# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Half hours at the Kensington Museum - Part 1

HALF HOURS AT THE KENSINGTON MUSEUM.
THE MUSEUM OF PATENT MACHINES, &C.
Our Museums are getting so extensive that it is becoming a most wearisome task to attempt to master their contents in the limited time sight-seers are generally able to devote to a stroll through them. All the world knows it is one of the most headachey things in the world to spend a couple of hours among the miles of galleries in the British Museum; and the South Kensington Museum is becoming almost as confusing a place of amusement. We may have half-hours with the different departments, however, without coming away with that sense of mental prostration which invariably attends any attempt to “do” the museum in one afternoon. There is one room in it, but not of it, which always throws open its doors free of charge—the Museum of the Commissioners of Patents, in which a whole Noah’s Ark of machines and models meets the eye of the visitor. This exhibition is totally distinct from the South Kensington Museum, and only occupies a room temporarily until a building is erected by the Commissioners with the 90,000l. and upwards they have in hand for that purpose.
In taking our survey of the riches of invention which meet the eye on every hand, let us first glance at its curiosities. In a glass case at the top of the room are several worm-eaten wooden pieces of machinery, which do not look unlike portions of Dutch clockwork, on a large scale. On the foundation of these crumbling fragments the great staple of English manufacture has been built—these are the original spinning and carding machines of the barber Arkwright. When he used to leave his basin and his lather to plot and plan wheels and cogs, his wife used to scold him for not attending to his business,—if that old dame could have seen in a dream the mighty results these ugly-looking engines were destined to give rise to in the course of a century—could see the millions of slaves enthralled to grow cotton for its delicate fingers to spin—could see the fleets of ships they called into existence to supply it with food—could see the great port of Liverpool they had created, the great city of palaces, Manchester, which they had built, the enormous fortunes which they had earned, and the comfort they had conferred on millions,—she would have dreamed a dream, which surpasses anything related in the Arabian Nights, and with the addition that the dream was destined to come true. Let us make our bow, therefore, to those worm-eaten old engines, and be grateful that their inventor had a mind superior to taking his customers by the nose. By way of contrast to the rude models of Arkwright we see close at hand a spinning machine of the present day. The clumsy beams have given place to light iron work, finished with the delicacy of a clock movement; Arkwright himself would scarcely recognise the transmutations his own germ has passed through in the course of a century. Not far off we see another of those great mother thoughts which have moved the world during the present century—there is the original model of the first locomotive that ever ran. Mr. Trevethic, in 1802, conceived the plan of substituting steam for horse-power on the Cornish tramways; and here is the original idea of a power which has since revolutionised society. The original locomotive had but two large wheels and a small guiding wheel, like a perambulator, and was called by the country people the Puffing Billy!
The machinery was confined to a cylinder, a piston-rod with a cross-tree head, which communicated the motion by two shafts to cranks on the wheels; this was the original germ which developed into the existing complicated locomotive, a model of which is placed opposite to it. Trevethic’s engine worked at the moderate pace of three and a half miles an hour, and carried coals only. George Stephenson improved upon this, and produced his engine, which carried passengers for the first time in 1829 on the Stockton and Darlington line, and continued working until the year 1850. This locomotive would have been an interesting addition to the machines in this room, but it is, perhaps, better where it is, mounted on a pedestal at the entrance to the Darlington station, where it takes its stand as the premier locomotive of the world. As it cannot be removed, an excellent photograph does duty for it, and clearly shows that its machinery was only an amplification of Trevethic’s idea, the piston-rods, cross-pieces, &c., working perpendicularly over the boiler. But a ​still greater rarity is the beam engine model made by Watt himself. This model works the steam valve, by what is termed the tippit motion. An additional interest attaches to it over and above the fact that it is one of the first ideas of the great motive power of the present day, inasmuch as Watt always kept it under his own observation in his drawing-room. It is but rudely finished, but the very fact that its great inventor’s eye dwelt upon it with pride and triumph invests it with a poetry all its own. Another beam engine, once belonging to Watt, with parallel motion attached to the piston-rod, is a better example of mechanical skill. We have not far to look for the first germ of steam navigation. That huge model which appears to be a combination of two funnels and a number of chains working over wheels is the parent marine engine. As early as the year 1787, Patrick Miller, of Dalswinton, Scotland, engaged himself in making experiments with double and treble boats, which he propelled by means of wheels placed between them worked by manual labour; in the following year he induced one Symington, an engineer, at Wenlock Head, to apply to it a marine steam engine he had invented. This engine propelled the boat along Dalswinton Lake at the rate of five miles an hour. This was undoubtedly the first attempt ever made to use steam as the motive power in a vessel; although it was not the first practical steam-boat. The engine which belongs to the earliest history of that invention, is what is called an atmospheric engine, that is, the piston is raised by the action of steam, and then it is forced down by atmospheric pressure. The history of this curious parent of steam navigation is worth noting. After the trial in the boat, the engine was removed to Mr. Miller’s library, where it remained until his death in 1815; in 1828, it was sent by his son, packed in a deal case, to Messrs. Coutts & Co., in the Strand, where it remained until 1837, and finally it found its way to a plumber’s in Edinburgh, who flung it aside with the purpose of melting it. However, the model was rescued from destruction, and in 1855 was restored to its former working condition by Messrs. Penn & Son in 1857.
It is usually supposed that the boat made by Fulton, in America, was the first practical steamboat; but that honour must be transferred to Symington, who, in 1801, perceiving that his old engine was too complicated to work practically, completed a new one with the later improvements by Watt and others, and placed it on board the Charlotte Dundas, which was, in truth, the first practical steamboat. The paddle was still a problem which puzzled mechanicians. Its best form, so as to offer the least resistance on entering and leaving the water, engaged the skill of hundreds of thoughtful men, many of whose models are to be seen in the museum. But other minds were intent upon superseding the wheel altogether, and, at last, Captain Smith’s screw did so. We can all remember the fierce disputes there were among nautical men with respect to the relative powers of paddle versus screw—a dispute which was finally settled by the tournament which took place between her Majesty’s steamer Rattler, screw steamer, and the Electro, paddle-boat, both of equal size and power. They towed stern to stern, and the propeller dragged the paddle after her at the rate of two and a-half miles an hour. This victory seems to have put an end to all attempts to improve the paddle, and now human ingenuity seems concentrated upon the screw. The number of patents taken out for different forms of the propeller is something extraordinary, and the models in the museum are in themselves a curiosity. Every degree of pitch that can be got out of a spiral, would seem to be exhausted, and the favourite design of screw now appears to be modelled in the shape of a blade-bone. The screw of the Rattler, for instance, ten feet in diameter, looks like the remains of the scapulæ of some gigantic Ichthyosaurus. Thus we go on improving upon each other’s efforts, every one adding some trifling improvement until perfection is attained.
Five minutes’ walk through this museum is sufficient to satisfy me of the profundity of the remark that “it is society that invents.” Let us take the subject of steam as a motive power, and let us see how long the idea has been before the world. Here, on the walls, we find a coloured drawing of Hero’s steam-engine invented 130 years before Christ! We can scarcely conceive that whilst Pan was still young, and whilst great was Diana of the Ephesians, the thin white vapour which now moves the world was even then dandled as a second infant Hercules. Hero’s idea of the application of the elastic force of the youthful giant was confined to simply projecting it against the resisting medium of the air—a hollow spindle connecting with two arms turned in opposite directions being filled with steam, the two jets acting on the air, gave the simple machine a revolving action. What centuries of thought lie between this and the great engine of the Leviathan steamer, a model of which is to be found in this room.
In these centuries we find the names of Solomon De Caus, Giovanni Branca, Torricelli, the Marquis of Worcester, Denis Papin, Thomas Savery, Thomas Newcomen, and Watt, to say nothing of the host of inventors who have added improvements in the present century. All of these studious men have nursed the mighty infant through the ages, until its limbs present their present gigantic proportions; and yet we say, familiarly enough, that steam is still in its infancy, and, without doubt, the New Zealander, could he exhume the museums of science of his day, will be able to read a list of improvers of steam as numerous as those we have already had.
Another great element of our present civilisation is beginning to make signs of its existence in this museum. We allude to the electric telegraph. Bakewell’s Copying Machine is one of the most interesting of this class, as it brings before the public eye the means that can be employed to write with a pen thousands of miles in length. If the Atlantic cable were in working order, for instance, a man through its instrumentality could sit down to write a letter in London, and feel certain that a fac-simile of his handwriting was at the same moment coming out of the telegraph office at New York. The manner in which ​this astounding machine works is as follows. The message is originally written on a conducting material, such as tin foil, with resin or some non-conducting ink. Over the face of this letter, which is placed on a cylinder, a point of metal revolves—this point is in connection with the conducting wire; at New York say, a piece of chemically prepared paper is placed on a like cylinder to receive the message; both cylinders are made to move round by clockwork. As the point at this end of the wire passes over the non-conducting resin writing no current passes, hence the point which moves synonymously with it at New York does not change the colour of the paper, but all the other surface of the writing tablet being a conductor, the currents pass and deepen its colour by chemical action on the far-distant recording tablet. The receiver thus obtains a perfect fac-simile of his correspondent’s handwriting done in white upon a blue ground. Specimens of this electrical handwriting are placed beside the telegraphic machine, and afford an admirable example of the caligraphy of the lightning pen.
The great practical puzzle of the present day—submarine telegraphy—endeavours to find its solution in dozens of different specimens of electric cables. When it is remembered that the problem to be solved is to produce some envelope which shall perfectly isolate and protect a conducting wire, running for thousands of miles, as the Atlantic cable for instance does; when it is further remembered that a fault in the covering material of the wire only as big as a pin-hole speedily becomes enlarged to the size of a sixpence by the burning action of the electric fluid passing out into the water; when, again, we find the gutta-percha, with which cables are covered, is liable to the attacks of insects, to be abraded by rubbing on sharp rocks; and when we find that in shallow water cables are always liable to be dragged up by ships’ anchors, the difficulties of making them electrically secure are indeed immense. Hence hundreds of patents have been taken out to accomplish the desired end, and thousands of miles of ruined cable, representing some two millions of money, now lie at the bottom of the ocean, subjects of great curiosity no doubt to the fishes.
We have been noticing hitherto different forms of the great inventions which have changed the face of society within the last quarter of a century; but the museum does not shut its doors to ingenuity employed in even the smallest objects. Here, for instance, is a collection of ancient and modern locks,—some of Chinese, some Indian, and some Egyptian origin, all giving testimony to man’s familiarity with this little instrument before the Christian era. In these, all the leading features of the tumblers in our best locks are to be found. The Indian padlock may be said to depend upon its security for its moral influence! It is made in the form of a bird, representing the Hindu deity Garuda. The works are of the most trumpery kind; but it is supposed to owe its security to a fear of the vengeance of the deity whose image it represents. As a pendant to this moral lock, are the keys poetical, which once gave freedom to Mary Queen of Scots from Lochleven Castle.
Sewing machines of all kinds are here, of course; but we were struck with an invention calculated, we think, to give relief to the needlewoman in a still more marked manner. A machine to mend stockings has always struck us as a great desideratum: our inventor, however, professes to accomplish his object in a more expeditious manner. Noting that stockings wear out only in two places, at the toes and heel, he manufactures these pieces at a cheap rate, in order that they may be pieced on at home.
Another ingenious man has patented a sweeping brush, which runs along the carpet on rollers, and collects all the dust in a covered box. The advantages of this machine are, that it does its work without scattering the dust on the furniture; therefore the housemaid need not cover it up while pursuing her cleansing work.
Another individual, who still further labours to ease the domestic servant, exhibits a patent for peeling potatoes and apples, and for mincing meat; and the gas engineers show working models of different gas stoves, which supersede the use of coal fires altogether.
The introduction of new materials, and the cheapening of old ones, has given rise to their applications in articles with which their use would, on à priori grounds, appear totally inadmissible. Here, for instance, is a glass pump, working with an india-rubber valve; and it seems strong enough to resist any ordinary rough usage. Close at hand is a mangle, the bed and rollers of which are made of the same fragile material.
The introduction of india-rubber has, we know, revolutionised whole trades, and the glass-cases in the museum are filled with specimens of the purposes to which, under different forms, it is applied.
Sedulously masticating a piece of india-rubber, in order to make bladder-pops in our school-days, how little did we dream that the sticky mass was destined to play the part in the world it has done during the last quarter of a century. The many waterproofing purposes to which Messrs. Mackintosh have applied it, we are all familiar with, and the change which takes place in its nature on the application of a little sulphur, we also know; but the public, unless they visited the museum, would scarcely dream of the extent to which its consequent increased resiliancy has caused it to displace the use of steel in the form of springs, and of packing of all kinds, in order to make air-tight joints.
Yet another change is induced in this Protean material: by simply baking it, we get what is termed ebonite by the Messrs. Silver, its discoverers and patentees. This substance has all the appearance of jet, with this advantage, that it is tough instead of brittle; hence its applicability to a thousand uses in the arts and sciences. We see here chains which cannot be told from the best jet, combs, paper knives, statuettes, anything, in short, which can be moulded, and requires a high finish and polish. These specimens of the manufactures carried on at “Silver Town,” in the Isle of Dogs, are full of the deepest interest, and prove how quickly many of our oldest established trades may be prostrated by the discovery of some new material, or the chemical change which may ​be induced by scheming men in an old one. Not the least attractive feature in this museum is the collection of portraits of great inventors. The marked individuality in every countenance is very observable. But these are the lineaments of the famous and fortunate discoverers. The philosopher must in his own mind draw a picture of the amount of care and struggle represented by the great mass of patents in this room. Of the many years spent in efforts which have only terminated in the total impoverishment of the thoughtful toilers, of the many hopes blasted, of the castles in the air that have been transformed to dismal prisons, we do not see here the expression on the canvas, but be sure they have existed, and will exist as long as there remains in man an irresistible impulse in the path of progress, and a God-like energy to pursue it at all cost and sacrifice.
A. W.