of level plain and farm land, or of lake and river surrounded by country not too rough and precipitous.
The general cost of the aëroplane to mankind depends on its plan and structure, on the methods of manufacture, on the material running expense; but its particular cost to the passenger is determined largely by the cupidity or business acumen of those who furnish the machine and those who operate it. Naturally when the world first awoke in the morning of practical sporting aviation, with a sudden and strong relish for flying, the prices would be fabulous, not to say ridiculous. During that hour no commercial transportation could be contemplated. But without monopoly the prices must quickly abate; for neither the manufacture nor manipulation of the aëroplane demand rare ability or training. The cost of manufacture would promptly be diminished by means of specialized tools and operatives, immediately upon the assurance of large and continuous orders. The cost of pilotage would become insignificant when a single chauffeur could take a dozen passengers on one aëroplane.
So much for the human and external elements in the cost of aviation. The inherent and material cost of the aëroplane could also be reduced, though perhaps less readily. It was unlikely that the machine would be built of much cheaper materials, or made much lighter per pound of cargo. Nor were such improvements of so much importance since they would affect only the first cost of the flyer. But an increase of aërodynamic efficiency in the propeller and aëroplane proper, together with increased thermodynamic efficiency in the motor, would materially lower the current cost of transportation at any given speed. These improvements would require careful research in the laboratory and patient trial in the workshop and field. The refinement and perfection of the aëroplane might therefore be looked for in those communities where men have sufficient foresight, enterprise and liberality to endow research, and to encourage the science and the art of aviation to supplement each other.