The
Schoenhut “Mountain"was made in
Philadelphia by Albert Schoenhut ca. 1890.
He made it for his friend, Jacob Henry Supper, as a Christmas
morning surprise for the Supper children.
The Mountain
combines the elements of a clockwork toy and a German Putz
display. (The buildings,
figures, and animals were imported from Germany.)
The base is a sturdy, wood platform, painted dark green, and
finished with a wood molding. Rising
out of this floor are two mountain tops with a trestle bridge in between
for two little trains that chug across it in opposite directions.
A Medieval- style castle sits on one mountain top, a monastery on the other.
The 3’x 41/2’x 2’ form is constructed of wood, overlaid
with crinkled cardboard and large pieces of bark.
The entire surface was sprayed or coated with brown and green
colors, then sprinkled with glitter, which now just barely shows.
Moss was tucked into the hills and hollows of the mountainside.
Within the frame support, are wood gears with grooves that hold
the strings that, when the gears rotate, move the objects that are
attached to them.
In all, there are 9 of these animated objects, including the
waterwheel that turns as water falls into the cups from a hidden
container above. Originally
the Mountain was probably run by clockwork—it has much in
common with
the “Living Pictures” that Schoenhut was
making during the 1890’s. Later,
into the 20th century, it was powered by a spring drive, then
coming into use, similar to a Victrola
drive. Still later in its
history, it was electrified and run by a Gilbert Erector Set motor,
installed in a small space near the top.
There are 9 gears, each attached to an object.
To watch the gears in motion, each disc turning and moving its
own string, propelling the action, while the music box plunks out an
old-world tune, is almost as magical as viewing the scene from the
front.
The Mountain didn’t
survive its past in this condition, however, but functions now as a
result of talented and sensitive people along the way.
Beginning with Patricia Paxton in Christiansburg, VA, whose
uncle’s grandfather was Jacob Henry Supper.
Pat contacted a member of the club to tell her of the
“three-dimensional mountain,” in need of repair, that she had stored
in the rafters of her garage. Betty
O’Sullivan wrote back to her to send a picture and this “very old
photo” was taken to the convention in Williamsburg in 1999. At
the convention, Carl Brummer saw it and,
being a “bit of a history buff,” as well as “nutty,” bought it,
taking on the huge restoration project.
The piece was in several parts, all needing cleaning, repairing,
and re-assembling. But,
most important, the original sections, the works, the figures,
buildings, objects were all there.
Carl writes to me now, “I did quite a bit of restoration on
these figures to make them work, to replace broken parts, etc.
I cleaned the mountains and the village houses and castles etc.
with conservators soap and with a Q tip (I think I used more than one,
HA!). The belt that moves
the train was replaced. Took
quite awhile to find a replacement material that would do the job….
The water parts also needed work as well as the whole drive mechanism in
the back.” What I saw at
the Hunt Valley convention, a year later, was a remarkable display piece
with 19th century German buildings, animals, and people, 4
working mechanical figures, a windmill that turned, a boat that rocked,
a waterfall that revolved, two trains that passed each other on a
bridge, and the village, with citizens going about their occupations, a
pond, sheep, chickens, even storks to nest in the castle towers. Of
course, I fell in love.
Getting it home was a
challenge, not only because of its bulky size, but because of the very
delicate balance between gears and strings.
Not upsetting this balance is critical:
a perfect tension is required to activate the parts successfully.
But Carl and John eased it into our Van and when we got home, John and I
slid it, very carefully, up the stairs on blankets to its place in the 2nd
floor loft. What I thought was the end of the struggle turned out to be
just past the beginning. Carl
had warned us that the main problem we’d have would be slippage, the
strings loosening up and slipping off the gears.
And, indeed, that did keep happening.
We eventually came up with the idea that if we replaced the
strings with “flexible metal belts,” the kind that came with the old
Erector Sets, the connections would stay taut and maintain the motion
without slippage. A friend of mine in the Antiques business was
fascinated by the Mountain and offered to do the replacing.
He spent many, many hours in concentration and frustration but
finally finished. All the
parts worked. It had been a
great idea. There was no
slippage ….but something else developed. The trains, instead of moving
along at a steady pace, began to lurch forward, slow for awhile, then
lurch forward again. Disappointed and disheartened, I would,
nevertheless, live with it.
After a few months, I
gathered the energy to try something else. Joe
Freeman, master restorer of antique mechanical and clockwork toys, was a
short drive away, in Allentown. John
and I got out the blankets and went through the stressful process,
again, of moving the Mountain. Joe
was happy to work on it –he
recommended changing
the mechanism back into
strings, using a tough, unyielding cotton.
And especially exciting to me was that he thought he’d be able
to hook up the Swiss music box, a surprising discovery which had
miraculously survived the years, lying by itself in the dark of one of
the compartments. Six months later, we picked the Mountain up, running
smoothly, and now, to music.
The story should end
here, but there is one more (and I hope the last) chapter.
After a short period of cautious pleasure, enjoying the Mountain
and all its moving parts, a low, droning hum began, growing louder each
time I turned it on. That’s
right: the little Gilbert
motor was giving out. I had
a lifetime guarantee from Joe Freeman, but that would mean hauling it up
there again, with all the potential for damage.
I was at a loss by now. Where
to find someone to work on such a delicate and ancient piece.
Could it ever be fixed?
I lamented all this to the electrician, doing some work for us,
and he said, dramatically, that there was “ only
one man in Lancaster who could fix it.”
So I called him, Fred Kepner, retired
electrician. Fred was
intrigued too, by the challenge, and got to work.
To condense the next series of trials, he first tried to rebuild
the Gilbert, then installed a larger old
motor, then a smaller new motor, then a new transformer: all
had problems. He finally
found an old sewing machine motor that was small enough to fit in the
cramped space, yet allowed for the gradually increasing speed needed for
smooth motion. Success at
last, but then, on the very same day, the “gear box” wore out.
I had no idea what this was, but Fred took it home and, a few
days later, came back with another one, re-using the original box, but
upgrading the gear. All
this, the final effort, had taken over two years, and was completed just
before the convention in October.
The Mountain, though not a production toy, shows the
same characteristics as the toys Schoenhut
would later produce—the Humpty-Dumpty
Circus, the dolls, Teddy’s Adventures in Africa, the variety of
playthings—all were made with great ingenuity, imagination, and a
wonderful sense of fun. I’m grateful to all the people who helped
preserve this unique and delightful piece.
