Aeolus; or, the future of the flying machine — Edition Insights

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Stewart, Oliver, Major, 1895-1976 Project Gutenberg 2025 Not confirmed
Airplanes; Aeronautics; Flying-machines; Airships Readers of public-domain and historical texts
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Edition facts

Words 22,404
Reading time 98 min
Text sections 19

The source record for Aeolus; or, the future of the flying machine — Edition Insights measures this digital text at 22,404 words, 1 hr 38 min estimated reading time, and 19 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 16.7 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Airplanes,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

A 1927 speculative work by Major Oliver Stewart that uses precise aeronautical terminology and a mock newspaper report to argue the aeroplane is a direct descendant of sailing ships, predicting specialized military aircraft and high-altitude fighters with pressure cockpits.
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Read the Text

In this transcription, italic text is denoted by _underscores_ while bold text is denoted by =equal signs=. Small capitals in the original text have been transcribed as ALL CAPITALS.

See the end of this document for details of corrections and other changes.

—————————————————————

_For the Contents of this Series see the end of the Book_

THE FUTURE OF THE FLYING MACHINE

_Author of ‘The Strategy and Tactics of Air Fighting,’ etc._

LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER & Co., LTD. NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————— Made and Printed in Great Britain by M. F. Robinson & Co., Ltd., at The Library Press, Lowestoft.

THE FUTURE OF THE FLYING-MACHINE

The aeroplane is an aerial sailing-ship, its wings are the sails, its source of power the wind. It can claim to be a direct descendant of the family of sailing ships whose father was AEOLUS, god of the winds and the inventor of sails.

Aeroplane, helicopter, ornithopter, rotorplane, and autogiro are sailing-ships because they all derive lift from sails or aerofoils. An aerofoil is a structure so shaped as to obtain a reaction from the wind—a sail is nothing more and nothing less. Whether the wind is natural or is artificially raised by an engine does not affect the function of aerofoil or sail.

The heavier-than-air flying-machine, either engineless glider or power-driven craft, is the true aerial sailing-ship. The prolate gasbag which is called an airship resembles only one kind of ship, a sinking ship, because it is totally immersed in the fluid which supports it. If a sea parallel to the airship is required, that parallel may justly be said to be the submarine, which is suspended in the water as the airship is suspended in the air.

Before I deal with the future of the aerial sailing-ship I must define three aeronautical terms. No excuse is needed for introducing these apparently elementary definitions since aeronautical terms are almost as well misunderstood by aviators as by laymen. The three terms are:

Wing Airscrew Propeller

The definitions I advance are supported by the Royal Aeronautical Society’s _Glossary of Aeronautical Terms_ and by the British Engineering Standards Association’s _Glossary of Aeronautical Terms_ although they are often departed from in official forms and in speech.

_Wing._ A few days ago I read in a newspaper of a “single-winged airplane”. Accustomed as I am to the aircraft which appear between the drapers’ advertisements in the daily newspapers, I was startled at the notion of a “single-winged airplane”. A bird has wings. A single-winged bird would be a queer creature and would be incapable of flying. A “single-winged airplane” would be equally queer and equally earth-bound.

The reporter, in trying to hack out an explanatory synonym for monoplane, docked the aeroplane of one of its wings.

_Airscrew and Propeller._ An aeroplane can have an airscrew yet no propeller. Most aeroplanes, in fact, are without propellers. In the interests of differentiation it is worth endeavouring to confine the word propeller to the thing that propels or pushes the machine, to use airscrew as a general term, and tractor airscrew when a precise definition is required for the thing that pulls the machine. The colloquialism “prop’” may perhaps be allowed to stand for both tractor airscrew and propeller.

In the following pages I make no attempt to hit upon any sudden invention which may revolutionize flight. I confine myself to developing lines of progress which have already given some proof of practicability. For determining the general trend of progress I rely upon a utilitarian review of the aeronautical situation. I have avoided leaping into the distant future. Readers will be disappointed to learn that things like inter-planetary voyaging are not dealt with in this booklet.

I am aware that scientists have demonstrated that some of the things I do mention are impossible. But scientists have demonstrated that the world is flat, that it is round, and that it is oblong. In the future they will demonstrate that it is rectangular. It was Mr W. N. Sullivan, I think, who said that “To judge from the history of science, the scientific method is excellent as a means of obtaining plausible conclusions which are always wrong, but hardly as a means of reaching the truth.” While a few generations can still witness wide variations of opinion among those who know, I incline to the Pyrrhonic doctrine. It is impossible to know with certainty what is impossible, and in attempting a forecast the best that can be done is to take the trend of contemporary thought and, with that, to build a future upon the principles of the present.

Major Oliver Stewart opens Aeolus; or, the future of the flying machine with a striking analogy: the aeroplane is an “aerial sailing-ship,” its wings sails, its source of power the wind. He traces this lineage directly to Aeolus, the god of winds and inventor of sails. This is not a casual metaphor but the book’s central argument—that heavier-than-air craft, whether gliders or power-driven, are true descendants of sailing ships, while airships are likened to submarines, “totally immersed in the fluid which supports it.” Stewart grounds his case in technical definitions, citing the Royal Aeronautical Society’s Glossary, and chides a newspaper reporter for calling a monoplane “single-winged,” noting that a bird with one wing would be “equally queer and equally earth-bound.”

Terminology as Argument

Stewart devotes the opening pages to defining three terms—wing, airscrew, and propeller—insisting that aeronautical terms are “almost as well misunderstood by aviators as by laymen.” He does not merely list definitions; he uses them to dismantle common misuses. The “single-winged airplane” is his prime exhibit: a reporter, trying to coin a synonym for monoplane, “docked the aeroplane of one of its wings.” This precision is not pedantry but a rhetorical strategy. By anchoring his predictions in exact language, Stewart positions himself as a corrective to popular confusion. The glossary becomes a tool for persuasion, establishing authority before he ventures into forecasts.

The Fighter of the Future

Stewart’s most concrete prediction is a single-seat, all-metal fighter with a retractable undercarriage, a gas-turbine of 1,000 h.p., and a speed of 400 miles per hour (800 in a dive). He admits these figures are “the wildest guess work,” yet he commits to them. The pilot would be enclosed in a pressure-cockpit with a transparent conning-tower, supplied with oxygen and a dessicating apparatus to prevent fogging. Stewart notes that pressure-suits were “now being experimented with in France and probably elsewhere,” grounding his vision in contemporary research. He foresees increasing specialization: “no many-purpose machines,” but instead flying-tanks and armoured low-flying craft derived from the “Salamander” and “Vampire” of the late war.

A Newspaper Raid on London

To illustrate future warfare, Stewart inserts a mock newspaper report of a day air-attack on London. The tone shifts abruptly: the “Special Correspondent” describes “the greatest air-raid in history,” with “the earth shook to the thunder of the guns” and “the flash of wheeling wings.” Casualty figures are given with chilling matter-of-factness—“fewer than 1,000 people were killed while only some 7,000 were wounded.” The report includes details like “concrete ears” (wireless disc and microphone sentries) encircling the coast. This embedded fiction is the book’s most vivid passage, blending technical speculation with journalistic drama. Stewart’s own voice returns to note that the correspondent has “trodden on it through all four gears,” a wry acknowledgment of the hyperbole.

Stewart’s method—mixing glossary, forecast, and fictional dispatch—makes Aeolus a curious hybrid: part technical treatise, part speculative essay. Readers should attend to how he uses definitions to build credibility, then relaxes into imaginative scenarios. The mock newspaper report is the book’s pivot, where precision gives way to propaganda. Stewart never claims certainty; his predictions are offered as reasoned guesses, grounded in the engineering trends of 1927. The result is a period piece that reveals how interwar experts thought about aviation’s trajectory, complete with its anxieties and ambitions.

There’s something lovely about old books that take their own strange future so seriously. Stewart’s 1927 aeroplanes feel almost nautical, all rigging and pressure cockpits, a world of careful prediction. It reminds me, vaguely, of how Humboldt’s letters to Varnhagen feel—two minds quietly sure their era matters. That patient certainty, across Letters of Alexander von Humboldt to Varnhagen von Ense. From 1827 to 1858. With extracts from Varnhagen's diaries, and letters of Varnhagen and others to Humboldt — Key Ideas to Explore, still glows faintly now.

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