I love this clock for a host of reasons. And one of them is the mystery contained in the strange case of John Miller.
I’ve written about this clock before because it has stories to tell, all of which raise questions – some with answers, some without.
It is an Ansonia Tunis clock, one of thousands made at the end of the nineteenth century and sold in the US and the UK. I bought it at auction. To be honest, I can’t remember why, other than that I liked the look of it. I can’t remember where either. It was in the early days.
It’s nothing special. In fact, I have two Ansonia Tunis clocks with identical cases and movements, but differing dials. The other has a paper dial which itself asks questions. Why, for example, should the ink on the dial be more worn between X and XII than anywhere else? I know the dial gets worn from fingers pushing the hands to re-set after it has stopped, but why there especially?
Answers on a postcard please.
Making compromises
I’ve repainted the numerals on the paper dial but not tried to recreate the divisions around the edge. I could claim that it is about my commitment to minimal intervention, respecting the clock as it is and conserving rather than restoring. Actually, it is because I don’t trust my hands to stay steady on such fine pen work. And I am perfectly happy with the compromise.
Inside, the movement gleams. It has been thoroughly cleaned in specialist clock cleaning fluid in my ultrasonic tank, then reassembled, oiled and reinstated in its case, behind that part-restored paper dial. The original glass in the bezel was broken. I replaced it. The clock is on the website in the clocks section. It is yours if you want it.
So why is that different from the second Tunis I love so much?
I don’t remember where or when I bought the favoured clock. But I do know when its first owner, John Miller, bought it, and from where. It was a Saturday in December. December 31st specifically, the last day of 1892. It was indeed a Saturday. I’ve checked. John Miller bought it from a Mr Ronnison at premises on Bridge Street.
I know all this because it is handwritten on the inside of the door of the clock case.
The movement housed in the case was patented ten years earlier, on June 18th 1882 by the Ansonia Clock Company of New York. I know that because it is stamped on the backplate of the movement.
The Miller Mystery
I wonder if you would do that – write in pencil, loosely, on a newly purchased item? Even on the inside where no-one else would see it? And if John Miller did write that on the very Saturday that he bought the clock, why did he do it? Surely, however proud he might have been of a pretty ordinary mass-produced mantel clock, he can’t have thought it would add anything to its provenance in years to come.
Was it connected with any guarantee that came with the clock? But if so, surely there would have been a piece of paper – invoice or receipt – confirming the sale, and dated. And that would also refer to any warranty that the clock might carry.
Was it something to do with security, in the same way that we now electronically tag our valued possessions as a deterrent against theft? But why then write where it was bought from and when? An owner’s name and address would suffice. And if you must do that, etch it in ink – make it harder to erase.
Whoever said clocks are just mechanical objects? They are so much more. They are part of individuals’ histories. Clocks have lived their lives in the heart of the homes of the people who own them. They have stories to tell. Can you shed any light on the Miller’s tale?
Shelf life
This clock has ‘patina’ in spades. By patina I mean dirt. (See my blogpost on the subject here – ‘dishing the dirt on patina’). The wooden case is blackened. I will not be cleaning it – that black timbre is too ingrained into the clock’s soul to be scrubbed away, and besides, it adds to its character. But for the sake of its future working survival, cleaning the movement is now essential.
The wheels and pinions are so caked in oily sooty grime that it is remarkable it still runs, and in running it will surely be doing damage, if nothing else, to the pivots and pivot holes. Probably having spent years on a mantelpiece above a smoky coal fire, its lantern pinions are full of black sludge.
For years I have left the clock unattended, worrying that perhaps it is only the grease that is holding the whole thing together.
But the time has come to work on it. And that is another story.