One might prefer a single bird, which could be ridden bareback by a man or woman of common equestrian skill. The early philosophers, therefore, sought with some care for such a creature. The following is related by Bishop Wilkins:
“Cardan and Scaliger doe unanimously affirm, that there is a bird amongst the Indians of so great a bignesse, that his beak is often used to make a sheath or scabbard for a sword. And Acosta tells us of a fowl in Peru called Condores, which will of themselves kill and eat up a whole calf at a time. Nor is there any reason why any other body may not be supported and carried in the air, though it should as much exceed the quantity of these fowls as they do the quantity of a flie. Marcus Polus mentions a fowl in Madagascar which he cals a Ruck, the feathers of whose wings are 12 paces, or threescore foot long, which can with as much ease scoop up an elephant as our kites do a mouse. If this relation was anything credible, it might serve as an abundant proof for the present quaere.”
As the roc has proved a myth, one questions whether a saddle bird may not be evolved by judicious breeding. But opposed to this is the square-cube law of the Greek geometer, by which a learned geologist demonstrated that nature has reached the limit of her resources in the production of large flyers, the ostrich, for example, being too bulky to navigate at all. As a last resource, then, the human dwarf may breed his weight downward to accommodate the bird. Assuredly, the most powerful flyer can carry the lightest human dwarf without difficulty.
Such aërial cavalry has been projected occasionally, and if fairly developed might have interesting employment. Its military value, to say nothing of its civil uses, would be considerable. An aërial scout that could hide in a tree top, or small cloud, then flit home with full intelligence of the enemy, would be effective and unique. In aggressive warfare it would serve the plan of that ingenious Englishman who proposes to repel a German invasion by dispatching birds to peck holes in the enemy’s war balloons. But here the dwarf might be omitted, if the birds were taught to have a definite interest in attacking aërial cruisers with their beaks, or with steel-armed spurs like those of the Spanish fighting cock, or with talons treated chemically to strike fire. Sparrows with sulphur-pointed toes could easily annihilate an aërial squadron at all combustible.
Recurring to the geologist, it may be added that, having discovered the major limit of feathered navigators, he concluded, as a corollary, that human flight is forever impossible. That was in the latter eighties. In 1901 a versatile astronomer adduced the same law to prove that an aëroplane could not be made to carry a man. Presently, learning that this had been achieved, he proved, in a second mellifluous paper, that an aëroplane could not carry, several men.[4] Having erred twice, he wrote a final article announcing that a flyer is fatuous, anyhow, because she cannot repair her engines in the sky!
Fig. 2.—A Possible Air-scout.
Of the numerous daring and industrious inventors who, during remote generations, have launched themselves in the air on some species of rigid or vibrant wings, a few were men of considerable equipment in philosophy, or mechanics, and enjoyed a sufficient measure of success to deserve passing notice; though it seems that no man before the middle of the eighteenth century made a permanent contribution to the real art of mechanical flight, if we except the ingenious suggestive devices of Leonardo da Vinci. However skilfully their flying apparatus may have been planned, or operated, the results were lost to the world, due to inaccurate or inadequate description. Such inventors were J. B. Dante, in the fifteenth century, and the Marquis de Bacqueville, in the seventeenth. Each of these made one, or more, considerable flights, if we may credit the unwavering testimony of their contemporaries; but neither has left a sketch of his device, nor a school of followers to continue his spectacular practice.
Jean-Baptiste Dante, a shrewd observer and profound mathematician, who flourished toward the end of the fifteenth century, a contemporary of Da Vinci and Columbus, is reported by the historians of that day to have sailed successfully through the air on nonvibrant wings designed by himself after a careful study of the great soaring birds. Perching above a steep crag on the shore of Lake Trasimene, he set his wings to the wind at a nice angle, as one sets the sails of a vessel; then, lifted by the swelling breeze, he rose grandly aloft and floated far over the waters. Again and again he repeated the experiment, until the fame thereof secured for him a request to make the demonstration at the marriage fêtes of the illustrious general, Barthelmi Alviano. He accepted the invitation, and, starting from the top of the highest tower in the city of Perugia, he sailed over the public square, and balanced himself for a long time in space, amid the shouts and acclamations of the multitude, attracted to Perugia by the novelty of his performance. But, sad to relate, the very first time he performed these wonderful maneuvers above the solid ground instead of the lake, one of the levers used to alter the impact angle of his wings gave way, disturbing his aërial poise, and causing him to pitch down upon Notre Dame church, breaking one of his legs. After this he taught mathematics at Venice, where he died of fever at the age of forty years.
In 1742, the Marquis de Bacqueville, at the age of sixty-two years, announced that on a certain day he would fly from his house on the Seine, traverse the river, and land in the Garden of the Tuileries. A great multitude assembled, crowding both shores and the two bridges. At the appointed moment the Marquis appeared with his pinions, and launched himself from the terrace. He sailed forth in majestic and serene poise, on graceful wings not unlike those of the traditional angels. He was gliding directly toward the Tuileries, and he enjoyed a happy cruise quite to the middle of the river. Then something happened; his movements became fitful and uncertain; he plunged downward and broke his leg on a laundry boat. The reason for his stopping there can only be surmised, for he had nothing to report. He did not quite fulfil his program, but he flew nine hundred feet delightfully, and he landed without getting wet.