In many instances, the mechanism of modern times is surprisingly minute. A watchmaker in London presented his majesty George III. with a repeating watch he had constructed, set in a ring. Its size was something less than a silver two-pence; it contained one hundred-and-twenty-five different parts, and weighed, altogether, no more than five pennyweights and seven grains!
In an exhibition of Maillardet, which the writer has seen, the lid of a box suddenly flew open, and a small bird of beautiful plumage started forth from its nest. The wings fluttered, and the bill opening with the tremulous motion peculiar to singing birds, it began to warble. After a succession of notes, whose sound well filled a large apartment, it retired to its nest, and the lid closed. Its performances occupied about four minutes. In the same exhibition were an automatic spider, a caterpillar, a mouse, and a serpent; all of which exhibited the peculiar movements of the living creatures. The spider was made of steel: it ran on the surface of a table for three minutes, and its course tended towards the middle of the table. The serpent crawled about in every direction, opened its mouth, hissed, and darted forth its tongue.
Several years ago, a watchmaker, residing in a town in which the writer lived, made a working model of a steam-engine, the packing-case of which was a walnut-shell. On showing it one day to a gentleman, the machine was suddenly stopped, the mechanic remarking, “There is something wrong in one of the safety-valves.” “Safety-valve!” exclaimed the observer; “I have not yet been able to detect the fly-wheel!”
The most curious specimen of minute workmanship, however, with which we are acquainted, is a high-pressure engine, the work of a watchmaker having a stand at the Polytechnic Institution, and first exhibited in 1845. Each part was made according to scale, it worked by atmospheric pressure, in lieu of steam, with the greatest activity, yet it was so small, that it stood on a fourpenny-piece, with ground to spare, and, with the exception of the fly-wheel, it might be covered with a thimble.
D’Alembert describes a flute-player, constructed by Vaucanson, which he saw exhibited at Paris in 1738. The writer has also seen one, in which a figure appeared seated, and then rose and played a tune, the motions of the fingers seeming to accord with the notes. He cannot answer for the music having been produced by the movements of the hands of the automaton. D’Alembert affirms, however, that the automaton of Vaucanson really projected the air with its lips against the embouchure of the instrument, producing the different octaves by expanding and contracting their openings, giving more or less air, and regulating the tones by its fingers, in the manner of living performers. The height of the figure, with the pedestal, containing some of the machinery, was nearly six feet; it commanded three octaves, several notes of which musicians find it difficult to produce. Some years ago, two automaton flute-players were exhibited in this country, of the size of life, which performed ten or twelve duets. That they actually played the flute might be proved, by placing the finger on any hole that was unstopped for a moment by the automata.
M. Vaucanson produced a flageolet-player, who beat a tambourine with one hand. The flageolet had only three holes, and some notes were made by half-stopping these. The lowest note was produced by a force of wind equal to an ounce, the highest by one of fifty-six French pounds. A duck was, however, considered to be his chef-d’œuvre; it dabbled in the mire, swam, drank, quacked, raised and moved its wings, and dressed its feathers with its bill; it even extended its neck, took barley from the hand and swallowed it, during which process the muscles of the neck were seen in motion, and it also digested the food by means of materials provided for its solution in the stomach. The inventor made no secret of the machinery, which excited, at the time, great admiration.
Maelzel, the inventor of the metronome, or time-measurer, frequently used to aid pupils in music, exhibited in Vienna in 1809, another automaton of singular power; which appeared in the uniform of a trumpeter in the Austrian dragoon regiment Albert, with his instrument placed to his mouth. When the figure was pressed on the left shoulder, it played not only the Austrian cavalry march, and all the signals of that army, but also a march and allegro by Weigl, which was accompanied by the whole orchestra. The dress of the figure was then changed into that of a French trumpeter of the guards, when it began to play a French cavalry march, all the signals, the march of Dussek, and an allegro of Pleyel, accompanied again by the full orchestra. Maelzel publicly wound up his instrument only twice on the left hip. The sound of the trumpet was pure and peculiarly agreeable.
About thirty years ago, Maillardet exhibited, in Spring Gardens, a variety of automata, which the writer had an opportunity of seeing at a later period. One was the figure of a boy, who wrote sentences, and drew certain objects with remarkable promptitude and correctness. Another was a pianiste, seated at a piano-forte, on which she played eighteen tunes. All her movements were graceful. Before beginning a tune, she made a gentle inclination of the head to her auditors; her bosom heaved, and her eyes followed the motion of her fingers over the finger-board. When the automaton was once wound up, it would continue playing for an hour; and the principal part of the machinery employed was freely exposed to public view. It has been doubted whether the music was actually produced by the automaton: since the time now referred to, the writer has examined another, in which the keys of the instrument were certainly acted upon by the touch.
He has also seen, at various times, several very curiously constructed automata: the figure of a lady, who could walk along a level surface, throwing out the limbs, and moving the head from side to side; a tippler, who could pour out wine from a decanter into a glass, open his mouth, and swallow the fluid, and thus proceed till the bottle was drained; and a performer on the slack rope, whose exceedingly rapid movements of the body, the arms, and the head, all consistent and graceful, were truly amazing.
A very beautiful automaton was exhibited, a few years ago, in Paris, and subsequently in London. It appeared in a court suit, sitting at a table, in the attitude of writing. Several questions, inscribed on tablets, were placed on the table on which the whole apparatus stood, and visitors might select any one or more at pleasure. The tablet, containing a question, on being handed to the attendant, was placed in a drawer, and, as soon as it was closed, the figure traced on paper an appropriate reply. On the question being given, “Who may be volatile without a crime?” the answer was, “A butterfly.” And as the figure could draw a response as well as write it, when the question was put, “What is the symbol of fidelity?” it drew, in outline, the form of a greyhound. In the same way it proceeded throughout the series of questions.