Chapter 24

The analogous conflict between the scientific use of language and the use made by some philosophers is found in connection with the idea of causation. Fundamentally the word cause is used in scientific language in the same sense as in the language of common life. When we discuss with our neighbors the cause of a fit of illness, of a fire, or of cold weather, not the slightest ambiguity attaches to the use of the word, because whatever meaning may be given to it is founded only on an accurate analysis of the ideas involved in it from daily use. No philosopher objects to the common meaning of the word, yet we frequently find men of eminence in the intellectual world who will not tolerate the scientific man in using the word in this way. In every explanation which he can give to its use they detect ambiguity. They insist that in any proper use of the term the idea of power must be connoted. But what meaning is here attached to the word power, and how shall we first reduce it to a sensible form, and then apply its meaning to the operations of nature? Whether this can be done, I do not inquire. All I maintain is that if we wish to do it, we must pass without the domain of scientific statement.

Perhaps the greatest advantage in the use of symbolic and other mathematical language in scientific investigation is that it cannot possibly be made to connote anything except what the speaker means. It adheres to the subject matter of discourse with a tenacity which no criticism can overcome. In consequence, whenever a science is reduced to a mathematical form its conclusions are no longer the subject of philosophical attack. To secure the same desirable quality in all other scientific language it is necessary to give it, so far as possible, the same simplicity of signification which attaches to mathematical symbols. This is not easy, because we are obliged to use words of ordinary language, and it is impossible to divest them of whatever they may connote to ordinary hearers.

I have thus sought to make it clear that the language of science corresponds to that of ordinary life, and especially of business life, in confining its meaning to phenomena. An analogous statement may be made of the method and objects of scientific investigation. I think Professor Clifford was very happy in defining science as organized common-sense. The foundation of its widest general creations is laid, not in any artificial theories, but in the natural beliefs and tendencies of the human mind. Its position against those who deny these generalizations is quite analogous to that taken by the Scottish school of philosophy against the scepticism of Hume.

It may be asked, if the methods and language of science correspond to those of practical life, why is not the every-day discipline of that life as good as the discipline of science? The answer is, that the power of transferring the modes of thought of common life to subjects of a higher order of generality is a rare faculty which can be acquired only by scientific discipline. What we want is that in public affairs men shall reason about questions of finance, trade, national wealth, legislation, and administration, with the same consciousness of the practical side that they reason about their own interests. When this habit is once acquired and appreciated, the scientific method will naturally be applied to the study of questions of social policy. When a scientific interest is taken in such questions, their boundaries will be extended beyond the utilities immediately involved, and one important condition of unceasing progress will be complied with.

XXI

THE OUTLOOK FOR THE FLYING-MACHINE

Mr. Secretary Langley's trial of his flying-machine, which seems to have come to an abortive issue for the time, strikes a sympathetic chord in the constitution of our race. Are we not the lords of creation? Have we not girdled the earth with wires through which we speak to our antipodes? Do we not journey from continent to continent over oceans that no animal can cross, and with a speed of which our ancestors would never have dreamed? Is not all the rest of the animal creation so far inferior to us in every point that the best thing it can do is to become completely subservient to our needs, dying, if need be, that its flesh may become a toothsome dish on our tables? And yet here is an insignificant little bird, from whose mind, if mind it has, all conceptions of natural law are excluded, applying the rules of aerodynamics in an application of mechanical force to an end we have never been able to reach, and this with entire ease and absence of consciousness that it is doing an extraordinary thing. Surely our knowledge of natural laws, and that inventive genius which has enabled us to subordinate all nature to our needs, ought also to enable us to do anything that the bird can do. Therefore we must fly. If we cannot yet do it, it is only because we have not got to the bottom of the subject. Our successors of the not distant future will surely succeed.

This is at first sight a very natural and plausible view of the case. And yet there are a number of circumstances of which we should take account before attempting a confident forecast. Our hope for the future is based on what we have done in the past. But when we draw conclusions from past successes we should not lose sight of the conditions on which success has depended. There is no advantage which has not its attendant drawbacks; no strength which has not its concomitant weakness. Wealth has its trials and health its dangers. We must expect our great superiority to the bird to be associated with conditions which would give it an advantage at some point. A little study will make these conditions clear.

We may look on the bird as a sort of flying-machine complete in itself, of which a brain and nervous system are fundamentally necessary parts. No such machine can navigate the air unless guided by something having life. Apart from this, it could be of little use to us unless it carried human beings on its wings. We thus meet with a difficulty at the first step--we cannot give a brain and nervous system to our machine. These necessary adjuncts must be supplied by a man, who is no part of the machine, but something carried by it. The bird is a complete machine in itself. Our aerial ship must be machine plus man. Now, a man is, I believe, heavier than any bird that flies. The limit which the rarity of the air places upon its power of supporting wings, taken in connection with the combined weight of a man and a machine, make a drawback which we should not too hastily assume our ability to overcome. The example of the bird does not prove that man can fly. The hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight which the manager of the machine must add to it over and above that necessary in the bird may well prove an insurmountable obstacle to success.

I need hardly remark that the advantage possessed by the bird has its attendant drawbacks when we consider other movements than flying. Its wings are simply one pair of its legs, and the human race could not afford to abandon its arms for the most effective wings that nature or art could supply.

Another point to be considered is that the bird operates by the application of a kind of force which is peculiar to the animal creation, and no approach to which has ever been made in any mechanism. This force is that which gives rise to muscular action, of which the necessary condition is the direct action of a nervous system. We cannot have muscles or nerves for our flying-machine. We have to replace them by such crude and clumsy adjuncts as steam-engines and electric batteries. It may certainly seem singular if man is never to discover any combination of substances which, under the influence of some such agency as an electric current, shall expand and contract like a muscle. But, if he is ever to do so, the time is still in the future. We do not see the dawn of the age in which such a result will be brought forth.

Another consideration of a general character may be introduced. As a rule it is the unexpected that happens in invention as well as discovery. There are many problems which have fascinated mankind ever since civilization began which we have made little or no advance in solving. The only satisfaction we can feel in our treatment of the great geometrical problems of antiquity is that we have shown their solution to be impossible. The mathematician of to-day admits that he can neither square the circle, duplicate the cube or trisect the angle. May not our mechanicians, in like manner, be ultimately forced to admit that aerial flight is one of that great class of problems with which man can never cope, and give up all attempts to grapple with it?

The fact is that invention and discovery have, notwithstanding their seemingly wide extent, gone on in rather narrower lines than is commonly supposed. If, a hundred years ago, the most sagacious of mortals had been told that before the nineteenth century closed the face of the earth would be changed, time and space almost annihilated, and communication between continents made more rapid and easy than it was between cities in his time; and if he had been asked to exercise his wildest imagination in depicting what might come--the airship and the flying-machine would probably have had a prominent place in his scheme, but neither the steamship, the railway, the telegraph, nor the telephone would have been there. Probably not a single new agency which he could have imagined would have been one that has come to pass.

It is quite clear to me that success must await progress of a different kind from that which the inventors of flying-machines are aiming at. We want a great discovery, not a great invention. It is an unfortunate fact that we do not always appreciate the distinction between progress in scientific discovery and ingenious application of discovery to the wants of civilization. The name of Marconi is familiar to every ear; the names of Maxwell and Herz, who made the discoveries which rendered wireless telegraphy possible, are rarely recalled. Modern progress is the result of two factors: Discoveries of the laws of nature and of actions or possibilities in nature, and the application of such discoveries to practical purposes. The first is the work of the scientific investigator, the second that of the inventor.

In view of the scientific discoveries of the past ten years, which, after bringing about results that would have seemed chimerical if predicted, leading on to the extraction of a substance which seems to set the laws and limits of nature at defiance by radiating a flood of heat, even when cooled to the lowest point that science can reach--a substance, a few specks of which contain power enough to start a railway train, and embody perpetual motion itself, almost--he would be a bold prophet who would set any limit to possible discoveries in the realm of nature. We are binding the universe together by agencies which pass from sun to planet and from star to star. We are determined to find out all we can about the mysterious ethereal medium supposed to fill all space, and which conveys light and heat from one heavenly body to another, but which yet evades all direct investigation. We are peering into the law of gravitation itself with the full hope of discovering something in its origin which may enable us to evade its action. From time to time philosophers fancy the road open to success, yet nothing that can be practically called success has yet been reached or even approached. When it is reached, when we are able to state exactly why matter gravitates, then will arise the question how this hitherto unchangeable force may be controlled and regulated. With this question answered the problem of the interaction between ether and matter may be solved. That interaction goes on between ethers and molecules is shown by the radiation of heat by all bodies. When the molecules are combined into a mass, this interaction ceases, so that the lightest objects fly through the ether without resistance. Why is this? Why does ether act on the molecule and not the mass? When we can produce the latter, and when the mutual action can be controlled, then may gravitation be overcome and then may men build, not merely airships, but ships which shall fly above the air, and transport their passengers from continent to continent with the speed of the celestial motions.

The first question suggested to the reader by these considerations is whether any such result is possible; whether it is within the power of man to discover the nature of luminiferous ether and the cause of gravitation. To this the profoundest philosopher can only answer, "I do not know." Quite possibly the gates at which he is beating are, in the very nature of things, incapable of being opened. It may be that the mind of man is incapable of grasping the secrets within them. The question has even occurred to me whether, if a being of such supernatural power as to understand the operations going on in a molecule of matter or in a current of electricity as we understand the operations of a steam-engine should essay to explain them to us, he would meet with any more success than we should in explaining to a fish the engines of a ship which so rudely invades its domain. As was remarked by William K. Clifford, perhaps the clearest spirit that has ever studied such problems, it is possible that the laws of geometry for spaces infinitely small may be so different from those of larger spaces that we must necessarily be unable to conceive them.

Still, considering mere possibilities, it is not impossible that the twentieth century may be destined to make known natural forces which will enable us to fly from continent to continent with a speed far exceeding that of the bird.

But when we inquire whether aerial flight is possible in the present state of our knowledge, whether, with such materials as we possess, a combination of steel, cloth, and wire can be made which, moved by the power of electricity or steam, shall form a successful flying-machine, the outlook may be altogether different. To judge it sanely, let us bear in mind the difficulties which are encountered in any flying-machine. The basic principle on which any such machine must be constructed is that of the aeroplane. This, by itself, would be the simplest of all flyers, and therefore the best if it could be put into operation. The principle involved may be readily comprehended by the accompanying figure. A M is the section of a flat plane surface, say a thin sheet of metal or a cloth supported by wires. It moves through the air, the latter being represented by the horizontal rows of dots. The direction of the motion is that of the horizontal line A P. The aeroplane has a slight inclination measured by the proportion between the perpendicular M P and the length A P. We may raise the edge M up or lower it at pleasure. Now the interesting point, and that on which the hopes of inventors are based, is that if we give the plane any given inclination, even one so small that the perpendicular M P is only two or three per cent of the length A M, we can also calculate a certain speed of motion through the air which, if given to the plane, will enable it to bear any required weight. A plane ten feet square, for example, would not need any great inclination, nor would it require a speed higher than a few hundred feet a second to bear a man. What is of yet more importance, the higher the speed the less the inclination required, and, if we leave out of consideration the friction of the air and the resistance arising from any object which the machine may carry, the less the horse-power expended in driving the plane.

Maxim exemplified this by experiment several years ago. He found that, with a small inclination, he could readily give his aeroplane, when it slid forward upon ways, such a speed that it would rise from the ways of itself. The whole problem of the successful flying-machine is, therefore, that of arranging an aeroplane that shall move through the air with the requisite speed.

The practical difficulties in the way of realizing the movement of such an object are obvious. The aeroplane must have its propellers. These must be driven by an engine with a source of power. Weight is an essential quality of every engine. The propellers must be made of metal, which has its weakness, and which is liable to give way when its speed attains a certain limit. And, granting complete success, imagine the proud possessor of the aeroplane darting through the air at a speed of several hundred feet per second! It is the speed alone that sustains him. How is he ever going to stop? Once he slackens his speed, down he begins to fall. He may, indeed, increase the inclination of his aeroplane. Then he increases the resistance to the sustaining force. Once he stops he falls a dead mass. How shall he reach the ground without destroying his delicate machinery? I do not think the most imaginative inventor has yet even put upon paper a demonstratively successful way of meeting this difficulty. The only ray of hope is afforded by the bird. The latter does succeed in stopping and reaching the ground safely after its flight. But we have already mentioned the great advantages which the bird possesses in the power of applying force to its wings, which, in its case, form the aeroplanes. But we have already seen that there is no mechanical combination, and no way of applying force, which will give to the aeroplanes the flexibility and rapidity of movement belonging to the wings of a bird. With all the improvements that the genius of man has made in the steamship, the greatest and best ever constructed is liable now and then to meet with accident. When this happens she simply floats on the water until the damage is repaired, or help reaches her. Unless we are to suppose for the flying-machine, in addition to everything else, an immunity from accident which no human experience leads us to believe possible, it would be liable to derangements of machinery, any one of which would be necessarily fatal. If an engine were necessary not only to propel a ship, but also to make her float--if, on the occasion of any accident she immediately went to the bottom with all on board--there would not, at the present day, be any such thing as steam navigation. That this difficulty is insurmountable would seem to be a very fair deduction, not only from the failure of all attempts to surmount it, but from the fact that Maxim has never, so far as we are aware, followed up his seemingly successful experiment.

There is, indeed, a way of attacking it which may, at first sight, seem plausible. In order that the aeroplane may have its full sustaining power, there is no need that its motion be continuously forward. A nearly horizontal surface, swinging around in a circle, on a vertical axis, like the wings of a windmill moving horizontally, will fulfil all the conditions. In fact, we have a machine on this simple principle in the familiar toy which, set rapidly whirling, rises in the air. Why more attempts have not been made to apply this system, with two sets of sails whirling in opposite directions, I do not know. Were there any possibility of making a flying-machine, it would seem that we should look in this direction.

The difficulties which I have pointed out are only preliminary ones, patent on the surface. A more fundamental one still, which the writer feels may prove insurmountable, is based on a law of nature which we are bound to accept. It is that when we increase the size of any flying-machine without changing its model we increase the weight in proportion to the cube of the linear dimensions, while the effective supporting power of the air increases only as the square of those dimensions. To illustrate the principle let us make two flying-machines exactly alike, only make one on double the scale of the other in all its dimensions. We all know that the volume and therefore the weight of two similar bodies are proportional to the cubes of their dimensions. The cube of two is eight. Hence the large machine will have eight times the weight of the other. But surfaces are as the squares of the dimensions. The square of two is four. The heavier machine will therefore expose only four times the wing surface to the air, and so will have a distinct disadvantage in the ratio of efficiency to weight.

Mechanical principles show that the steam pressures which the engines would bear would be the same, and that the larger engine, though it would have more than four times the horse-power of the other, would have less than eight times. The larger of the two machines would therefore be at a disadvantage, which could be overcome only by reducing the thickness of its parts, especially of its wings, to that of the other machine. Then we should lose in strength. It follows that the smaller the machine the greater its advantage, and the smallest possible flying-machine will be the first one to be successful.

We see the principle of the cube exemplified in the animal kingdom. The agile flea, the nimble ant, the swift-footed greyhound, and the unwieldy elephant form a series of which the next term would be an animal tottering under its own weight, if able to stand or move at all. The kingdom of flying animals shows a similar gradation. The most numerous fliers are little insects, and the rising series stops with the condor, which, though having much less weight than a man, is said to fly with difficulty when gorged with food.

Now, suppose that an inventor succeeds, as well he may, in making a machine which would go into a watch-case, yet complete in all its parts, able to fly around the room. It may carry a button, but nothing heavier. Elated by his success, he makes one on the same model twice as large in every dimension. The parts of the first, which are one inch in length, he increases to two inches. Every part is twice as long, twice as broad, and twice as thick. The result is that his machine is eight times as heavy as before. But the sustaining surface is only four times as great. As compared with the smaller machine, its ratio of effectiveness is reduced to one-half. It may carry two or three buttons, but will not carry over four, because the total weight, machine plus buttons, can only be quadrupled, and if he more than quadruples the weight of the machine, he must less than quadruple that of the load. How many such enlargements must he make before his machine will cease to sustain itself, before it will fall as an inert mass when we seek to make it fly through the air? Is there any size at which it will be able to support a human being? We may well hesitate before we answer this question in the affirmative.