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I. | COSMIC VOYAGES |
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Dictionary of the History of Ideas | ||
COSMIC VOYAGES
I
The desire for the wings of a dove seems to have
been
perennial among human beings. At the dawn of re-
corded Chinese history we are told of Emperor Shun
who
was said to have made a successful flight and a
descent in a parachute. In
the Bible we hear of Elijah
carried to heaven by good angels in a fiery
chariot and
of Christ's being transported by the devil to the top
of a
mountain and to the pinnacle of a temple. Solomon
is said to have given the
Queen of Sheba a vessel by
means of which she could traverse the air. Greek
leg-
end told of flying gods like Hermes and
flying mortals
like Daedalus and Icarus. In Platonic myths we hear
of
the rise and fall of human souls through the heavenly
spheres and of the
winged chariots in the Phaedrus.
In the myth of Er we are sometimes on the earth,
sometimes above
it, looking down. Both classical and
later literatures use the device of
dream or ecstasy in
which the soul leaves the body to travel through
space.
Cicero's Somnium Scipionis set the
pattern for much
later dream literature: Scipio in his dream gains a
conception of the universe and of the comparative
insignificance of earth.
Plutarch's De facie in orbe
lunare is a
cosmic voyage in its implications, concerned
with the moon's size, shape,
distance, light, and nature.
In medieval literature such themes were picked
up and
others added as man in trance sought other worlds and
Dante
descended into Hell, then made his journey to
Paradise.
In England the prehistory of aviation begins with
a monarch, as in China,
this one better known to us
for his son than for himself. Bladud, legendary
tenth
king of Britain, was said to have made a flight on
feathered
wings, which resulted in his death and the
accession of his son, King Lear.
Into his death was read
a lesson on overweening ambition expressed by
one
of many poets who wrote of him:
He brake his necke, because he soar'd too high.
Leonardo da Vinci, discovered the principle of the
glider and invented a parachute, in addition to his
many important studies of birds' wings and the princi-
ples underlying their flight. But it remained for the
seventeenth century to make basic discoveries that
presaged modern aviation and to develop the cosmic
voyage into the important type of literature it re-
mained for many years.
There were two main causes for the emergence of
the cosmic voyage as a form
of art, one literary, one
scientific. The first English translation of Lucian's
moon-voyages in 1634 was in part responsible for the
popularity
of the theme. In the True History men
reached the
moon not by design but by chance. Ad-
venturing into unknown territory beyond the Pillars
of Hercules,
mariners found their ship caught up by
a whirlwind. After eight days they
reached the moon.
Lucian's description of the moon-world, and his
voyage
among the stars to “cloud-cuckoo land” were
the
merest fantasy with no attempt at even semi-scientific
verisimilitude. The voyage of Lucian's other moon-
voyager, Icaromenippus, has more similarities with the
cosmic
voyage as it developed. Menippus reached the
moon by design, not chance. He
fastened to his body
two wings, one of a vulture, the other of an eagle,
and
after a period of practice took off from the summit
of Olympus.
His first stop was at the moon, from which
he looked back upon an earth,
which—according to
the Ptolemaic astronomy—remained
stationary below
him. But not content merely with a moon-voyage, he
went on through the stars to heaven, which he reached
in a few days. He was
returned to earth by Hermes,
and his wings stripped away to prevent further
audac-
ity. But, while the Lucianic voyages
helped establish
the literary pattern, the great stimulation of the
cosmic
voyage to imagination was a major scientific discovery.
In March, 1610, appeared the Sidereus Nuncius
(“the
starry messenger,” or message) of Galileo
Galilei, Pro-
fessor of Mathematics at the
University of Padua. In
this little pamphlet, Galileo set down excitedly
the
chief discoveries he had made by his fifth telescope,
the first
one developed to a power sufficient for celes-
tial observation. For centuries it had been taken for
granted by
Greek, Roman, and medieval men that all
the stars were known and numbered
and that they were
arranged in the familiar constellations, by a
knowledge
of which men were able to travel by land or sea.
Through his
“optick tube”—it was not called
“tele-
scope” for
some time—Galileo had observed “stars
innumerable,” and had solved the mystery of the Milky
Way, which
proved to be the radiance of myriads of
stars never seen by the naked eye.
What seemed to
Galileo his major discovery was one that began with
an
incorrect surmise: he thought at first (1609) that
he had discovered four
new planets but not much later
(Jan. 7, 1610) he found them to be
satellites of Jupiter.
This discussion will be limited, however, to his
obser-
vations on the moon, which
proved very different from
the smooth lustrous body shining by its own
light which
man observes at night. “The Moon,”
Galileo reported,
“certainly does not possess a smooth and
polished
surface, but one rough and uneven, and just like the
face of
the Earth itself, is everywhere full of vast
protuberances, deep chasms,
and sinuosities.” This was
not entirely new, since Plutarch and
other classical
their theories were based at most on logic. Galileo had
seen the sinuosities of the moon with his own eyes
through his tube. So too he could prove, not merely
conjecture, that the moon has no light of its own but
shines by reflected light. Most of all, Galileo had dis-
covered moon-spots, as later he discovered sunspots.
To some extent, the spots implied change or decay from
perfection, which up to the time of Galileo had been
limited to the sublunary world. The “great or ancient
spots” on the moon man had always known, drawing
them into various patterns of “the man in the moon.”
But Galileo had discovered “other spots smaller in size,
but so thickly scattered that they sprinkle the whole
surface of the moon.” From his observation Galileo
concluded that the surface of the moon, like that of
earth, is varied by mountains and valleys, and, indeed,
for a time he thought that some spots might indicate
the presence of lunar seas and lakes. Galileo later
denied the existence of water on the moon, though
other astronomers continued for some years to pre-
suppose its existence, making it possible for writers of
moon-voyages to imagine moon-worlds with atmos-
phere in which their travellers could breathe as on
earth.
The new moon-maps that began to appear during
the seventeenth century were
engrossing to the imagi-
nation. For a time
England used one nomenclature,
the Continent another, both imaginative and
poetic.
They agreed in giving names to the lunar mountains.
There
might indeed be, as Fontenelle suggested in his
Plurality of Worlds (Entretiens sur
la pluralité des
mondes, 1686) “a
promontory of dreams, a sea of tears,
or a sea of nectar.”
Others suggested that there might
be a desert uninhabitable because of heat
or an ocean
unknown to sons of Adam. So human imagination
played with
the idea of a new world in the moon, as
one hardy mariner after another set
off on voyages of
discovery.
Among the themes that entered imagination in the
seventeenth century was the
possibility that man might
colonize the moon. The original suggestion was
Ger-
man, made by no less a person than
Johann Kepler,
according to John Wilkins' Discourse
concerning a New
World (1638). England, with true British
imperialism,
inevitably adopted the idea, as Wilkins shows. Indeed,
one of the reasons for the advance in aeronautics during
the seventeenth
century was the belief that, once the
principle of space-flight was
discovered, the first nation
to raise its flag on the moon—and
later on the planets—
would possess new colonies. As time went
on, the moon
was to be claimed by Spanish, Italian, and Dutch
romancers, as well as by German and British. In the
various travels that
make up Voyages to the Moon, this
author looked eagerly at illustrations to see what flag
floated
over the new territory. Let us turn now to some
of the various imaginary
journeys.
II
It seems ironic that one of the last voyages to employ
the supernatural as a
device for journeying to the moon
should have been the work of a great
scientist. Johann
Kepler's Somnium was published
posthumously in
1634, though it had been written much earlier. Kepler
had hesitated to publish it during his lifetime since it
contained veiled
references to his mother who had been
condemned as a witch and would have
been executed
had it not been for the heroic efforts of her son. As
the title indicates, the work was in the form of a dream.
The author says
that while he had been reading Bohe-
mian
legends, he fell into deep sleep, and dreamed that
he was reading a book on
magic. The story concerns
a young man named Duracotus, whose mother was
a
“wise woman,” who supported herself and her son
by
selling mariners little bags of herbs containing charms.
Upon one
occasion when her young son pried too
curiously into the bags, Fioxhilda, a
woman of un-
governable temper, gave the
boy to a sea-captain in
place of one of the bags. Duracotus—a
disguise for
Kepler himself—made a voyage to Denmark with
the
captain. He was set ashore to deliver letters to the
astronomer
Tycho Brahe, with whom Kepler actually
spent several years at the
observatory, Uraniborg,
learning the principles of astronomy. After five
years
Duracotus returned home to find that his mother had
long
repented her rashness. He discovered that she
knew as much astronomy as he
did, since she was in
league with the “daemons of
Levania,” spirits of the
moon, whom she could call and with whom
an occa-
sional mortal travelled to the moon.
From the daemon who appeared at his mother's
summons, Duracotus learned that
mortals who trav-
elled to the moon were given
a “dozing draught,” so
that they remembered few
details of the journey.
Although this still sounds like magic, it was not.
Kepler
was pondering the effect of gravity upon a human body
as it
left the “attractive power” of the earth, consider-
ing too the probable effects of
rarefied air upon human
physique. He considered
“weightlessness,” since once
the daemons had lifted
their passenger above the “at-
tractive power,” they needed no extra force but carried
the passenger without effort.
Fantasy and realism are mingled in the first part of
the Somnium, but when Duracotus reaches the moon,
fantasy falls away
and we find ourselves on the moon
Galileo had seen through his tube.
Seasons, length of
days and nights, climates are different from
anything
known on earth. The moon-world is divided into two
is 15 or 16 days long, and dreadful with uninterrupted
shadow.” No sun or moon shines there. All is intensely
cold. In Subvolva the situation is less drastic, thanks
to “Volva,” the moon, yet the cold is more extreme,
the heat more intense than anything experienced by
man in this world. The terrain is much like that of
earth, but the mountains tower to heights higher than
Everest, the declivities are more profound than any
terrestrial Grand Canyon.
In one detail Kepler departed from Galileo, since
he continued to posit
atmosphere on the moon, and
believed that certain forms of life were
possible. There
is nothing corresponding to human life in Subvolva,
but there are plants and animals. Some appear at dawn,
only to die at
night. Others seem to bask in the hot
sun, then disappear into the caverns
as evening comes.
The animals are of serpentine nature, like great
lizards
or antediluvian monsters. The Somnium is a
dream
with nightmare touches, the scale of everything on
exaggerated
size, the lunar terrain forbidding and the
prehistoric creatures monstrous.
The influence of the Somnium continued well down
through the nineteenth century. There are reminis-
cences of its moon-world in Jules Verne's From the
Earth to the Moon (1865), although Verne's
is a dead
world; if ever life existed there, it was in the remote
past, and is now extinct. The last specific reminiscences
to be found are
in H. G. Wells, The First Men in the
Moon (1900).
Wells's lunar landscape reflects Kepler's,
particularly in its mingling of
beauty and terror. Wells
posits the existence of vegetation growing to
incredible
heights in a single lunar day. When Bedford and Cavor
land,
they think the moon lifeless, but as they watch
at dawn, what had seemed to
be dry sticks and pebbles
prove to be seeds, showing lines of yellowish
green.
The arid land becomes a combination of desert and
jungle, with
plants and flowers growing in lush profu-
sion. When the lunar explorers are seized and thrown
into
subterranean caverns, Cavor's mind goes back to
his reading.
“Yes,” he said, “Kepler with his subvolvani
was right after all.”
The idea of a supernatural voyage continued for
some time, particularly
among Roman Catholic writers
such as Athanasius Kircher (1601-80) an
important
Jesuit traveller, Egyptologist, and scientist, whose Itin-
erarum
exstaticum is in the tradition. The hero The-
odidactus set off with an angel guide upon a cosmic
tour as part of his education, an idea which Voltaire
perhaps picked up in
his Micromégas. But the only
supernatural
voyage that can vie with Kepler's in liter-
ary
merit is Milton's in Paradise Lost, in which there
are Keplerian reminiscences. When a group of fallen
angels set out to chart
the new world into which they
have fallen (II. 570-628), they find “fierce
extremes,
extremes by change more fierce,” heat and cold, tow-
ering mountains and caverns vaster than any
known
on earth, “a frozen continent... beat with perpetual
storms... a gulf profound as that Serbonian bog.”
Here the
“parching air Burns frore, and cold performs
the effect of
fire”:
They passed, and many a region dolorous,
O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp,
Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and
shades of death...
Where all life dies, death lives, and Nature
breeds,
Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things.
In the meantime Satan, travelling in a different
direction, has met Sin and
Death, and arrives at the
gates of Hell (II. 629-1055; III. 540-742). When
Sin
opens the doors, even the intrepid Satan is momentarily
appalled,
but after his first amazement
He spreads for flight, and, in the surging smoke
Uplifted spurns the ground; thence many a league,
As in a cloudy chair ascending rides
Audacious.
“neither sea, nor good dry land,” requiring him to make
use of every part of his body for navigation:
dense, or rare,
With head, hands, wings, or feet pursues
his way,
And swims or sinks, or wades, or creeps,
or flies.
many mariners he did not pause at the moon. He takes
Through the pure marble air his oblique way
Amongst innumerable stars, that shone
Stars distant, but nigh-hand seemed other worlds.
him would have taken him for another of Galileo's
sunspots. The world of the sun Satan found “beyond
expression bright.” Within the light he saw “a glorious
angel stand,” the archangel Uriel. From him Satan
learns about the new world which God has created
for man, to take the place of the fallen angels. The
unsuspecting Uriel gives him directions, and Satan
completes his cosmic journey by landing in
Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
III
The idea of human flight by means of birds is proba-
bly as old as the supernatural voyage. Far earlier than
Britain's King Bladud, the tale is found in Babylonian
literature, in the
Zend Avesta (ca. 650 B.C.), tradi-
tionally ascribed to Zoroaster, and
in other Persian
literature. In Greek literature Zeus performed the
abduction of Ganymede by transforming himself into
an eagle. The winged
horse, Pegasus, who carried
Bellerophon when he aspired to heaven, is a
variant.
Some forms of the tale entered Europe through “Alex-
ander legends,” ascribing every
kind of feat to Alex-
ander the Great. There
is a passing memory of the
legend of Ganymede in Dante's Purgatorio and a more
extended one in Chaucer's House of Fame. During the
Renaissance these combined with
travellers' tales, par-
ticularly of Marco
Polo, of gigantic rocs capable of
scooping up a horse and rider or an
elephant. If these
birds could be trained, they might transport a man
to
the heavens. Even in modern times, after ascents of
the balloon in
1783-84, attempts were made to harness
to the lighter-than-air machine
eagles to direct the
steering.
The theme of the possibility of a flight to the moon
by harnessing birds was
picked up by Francis Godwin
in a romance published (posthumously) in 1638,
The
Man in the Moone: or A Discourse of a Voyage
thither
by Domingo Gonsales, which had a greater vogue than
Kepler's Somnium, since between 1638 and 1768, at
least twenty-five editions were published in four Euro-
pean languages. The first English edition seems to
have
been so small that the British Museum copy is unique.
Because of
the hero's name the tale was often thought
to be Spanish. Jules Verne and
Edgar Allan Poe, both
of whom borrowed from it, thought the romance
French. How early it was written we cannot tell:
Antony à Wood
thought it was in Godwin's student
days at Christ Church, 1578-84, but if
so it was materi-
ally revised after
Galileo's description of the moon in
1610. With the Somnium, which had appeared four
years earlier, The Man in the Moone established the
literary genre of the
moon-voyage in France and Eng-
land.
This romance of a castaway voyager foreshadowed
Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver's
Travels, both of which
drew from it. The hero, Domingo Gonsales, a
Spaniard
of noble parentage, had had many adventures before
we meet
him in the Isle of St. Hellens, where he had
been put ashore with a Negro
servant, Diego, a “man
Friday.” In the island they
remained for a year, en-
countering no
difficulty in nourishing themselves by
semi-tropical fruit, vegetables
grown in the rich soil,
fish, and birds. Among the last, the most
interesting
to Domingo were “gansas” or wild swans, which
Gonsales trained to come at his signal, then to carry
provisions from one end of the island to the other.
Secretly hoping it
would be possible to train them to
carry a man, Domingo made a harness for
six or seven
birds, by which they carried a lamb, “whose
happinesse
I much envied, that he should be the first living crea-
ture” to fly.
“Surprized with a great longing to cause
myselfe to be carried
in the like sort,” harnessing still
more gansas, and providing
himself with a little swing-
ing perch, he took
off from the top of a rock on one
side of a river, and flew to another rock
on the opposite
side, where his pride knew no bounds: “I hold it
farre
more honour to have been the first flying man, than
to bee
another Neptune that first adventured to sayle
upon the Sea.”
Three months later, when he was res-
cued,
Gonsales took with him his birds and his “En-
gine,” and when the ship was set upon by the British,
he was saved by flying his machine to land. From his
landing-place Domingo
set out upon an adventure he
had never expected. He had, of course, no way
of
knowing that this was the season for hibernation among
gansas, and
certainly could never have guessed that
they hibernate in the moon. He
thought his birds were
making off for the peak of Teneriffe, but higher
and
higher they went until Gonsales realized that they were
ascending
to the moon.
With Kepler, but even more clearly with Godwin,
there was established what
became a literary conven-
tion in
moon-voyages, the description of “weightless-
ness.” The gansas had been laboring
against Domingo's
weight, but “At length, O incredible thing,
they forbare
moving any thing at all! and yet remained unmoveable,
...
the Lines slacked; neither I, nor the Engine moved
at all, but abode still,
as having no manner of weight.”
Weariness, hunger, and thirst
proved all to have been
effects of gravity upon the human body. Domingo
was
not sure in which direction his gansas flew, “whether
it were upwards, downwards, or sidelong, all was one.”
Looking
down at the earth he had left, Domingo as-
sured
himself of the truth of the Copernican hypothesis,
that it turned upon its
axis: “I will not go so farre as
Copernicus that maketh the
Sunne the Center of the
Earth, and unmoveable.... Only this I say, allow
the
Earth his motion (which these eyes of mine can testifie
to be his
due) and these absurdities are quite taken
away.” Domingo's
voyage to the moon took “Eleven
or Twelve daies.” He
estimated it as 50,000 miles, a
distance only one-quarter of that computed
by the best
mathematicians of the day who used a figure much
closer to
our own. Godwin was probably following
Kepler but was not aware that Kepler
spoke in German
terms, not in miles as the British computed them.
Godwin paid some attention to the attractive power
of the moon but not as
much as to that of the earth
Domingo down on a high lunar hill. Godwin's moon-
world is by no means scientific as was Kepler's. It is
largely fantasy. He does posit the idea that lunar ob-
jects are on a vaster scale than terrestrial, “10, 20, I
thinke I may say 30 times more than ours.” There are
anticipations here of Swift's Brobdingnag, and indeed
of the land of the Houyhnhnms, since Domingo found
himself regarded by the lunarians just as Gulliver was
considered a Yahoo. But in spite of its charm and
occasional moments of scientific imagination, Godwin's
moon-world remains largely fantasy. Gonsales spent a
year on the moon, and then, his gansas beginning to
droop for lack of their annual terrestrial visitation, he
returned to earth, landing in China where he was to
continue his adventures.
The literary influence of Godwin's tale was great.
Wilkins and Fontenelle
introduced it to some readers.
Cyrano de Bergerac, Defoe, and Swift
borrowed from
it. Samuel Butler and William Congreve wrote passing
satire upon it. A minor poet, Samuel Wesley, produced
a variant upon it in
his “Pindaric Poem on Three
Skipps of a Louse.”
Thomas D'Urfey made it into a
comic opera in his Wonders
of the Sun, and there were
many reminiscences in Elkanah Settle's
The World in
the Moon and in Aphra Behn's Emperor of the Moon.
The tale continued to be read
and referred to well into
the nineteenth century by Jules Verne, Edgar
Allan
Poe, and others.
The influence of Kepler and Godwin merged with
that of another to establish
the conventions of the
moon-voyage as it remained for a hundred years.
In
the same year as Godwin's voyage appeared the first
edition of John
Wilkins' A Discourse Concerning A
New World (1638).
Wilkins was no mere romancer, but
a member of the Philosophical Society of
Oxford, and
one of the founders of the Royal Society. His Discourse
is one of the important works in
seventeenth-century
popular science, its science accurate, the general
style
so readable that its technicalities can be readily under-
stood by a layman. For his first edition
Wilkins had
used the Somnium; in the second he used
also Godwin's
romance that had appeared in the same year as his
own.
Kepler, Godwin, Wilkins—these were the three
pioneers in the
cosmic voyage.
In careful detail Wilkins discussed various problems
that Kepler and Godwin
had raised, paying particular
attention to the distance of the moon from
earth, which
he estimated at 179,712 miles; the nature and extent
of
gravity; the nature of air and intervening space; and
“weightlessness.” In many ways he advanced science,
though in some ways he retarded it for writers of
cosmic voyages, since
some eighteenth-century authors
were so impressed by the Discourse that they failed
to realize that Wilkins had written in a pre-Newtonian
era, and
that Newton in the Principia had sometimes
disproved
and sometimes advanced principles of as-
tronomy and physics which Wilkins had accepted
without question.
Most charming among the many engrossing passages
in the Discourse are those on diet and sleep. How is
the traveller to
rest and refresh himself on his long
journey? “I believe he
shall scarce find any lodging
by the way,” Wilkins wrote, slily
picking up a passage
from Ben Jonson's News from the New
World (1621):
“No inns to entertain passengers, nor any
castles in
the air (unless they be enchanted ones) to receive poor
pilgrims or errant knights.” As scientist Wilkins replied
to his
own questions by a passage in which he discussed
“weightlessness.” When the body is beyond the effect
of gravity, it will feel neither hunger nor weariness.
But his far-ranging
imagination played also with old
legends of the effect of the music of the
spheres, of
the ''aethereal air” that nourishes plants growing
with-
out soil, of men who are said to have
lived on the smell
of a rose, of papists like Ignatius who fasted indefi-
nitely. It was this Wilkins who
replied to Margaret
Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle—herself a
fancifier—
when she inquired of his cosmic voyagers:
“But where,
Sir, shall they be lodged, since you confess there
are
no inns on the way?” Dr. Wilkins is said to have
replied: “Surely, Madam, you who have written so
many romances
will not refuse my mariners rest and
refreshment—in one of your
castles in the air.”
Only one full-length moon-voyage by the use of birds
remains from the
eighteenth century, A Voyage to
Cacklogallinia
(1727), by a pseudonymous Captain
Samuel Brunt, who has never been
identified. It has
been attributed to both Defoe and Swift, neither of
which attributions is valid. It is an obvious imitation
of Gulliver's Travels, though it differs in one
important
way, since this is basically an economic satire, pro-
voked by the inflation and crash of the
South Sea
Bubble. As Gulliver found a land peopled by horses,
Brunt
found one inhabited by birds. It was also a land
peopled by
“projectors” who were proposing to the
government
every conceivable scheme for investment.
Project after project, tax after
tax were suggested, one
more fantastic than another. Brunt proposed one
that
caught both popular and governmental fancy: that an
expedition be
sent to the moon to extract gold from
the mountains in the moon and bring
it back to
Cacklogallinia. The journey to the moon was no prob-
lem to birds who were natural fliers. For
Brunt, who
was to head the convoy, they designed a palanquin,
powered
by lower-class birds. Upon the announcement
of the project, wild
speculation broke out in Cacklo-
gallinia. Men mortgaged their houses, women offered
On his journey, Brunt sent back bird-messengers daily
to His Majesty with reports of progress. Good reports
precipitated an orgy of speculation; the lack of a report
sent the market to a new low.
A certain amount of science enters the Voyage to
Cacklogallinia, though it looks back to Wilkins rather
than to
Newton. There is talk of the thinness of the
air on the top of a mountain
from which the caravan
set out and the use of “humected
sponges”—reminis-
cent of Kepler—which Brunt used for himself as the
palanquin took off through the orb of gravity. Brunt
pays some attention to
“weightlessness” which he ex-
periences once he passes the orb of gravity of the earth.
In
less than an hour the bird-leader comes to the
palanquin to inform Brunt
that he may now get out,
since for a quarter-hour the bird-pilots have not
felt
his weight. Dismounting, Brunt found himself in a new
world in
which weight did not exist, where he could
“with as much Ease
lift a Palanquin of Provisions...
as I could on our Globe raise a
Feather.”
The world on Brunt's moon is more like a comic
opera than like Kepler's
science, and will not be dis-
cussed here. The
lunarians proved idealists with no
material desires. They are an
Englishman's reply to
an England that had gone mad over gambling, for-
getting eternal values. The lunarians did
not want an
Englishman in the moon, and Captain Brunt returned
to
earth, carefully steering his way to arrive in Jamaica
rather than in
England, and sending back his pilot to
face in Cacklogallinia the bursting
of the South Sea
Bubble.
IV
The supernatural voyage and flight by harnessing
birds remained literary
conventions. During the seven-
teenth and
eighteenth centuries, men devoted their
efforts to the possibility of
inventing artificial wings
or a flying-machine for man. There is a
tale—accepted
by some historians, denied by
others—that in the six-
teenth
century Giovanni Battista Danti attempted to
fly over the lake of Trasimeno
by the use of artificial
wings, one of which failed him so that he fell on
a
roof and was seriously injured. The influence of Leo-
nardo's careful study of birds' wings and their
principle
of flight lay behind many of the early attempts at
artificial wings. Wings of potential fliers expanded until
those of early
ones came to seem absurd: e.g., Daedalus
and Icarus or King Bladud
attempting to soar on tiny
wings attached only to the shoulders. Wings
expanded
and imagination expanded with them. Wilkins in vari-
ous editions of his works pointed out the fallacy of
thinking of wings as attached only to the arms, by
means of which men could
fly no further than domestic
fowl. He advocated that, to the efforts of arms, be
added
“the labours of the feet,” so that a man might
swim
through the air as now through water. The An-
cients and the Moderns disputed learnedly about the
possibility of
human flight. Joseph Glanvill wrote in
his Vanity of
Dogmatizing (1661): “It may be some
Ages hence, a
voyage to the Southern unknown Tracts,
yea possibly to the Moon, will not
be more strange
than one to America. To them that come after us, it
may be as ordinary to buy a pair of wings to fly into
remotest Regions, as
now a pair of Boots to ride a
Journey.”
Whatever the facts about Danti's flight, there is no
question that in 1679 a
French smith named Besnier
achieved a flight across a river by means of
four folding
wings transversely fastened to both arms and legs.
Attested by the Journal des Sçavans, the
contrivance
was also described in the Philosophical
Transactions
of the Royal Society, before whose members
Robert
Hooke and Christopher Wren reported their own find-
ings in experiments about flying.
So engrossing had the theme of human flight become
that eighteenth-century
literature is full of it. Addison
and Steele had their fun with it in the
Guardian for
July 20, 1713: “The
philosophers of King Charles' reign
were busy in finding out the art of
flying.... The
humour so prevailed among the virtuosos of this reign,
that they were actually making parties to go up to
the moon
together.” In the same number was a pseu-
donymous letter from “Daedalus,”
who asserted that
he had made considerable progress in the art of
flying.
“I flutter about my room two or three hours in a
morning, and when my wings are on, can go above
an hundred yards at a hop,
step, and jump.” On the
next holiday he intends to sit astride
the dragon on
Bow steeple, from whence he will fly over Fleet Street
to the maypole in the Strand. He plans to take out
a patent for making
wings so that none can make them
but himself. He looks forward to a
glorious future for
England in a new era of air-travel, far superior to
an
age of coaches or packet-boats. But the editor, “Mr.
Ironside,” was outraged and declared that he would
use every
effort to discourage flying in his time. Con-
sider what would happen to morals: “You should have
a
couple of lovers make a midnight assignation upon
the top of the monument,
and see the cupola of St.
Paul's covered with both sexes like the outside
of a
pigeon-house.” “Mr. Ironside” seems
to have taken his
point of departure from a Latin poem In artem volandi
written by Francis Harding in 1692, in
which the poet
shook his head over the enthusiasm for human flight.
What will happen in this insane new world? Will
laborers fly to and from
their work on artificial wings?
Let the husband beware and strengthen the
bolts on
enter his wife's chamber on wings.
Among the many vanities of human wishes, Samuel
Johnson satirized man's
desire for wings in his “Disser-
tation on the Art of Flying,” the sixth chapter of
Ras-
selas
(1759). On a visit Rasselas found a mechani-
cally-minded man busily engaged in making
artificial
wings on the model of a bat's. With them he planned
to fly,
possibly even into space. To him the advantages
of human flight would far
offset its dangers. An ironic
belief it proved to be since, when the wings
were made,
the mechanic took off—as usual from a hill.
“He waved
his pinions awhile to gather air, then leaped from
his
stand, and in an instant dropped into the lake. His
wings, which
were of no use in the air, sustained him
in the water, and the prince drew
him to land, half
dead with terror and vexation.”
But although artificial wings produced much satire
and some attractive
romances, they were not to take
human beings on cosmic voyages. For that
man needed
what John Wilkins called a
“flying-chariot.” “I do
seriously and upon
good ground” he wrote in his Dis-
covery of a New World, “affirm it
possible to make
a flying-chariot; in which a man may sit, and give
such
motion unto it, as shall convey him through the air.
And this
perhaps might be made large enough to carry
divers men at the same time,
together with food for
their viaticum, and
commodities for traffic.”
Such a simple device as the kite—still a novelty in
England in
the early seventeenth century—played
some part in the history of
aviation, as did the elaborate
fireworks of the period. But it is better
not to pause
over them but to turn to the brilliant satires on
aviation
of Cyrano de Bergerac, two of which involve flying-
chariots. Cyrano was a satirist
but his satire on this
particular theme was as good as it was
because—friend
of Pierre Gassendi and Jacques
Rohault—he was well
versed in contemporary science. His Histoire comique
des estats et empires de la lune
(1656) included his first
two attempts to reach the moon. The first is
quite
different from anything we have seen in the pseudo-
scientific literature of the
seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries. The sun, said Cyrano, sucks up dew.
If he
fastened about himself vials of dew, would he not be
sucked up?
In contemporary illustrations we see him
with his dew-vials, “a
great many Glasses full of Dew,
tied fast about me; upon which the Sun so
violently
darted his Rays, that the Heat, which attracted them,
as it
does the thickest Clouds, carried me up so high,
that at length I found
myself above the middle Region
of the Air.” So strong was the
power of attraction and
so rapidly did he rise that Cyrano began to break
some
vials in an effort to adjust gravity and attraction. In
the space
of a few hours he made a landing in a world
in which he found that the natives spoke French. The
earth had
turned on its axis and Cyrano was in French
Canada.
Not caring for either the accent or the manners of
the French Canadians,
Cyrano occupied himself by
building a flying-ship for the lunar voyage he
still
intended to make. He has told us little about the vessel
except
that it had wings and some form of spring. His
first attempt was a failure.
“I placed myself within and
from the Top of a Rock, threw myself
in the Air. But
because I had not taken my measures aright, I fell
with
a sosh into the Valley below. Bruised as I was, however,
I
returned to my Chamber, and with Beef-Marrow I
anointed my Body, so I was
all over mortified from
Head to Foot.” Returning to his
flying-chariot, Cyrano
discovered a group of soldiers fastening to it
bunches
of firecrackers. His invention in peril, Cyrano plucked
the
match a soldier was lighting out of his hand “and
in great Rage
threw myself into my Machine... but
I came too late, for hardly were both
my Feet within,
then whip, away went I up in a Cloud.”
Unwittingly
Cyrano became the first imaginary voyager to reach
the
moon by rocket. It seems strange that, familiar as
our seventeenth-century
ancestors were with gun-
powder and
firecrackers, no other writer employed
such form of propulsion before the
eighteenth century,
and then only two of them, neither well known in
our
time. On flew Cyrano, his machine rising higher and
higher, until
“all the combustible Matter being spent,”
speed
slackened and the chariot fell beneath him,
descending to earth. Cyrano
himself continued to
mount. He had an explanation: his body was
covered
with the marrow he had daubed on his bruises; “I
knew
that the Moon being then in the Wain, and that it being
usual for
her in that Quarter, to suck up the Marrow
of Animals; she drank up that
wherewith I was
anointed.” Three-quarters of the way to the
moon,
Cyrano found himself making a somersault dive, a
device in which
various later writers followed him.
Peering between his legs, he looked
back on earth
which “appeared to me like a large
Holland-Cheese
gilded.” On he went until he felt the attractive
power
of the moon's gravity, which caused him to make a
crash landing
in a tree. He recovered consciousness to
find himself in a new Garden of
Eden, “my face plais-
tered with
an Apple.”
Cyrano's moon-world was no such telescopic one as
Kepler's. There are
reminiscences of Godwin so that
it is no surprise to meet Domingo Gonsales,
who be-
came Cyrano's lunar guide. In other ways
Cyrano's
lunar adventures are very different from Domingo's,
with
reminiscences of literature from Lucian to Rab-
elais and many fantastic adventures. The most amus-
ing section is that in which the
“philosophers” attempt
or is not a human being, leading to Cyrano's trial for
heresy, because he, who on earth had attempted to
prove to his friends that the moon is inhabited, now
tries to persuade the lunarians that their moon is our
world and inhabited.
Curiously enough, although the lunarians are scien-
tifically in advance of terrestrial beings and know
much
about the possibilities of flight, they do not send Cyrano
home
in a flying chariot. Momentarily we return to
the theme of the supernatural
voyage, when an attend-
ant spirit rose like a
whirlwind, and holding Cyrano
in his arms, descended with him to earth in a
day and
a half. As on his arrival in the moon, so on his return
to
earth Cyrano suffered a brief period of unconscious-
ness, so that he had no clear memory of his
arrival
or the departure of his guide. But his memories of the
moon-world remained vivid and he spent so much of
his time trying to prove
to his terrestrial friends that
there were men in the moon that he was
imprisoned
for heresy.
There had been talk among the lunarians of their
inventing a flying-machine
that would carry three or
four of them. Perhaps it was from them that
Cyrano
picked up details for the elaborate flying-chariot in
which he
made his voyage to the sun. This machine
operated in part upon the
principle of a burning glass:
of about six Foot high, and three Foot Square. This Box
had a hole in it below; and over the Cover, which had
likewise a hole in it, I placed a Vessel of Christal, bored
through in the same manner, made in a Globular Figure,
but very large, the Orifice whereof joyn'd exactly to and
was enchanced, in the hole I had made in the head.
The Vessel was purposely made with many Angles, and
in form of an Icosaedron, to the end that every Facet being
convex and concave, my Boul might produce the effect of
a Burning-Glass... It shut so close, that a grain of Air
could not enter it, except by the two openings; and I had
placed a little very light Board within for my self to sit
upon.
As Cyrano rose from the tower of his prison, he further
explained the machine:
to shine upon my Machine, that transparent Icosaedron,
which through its Facets received the Treasures of the Sun,
diffused by it's Orifice the light of them into my Cell...
I foresaw very well, that the Vacuity that would happen
in the Icosaedron, by reason of the Sun-beams, united by
the concave Glasses, would, to fill up the space, attract a
great abundance of Air, whereby my Box would be carried
up; and that proportionable as I mounted, the rushing wind
that should force it through the Hole, could not rise to the
roof, but that furiously penetrating the Machine, it must
needs force it upon high.
Cyrano had designed a sail for his ship but found it
useless because of the
force of wind he encountered
as he ascended into the air. He had intended
the ma-
chine for his escape from prison,
planning, at least
temporarily, to land elsewhere in France. But his
vessel
rose rapidly to the “Middle Region” of the
air, then
continued on a journey that was to take Cyrano to
the sun.
Again, he did not experience hunger or thirst.
This, he suggested, might
have been due to the lack
of gravity, but also to the bottle of spirits he
always
carried, which seems to have been a perennial fountain
of youth
since it lasted him all the way. In four months
he had approached only the
outermost of “those little
Earths that wheel about the
Sun.” It was nearly two
years before he reached the sun. So
human imagination
was expanding with the expansion of space. He experi-
enced neither weariness nor tedium as
he studied the
“new astronomy” at first hand. This
time he bypassed
the moon, his mind set upon the planets, other
worlds,
often with little worlds of satellites around them.
“And
therefore Mercury, Venus, the Earth, Mars, Jupiter,
and
Saturn, have been constrained to whirligig it, and move
both at
once around the Sun.” As on his voyage to
the moon, he
ultimately lost his flying-chariot, which
fell to earth, to be used by
another mariner. According
to his own cryptic statement, he continued his
journey
by “an ardour of Will.” At the end of
twenty-two
months he arrived at the sun, so luminous that it looked
“like flakes of burning snow.” There we may leave
this
most amusing of cosmic voyagers, as he, like Milton's
Satan,
perhaps became another sunspot to be observed
by a terrestrial astronomer.
In that extraordinary age of the seventeenth century,
truth often proved as
strange as fiction. Kepler,
Godwin, Cyrano, and other mariners stimulated
imagi-
nation with their tales of
moon-flight, and Wilkins
appealed to both literary and scientific
imagination.
But the most important stimulus to the history of
aeronautics in the century occurred in 1670 when
Francesco Lana, an Italian
scientist, published his
Prodromo, with a description and design of an
airship.
Although the vessel never flew, it marked a milestone
in the
history of aviation. Its principle is so simple that
even a layman can
readily understand it. It consisted
of “a wooden car...
fashioned like a boat,” a canoe-
shaped vessel. It had a sail and oars. Lana was aware
of all the
scientific work that had been done on the
nature of air, which had been
shown to be much like
water. “It has weight owing to the vapours
and hala-
tions which ascend from the earth
and seas to a height
of many miles and surround the whole of our ter-
raqueous globe.” As a boat is
rowed against the resist-
ance of water,
Lana's boat was to be rowed against
the resistance of air. The novelty of
the airship lay
attached to the boat by four ropes of equal length.
The principle of the vacuum is familiar to laymen. By
Lana's time philosophers no longer feared the horror
vacui, the idea accepted for centuries that Nature
abhors a vacuum. The Torricellian barometer of 1643,
Otto van Guericke's air-pump of 1650, and the work
of Francesco de Mendoza, Gaspar Schott, and Robert
Boyle on specific gravity had put an end to the long
“horror.” Lana acknowledged his debt to all of these.
It soon became clear to the continental and British
scientists who discussed
the invention that, while a
toy-model might fly, if the evacuated globes of
glass,
cooper, or any other thin metal Lana presupposed were
increased
to a size necessary to carry a man or men,
they would be crushed under
atmospheric pressure.
Before man could hope to fly in an airship of this
kind
still more scientific work must be done on the nature
of air.
Robert Boyle, England's most important worker
in the field, was close to
making the discovery made
later by Henry Cavendish (1731-1810), when he
noted
the effect of heat in causing the expansion of air.
“It
was experiments such as this,” says J. E. Hodgson
in
his history of aeronautics, “that led to the assertion,
met with after the invention of the balloon, that Boyle's
investigation on
the weight of the air gave birth to
the new discoveries of
Montgolfier.” Mr. Hodgson
suggests, too, how close John Clayton
was to a solution
of the problem when in 1739 he experimented with
“spirit of coal,” filling thick bladders with gas. But
the
discovery of hydrogen remained for Cavendish in 1766.
The ascent
of the first balloon of the Brothers Joseph
and Étienne
Montgolfier in 1783 resulted in disaster,
but later that year a safe ascent
was made near the
Palace of Versailles. The balloon carried as
passengers
a cock, a hen, and a descendant of the “happy
lamb”
of Domingo Gonsales.
From the history of aviation, let us return momen-
tarily to Francesco Lana and his little canoe. Scientifi-
cally Lana was an optimist who
believed that he had
solved the problem of human flight. But as a son
of
the Church, he did not believe that man would ever
fly.
“Other difficulties I do not see that could prevail
against this
invention, save one only, which to me seems
the greatest
of them all, and that is that God would
never surely allow such a
machine to be successful.”
The “benefit and use of man”—so Francis
Bacon,
one of the founders of science, optimistically anticipated
its
future. Francesco Lana was a scientist, but it was
he who most clearly
pointed out the dangers of avia-
tion—then in its seminal stage—in his Prodromo:
Where is the man who can fail to see that no city would
be proof against
surprise, as the ship could at any time be
steered over its squares, or
even over the courtyards of
dwelling-houses, and brought to earth for the landing of
its crew? And in the case of ships that sail the seas, by
allowing the
aerial ship to descend from the high air to
the level of their sails,
their cordage would be cut, or even
without descending so low iron
weights could be hurled
to wreck the ships and kill their crews, or
they could be
set on fire by fireballs and bombs; not ships alone,
but
houses, fortresses, and cities could be thus destroyed.
So the seventeenth-century inventor anticipated the
possible destruction of
civilization through the inven-
tion of
flying-machines.
The literary influence of Lana's Prodromo was conti-
nental rather than English. With the
addition of two
more evacuated balls, mariners made a cosmic voyage
to
the moon and all the planets on the appearance
in 1744 of Eberhard
Kindermann's Die Geschwinde
Reise auf dem Lufft-schiff
nach der obern Welt (“Fast
trip on an airship to
the heavens”). In 1768 Lana's
little ship was used by his
countryman, Bernard
Zamagna, in a Latin epic poem, Navis aeria, which
described the first air-flight around the
world. A variant
of the canoe was proposed in Portugal by Bartholomeu
Lourenco de Gusmão, the “Passarola.” Motivated
in
large part by two amber balls operated by magnetism,
a small model
is said to have flown in a royal hall on
August 8, 1709. Lana's and
Gusmão's ships were com-
bined in a
long poem, Gli Occhi di Gesú
(“The Eyes
of Jesus” [1707]), in which Pier Jacopo
Martello de-
scribed a voyage to the Earthly
Paradise under the
guidance of the prophet Elijah. When we have a
close
view, as the airship draws near the world in the moon,
we
discover that the crew consists of one hundred apes,
some dressed in blue,
some in yellow, harnessed to each
other and the boat by collars of thin
metal.
Flying-machines in the imaginary voyage in England
grew larger and larger
until they were capable of
carrying groups of men, in one case a whole race
of
people. Two such voyages were written by well-known
men of letters,
Daniel Defoe and Jonathan Swift. Defoe
played with the theme of flight
several times in 1705.
His full-length use was in the Consolidator, in which
Chinese men and lunarians plied between
the earth
and the moon. The work is strongly marked by the
chinoiserie which was becoming important in English
art, landscape gardening, and interior decoration.
Defoe seems to shrug his
shoulders at such tyros as
Wilkins, Godwin, and other
“moderns.” He went back
to the idea of China's
excelling in aviation early in
recorded history. In the libraries in China,
he de-
clares, there was a record of a man born
in the
moon, who had made a journey to earth to instruct
the Chinese
in the lore of lunar regions. Defoe's chief
attention was upon an elaborate
flying-machine, “a
Consolidator”:
of two vast Bodies with extended Wings, which spread about
fifty yards in breadth, composed of Feathers so nicely put
together, that no air could pass; and as the Bodies were
made of lunar Earth, which would bear the Fire, the Cavi-
ties were filled with an ambient Flame, which fed on a
certain Spirit, deposited in proper quantity to last out the
Voyage; and this Fire so ordered as to move about such
springs and wheels as kept the wings in most exact and
regular Motion, always ascendant.
Defoe's source for his happy anticipation of the gaso-
line age, in his “ambient Flame” which was fed
by
a fluid deposited in sufficient quantity to last a journey,
is
unknown. Actually he himself was less interested in
that than in the
“513 Feathers” of which his vessel
was composed and
which he describes in more detail,
five hundred and twelve of them matched
in length
and breadth, one a “presiding or superintendent
Feather, to guide, regulate, and pilot the whole Body
... the rudder of the
whole Machine,” which probably
symbolized the Prime Minister,
Lords, and Commons
who flew the ship of state.
In the room of this great flying Chariot, which plied
between China and the
moon, Defoe placed a Euro-
pean who remembered
little of his journey, since Defoe
went back to the use of anaesthesia
suggested by
Kepler, a “dozing Draught” administered
to the trav-
eller. He found the lunar world
far in advance of ours,
particularly in the invention of various kinds of
glasses,
including telescopes more powerful than our modern
ones at
Mount Wilson or Palomar. Through these the
lunarians could clearly see the
towers and cities of
China. Defoe's lunar voyager summarizes his conver-
sation with a man in the moon by
saying: “He was
the Man in the Moon to me, and I was the Man in
the Moon to him; he wrote down what I said, and
made
a Book of it, and call'd it, News from the World
in
the Moon.”
In his third adventure, The Voyage to Laputa,
Gulli-
ver looked up to see “a vast
opaque body between
me and the sun,” moving forward toward the
island.
Through his pocket-perspective the captain was able
to see
numbers of people, though only later did he
know what they were doing. When
the body de-
scended, Gulliver went aboard to
find this a little
world, inhabited by a whole race of men. Here is
one
of the most brilliant variations upon the theme of the
cosmic
voyage. For many years Mahomet had gone
to the mountain; now the moon-world
descends to
Mahomet. When Gulliver had opportunity to study the
little
world more carefully he found it “exactly circu-
lar, its diameter 7837 yards or about four miles
and
a half,” its bottom a plate of adamant “shooting
up
to the height of about two hundred yards.... Above
it lie the several minerals in their usual order.” Ada-
mant was considered in Swift's time the most
magnetic
of minerals, but it alone was not responsible for the
path
taken by the Flying Island. In the Astronomer's
Cave in the heart of the
island Gulliver was shown
“a loadstone of prodigious
size,” by means of which
the island is made to rise and fall and
move from one
place to another. One of its sides has attractive, the
other repulsive power.
It has been shown (Mohler and Nicolson, 1937) that
Swift's loadstone was a
magnification of William Gil-
bert's famous
dipping needle. As in the voyages to
Lilliput and Brobdingnag, Swift
readily changed feet
to inches and inches to feet to keep his
proportions
exact. Swift had visited the Royal Society where he
would
have seen the Gilbertian terrella described in
the catalogue as
“an orbicular loadstone, about four
inches and 1/2 in
Diameter.” From it he created his
“little
world” of the Flying Island, “four and one half
miles in diameter.” If in Swift's
“its diameter 7837
yards,” we substitute
“miles” for “yards” we find the
approximate diameter of our own earth. It is not mere
coincidence that the
measurements agree so closely
with those given by Isaac Newton and G. D.
Cassini.
The slight variation of nine miles between Swift's figure
and
Newton's may easily be explained: Swift slyly split
the difference between
Newton's average and least
diameters of the world, which happens to work
out
at exactly 7837 miles.
The Flying Island of Laputa did not fly free or wild:
it was governed by the
mainland of Balnibarbi below,
as is shown by the map which charts its
course. William
Gilbert (1540-1603) had pointed out that islands are
more magnetic than seas. So the little world rose or
fell, governed by the
magentic attraction of Balnibarbi.
The great world and the lesser obeyed
natural law.
Each was dependent on the other. By physical laws
man
knows but cannot control, microcosm and macro-
cosm are combined: the terrella is “prodigious” as
a
magnet, yet it is a small power to govern the Flying
Island. The
island in turn is a macrocosm when com-
pared
to the loadstone, but it is a microcosm in com-
parison with Balnibarbi, which it governs in the sense
that it
had the power to shut out light and rain from
the country below. In this
voyage, unlike the others
of Gulliver's Travels the
author has considered less
relationships between men than relationships in
the
Newtonian universe: planets, stars, or feathers observe
the
universal laws of motion and attraction. Swift's
Flying Island is unique in
the history of pseudoscience,
since it carried a whole nation of men, and
unique in
its plausibility of motivation by the principle of terres-
trial magnetism.
Swift was in part satirizing the engrossment of his
Voltaire's Micromégas (1752) is the most satirical of all
cosmic voyages. As the moon-world came to Gulliver
in the Voyage to Laputa, so an inhabitant of Sirius came
to earth in Micromégas. The circumference of Sirius,
we learn, is 21,600,000 times that of earth; the hero
of the tale is 120,000 royal feet in height. Micromégas
had been well educated. He was an expert in telescopic
and microscopic observations, on the basis of which
he had written a book which was suspected of being
heretical, since it suggested the existence of inhabitants
in other worlds than his. For this he was exiled from
Sirius for eight hundred years, a short period in his
long life. He decided to spend the time in making a
tour of the universe to discover at firsthand how much
of his hypothesis of life in other worlds would prove
true.
Micromégas needed neither wings nor a flying char-
iot. Over the Milky Way he merely stepped from one
star to another. He was disappointed in the planet
Saturn which seemed
little more than an anthill to him.
He remained there, however, for some
time, having
struck up an acquaintance with the Secretary of the
Grand
Academy. As the result of a protracted argu-
ment on the question of life in other planets, the Sirian
and
Saturnian undertook a cosmic journey. They
leaped upon the ring of Saturn,
then from one of its
moons to another. A comet passed, by means of
which
they arrived at the satellites of Jupiter from which they
could
readily jump to the planet itself. On they went
to Mars, which they found
so insignificant that after
a glance or two they passed by.
Why they bothered to stop at Earth—a most inferior
planet—is not entirely clear, but stop they did, and
gave
themselves exercise circumambulating the globe
which for a time they
believed not only insignificant
but unpopulated, since the Sirian and the
Saturnian
could not see the insignificant earth-dwellers. Except
for
an accident they would not have known of our
existence. Micromégas
happened to break his diamond
necklace and amused himself by using one
diamond
as a microscope. On the ocean—a mere puddle to the
travellers—they saw what seemed an aquatic animal,
which proved
to be a ship filled with scientists who
were returning from an exploration
of one of the poles.
Reluctantly the travellers were forced to conclude
that
the tiny creatures had sense and also reason, when one
of them
computed the measurements of the Sirian by
the method used on earth for
computing the height
of lunar mountains. They further astounded the
visitors
by informing them of the existence in their world of
animalcules as invisible to them as they had been to
their temporary
guests.
Voltaire laughed, but even his laughter could not
destroy the cosmic voyage, which continued on its way
in the
nineteenth century in the hands of Jules Verne,
Edgar Allan Poe, and
others. One of the most brilliant
variations upon it was by the Danish
dramatist and
historian Ludwig Holberg (1684-1754) who
wrote—
originally in Latin—a world-classic. There are
at least
fifty-nine editions in eleven languages of the adventures
of
Nils Klim in Iter subterraneum novam (1741; pub-
lished in English as Niels Klim's Subterranean Journey,
1742), his voyage to the
center of the earth. As cosmic
mariners had taken off from earth to
discover a new
world in the moon, Nils, in his enthusiasm to explore
a
Danish mountain, fell into its crater to find a new
world in the center of
the earth. Down the crater he
fell until the attraction of the world drew
him into
its orbit, and Nils became for a time a satellite. He
occupied himself with a round biscuit he took from
his pocket but finding
it nauseous—like other cosmic
mariners he experienced neither
hunger nor thirst—he
threw it away to find that, as he described
a circle
around the earth, the biscuit described a circle around
him.
Around they went, Nils and biscuit, to learn later
that astronomers in the
world in the center of the earth
had plotted the period of a new satellite,
or—some
said, since Nils' mountain-rope had fallen with
him—a
comet with a tail. Although we have English transla-
tions of the Iter subterraneum novam, we have none
worthy of the Latin or
Danish original. But we do have
the finest imitation—Alice in Wonderland.
During the twentieth century the moon-voyage
turned from the
“imaginary voyage” to settle into a
pattern of
“science fiction.” The literary career of
H. G. Wells
suggests something of a change that was
occurring. His twentieth-century
novels were to deal
largely with social reform; during the last decade
of
the nineteenth, he wrote such pseudo-scientific works
as The Time Machine (1895), The Invisible
Man (1897),
The War of the Worlds (1898). In 1938 Orson Welles
startled and terrified large segments of the United
States by a radio
version of that last-named work of
H. G. Wells, and was widely believed to
be reporting
an invasion from Mars. It is doubtful that any radio
or
television version of such a pseudo-scientific work
could today startle
many Americans, who seem to have
drawn in scientific fiction with their
mothers' milk. But
even the most blasé readers and auditors
remained
close to their radios and televisions during the period
which
came to its climax on July 21, 1969, when the
first two human beings landed
on the moon.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Samuel Brunt, (pseud.) A Voyage to Cacklogallinia:
With
a Description of the Religion, Policy, Customs and
Manners
of that Country (London, 1727). Cyrano de Bergerac,
His-
seven other editions 1659-87). Quotations
in this article are
largely from The Comical History
of the States and Empires
of the Worlds of the Moon and Sun...
newly Englished
by A. Lovell (London, 1687). Daniel Defoe, The Consoli-
dator:
or Memoirs and Sundry Transactions from the World
in the Moon
(London, 1705). Bernard de Fontenelle, En-
tretiens sur la pluralité
des mondes (Paris, 1686). Galileo
Galilei, Sidereus Nuncius (Venetiis, 1610). Quotations in
the
text are from The Sidereal Messenger of Galileo
Galilei, ed.
E. S. Carlos (London, 1880). Francis Godwin, The Man in
the Moone: or a Discourse of a Voyage
thither. By Domingo
Gonsales, The Speedy Messenger (London,
1638). Francis
Harding, “In artem
volandi,” Musarum anglicanarum
ana-
lecta, (Oxford,
1692), I, 77-81. Ludwig Holberg, Nicolai
Klimii
iter subterraneum novam telluris theoriam (Hafniae
and
Lipsiae, 1741). Quotations are from A Journey to the
World Underground. By Nicholaus Klimnius (London, 1742).
Samuel Johnson, The Prince of Abissinia. A Tale in
Two
Volumes (London, 1759), the first edition of Rasselas. See
also J. E. Hodgson, Doctor Johnson on Ballooning and Flight
(London,
1925). Johann Kepler, Joh. Keppleri mathematici
olim imperatorii somnium seu opus posthumus de astro-
nomia lunari (Francofurti, 1634). Also
in Joannis Kepleri as-
tronomi opera omnia, Vol. VIII (Francofurti,
1858-71).
Eberhard Christian Kindermann, Die
Geschwinde Reise auf
dem Lufft-Schiff nach der obern Welt
(1744). Athanasius
Kircher, Itinerarium exstaticum
quo mundi opificium, id est,
coelestis expansi (Romae,
1656). Francesco Lana, Prodromo
overo saggio di
alcune inventioni nuove premesso all' Arte
Maestra
(Brescia, 1670). There is a modern translation in
Aeronautical Classics, No. 4 (London, 1910). John Milton,
Paradise Lost (1667, 1674), The
Poems of John Milton, ed.
J. H. Hanford (New York, 1953).
Jonathan Swift, Travels into
Several Remote Nations
of the World. In Four Parts. By
Lemuel Gulliver (London,
1726). François Marie Arouet de
Voltaire, Le Micromégas de M. De Voltaire (London, 1752).
Quotations are from the English translation in The
Works
of Voltaire, with notes by Tobias Smollett, Vol. III.
(London,
1901). John Wilkins, A Discourse Concerning
a New World
and Another Planet (London, 1638). The work is
often called
The Discovery of a New World, the title of the first
book.
Bernard Zamagna, Navis aeria et elegiarum
monobiblos
(Roma, 1768); republished with an English
translation by
Mary B. McElwain, Smith College
Classical Studies, No. 12
(Northampton, 1939).
Secondary Bibliography.
J. E. Hodgson, The History of
Aeronautics in
Great Britain from the Earliest Times to the
Latter Half of the
Nineteenth Century (London, 1924).
Aldous Huxley, Literature and Science (London, 1963).
Francis
Johnson, Astronomical Thought in Renaissance
England (Baltimore, 1937). Alexandre Koyré, From the
Closed World to the Infinite Universe (New York,
1958).
T. S. Kuhn, The Copernican Revolution
(Cambridge, 1957).
Marjorie Nicolson, Voyages to the
Moon (New York, 1948;
reprint, 1960); idem, Science and Imagination (Ithaca, 1956);
idem, The Breaking of the Circle (New York, 1960);
idem,
with Nora M. Mohler, “Swift's 'Flying Island' in the
'Voyage
to Laputa,'” Annals of Science,
2 (October, 1937), 405-30.
H. H. Rhys, ed., Seventeenth Century Science
and the Arts
(Princeton, 1961). Alfred North Whitehead, Science and the
Modern World (New York, 1926;
Cambridge, 1938; many
reprints).
MARJORIE HOPE NICOLSON
[See also Cosmic Images; Cosmology; Macrocosm andMicrocosm; Myth; Newton...; Optics.]
Dictionary of the History of Ideas | ||