The AHS Blog

Journal Volume 35 Issue 1

Stopping the clock after death

This post was written by Peter de Clercq

In a previous post I included an opera scene, in which a woman mentions (sings!) that at times she stops all the clocks in her house. She dreads getting old and wants time to stand still.

One reader told me this reminded him of a poem by W.A. Auden which begins:

'Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.

'Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

'Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

'Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.'

But here the motive for stopping the clocks is different. Someone has died, and stopping the clocks in the house of the deceased, silencing them, is an old tradition, similar to closing the blinds or curtains and covering the mirrors. The clock would be set going again after the funeral.

Some people believe stopping the clock was to mark the exact time the loved one had died. The subject was discussed here by members of the NAWCC, the National Association of Watch and Clock Collectors in America.

The French film Jean de Florette, set in the Provence between the wars, contains such a clock-stopping scene. The film is made after a novel by Marcel Pagnol, from which the following quotes are taken.

Clock in background
Clock in background

Jean, an outsider, inherits a house with surrounding land and hopes to make a living there. But two locals, who covet his land, secretly block a source, cutting off his vital water supply.

In despair, Jean uses dynamite to create a well, but he dies as a result of the explosion (chapter 37). The doctor, taking his pulse, 'listened for a long time in a profound silence emphasized by the ticking of the grandfather clock', but the man had died.

Then one of the two devious locals, who was in the room, 'crossed himself, walked around the funeral table on tiptoe, and stopped the pendulum of the grandfather clock with the tip of his finger'.

He then tells his comrade in arms 'Papet, I have just stopped the grandfather clock in Monsieur Jean’s house' – a way of saying: he is dead.

Stopping the clock
Stopping the clock

The three stills reproduced here are from that scene, which you can see in this short clip.

The clock is a typical Comtoise grandfather clock with a big flower pendulum.

"I just stopped the clock"
“I just stopped the clock”
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100,000 more free images

This post was written by David Rooney

When I got an email from the Wellcome Trust which began, ‘we have some very important news to announce’, it certainly got my attention.

And they were right: it is very important news indeed, and I’m delighted to share it.

In my last post I talked about the recent release of a million images by the British Library. Already I’ve heard from colleagues and friends who say they have found new evidence amidst its vast collections that is crucial to support their research.

The news from the Wellcome Trust is the same. As of January this year:

'All historical images that are out of copyright and held by Wellcome Images are being made freely available under the Creative Commons Attribution (CC BY) licence. This means that they can be used and manipulated freely, for commercial or personal purposes, so long as the original source is acknowledged.'

You can download high-resolution files directly from their website. There are 100,000 images dating from as early as 1000 BCE. You can even get advice directly from Wellcome’s team of researchers, should you be having trouble finding what you need.

Like many in the AHS, I’m interested not only in clocks and watches themselves, but how horological machinery gets embedded in other technologies. So I searched for ‘clockwork’ and, rather than showing you the clockwork trephine (not safe for suppertime), here’s a clockwork picture of an itinerant dentist performing an extraction in the early 19th century. Ouch.

Clockwork picture of a dentist performing an extraction (Science Museum, London, Wellcome Images)
Clockwork picture of a dentist performing an extraction (Science Museum, London, Wellcome Images)

Whether you’re into automata like this, or medical technology, or astrology or philosophy or geology or anything else related to stories of time and its material culture, you’re sure to find something here to delight.

As I said last time, image banks such as this are invaluable treasure troves of historical evidence for researchers, whatever your subject. Serendipitous browsing leads to new leads and new ideas.

Huge thanks to Catherine Draycott and others at the Wellcome Trust (as well as the British Library) for making such a bold and generous decision to open this to everyone.

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The Battle of the Three Emperors – or the Battle of the Three Dates

This post was written by David Thompson

I was recently reading Dušan Uhlír’s book The Battle of the Three Emperors and I came across an intriguing fact about the battle of Austerlitz which took place on the 2nd December 1805 between the armies of Emperor Francis II of the Holy Roman Empire Empire and Tsar Alexander I of Russia against their invading enemy, Napoleon Bonaparte.

Napoléon at the Battle of Austerlitz, by François Gérard (Galerie des Batailles, Versailles)
Napoléon at the Battle of Austerlitz, by François Gérard (Galerie des Batailles, Versailles)

In Uhlír’s fascinating account of one of the most famous battles of the Napoleonic campaign, excepting Waterloo of course, he points out that the battle took place on a different day for each of the three armies.

For Francis II, the date was 2nd December 1805, for Alexander and the Russian army the date was 20th November and for Napoleon, Bonaparte it was 11th Frimaire year XIV.

Francis and his army were using the Gregorian calendar introduced in 1582, although it was not universally adopted throughout Europe – indeed, England didn’t change until 1752. Alexander was still using the old Julian calendar – the Russians did not change to the Gregorian calendar until 1918. Napoleon was using the French Revolutionary Calendar, introduced in 1793, but back-dated to September 1792 to mark the beginning of the new republic and each successive year numbered from then on.

It must have caused some confusion for the Austrians and the Russians when agreeing a date to face up to Napoleon and the French would have had to convert the traditional dates into their new scheme.

Emperor Francis II (1768 – 1835) Leopold Kupelwieser (Heeresgeschichtlichen Museum)
Emperor Francis II (1768 – 1835) Leopold Kupelwieser(Heeresgeschichtlichen Museum)
Tsar Alexander I (1777-1825)  Vladimir Borovikovsky (Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg)
Tsar Alexander I (1777-1825)  Vladimir Borovikovsky(Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg)
Napoleon Bonaparte (1769 - 1821), Jacques-Louis David (National Gallery of Art, Washington)
Napoleon Bonaparte (1769 – 1821), Jacques-Louis David(National Gallery of Art, Washington)
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…on the other hand

This post was written by Oliver Cooke

On the one hand we have simple, easy to use, single-handed dials. On the other hand, some dials are not so straightforward.

“Fan” clock, anonymous, possibly made in either Netherlands or England, c.1780 (British Museum No. 1958,1006.2174).  Note the enthusiastically-painted windswept trees and windswept bridge
“Fan” clock, anonymous, possibly made in either Netherlands or England, c.1780 (British Museum No. 1958,1006.2174). The clock is showing 10:29 – in one minute’s time the minute hand will fly-back to 30 on the left-hand side.  Note the enthusiastically-painted windswept trees and windswept bridge

This clock has 'fly-back' or 'retrograde' hands. The hands proceed clockwise as usual but when they reach the end of the scale, each will spring back and then immediately resume its count.

This design allows the dial to have twice the diameter of a circular dial within a given height. This, together with the semi-circular form, makes these clocks suitable for positioning over doorways and they were sometimes integrated within wall panelling.

Fly-back hands are still a popular feature in watches, although these are usually (but not always) the preserve of high-end watches.

Month-going sidereal and solar regulator by John De Lafons, Royal Exchange, London, c.1780 (British Museum No. 1998,0704.1)
Month-going sidereal and solar regulator by John De Lafons, Royal Exchange, London, c.1780 (British Museum No. 1998,0704.1)
Close-up of the dial, with hours top, minutes centre and seconds bottom.  The clock is showing 19:48:10 mean sidereal time on the main dial plate and 7:46:53 mean solar time on the discs
Close-up of the dial, with hours top, minutes centre and seconds bottom. The clock is showing 19:48:10 mean sidereal time on the main dial plate and 7:46:53 mean solar time on the discs

The dial of this regulator (that I have mentioned before for its escapement) has the typical features which facilitate the use of these clocks in observatories and laboratories. All hands are positioned on their own centres for disambiguation. The hours are relegated to a small subsidiary dial and only the minutes have a large hand, for accurate observations.

Less typically, however, this regulator indicates two different systems of time using only one set of hands.

It shows mean sidereal time against the numerals on the main dial plate and mean solar time against the small discs. A mean sidereal day is 23 hours 56 minutes and 4.1 seconds, i.e. it is about 4 minutes shorter than the 24 hour mean solar day. The discs rotate slightly faster than the hands so that after each day they have accrued the 4 minutes difference. This system is called a differential dial.

Having a clock show both sidereal and solar time might have been a convenience, but a respectable observatory might well be expected to have had separate regulators for providing the required times and so it is possible that this design may have been conceived rather for the use of the (wealthy) amateur.

“Bras en-l’air” watch with verge escapement, Anonymous, Swiss, c.1790 (British Museum No. 1958,1201.1797)
“Bras en-l’air” watch with verge escapement, Anonymous, Swiss, c.1790 (British Museum No. 1958,1201.1797)

This watch has not just hands, but arms and fingers too! It is a type of watch known as “bras en-l’air”, which translates as “hands in the air” (and certainly not “bras in the air” – which might apply another aspect of horology altogether). When the pendant is pushed the soldier raises his arms, holding pistols to point at minutes (left) and hours (right).

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An experiment in ‘florology’

This post was written by Rory McEvoy

Recently, I have been looking at the role of timekeepers in the history of science and whilst reading around the pre-pendulum era, happened upon a blog-worthy experiment conducted by Athanasius Kircher (1601/2-80).

Kircher, a German Jesuit polymath, applied the then known phenomenon of heliotropism as a method of timekeeping.

He thought that the daily motion of sunflowers as they followed the Sun was caused by magnetic influence and thus inferred that they could be usefully used as a clock. As can be seen in his magnificent illustration, Kircher planted the sunflower in a cork pot and floated it on water, providing a frictionless pivot, and inserted a pointer through the flower to indicate time against the annular chapter.

Kircher’s sunflower clock as illustrated in his 1643 study on magnetism, Magnes sive de arte magnetica opus tripartitum (full version available on Googlebooks)
Kircher’s sunflower clock as illustrated in his 1643 study on magnetism, Magnes sive de arte magnetica opus tripartitum (full version on Googlebooks)

Kircher noted that his clock was disturbed by the slightest of breezes and, when kept away from sunlight, it withered and its motion slowed. This, however, did not end the experiment. He tells us that he had the good fortune of meeting an Arab trader who happened to have amongst his aromatic wares a substance with similar horological properties to the sunflower.

The deal was struck and Kircher parted with his sundial signet ring for the horological stuff.

It has to be said that this episode is possibly a theatrical device to colour the account and introduce the use of sunflower seeds and root instead of the plant itself, but worth repeating – even if it’s just an excuse to show a beautiful horizontal sundial ring!

A signet ring similar to that described by Kircher can be seen at the Royal Observatory’s Time and Society Gallery (NMM ref. AST0531)
A signet ring similar to that described by Kircher can be seen at the Royal Observatory’s Time and Society Gallery (NMM ref. AST0531)

Today, we know that this diurnal motion is caused by sunlight and so Kircher’s clock could never have worked in the way intended, but one cannot help admire his ingenuity in applying a mystery of the physical world to tell the time. M. Becker’s 2011 time lapse movie shows that it is possible to use a flower as a twenty-four hour clock, but only in summertime at a latitude close to the north or south pole.

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Graveyards, clocks and bombs

This post was written by James Nye

Things end up in graveyards at the end of their lives, but monuments to the passing of much else can be found in other locations.

I live in West Norwood, home to one of the ‘magnificent seven’ London cemeteries.

West Norwood cemetery, Hollingsworth Works circled
West Norwood cemetery, Hollingsworth Works circled

On its eastern boundary lies the Park Hall Business Centre. This thriving modern enterprise occupies the former Hollingsworth Works of the Telephone Manufacturing Company (TMC).

This firm did just what its name suggests, but was also a prolific maker of industrial timekeeping systems, rented out under the name Telephone Rentals. TMC’s ‘TEMCO’ synchronous clocks are featured in the latest NAWCC bulletin.

Parkhall Business Centre, part of the Workspace Group
Parkhall Business Centre, part of the Workspace Group
Advertisement, Watch and Clockmaker (1934). The building has changed little since
Advertisement, Watch and Clockmaker (1934). The building has changed little since

TMC occupied the Dulwich site from the early 1920s, employing a large local workforce—1,600 by 1937. Workers from the other side of Norwood Road used to talk of ‘walking the wall’ to work, following the long cemetery flank wall, down Robson Road.

Front cover, available through the British Vintage Wireless Society
Front cover of Gerald Wells’ autobiography, available through the British Vintage Wireless Society

Involved in contemporary ‘hi-tech’, the factory was a natural wartime target—Gerald Wells’ extraordinary autobiography describes twenty-seven bombs falling on the cemetery, targeting TMC, but then the Luftwaffe became:

‘fed up with wasting bombs on Norwood Cemetery so they decided to get the TMC factory by lowering a large naval magnetic mine on a parachute over the building. My sister Margaret watched it come down from an upstairs window […] it knocked seven colours of s*** out of our little Congregational Church’ ( click for a bombsight map —work in progress).

So Hollingsworth Works survived, and TMC/TR had a more successful post-war life than many clock-related concerns.

Sample page, Technical Paper No. 83 (2012), from the EHG
Sample page, Technical Paper No. 83 (2012), from the EHG

You can learn much more about the company’s life and products from a superb paper by Derek Bird—these technical papers are a feature of EHG membership. Why not e-mail me to get on board? And put 7 September 2014 in your diaries—part of Lambeth History Month—when The Clockworks will offer a special locally-themed event, featuring TMC.

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Musical clocks

This post was written by Peter de Clercq

My previous post in this blog was on clocks in opera. How about opera in clocks?

The Handel House Museum is the London home where the composer George Frideric Handel lived from 1723 until his death in 1759. In the 1730s, Handel provided music for a series of musical clocks created by the watch and clockmaker Charles Clay.

These more than man-sized, elaborate pieces of furniture were fitted with chimes and/or pump organs that at the hour and every quarter played musical excerpts from popular operas and sonatas.

Until 23 February the Handel House Museum presents an overview of Clay’s clocks in an exhibition ‘The Triumph of Music over Time’. The centrepiece is a clock on loan from the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery; other clocks are presented as photos on text panels.

These panels are all on-line here where you can also listen to some of the music that Handel arranged for Clay’s musical clocks, including two pieces from his opera Arianna in Creta. So there you have it: opera in clocks.

Charles Clay’s musical clock, dated 1730, currently on display in the Handel House Museum, is a loan from the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery (photo courtesy of Birmingham Museums Trust)
Charles Clay’s musical clock, dated 1730, currently on display in the Handel House Museum, is a loan from the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery (photo courtesy of Birmingham Museums Trust)
Close-up of the Clay clock. In the painted and cast bronze relief below we see Father Time, with hourglass and scythe, overcome by the power of music, which is represented by Apollo with his lyre and a woman personifying music
Close-up of the Clay clock. In the painted and cast bronze relief below we see Father Time, with hourglass and scythe, overcome by the power of music, which is represented by Apollo with his lyre and a woman personifying music
The organ mechanism concealed in another of Clay’s musical clocks, which is at Windsor Castle. It plays arias from three of Handel’s operas (image kindly provided by Martin Goetze and Dominic Gwynn www.goetzegwynn.co.uk)
The organ mechanism concealed in another of Clay’s musical clocks, which is at Windsor Castle. It plays arias from three of Handel’s operas (image kindly provided by Martin Goetze and Dominic Gwynn www.goetzegwynn.co.uk)

Another 18th century maker of beautifully crafted musical clocks was George Pyke. A fine example, dated 1765, is on display at Temple Newsam House in Leeds.

Standing over 6 foot tall on its pedestal, it strikes the hours and has a pipe organ that plays eight tunes. The innards of the Pyke clock are shown below; more photos and details of the clock are here on the website of Brittany Cox, who has made a condition study of the clock and hopes one day to be able to restore it to its former glory.

The organ and the clockwork in the George Pyke musical clock of 1765 (photo courtesy of Brittany Cox)
The organ and the clockwork in the George Pyke musical clock of 1765 (photo courtesy of Brittany Cox)

Although a bit off topic – it is not a clock – you may like to know of a musical automaton that Brittany Cox restored to working order during her studies at the Clocks and Related Dynamic Objects Department at West Dean College. A miniature ship, a mere 15mm wide, rocks to and fro, as in a storm, while ‘God Save the King’ plays on a plucked comb; see and hear it here.

For this project Brittany was awarded the annual AHS prize for 2012. For a full description see this article which she wrote for our journal Antiquarian Horology .

The musical ship automaton mechanism after restoration, in a purpose-made shagreen covered silver box (photo series courtesy of Brittany Cox)
The musical ship automaton mechanism after restoration, in a purpose-made shagreen covered silver box (photo series courtesy of Brittany Cox)
The musical ship automaton mechanism before restoration (photo courtesy of Brittany Cox)
The musical ship automaton mechanism before restoration (photo courtesy of Brittany Cox)

With thanks to Ella Roberts, Communications Officer at the Handel House Museum, for her help.

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A million free images

This post was written by David Rooney

Just before Christmas, the British Library released over a million historical images from its printed collections onto the image-sharing website Flickr. The images are out of copyright and the library has made them available with a Creative Commons licence which, in short, encourages anybody to use, remix and repurpose them, so long as they respect a few ground rules.

This is a remarkable resource of imagery and will be a boon for anybody carrying out historical research – such as AHS members.

There are countless images of interest in this release, each one of which might augment an existing research project or prompt a new one. The beauty of archives such as this is the opportunity for lateral thinking. You might be researching a particular village, or writer, or building, or period. And you might find an image here that opens up new avenues of research.

The first four images I found are the result of searching for ‘clock’ or ‘clocktower’ – as you’d expect, lots of public clocks.

“ ... whether it be right or wrong!” from Richard Parkinson, The Old Church Clock, 1880 (British Library)
“ … whether it be right or wrong!” from Richard Parkinson, The Old Church Clock, 1880 (British Library)
“Clock tower at Aston Cross” from Robert Dent, The Making of Birmingham, 1894 (British Library)
“Clock tower at Aston Cross” from Robert Dent, The Making of Birmingham, 1894 (British Library)
“La famille Jacmart” from P. Berigal, L’Illustre Jaquemart de Dijon, 1832 (British Library)
“La famille Jacmart” from P. Berigal, L’Illustre Jaquemart de Dijon, 1832 (British Library)
“Clock tower at Aston Cross” from Robert Dent, The Making of Birmingham, 1894 (British Library)
“Clock tower at Aston Cross” from Robert Dent, The Making of Birmingham, 1894 (British Library)

But let’s say I’m interested in chronometers. Unfortunately there are no search returns for that word. But then I tried searching for ‘observatory’, and found this image.

“US Naval Centennial Exhibit 1876” from Naval Observatory, Narrative of the North Polar Expedition, 1876 (British Library)
“US Naval Centennial Exhibit 1876” from Naval Observatory, Narrative of the North Polar Expedition, 1876 (British Library)

It’s from a book on the North Polar Expedition, and it’s a photograph of marine chronometers on show in a US Navy centennial exhibit in 1876.

That led me to this catalogue of the objects exhibited. And on pages 79–81 there’s a remarkable and detailed description of the use of chronometers at the US Naval Observatory in the 1870s. Serendipitous discovery is a wonderful thing.

You’ll probably want to put aside an hour or two browsing these images – and a lot more time following the interesting leads they throw up! Happy hunting, and happy new year.

The sands of time

This post was written by David Thompson

Everyone is familiar with the egg timer, but just how far back in history do these glass timers filled with free-flowing material go?

The earliest known illustration of such a device exists in an Italian fresco dating from between 1337 and 1339 in the Palazzo Publico in Siena. The fresco is called ‘The Allegory of Good Government’ and in it, one of the figures can be seen holding a sand-glass.

Ambrogio_Lorenzetti_-_Allegory_of_Good_Government_-_Google_Art_Project2
Allegory of Good Government, Fresco by Ambrogio Lorenzetti (1285–1348), 1337-1339
Detail of the fresco, showing the figure holding a sand-glass
Detail of the fresco, showing the figure holding a sand-glass

Before modern glass making techniques developed, sand-glasses were made using two separate bulbs bound together around a disc with a hole for the ‘sand’ to pass through. Over the centuries all manner of different materials were tried in attempts to achieve a uniform free-flowing performance.

The duration of the timer depended firstly on the amount of ‘sand’ in the glass, and secondly on the size of the opening between the two containers. The two glasses were sealed together with wax and the joint covered and tightly bound. The biggest enemy for these glasses was humidiy – damp ’sand’ was bad for business.

A particularly fine example exists in the British Museum collections, although is has a rather dubious reputation.

composite glass with four separate glasses (British Museum No. 1958,1006.2454)
Composite glass with four separate glasses (British Museum No. 1958,1006.2454)
The other end, showing shield with fleur-de-lis
The other end, showing shield of France with the fleur-de-lys
View showing the coat of arms
View showing the coat of arms

It is a composite glass with four separate glasses in a beautiful ebony frame and each glass is designed to run for a different period, one quarter, one half, one three quarters and last a full hour. It even boasts a leather carrying case.

At one time it was said to have belonged to Mary Queen of Scots and indeed, at the top and bottom of the frame are reverse-painted glass discs bearing the royal shield of the Tudors and the shield of France with fleur-de-lys. The idea was that this glass was owned by Mary Queen of Scots and Francis II, king of France.

Unfortunately, the Tudor arms are from the wrong period and the lion rampant in the first quarter of the shield is the wrong way round. The leather case is also roughly embellished with the monogram MF for Mary and Francis.

In spite of its later enhancement, this is nevertheless a very fine example of a late 17th century glass.

A German multiple glass, dating from c.1750 (British Museum No. 1958,1006.2459).  A type often referred to as a pulpit timer from their use for timing sermons
A German multiple glass, dating from c.1750 (British Museum No. 1958,1006.2459). A type often referred to as a pulpit timer from their use for timing sermons
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On the one hand

This post was written by Oliver Cooke

The last of the five elements is the indicator, the part of the clock or watch that conveys the time.

Early clocks and watches typically only had a single, hour, hand. This was more than adequate for indicating the time as these foliot-controlled timekeepers would typically lose or gain at least quarter of an hour in a day. Minute and seconds hands only became truly useful with the vast improvement in timekeeping that came with introduction of the pendulum in 1657 and the balance spring 1675.

Tambour cased timepiece, Germany, ca. 1550 - 1570 (British Museum No. 1958,1201.2203).  Note the touch pins at the hours, allowing the time to be read unsighted, perhaps in darkness or perhaps under the tactfulness of one’s robes
Tambour cased timepiece, Germany, ca. 1550 – 1570 (British Museum No. 1958,1201.2203). Note the touch pins at the hours, allowing the time to be read unsighted, perhaps in darkness or perhaps under the tactfulness of one’s robes

However, the familiarity, simplicity and economy of the single hand meant they never became obsolete. Throughout the 18th century, pendulum-controlled longcase clocks with single hands were very popular in the provinces of England.

Dial of a thirty-hour longcase clock, Henry Payton, Bromsgrove 1754 (British Museum No. 2010,8029.62)
Dial of a thirty-hour longcase clock, Henry Payton, Bromsgrove 1754 (British Museum No. 2010,8029.62)

There were also some more interesting implementations of the single hand. This balance spring watch has a six-hour dial, instead of the usual twelve-hour dial. With only six hours dividing the circle it offers twice the resolution of a standard twelve-hour dial, thus going some way to making up for the lack of a minute hand.

A silver and tortoiseshell pair-case verge watch with six-hour dial, Francis Stamper, London, 1690-1700 (British Museum No. 1958,1201.481).  The dial requires the user to know which quarter of the day they are present in.  However, the basic concept is not unfamiliar - we all accept the standard twelve-hour dial which requires us to know the half of the day
A silver and tortoiseshell pair-case verge watch with six-hour dial, Francis Stamper, London, 1690-1700 (British Museum No. 1958,1201.481). The dial requires the user to know which quarter of the day they are present in. However, the basic concept is not unfamiliar – we all accept the standard twelve-hour dial which requires us to know the half of the day

Next, a single hand with a difference – it is telescopic. The hand extends and retracts to follow the contour of the oval dial, allowing the time to be read clearly. A fixed hand would fall short at the “XII” or “VI” positions, making it harder to read with accuracy.

Leather-covered silver pair-cased verge watch with extending hand by Bernard van der Cloesen, Hague, c.1700 (British Museum No. 1958,1201.56)
Leather-covered silver pair-cased verge watch with extending hand by Bernard van der Cloesen, Hague, c.1700 (British Museum No. 1958,1201.56)
The same watch, indicating a time neaer 12 o'clock
The same watch, indicating a time neaer 12 o’clock

Another form of single hand can be found on this Japanese pillar clock.

The pendulum controlled movement is at the top of the clock. Below it, the single, hour, hand is directly attached to the driving weight through a slot in the case. As the weight descends over the course of a day, it indicates the time against the linear scale of numeral plaques on the case. The plaques can slide, which allows their positions to be adjusted for the Japanese system of unequal hours.

Weight-driven pillar clock, Japan, 19th century (British Museum No. 1975,1202.1)
Weight-driven pillar clock, Japan, 19th century (British Museum No. 1975,1202.1)

Single handed watches continue to made by several manufacturers, such as this example owned by myself.

In practice, the time can only easily be read to the nearest five minutes (which is well within the capabilities of its modern movement). However, I find that this is good enough (at the the weekends at least!) and it is a most leisurely way to follow the time.

Wristwatch with single hand, Luch, Belarus, c.2012
Wristwatch with single hand, Luch, Belarus, c.2012
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300 years

This post was written by Rory McEvoy

This year saw the tercentenary of the death Thomas Tompion (b.1639), the ‘Father of English Clockmaking’ and his life is celebrated in two special exhibitions: the first at the British Museum, entitled ‘Perfect Timing’, which focuses on the magnificent Mostyn Tompion and the second, ‘Majestic Time, at the National Watch and Clock Museum in Philadelphia, USA.

Tompion enthusiasts should be further delighted by the announcement of the forthcoming publication of ‘Thomas Tompion, 300 years’. The book promises a wealth of new detail, fresh illustrations and includes Jeremy Evans’s previously unpublished chronology of Tompion’s life.

Godfrey Kneller’s portrait of Thomas Tompion, engraved by John Smith circa 1697 (© NMM, ref PAF3304)
Godfrey Kneller’s portrait of Thomas Tompion, engraved by John Smith circa 1697 (© NMM, ref PAF3304)

This tercentenary marks not only an end, but a new beginning as Tompion’s nephew by marriage and then business partner, George Graham (c.1673-1751), inherited and continued the business at the corner of Water Lane. As far as I am aware, the earliest announcement of Graham’s succession was first advertised in The Englishman one week after the death .

Graham’s advert of 28 November 1713 in The Englishman (© British Library)
Graham’s advert of 28 November 1713 in The Englishman (© British Library)

William Webster, however, did not show the same reserve. He had an advert published the day after Tompion’s death in two papers: The Mercator or Commerce Retrieved and The Englishman. His announcement of the death was a thinly veiled attempt to attract business and was repeated in various papers that week.

Webster’s advert published the day after Tompion’s death in The Englishman (© British Library)
Webster’s advert published the day after Tompion’s death in The Englishman (© British Library)

Unlike Webster, Graham was not apprenticed to Tompion (several publications incorrectly cite Graham as being so). He joined the household sometime around 1676 after gaining his freedom from apprenticeship to Henry Aske.

Evidence suggests that Graham did not serve his entire apprenticeship under Aske and it is currently a mystery as to where he was during the last years of his apprenticeship.

Looking forward to next year there is another important tercentenary, that of the Queen Anne Longitude Act. George Graham played an important role as an encourager and advisor to both Henry Sully and John Harrison in their efforts to produce sea-going clocks and will feature in a major exhibition at the National Maritime Museum next year.

Happiest days of your life?

This post was written by James Nye

Recently we hosted the BHI North London branch at The Clockworks. It was a great visit, filled with observations and anecdotes about life among clocks.

Always popular, we looked at the Gent’s 'waiting train’, or ‘motor pendulum’. A neat design, synchronised to an accurate source, it has the power to overcome harsh winds or snow impeding the hands, compensating with more frequent impulses when needed.

waiting_train
Gent ‘waiting train’

Chatting over a coffee, stories emerged of people’s introduction to clocks and watches – particularly electric ones.

I described how, at the age of 13, I was put in charge of my school’s Gents-based clock system (for the nerds, C7, C69, C150 etc), including a waiting train in a tower above. One guest mentioned that coincidentally it was the same for him – being asked to tend to just such a school system.

This prompted me to describe a feature of the system I maintained. A flatbed turret clock (David Glasgow, 1911) provided a chime and strike on bells, tripped by a solenoid, in turn controlled from the waiting train, using four aluminium sails (like a windmill) mounted on the bevel nest, operating each quarter on a microswitch – an ingenious addition.

david_glasgow
Turret clock, David Glasgow, 1911
bells
Nest of bells
One of Ardingly’s two turret dials
One of Ardingly’s two turret dials

‘Which school was this?’ asked a misty-eyed guest. ‘Ardingly College’, I replied. ‘That was me,’ he said softly, ‘probably in 1950.’

A quarter century apart, we had both been responsible for the same system. George D’Oyly Snow, headmaster, was fed up with chimes sounding at the wrong time, and with limited funds, but knowing the inventive skills of his boys, he commissioned my guest to find a solution – a solution still functioning into the late 1970s.

Ardingly College, c.1935
Ardingly College, c.1935

A theme I mentioned in a recent lecture is the serious risk to which electric clock systems are subject when their caretakers or installers move on.

The Ardingly Gent system, probably in service since the 1930s, was replaced after approximately 60 years by a radio-controlled master clock, and Thwaites & Reed recently reworked the flatbed movement, installing motor-wind, and even synchronization.

George Snow can rest easy in his grave – the chimes still sound on time. But to my mind they must sound a plaintive note as well – curiously, I feel desperately cheated of part of my heritage, and I know someone else who probably feels the same way.

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Clocks in opera

This post was written by Peter de Clercq

If you like music as much as horology (I do!), this is for you. For the links to YouTube you need a loudspeaker or headphones.

In Rigoletto by Giuseppe Verdi, the eponymous court jester hires an assassin to murder his employer, a plan that goes horribly wrong. He meets up with the assassin at midnight (‘mezzanotte’), punctuated by twelve strikes of the turret clock. Watch it here (drag the timer to 1hr 46mins 20sec).

Rigoletto: ‘The clocks strikes midnight’ – scored twelve times for the camp[ane], the tubular bells in the orchestra
Rigoletto: ‘The clocks strikes midnight’ – scored twelve times for the camp[ane], the tubular bells in the orchestra

In Giacomo Puccini’s Tosca, Rome wakes up with the church bells sounding matins (early morning service). The instrument used in the orchestra is the tubular bells or chimes, metal tubes of different lengths hung from a metal frame, struck with a mallet.

The chiming is heard for more than two minutes, some bells sounding near, others in the distance. Watch it here (drag the timer to 1hr 35mins36 sec).

Tosca: ‘The bells chime for matins’- ‘at various distances’ – ‘less distant’ – ‘nearby’
Tosca: ‘The bells chime for matins’- ‘at various distances’ – ‘less distant’ – ‘nearby’

Modest Mussorgsky’s opera Boris Godunov has a famous scene in which the Russian tsar has visions of the child prince he is suspected of having murdered. This is popularly known as the ‘clock scene’ and as there is no clock on stage nor in the text, this must relate to what goes on in the music.

Indeed, an obstinate, repetitive see-sawing theme is heard in the orchestra, but does it signify chiming or ticking? I am not sure. Watch it here (drag the timer to 0.58 for the ‘clock’ to start).

The most striking (pun intended) appearance of clocks in opera that I know is in Der Rosenkavalier by Richard Strauss. An aristocratic lady has an extra-marital affair with a much younger man (sung by a mezzo soprano, one of the classic ‘trouser roles’ in opera).

Musing on how one day she will lose her young lover, as with the passing of time her charms will fade, she sings about the nature of time:

'Die Zeit, die ist ein sonderbar Ding. Wenn man so hinlebt, ist sie rein gar nichts. Aber dann auf einmal, da spürt man nichts als sie. Sie ist um uns herum, sie ist auch in uns drinnen. In den Gesichtern rieselt sie, im Spiegel da rieselt sie, in meinen Schläfen fliesst sie. Und zwischen mir und dir da fliesst sie wieder, lautlos, wie eine Sanduhr. Oh, Quinquin! Manchmal hör’ ich sie fliessen – unaufhaltsam. Manchmal steh’ ich auf mitten in der Nacht und lass die Uhren alle, alle stehn'

or;

'Time is a strange thing When one is living one’s life away it is absolutely nothing. Then suddenly one is aware of nothing else. It is all around us, and in us too. It trickles across our faces, it trickles in the mirror there, it flows around my temples. And between you and me, it flows again, silently, like an hourglass. O, my darling, at times I hear it flowing – inexorably. At times I get up in the middle of the night and stop all the clocks, all of them.'

The music comes to a stand-still and all you hear is the chiming of a small domestic clock, played in the harps and the celesta – it’s magical. Watch it here sung in original German, with subtitles; drag the timer to 0.19.

Der Rosenkavalier: ‘Manchmal steh' ich auf mitten in der Nacht und lass die Uhren alle, alle stehn’ –  At times I get up in the middle of the night and stop all the clocks, all of them
Der Rosenkavalier: ‘Manchmal steh’ ich auf mitten in der Nacht und lass die Uhren alle, alle stehn’ – At times I get up in the middle of the night and stop all the clocks, all of them
“.... and stop all the clocks, all of them”
“…. and stop all the clocks, all of them”
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Fine timing

This post was written by Paul Buck

A new exhibition has opened in Room 3 at the British Museum displaying the year going table clock by Thomas Tompion. This magnificent clock celebrates the coronation of William III and Mary II in 1689, and was kept in the royal bedchamber. It was made by a talented and industrious man who was in the right place at the right time.

The Mostyn Tompion, now on special exhibition in Room 3 of the British Museum until 2nd February 2014
The Mostyn Tompion, now on special exhibition in Room 3 of the British Museum until 2nd February 2014
The Mostyn Tompion clock (©British Museum, Reg. No. 1982,0702.1)
The Mostyn Tompion clock (© British Museum, Reg. No. 1982,0702.1)
The movement of the clock (© British Museum)
The movement of the clock (© British Museum)

Tompion’s modest beginnings as the son of a Bedfordshire blacksmith are recorded, but after that nothing is known of his whereabouts until he appears in London at the age of 32.

Wherever he had come from, he was extremely well trained in the making of clocks and watches.

London 350 years ago was the ideal place for Tompion’s genius to shine. In the previous century, religious persecution in the Netherlands and France had led to an exodus of Protestants, including many goldsmiths, silversmiths, engravers and watchmakers who established their trades in London.

Despite the Great Fire and the plague that preceded it, 1670s Restoration London was prosperous, with a plentiful supply of wealthy clients to support the burgeoning clock and watch trade. The new accuracy in clocks resulting from the application of the pendulum in 1657 followed by the balance spring in watches in 1675 was of great interest.

History in the decoration.  The coat of arms of William III and Mary II (used only for the Summer of 1689) with the lion and rose of England and the unicorn and thistle of Scotland (© British Museum)
History in the decoration – the coat of arms of William III and Mary II (used only for the Summer of 1689) with the lion and rose of England and the unicorn and thistle of Scotland (© British Museum)

When William died the clock passed to Henry Sydney, Earl of Romney, Gentleman of the Bedchamber and Groom of the Stole. On his death in 1704, it passed to the Earl of Leicester and then to Lord Mostyn and remained in that family until 1982.

It is now known as ‘the Mostyn Tompion’ after its former owners.

The clock continues to keep good time, and is notably ‘year-going’ – it runs for over a year on a single wind. It also strikes the hours, an annual total of 56,940 blows on the bell.

The crown wheel, smaller than a penny, nestled amongst the massive fusees of the year-going powerhouse  (© British Museum)
A horological tour de force – the crown wheel, smaller than a penny, nestled between the massive fusees of the year-going powerhouse (© British Museum)

This free exhibition is timed to coincide with the 300th anniversary of Tompion’s death in November 1713 and runs until 2nd February 2014.

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If only I knew what the right time is

This post was written by David Thompson

When you want to know the correct time today, you either look at your mobile phone or you look at your radio controlled clock watch or listen to the six pips on the radio. However, don’t do the last one on digital radio as it is quite a bit out of sync with the real time – about two seconds.

Before the introduction of telegraph time signals and the distribution of time, everyone had to rely on a local observation of true solar time – that is, the time shown on a sundial.

Unfortunately, the mean time shown by a clock and the true time shown by a sundial don’t agree throughout the year. Because the earth’s orbit around the sun is elliptical and because the earth’s axis is tilted to the celestial plane by 23 ½ degrees, the sundial (showing apparent or true solar time) and the clock (showing mean solar time) can be different by as much as 15 minutes.

There are four days in the year when the clock and the sundial agree with each other – 15th April, 13th June, 1st September and 25th December.

Tijdvereffening-equation_of_time-en

Until 1657 and the introduction of the pendulum, real time didn’t matter much as clocks were so inaccurate that the variations between true and mean time were irrelevant to all except astronomers.

The application of the pendulum to clocks made them capable of much more accurate timekeeping and the same was true when the balance spring was added to the watch in 1675 – measuring time to within a minute a week.

So, in order for an owner to put his clock right by a sundial, he had to know what the difference should be between his sundial reading and the time shown on his clock.

From the latter part of the seventeenth century, tables were published which gave exactly that information. The table shown here is devised so that when a clock is checked at noon, the table shows what time the clock should show.

Trade card of clockmaker George Furnace, watchmaker and engraver of Essex Gate, Dublin, c.1770, showing a used for setting a clock or watch right at 12 noon. © British Museum, Prints & Drawings Banks Collection 39.49
Trade card of clockmaker George Furnace, watchmaker and engraver of Essex Gate, Dublin, c.1770, showing a used for setting a clock or watch right at 12 noon.© British Museum, Prints & Drawings Banks Collection 39.49

From the later part of the 18th century watchmakers would add a circular advertising paper into the outer cases of pair-cased watches and many of these had the equation-of-time table printed on them for easy reference.

Such papers were produced by top London makers such as Vulliamy in Pall Mall and by provincial makers such as Richard Comber of Lewes in Sussex. It was probably Comber’s customers who needed a table more than someone in the centre of London where the church bells offered a huge variety of ‘right’ time. It is worth bearing in mind, too, that the adjustments could only be done when the sun was shining!

Watch paper of Vulliamy, Pall Mall, London, c. 1820 ©British Museum, Ilbert Collection, reg.no, 1958,1006.3395.e
Watch paper of Vulliamy, Pall Mall, London, c. 1820©British Museum, Ilbert Collection, reg.no, 1958,1006.3395.e
Watch paper of Comber of Lewes, Sussex, c.1800. ©British Museum, Prints & Drawings, reg.no. 1853,1210.466
Watch paper of Comber of Lewes, Sussex, c.1800.©British Museum, Prints & Drawings, reg.no. 1853,1210.466
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Freak control

This post was written by Oliver Cooke

Continuing our wander through the five elements, we come to the controller – the part of the clock which controls its rate. Let us pass-by the major landmarks (the pendulum, the balance spring and wheel and the quartz crystal) and seek an alternative trail.

With their origins preceding mechanical clocks, compartmented cylindrical clepsydrae (shown in a previous post for their silent operation) have a drum which rotates and descends. Water passes between compartments inside the drum, controlling the rate of rotation.

These were recurrently popular at various times in history and were incorporated in clocks, such as the example illustrated here which was made by Arnold Finchett, London, c.1760. The drum, connected by a line, drives the hand on the dial. This system is reported to provide reasonable timekeeping (at least in non-freezing conditions)!

A compartmented cylindrical clepsydra, made by Arnold Finchett, London, c.1760.  This  “water clock" is effectively silent.  The drum rotates and descends, driving the hand.  Inside the drum, water passes between compartments, controlling the rate of rotation.
A compartmented cylindrical clepsydra, made by Arnold Finchett, London, c.1760

Sir William Congreve (1772-1828) patented his inclined-plane rolling-ball clock design in 1808. Its ball bearing zigzags down a track on the table and actuates a lever at the end of its travel, causing the table to see-saw and the ball to roll back again.

In the example illustrated here, each leg takes thirty seconds. Despite being largely detached from the influence of the movement, the progress of the ball is hampered by any irregularities on the track, generally resulting in awful timekeeping (rather like my daily commute).

Nevertheless, the clock is mesmerising and surveys show that it retains the attention of visitors longer than any other exhibit in Djanogly horological galleries.

An inclined-plane rolling-ball clock, retailed by Santiago James Moore French, Royal Exchange, London c. 1810 (BM Reg. No. 1958,1006.2137).  The ball travels over 2000 miles in a year - i.e. from London to Rome and back again.
An inclined-plane rolling-ball clock, retailed by Santiago James Moore French, Royal Exchange, London c. 1810 (BM Reg. No. 1958,1006.2137). The ball travels over 2000 miles in a year – from London to Rome and back again

Another clock shown before is the Smiths “Sectric” electric mantel clock. The clock motor is synchronous – i.e. its speed depends on the (very stable) frequency of the alternating current of the mains supply, which thus effectively controls the rate of the clock.

These clocks were very popular from 1930s but were superseded by quartz technology from the late 1960s, largely for the convenience of battery power, which avoided the need for wiring.

Smiths 'Sectric' electric mantel clock.  The clock is not only mains powered, but its motor is “synchronous” i.e. its speed depends on the frequency of the alternating current and this controls the rate of the clock.  This is very reliably as the mains frequency is very stable.  Smiths English Clocks Limited , London, c.1950 (British Museum reg. No. 2008,8022.1)
‘Sectric’ electric mantel clock, Smiths English Clocks Limited, London, c.1950 (British Museum reg. No. 2008,8022.1)

Finally, from 1960 Bulova produced their 'Accutron' watches which incorporated a tuning fork to control their rate. The steady hum of the tuning fork can clearly be heard when the watch is held to the ear.

Despite being excellent timekeepers and very popular, within ten years the introduction of superior and cheaper quartz watches rendered them obsolete.

An ‘Accutron’ tuning-fork watch, made by Bulova, USA, c.1970.  The one second exposure of the photgraph reveals the near sweep action of the seconds hand.  Note also the useful perpetual roller calendar in the strap (inscribed "SPEIDEL PAT 2,689,450").
An “Accutron” tuning-fork watch, made by Bulova, USA, c.1970. The one second exposure of the photograph reveals the near sweep motion of the seconds hand (click the image to enlarge it). Note also the handy perpetual calendar in the strap which is advanced by rollers (it is inscribed “SPEIDEL PAT 2,689,450″)
The movement of the Accutron watch.  The silver coloured cups, which surround the coils, form the tips of the tuning fork - motion blur can faintly be seen
The movement of the watch. The silver coloured cups, which surround the coils, form the tips of the tuning fork – motion blur can be faintly seen in the photo!
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Falling back

This post was written by Rory McEvoy

It’s that time of year again when our faithful timekeepers quiver, for fear that we will ignore the advice of the clockmaker and attempt to turn the hands backwards, as we return to daily life punctuated by GMT (or UTC if you prefer) on Sunday.

The Shepherd gate clock at the Royal Observatory is set permanently to GMT
The Shepherd gate clock at the Royal Observatory is set permanently to GMT

I think it is fair to say that the majority of us are more sympathetic towards the autumnal adjustment, as we can luxuriate in the hour that was ‘banked’ in the spring, so perhaps now is the ideal time to bring this discussion to the AHS blog.

Today, internet searchers will find that the energetic equestrian builder from Petts Wood, William Willett has been eclipsed as the architect of Daylight Saving Time (DST) by George Vernon Hudson, the English born New Zealand entomologist, who first proposed his scheme to the Wellington Philosophical Society in 1895.

In England, thanks to Willett’s monumental efforts, the Daylight Saving Bill was presented before parliament in 1908 and it offered that ‘for a period of 154 days, an increase of sixty minutes more sunshine in the evening of each day’.

The then President of the Board of Trade, Winston Churchill astutely noted in the margins of his copy that this was an ‘optimistic view of our climate!’

Despite Churchill’s support the Bill did not pass and it was eight years before Daylight Saving was introduced as a wartime economy pre-empted by its earlier implementation in Germany.

Willet’s memorial stone with sundial marked to show only summer time
Willett’s memorial stone with sundial marked to show only summer time

This Sunday, as you pause the pendulum on your antique clock, will you follow Winston Churchill’s lead and ‘raise a silent toast to William Willett’ and perhaps reflect on the 154 hours of extra ‘sunshine’ that you enjoyed this year?

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Conservation and repair of a mystery clock

This post was written by Kenneth Cobb

A disassembled glass and ormolu mystery clock was sent to West Dean College from overseas to be reassembled. A simple enough request, however the 1850’s mechanical mystique of smooth running remained a challenge throughout the three month process.

The clock was made by Jean Eugene Robert-Houdin. Born into a family of watchmakers in Blois, France, he was primarily a conjurer and practical joker and this clock is no exception as it is Robert-Houdin’s ‘Fourth Series’ of Mystery Clocks. Onlookers would have wondered at the science of telling the time without the hands being attached to conventional clockwork.

One of West Dean’s key strengths is that conservation departments work together, thus the glass was cleaned by students in the Ceramics Department and advice on cleaning the ormolu was supplied by the Metals Department. Typical of the West Dean conservation approach is Robert Houdin’s signature in copper plate writing on a plate, which was left with the patina as received since it is stable.

Mystery Clock by Jean Eugene Robert-Houdin
Mystery Clock by Jean Eugene Robert-Houdin
Glass disc and dial in a special carrier prior to cleaning by Ceramics Students. The Indian Ink marking on glass was fragile
Glass disc and dial in a special carrier prior to cleaning by Ceramics Students. The Indian Ink marking on glass was fragile
Cleaning ormolu figures in mild detergent and de-ionised water
Cleaning ormolu figures in mild detergent and de-ionised water
Signature on one of the movement plates
Signature on one of the movement plates

The movement itself was a challenge as previous repairs had probably exacerbated its primary weaknesses: the plates are long with a minimum number of pillars to support the tensions of twin sprung barrels thereby making the movement unstable. The lead-off work was hidden within the body of the object. There were so many interconnected links that it was not clear which connection or link was at fault: a question that took weeks to resolve.

Movement after cleaning in white spirit.  Hammer on far side of plates is used to strike a gong in the bottom of the black wooden base
Movement after cleaning in white spirit. Hammer on far side of plates is used to strike a gong in the bottom of the black wooden base
Two intermeshed links within the lead-off work. This one was a... difficult!
Two intermeshed links within the lead-off work. This one was a… difficult!

Finally, the clock ran reliably and sadly had to be returned as it was a considerable source of interest. As a student, the clock was been a privilege to work on having been a great source of learning and patience, and under the tutorship of Matthew Read and Malcolm Archer I have gained a lot more understanding and confidence in this field.

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Can we sex-up the time-recorder?

This post was written by James Nye

We’re used to seeing Hollywood actresses, the latest haute horlogerie on their wrists, gazing at us in dreamy soft focus. But what about the advertisers looking to push horlogerie industrielle?

In an earlier blog I presented some pictures from inside the English Clock Systems (ECS) works at King’s Cross from the early 1950s. One of the shots showed the production line for the time recorders. The final product – the Autoprint – was a superb machine, and here are a couple of shots, showing both the mechanism and the outer casing.

The Autoprint Time-Recorder
The Autoprint Time-Recorder
Autoprint mechanism
Autoprint mechanism

The problem facing the ECS publicity unit was how to make the machine a bit more interesting in a catalogue or journal report. Watches and exotic locations were one thing, but the time recorder presented a bit of a challenge on the face of it. In this blog I speculate on the thought process of the lads as they set to their task.

The Autoprint was proudly on show at the 1956 British Industries Fair. The display stand was duly photographed, but an attraction for businessmen that year was a trip to the Eve nightclub on Regent Street. Our intrepid team tagged along, and lo and behold, the nightclub staff used an Autoprint!

A first shot caught the commissionaire and other colleagues stamping their cards, but patience was rewarded with the arrival of a hostess, happy to pose.

Finally, of course, the show-girls themselves arrived – all adorned with representations of items manufactured in Britain. The third image shows Gillette-girl!

Picture Post (7 January 1956) carried a double-page spread on the cabaret, illustrating different industries from the BIF, but the historic industrial horological shot shown here remained hidden in an archive until I stumbled across it recently. In the interests of scholarship I felt it should be published.

Clocking-in at the Eve
Clocking-in at the Eve
A good time at the nightclub
A good time at the nightclub
Clock that….
Clock that….
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A silent turret clock at the V&A

This post was written by Peter de Clercq

Visitors to the Victoria and Albert Museum who notice the turret clock high up in the entrance hall find no explanatory label. Fortunately there is detailed information on the V&A website.

The 8-day turret clock with hour striking was ordered in 1857 for the newly created South Kensington Museum, as it was then named. It was made by J. Smith and Sons of Clerkenwell and cost £150: £110 for the clock and £40 for the bell and fittings.

A duplicate of the clock was later made by the same firm and exhibited at the International Exhibition of 1862 (held on the site of the present Natural History Museum), where it gained a prize medal.

The two dials were designed by the artist Francis Wollaston Moody, who decorated much of the museum, and show allegorical figures.

Day, in a chariot, is followed by a cloaked female figure representing Night; below it is the figure of Time with his symbols: hourglass and scythe. The irrevocability of time is represented by the letters of the word IRREVOCABLE spaced out between the Roman numerals.

To see it properly you need binoculars, but the photos reproduced here – as good as I could manage with a simple camera and amateur skills – give an idea of what the clock looks like.

Smith clock V&A 2 sq
image001
Image by Keith Scobie-Youngs

In 1951 the clock was stopped and silenced, as it was cumbersome for a clock-winder to climb up a ladder, and the booming bell was thought a nuisance for the visitors. Later it was taken down and stored away.

But in the early 1980s it was put back in place, as it was considered an interesting object in its own right, and because of its association with the early history of the museum. It has been converted to electricity, so it shows the correct time even though the pendulum with its heavy spherical bob hangs motionless. But the bell remains silent.

Smith clock V&A 4
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