Of silver wings he took a shining pair,
Fringed with gold, unwearied, nimble, swift;
With these he parts the winds, the clouds, the air,
And over seas and earth himself doth lift.
Thus clad he cuts the spheres and circles fair,
And the pure skies with sacred feathers clift;
On Lebanon at first his feet he set
And shook his wings with rosy may-dews wet.
Tasso, Canto I, XIV.
How beautiful! May we hope ever to journey thus, on wings actuated by human power? It is an old question, once dear to the philosopher and fool alike, but now important mainly to the fool. Or say more kindly it is the affair of untechnical inventors—the amateur, the rustic, the man of chimerical dreams. For the wise aëronaut now numbers that project among the roseate illusions of his youth.[1]