CHAPTER III.

Machines considered magical in ancient times--Remarkable modern automata--Minute engines--The calculating machine. The light of modern science has revealed to us many important secrets. In the dark ages there were but few books; it was then the fashion to write them in Latin; and as, from their costliness, they could only be obtained by men of wealth, so they could be understood alone by such as had enjoyed the advantages of education. Science is now easily accessible, but, though it is not necessary for us all to become philosophers, there is no good reason why people generally should not be acquainted with some of the most remarkable phenomena of the natural world. The inspired psalmist has said, “The works of the Lord are great, sought out of all them that have pleasure therein;” and it becomes all, according to their means and opportunities, to lay this truth to heart. We proceed now to consider some effects regarded as magical, which are satisfactorily explained on natural principles, beginning with mechanics. An ability to construct wonderful or magical machines was manifest among the ancients. Archytas, a native of Tarentum, in Italy, who lived four hundred years before the birth of our Lord and Saviour, is said to have made a wooden dove, which flew and sustained itself for some time in the air. Other clever contrivances are also mentioned. “A magician,” says D’Israeli, “was annoyed, as philosophers still are, by passengers in the street; and he, particularly so, by having horses led to drink under his window. He made a magical horse of wood, according to one of the books of Hermes, which perfectly answered his purpose, by frightening away the horses, or, rather, the grooms! The wooden horse, no doubt, gave some palpable kick.” It is worthy of remark, that tales of ancient times must be received with caution. We find it necessary, even at a much later period. The tricks which now amuse or astonish the populace at a country fair, would be greatly exaggerated in a credulous age, and often assume even the most portentous colouring. Nor is it difficult to guess, and sometimes to discover, the stages of similar and great mystifications. The following instance is rather remarkable. On Charles V. entering Nuremberg, a celebrated German astronomer, whose real name was Johann Müller, but who styled himself Regiomontanus, exhibited some automata which he had constructed. These were an eagle of wood, which, placed on the gate of the city, rose up and flapped its wings, while the emperor was passing below; and a fly, made of steel, which walked round a table. Now all this is sufficiently credible. But what is the record of the chroniclers only a few years after? That the wooden eagle sprang from the tower and soared in the air; and that the steel fly flew three times round the emperor, and then alighted buzzing on his hand! 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.