The Story of Time

Browsing the Digital Gallery of the New York Public Library I found a collection of cigarette cards, issued by tobacco manufacturers as an added incentive to buy their product. On one of these cards we see a drawing of a longcase clock (the tall, standing type also known as grandfather clock) on a landing, with a riddle: ‘When is a clock on the stairs dangerous?’ The answer is printed on the back of the card: ‘When it runs down and strikes one’.

Cigarette card (image New York Public Library Digital Gallery)

Back of cigarette card (image New York Public Library Digital Gallery)

Jokes aside, longcase clocks can be dangerous, as one of the last Australian survivors of the Great War found out. When he died aged 106, the Daily Telegraph obituary had this lurid detail: two years earlier he had become trapped under his own grandfather clock when pulling up the weights. What an unexpected assailant for a veteran soldier! An AHS member sent me the clipping, after a neighbour of his had had the same misfortune. The lesson: make sure your longcase clock is firmly fixed to the wall.

Corporal Ted Smout, one of the last Australian survivors of the Great War

A detail from his obituary in the Daily Telegraph of 12 July 2004.

Of course, there may be situations where you simply don’t have time to do that. In his latest monthly column ‘Diary of a clock repairer’ in Clocks Magazine, Robert Loomes writes how he delivered a restored grandfather clock to a house in the countryside. Just as he finished setting it up, a squirrel ran into his trouser leg (you couldn’t make it up). Quite understandably, he stumbled and fell, and the assembled clock was dashed to pieces.

In September 2010, an AHS member in the Canterbury region in New Zealand wrote to me: ‘It was a sad day for unsecured longcases last Saturday. There was a major earthquake in Christchurch and at least two friends who had yet to screw new acquisitions to the wall had them tossed across the room and smashed.’ At my request, he wrote a short piece about it for the journal, and supplied a photo of one of the damaged clocks. Sadly, five months later a second, more destructive earthquake hit Canterbury, causing massive destruction and killing 185 people. In that light, it would have been insensitive to print the piece about damaged clocks. Fortunately I could just withdraw it before the journal went to the printer.

A 30 hour painted dial longcase which stood in a house close to the epicentre of the first Canterbury earthquake of September 2010. It was pitched forward, the movement smashing the hood. Fortunately the dial was undamaged and the clock could be repaired.

And speaking of earthquakes: have you ever seen a turret clock dial torn in half?

What was left of a clock tower in Finale Emilia in Italy after an earthquake hit the region on 20 May 2012.

If you live in the UK or the Republic of Ireland, I hope you enjoyed the bank holiday earlier this week. Perhaps you went with family or friends to one of the many great museums with horology collections.  For bank holidays we can thank the remarkable Victorian polymath, John Lubbock (later Lord Avebury), who was the subject of a fascinating Royal Society conference I attended recently.

John Lubbock, Baron Avebury, c.1870 (© Science Museum / SSPL)

Lubbock is usually associated with the preservation of Britain’s ancient monuments such as Avebury. In 1882 his landmark Ancient Monuments Act was passed.  But this was not nostalgia – Lubbock believed the relics of the past helped us understand our own progress, and he was about as modern as you could get in the late nineteenth century.

It was in electricity that Lubbock truly blazed a trail, a story I’ve recently been researching.  Many in the AHS are interested in electrical timekeeping, a subject with more than a century and a half of history, and the place of the electrical industries in this story is crucial.

In 1882, the same year that he guided his ancient monuments bill to completion, Lubbock also sponsored the Electric Lighting Bill, and became a director of Thomas Edison’s offshoot company formed to bring electric lighting to Britain.  His firm financed and founded the world’s first public electric power station, on Holborn Viaduct, and the following year he steered through the merger of Edison and Swan, Britain’s two pioneering electrical companies.

The place of electricity in timekeeping, Wireless World, 1931

Lubbock once gave a lecture praising the work of William Cooke, Charles Wheatstone, Alexander Bain and Louis-Francois-Clement Breguet, amongst others. Electricians, yes, but horologists too.

So if, on your bank holiday museum trip, you saw clocks by any of the electrical pioneers, it is worth thinking of the role John Lubbock played in creating the modern electrical world – and in creating a world that values the relics of the past. And you can also thank him for giving you the day off.

 

Tokei no bansho adjusting the evening bell, Isoda Koryusai 1760-1780 (BM ref. 1906,1220,0.87)

From the first appearance of the clock inJapanwhen the Spanish Jesuit priest, St Francis Xavier, arrived with gifts for the Emperor including at least on clock in 1551 the story of mechanical timekeeping in that country has been an intriguing one and one which lasted until the end of theEdodynasty in 1873. From 1612 when the Europeans were expelled fromJapanand the country was closed to outside influences, the Japanese clockmakers were on their own for over 250 years. What they produced in terms of clocks was indeed ingenious.

First of all, how was time measured inJapanin that period? Take the hours of darkness and divide those up into six equal parts. Then take the hours of daylight and also divide those up into six equal parts and there you have it. Clearly if the day is divided in this way, the length of the daylight periods and those of darkness will vary throughout the year except at the equinoxes when all the hours will be equal and equivalent to two hours of European time.

Unfortunately, mechanical clocks like to keep equal unchanging hours as best they can. So, what did the Japanese clockmakers do in circumstances where they had no access to what was going on in far distant Europe at the time?

Three quite effective methods were devised to get round the problem:- 

1. to have two separate oscillators in the form of weighted swinging bars known as foliots with adjustable weight to change the rate of the clock.
2. to have moveable markers either on a round dial or on a flat bar, depending on the type of clock.
3. to have a series of plates, usually fourteen which would be changed periodically depending on the time of year.

In all three types the time indication would have to be adjusted twice per month.

Lantern clock with double foliot, early-mid 18th century (BM ref. 1958,1006.2040)

 

Pillar clock with movable indicators and changeable plates, mid-19th century. (BM ref. 1975,1202.1). NB The bottom movable numeral is missing and one in the middle has slipped, otherwise they are indicating equal time. The plate is for a period of short days and long long nights

 

Table clock with balance control and movable time indicators on the circular dial, early 19th century. (BM ref. 1958,1006.2037)

When it came to style, there were basically three types of clock in Japan:- 

1. the stand or lantern clock, weight driven and either mounted on the wall or placed on a stand.
2. the table clock, designed to be placed on tables or on a suitable place in an alcove.
3. the pillar clock. Specifically made to hang on the thin wooden pillars which made up the framework of the inner paper wall of the house. 

Hosokawa Hanzo Yorinao, The Illustrated Compendium of Clever Machines, 1796 (BM ref. 1998,0218,0.55.1-3)

Lantern clock with single foliot visible beneath the bell and a lacquered stand, late 17th century (BM ref. 1958,1006.2165)

In the early period, the oscillating foliot was used as the timekeeping element, a single one in the earliest clocks and a double in the later, more sophisticated examples. As the technology progressed, pendulums or oscillating spring balance wheels were used – a larger form of the device found in mechanical watches. 

Such clocks were only owned by the wealthy and were perhaps more used and status symbols as they were to tell the time and organise the household.

Old clocks and watches are fascinating even without knowing how they work, but just a simple explanation provides a much deeper appreciation.

The timekeeping function of mechanical timekeepers can be explained as just five elements;

1 – Energy Source

All machines, including timekeepers, need energy to work. The energy is usually stored in a weight or spring. When it is wound, energy is transferred from our muscles and into the driving weight (as it moves up against the force of gravity) or the mainspring (as it tightens-up). This energy is released into the timekeeper as the weight drops or the mainspring unwinds.

A hooded wall clock by Edward East, London, c.1665 now at Belmont House, Kent. It has two driving weights - one for the timekeeping mechanism and one for the the hour striking

A mainspring coiled in its barrel

2 – Wheels

An interconnected series of toothed wheels and pinions, known as a train, transmits the energy through the timekeeper. The energy source moves slowly and the wheel at the furthest end of the train moves quickly. This is the opposite of a car gearbox, where the engine revs quickly and the wheels on the road rotate more slowly.

Two trains of wheels (timekeeping & striking), of a Japanese stand/lantern clock, anon., 17th/18th century (British Museum object ref, 1958,1006.2165)

3 – Escapement

The escapement is connected to the quickly moving end of the train of wheels. Like a turnstile which allows one spectator through at a time, the escapement allows one wheel tooth to pass through (or “escape”) at a time. Without it, the wheels would whizz until the weight hit the floor. The ticking of a timepkeeper is the sound of the escapement stopping a wheel tooth.

A verge and crownwheel escapement, atop a longcase clock movement by Ahasuerus Fromanteel, London, c.1665 (British Museum object ref. 1958,1006.2099)

A platform escapement, seen here (as typically) fitted to a 19th century carriage clock. It works even if the clock is moved, making it useful for portable clocks

4 – Controller

The controller is connected to the escapement – it controls the rate at which it allows the teeth to pass through. As each tooth passes the escapement, it gives the controller a little push to keep it going. A common controller is a pendulum, which is just a hanging weight – give it a push and gravity makes it swing, at a steady rate. Because gravity is very constant, pendulums are great for good timekeeping.

An early pendulum timepiece, by J Bernard van Stryp, Antwerp, c.1660 (British Museum object ref. 1991,1008.1)

5 – Indicator

The part of the timepkeeper that tells us the time. Most familiar are hands on a dial. A clock striking a bell gives an aural indication of time – sometimes from many miles away.

"Big Ben", the bell at Westminster, indicates time not only to those chaps standing right next to it, but to a good part of central London as well

Not just hands, but fingers and arms too! Anon., Swiss movement, c.1960 (British Museum object ref. 1987,1012.18)

These five elements apply to (almost!) all mechanical timekeepers from the most ancient to the modern. They can vary wildly, but are there if you look!

PS This superb website has interactive animations showing how escapements (and some other horological bits) work.

I am spending every waking minute at present researching and writing about Smiths, owner of the English Clock Systems marque (ECS), Just now I came across an article about ECS in the March 1952 in-house Smiths magazine, and thought it worth sharing some of the accompanying images. Based on surviving clocks, ECS is perhaps now best known for: a range of master and slave clocks, similar in concept to the Synchronome; synchronous public clocks; and process timers (e.g. darkroom clocks), which often turn up on eBay.

I don’t think any pictures of the inside of the original ECS works on Wharfdale Road, King’s Cross, have been published in a long time, so here we go, with a small selection. The first shows Reg Boskett, showing off a modern clock dial for exterior use. In the next shot, Dolly Etheridge is shown operating a capstan lathe – Dolly joined the firm in 1942, and was also a competition dancer!

Dolly Etheridge machining

Reg Boskett, Exterior Clock Dept

The firm’s original business focused on importing and installing Ericsson time recorders, but little is reported of the time recorders manufactured in fairly large numbers by ECS all the way through to the 1970s. Another shot shows Jimmy James, an old-timer from the firm’s beginnings, in the time recorder department, with an array of movements.

Jimmy James, Time Recorder Dept

The final shot shows the most sought-after object, the ECS master clock, in the main assembly shop, with Jack Horsfall, foreman, using his Avometer to set-up the series resistance. At the time all these pictures were taken, the firm still had a successful future ahead of it, but in less than thirty years its market was eroded, and it was absorbed by Blick in 1980.

Jack Horsfall, Main Assembly

Martin Ridout, webmaster for the AHS, is also our resident expert on the English Clock Systems (ECS) marque. The current state-of-the-art knowledge appears on his web-site and is distilled in two technical papers published by the society’s Electrical Group, Nos. 68 and 82. Click here for details of the group and a full index of its papers. With luck, my continuing research will throw up some more flesh for Martin to add to the tale.

My previous blog was about the sundial column at Seven Dials in central London. It is a reconstruction, erected in the 1980s to replace a column that had been there since 1694 but was taken down in 1773. Popular legend has it that it had been ruined by a search for treasure presumed to be buried under it. Perhaps more truthful is that it was removed because the place had become a meeting-point for riff-raff.

Whatever the reason, it was demolished and its remains landed in an architect’s garden in Addlestone, Surrey, southwest of London. But fifty years later it was given a new lease of life in nearby Weybridge. The column was erected by public subscription in 1822 in memory of Frederica, the Duchess of York (1767-1820) who had been a popular local benefactress. It was decided that the dial stone was too heavy to cap it. A ducal coronet was used instead and the base inscribed to the Duchess. Two centuries later, the York Column at Weybridge still stands on what is named Monument Green. 

The column at Weybridge

Inscription on other side of base

Inscription on base of column at Weybridge

The original late 17^th-century dial stone was used as a mounting block, to help the young or elderly or infirm to mount and dismount a horse or cart – not the best way to preserve a finely sculpted object. But this too has survived. More than three centuries old, and much the worse for wear, it lies to the west side of Weybridge Library. A plaque explains the historical significance of what to the average passer by must seem a very unassuming bit of stone. 

The dial stone at Weybridge, another angle

The dial stone at Weybridge

My thanks go to AHS member Hugh Cockwill who lives nearby and took the photos at my request. 

In 1947, the British chronicler of timekeeping, Donald de Carle, wrote the following tribute to American engineer Warren Marrison: ‘it is to him we are indebted for the most accurate timekeeper in the world.’

Marrison worked at the Bell Telephone Laboratories with J.W. Horton. And in 1927 they had made the first quartz clock. It was a game-changer.

Warren Marrison, pioneer of quartz crystal research, pictured in Donald de Carle, British Time (London, 1947)

Warren Marrison, pioneer of quartz crystal research, pictured in Donald de Carle, British Time (London, 1947).

The electric clock pioneer Frank Hope-Jones sought to calm fears about the new technology, explaining in 1944 that ‘There is no reason to be afraid of the quartz clock. The trick whereby the vibration of a resonator can be maintained by a vacuum tube – the triode valve of our radio set – is easily learnt.’

He was right. By the end of the Second World War, Britain’s national timekeeping service was based on quartz clocks and today the technology underpins most modern time measurement.

But I think the quartz clock was more than just a new technology. It was one of a series of twentieth-century innovations that represented a new scientific politics, presented publicly as an alternative to nationalism that was ripping the world apart at the time.

If you want to know more, and to contribute to the debate, you might be interested in ‘Time for Everyone’, an international symposium being held at the California Institute of Technology, Pasadena, CA, on 7 – 9 November this year. I’ll be there speaking about quartz clocks and the public politics of science, but if that’s not to your taste, you’ll also be able to hear other AHS speakers including Chris McKay, Jonathan Betts and James Nye, as well as a host of fabulous presenters from around the world.

Watch in the form of a dog made by Jacques Joly, Geneva, c.1660 (B.M. Reg. No. 1888,1201.206)

Anyone with connections with the sea and ships will tell you that the dog watch is a period of service between 4.00pm and 8.00pm and that it is split into two watches, the first and second watches on board ship. Today there are any number of charms for bracelets and pendants in the form of dogs and I don’t doubt that there were all sorts for sale at the recent Crufts dog show.

How many would guess, however, that you could buy a watch in the form of a silver dog in the 17^th century. A unique example exists in the British Museum collection where a silver-cased watch in the form of a dog can be found. The watch maker was Jacques Joly who lived in Geneva between 1622 and 1694. He made this watch in about 1660. It was during the middle period of the 1600s that there was a fashion in watches looking like real and animate objects, tulips, fritillary flowers, sea urchins and so on.

The dial of the watch, on the bottom of the dog

The movement of the watch

If the little dog needed a friend, there is a charming little lion living in the collections in the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, this one with a movement made by Jean Baptiste Duboule. Of interest to both the dog and the lion is a little cast silver watch in the form of a hare which was stolen some years ago from the Musée de L’Horlogerie in Geneva. It has a movement inside signed, P. Duhamel, Geneva, and, as far as we know, a unique example of a watch case in that form.

I refer not to our society’s journal (which you can of course see by joining us!), but where can we see old clocks and watches?  I clearly remember dearly wanting to know this information when I first became properly interested in horology.  Now I am in the loop and am l pleased to be able to share some good tips.

There are the major collections in national museums; the British Museum, the Royal Observatory Greenwich and the Science Museum.  But since these are well-known, let their plugging end there for now and let instead us look at a couple of less well known collections from different ends of the country.

Starting down South, there is the finest private collection outside the institutions mentioned above – the Harris collection, in Belmont House in Kent.  The collection is wide ranging with examples from all the major clock making countries and periods, but there is a strong focus on England’s horological ‘Golden Age’.  Not only does the house have its collection, but it is a beautiful place to visit in its own right – it is a magnificent neo-classical house set in beautiful gardens in the North Downs.  So, if you have a partner who likes horology a little less than you, they will not be disappointed when joining you on a visit there.  Jonathan Betts, sometimes author on this very blog, conducts a clock tour at 1.30 pm on the last Saturday every month during the season.  Prior reservation is necessary – please see the Belmont House website for details.

Belmont House, Kent (photo Penny Mayes)

Just one of many treasures at Belmont - a hooded wall clock by Edward East, London c.1665

Now, heading up North, another great place to visit is Fairfax House in York.  Fairfax Houses houses the collection of Noel Terry (grandson of the founder of the confectionery firm), one of the finest private collections of the twentieth century.  Again, this House has much more to offer than just clocks and watches and of course it is bang in the middle of York, a city worth a visit in its own right.  The house is open every day except Mondays for most of the year – do check their website.

Fairfax House, York - "The finest Georgian town house in England" (photo Fairfax House, York)

The saloon of Fairfax House - spot the clock! (photo Fairfax House, York)

There are more collections to tell of, which can follow in a later post.  Keep reading!

In November, David Rooney mentioned the Venner time switches in telephone kiosks. This prompted wheels to whir in my brain and I went hunting in my ‘reserve collection’ for something I acquired many years ago, by chance.

Venner workshop ledger

Unfortunately, the history of the firm as presently researched is somewhat sketchy. If anyone is interested in doing so, here is a workshop ledger from Venner, c.1934 onwards. It is a systematically arranged in-house descriptive and photographic catalogue of several hundred ‘specials’, produced from the early 1930s to the late 1940s. Every item had a unique code, all indexed, and most items have a fine quality photograph, with a scale included – these people meant business, and they were perfectionists.

Type 99567 special time delay relay

Venner master clocks are finely finished, but this meticulous approach extended to machinery that would probably be invisible throughout its life. As often in the mid-twentieth century, when electro-mechanics were relied on and before integrated circuits, the requirements for accurate timing and switching, perhaps with some programming, necessitated significant mechanical and engineering ingenuity. It is telling that each description starts with ‘special’.

Typical description of a ‘special’

From 1938, we learn that the Royal Physical Society needed a system for lecturers, which would switch a green lamp to amber, one minute before time, and then to red when their allotted slot expired.

Special for the Royal Physical Society

In all it is a marvellous piece of ephemera and testament to the very high standards set by manufacturers of mysterious clockwork black boxes which are worthy of closer study.

Venner workshop ledger