NIC COSTA ON WORKING MODELS
From
1772 onwards, with the founding of Coxes Museum by James Cox, exhibitions
or shows comprising wholly or in part of automata became a regular
feature of London life, predating the automatic amusement arcade of
the late Victorian era by more than a century the crucial
difference being that the proprietor or an attendant was required to
take the public around the exhibition on a guided tour. As the new
century progressed, such exhibitions grew not only in size but also
in number; that of Signor Gagliardi (shown in 1836-7) consisted of
approximately 200 different automatons. By
the 1860s these exhibitions were to be found not only in the major
cities, but also from time to time, as part of a travelling fair.
One such exhibition was described by a contemporary eye-witness as
consisting . . . . . .
entirely of machines that (the showman) had made himself with the
help of an apprentice, and sometimes with the employment of a
workman. The style of work would not be called high class
engineering but there was a certain merit in every machine that it
was a good working model. Besides two steam engines of different
types there was a locomotive that carried a train round the show; a
Jacquard loom, which wove silk ribbon with a small flower pattern; a
diving bell in which two dressed dolls were seated, which came out
of a tube of water after immersion quite dry, which was very
incomprehensible to the country folk; the model of a steam-boat,
which worked so far as to turn the paddles round under a sheet of
glass which represented the surface of the water; an automatic doll
which danced and said ma! ma!; an electrical machine which gave
the audience shocks, and some other machines and mechanical devices. We can see in
such shows the embryonic form of the latter day amusement arcade. In
May 1875 the Leeds Times published the following report, relating to
a current exhibition: Not a
little interest is excited in this department by the many working models
that are shown. For 1d dropped into a crevice like that of a tramway
fare box, you may have soldiers on duty, and a host of other
novelties. One of the men who shines here most is John Dennison,
26 Salop Street, Bank, Leeds. Mr. Dennison exhibits the model
of a ship which is very beautifully executed, and which as the
work of a man living in an inland town, reflects very great credit upon
him. Although John Dennison was not the
first to fully automate a working model by means of a coin entry
mechanism (he is predated in this respect by one or two other known
makers), and he was certainly by no means the only maker of
automatic machines in the late 1870s and early 1880s, he was
nevertheless an extremely important figure in the history of the
automatics genre, for he was essentially the earliest recorded
person to make a living by means of the manufacture and operation of
coin freed novelties, and was to remain actively involved in their
exploitation and production from the mid 1870s until his death in
1924. From then the business he
had founded was carried on by his daughters until the outbreak of
World WarTwo. However,
for all his pioneering spirit he failed to fully capitalise upon the
enormous money earning potential of this new genre. This was to be left to men of much wider vision, such as Percival Everitt or Herbert
Stephen Mills. Each of Dennison's machines (he concentrated
solely on working models and
fortune tellers) was hand built, and essentially a one off. None were
ever sold until the daughters sold out the entire enterprise to the Blackpool Tower Company in 1944. Somewhere in the region of 30 Dennison machines
are known to survive, covering a wide range of subjects, although
unfortunately for us, the daughters embarked upon a policy in the
late 1920s of revamping or rebuilding (and in some instances of even
scrapping) them. Whilst this must have enhanced the family's
revenue in the 1930s, the process effectively destroyed many of
their father's creations; clockwork was
substituted by electricity, original figures and subjects done away
with, and new ones
substituted. Whilst they managed to create some of the finest models
of the 1930s they at the same time consigned to oblivion some of the
most historic machines in the automatics genre. Only a very precious
handful have escaped the net, surviving almost intact, complete with
original clockwork motors, figures and subject matter. John Dennison's
last surviving daughter, Florence, bequeathed a
notebook to the Leeds Museum containing a photographic record of the revamping
work they did, and listing the models made by their father. It was a
wonderful, and in the annals of automatics history a rare gesture,
where so much of value has been discarded or destroyed over the
years. However,
in spite of John Dennison's relative importance to the history of
the fledgling automatics industry, he was to prove, as the 1880s and
90s came and went, just one of literally dozens of makers of
coin operated working models. As early as 1884 they could be bought
over the counter at at least one of the leading London
establishments specialising in mechanical music and automata;
witness a Silber and Fleming catalogue of that year which features a
coin operated mechanical Sleeping Beauty complete with musical
accompaniment. Indeed, a number of the early manufacturers of coin
freed devices during this period would make up models to special
order. Few, if any, were to be produced in any quantity since almost
all were made up as one offs and the subject range covered over the
years was to be exceedingly diverse. Some of the prime users of working models during the last quarter of the 19th century were the
various rail and steamship companies who saw in them a
convenient means of advertising their wares. Witness this
reminiscence from a 1935 article in the World's Fair: It is of interest that railways and
coin slots have been closely allied over a very long period most
readers of more than 40 will recall when they implored their parents
to drop a penny in the slot machine, which contained an exact
replica of George Stephenson's Rocket. The earliest type I remember
was mounted in a large glass case. Movements consisted chiefly of
engine wheels revolving for a few moments and the illuminating of
the case from the interior. Next, several of the big steamship
companies saw the possibility of the coin slot on railway stations
(not perhaps as a commercial proposition but as propaganda) with the
result that at one time we saw a regular boom in "Ship
Models" built to scale and mounted in large glass cases. Here
again the movements and mechanical operations were of a simple
nature usually comprising a slight rocking of the ship itself, and
the lighting up of the vessel . . . In spite of the fact that
automata in general were universally popular throughout the latter
half of the 19th century, and were to be found on sale as rich
people's toys in all the major western cities, they were only ever
to be truly adopted as a legitimate branch of the automatics
industry in Britain. Here, they were to be manufactured as set piece
scenes which had no other function than to entertain or amuse the
user in return for his coin, and as such were to remain a mainstay
of the amusement arcade business up until fairly recent times. Because the manufacture of such machines was undertaken by relatively small
concerns which concentrated upon variety as opposed to quantity,
their documentary history has been poorly recorded. Since, they
rarely if ever incorporated anything fundamentally new, almost
nothing exists in the patents documents concerning them. In most
instances they would have been made for specific undertakings and
were therefore little advertised. Many would be made up to suit the client's or the
manufacturer's own
requirements (in which case he would also act as operator), and when
their novelty had worn out (as in the case of the
Dennisons machines) would have been discarded or revamped to
portray new scenes or images. As
a consequence, even the names of the makers of some of these
machines have not survived the years, let alone a great many
of their products. Of the names that we do know, the most notable
were, apart from John Dennison: Nelson and Leonard Lee; Vincent Canova and Billy Thompson; Charles
Ahrens; Frederick and Arthur Bolland; and Markie Kraft (both Bolland
and Kraft were still making models as recently as the early 1960s). In
particular, the machines made by Ahrens, Bolland, and Kraft came the
closest to what may now be termed production pieces, in that they
each marketed a fairly limited
range of subjects, but manufactured relatively large numbers
of each subject, their products being as a consequence well
advertised. Although, as we have already noted, working scale models of such things as
trains, ships or pieces of machinery were marketed early on, they
were easily surpassed in popularity by working models of a more
entertaining nature which purported to depict scenes of daily life,
either comic (such as the poor harassed father minding the screaming
brats whilst mother lies in bed
fast asleep) or tragic (such as the last moments of a dying child). Others
had moral undertones, relating in the main to the evils of drink, or
the inevitable brutal end of a life of crime; execution scenes were particularly
popular, so too were scenes of a more macabre nature featuring ghosts
and ghoulies and things that go whirr and clank for the insertion of
a penny. All
in all, through the medium of these machines we are witness to the
nightmarish world of our childhood dreams when all the toys come to
life and re-enact the larger drama of our waking hours. What better
way to conclude this brief survey
of working models than this extract from a Punch' article
of 1891 relating to machines on show at the Royal Naval Exhibition: Before a Model Representing an
Execution A Daughter:
'But why won't you put a penny in this one Father?' The
Father (firmly): 'Because I don't approve of Capital Punishment, my
dear'. Daughter:
'Oh please father, please!' Father:
'Well, let me see yes,
I can lend you one'. (He does, the penny is
put in nothing happens) 'Out of order, I suppose scandalous! and nobody
to speak to about it most
discreditable! Stop what's this?' (A sort
of woolly beat is audible inside the prison) That's the bell tolling
it's all right it's working!' (It works) A Spectator; 'Very well done that was but they 'urried it over
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