Cigarette lighters are infinitely collectible. Dunhill, Zippo, Ronson, Parker, and S.T. Dupont, to name but a few, are all big names in the world of antique and vintage cigarette lighters, which dominated the fashion accessories scene during the first half of the 20th century.
Along with all these big names were countless smaller names, makers and dealers, which produced cigarette lighters, both great and small, for every possible consumer. Men, women, for at-home, for out-and-about, for travel, for commemoration, graduation, and celebration.
One of the more common types of lighters were table-lighters.
Table-lighters were larger, heavier cigarette lighters, not designed for portability, but rather, to sit or stand on a coffee-table, a counter, or a desk, and serve as a convenience for guests and visitors who needed a ready flame to light their cigars, cigarettes, pipes, and candles.
Table-lighters varied from the mundane, and even the homemade, all the way to flashy examples in gilt brass, cut glass, and even solid silver.
An Antique Silver Table-Lighter
I picked up this lovely antique example of a silver table-lighter about a month ago, on eBay. I’ve always wanted a table-lighter, especially a silver one, to add to my modest collection of antique lighters. Some lighters, especially those made by famous names like Dunhill, Cartier, and S.T. Dupont, can cost an absolute fortune, but there are also a lot of table-lighters…even quite fancy ones…which can be picked up for a surprisingly small amount of money. And this lighter is the perfect example of that.
Don’t forget that lighters of all kinds used to be extremely common not that long ago, and that lighters of all styles and price-points were manufactured. People like to collect lighters because they are small, portable, easily stored, easily displayed, they have FIIIIIRE!! (always cool, right??) and they’re…usually…a lot cheaper than most other types of collectibles out there.
Of course, this isn’t true of all lighters, or all collectibles, prices fluctuate all the time, but the great thing about the enormous variety is that you can usually – if you’re very patient – find what should probably be quite expensive pieces – for relatively modest outlay.
Such was the case with the lighter in this post.
Where Did the Lighter Come From?
The lighter is made of what’s called Yogya silver, which is the style of silverware manufactured in Indonesia in the early to mid 20th century. Thanks to the Great Depression, traditional Indonesian silversmithing crafts were in danger of dying out, when the Dutch realised that there could be an enormous market for traditional style Indonesian silverware in Europe. All kinds of things – tea-sets, cigarette lighters, trays, plates, platters, bowls, canisters, cigarette-cases, and so much more, were manufactured in Indonesia during this time, between the late 1920s through to after WWII, and shipped to the Netherlands for sale.
It gave the Dutch a new area of merchandise to purchase, and it gave the Indonesians a new market for their products – it was a win-win!
This lighter would’ve been made in Indonesia in the early 1900s, where it was hallmarked, and then either sold locally to people living in Malaya, Singapore, or Indonesia, or else shipped to the Netherlands for sale in Europe.
What is the Lighter Made Of?
The lighter is manufactured from 800 silver – which is a more common silver standard than you might expect, if all you’ve ever seen is sterling. 800 silver was stronger, having a higher concentration of copper, without also sacrificing the beautiful shimmer that silver is capable of producing when polished.
How does the Lighter Work?
The lighter is broadly made of three components: The base, or body, the lighter and reservoir, and finally, the lid or cap on top.
It functions the same as most lighters of the era will do:
The base and the reservoir are filled with cotton wool, and then soaked in lighter fluid. The lighter is slid over the top, and the wick is left to soak up the fluid in the cotton-balls through capillary action.
Then the cap is removed from the top of the lighter, and the flint-wheel is rotated at speed. This generates sparks which, under ideal circumstances, will spark the flint, and ignite the fuel-soaked wick housed inside the silver wick-chimney, which exists to protect the flame and the wick from outside influences (mostly wind).
When you’re done, you simply extinguish the flame by sliding the cap back over the top of the lighter to snuff the flame. You can of course, blow it out, too, but using the cap is a lot easier.
I Want One! Are they Hard to Find?
Yes…and…no.
They’re actually fairly common (remember, they were basically mass-produced in silver, for export), but they were also so common that they weren’t exactly treated very well. I’ve seen loads of them (just in the time when I was searching, I saw at least four or five of them on eBay!!), but they’re often in really rough shape. The snuffer-caps are cracked, the wick-chimneys are broken off, they’re covered in dents… they have all manner of issues!!
By comparison, the one I have is all-intact and all complete and correct. There were one or two minor dents, easily removed, but no other serious damage. If you do decide to go after something like this, and end up buying a damaged one, make sure you know a decent jeweler or silversmith who can repair it for you. Prices for these types of lighters vary enormously, from north of $1,000 to under $200, and everywhere in between.
Closing Remarks
Antique lighters are fun to collect, and there’s an infinite variety of them out there, of all shapes, sizes, operation methods, and price-points. You can find some truly weird and wonderful types, if you have the patience to search, and know how to repair them. Most repairs are pretty easy to make (they’re not complicated machines, for the most part) and you can find lighters almost anywhere, from charity shops to flea-markets, antiques shops to an endless variety from online sellers.
Few of us are likely to forget the 2001 September 11 terrorist attacks, when two planes crashed into the Twin Towers in Manhattan and into the Pentagon. I was a 14-year-old schoolboy at the time, and I remember watching it unfolding live on television.
But how many of us have heard of what happened on September 16th? Not September 16th 2001…but September 16th, 1920.
This date commemorates one of the first big terrorist attacks in United States history, a criminal act which has since drifted off into the fog of history. In this posting, we’ll be looking at the first time that terror came to New York: The Wall Street Bombing of 1920.
What was the Wall Street Bombing?
The Wall Street Bombing was just one of several terrorist attacks which took place in the USA in the early 20th century. Until the Bath School Disaster of 1927, it was also the most deadly terrorist bombing in the United States at the time, and the first terrorist attack on New York soil.
In the early 1920s, the United States was enjoying the coming boom years of the Roaring Twenties, brought on by post-WWI prosperity. Nowhere was this prosperity more evident than on Wall Street, in Lower Manhattan, the center of the financial world. It was in this bustling nook of trade and commerce, that the attack happened, killing and injuring dozens of people during the midday rush, all in a matter of seconds.
What Happened during the Bombing?
These days, we’d probably call it an “improvised explosive device”, or to use the common parlance, a ‘car-bomb’; or more specifically, a ‘cart’ bomb. Just before noon on the morning of the 16th of September, 1920, a horse and cart, loaded with 100lbs of dynamite and 500lbs in sash-weights (those small, metal weights used to operate sash windows), pulled up outside No. 23 Wall Street, the J.P. Morgan Bank. A minute after midday the dynamite was detonated, destroying the cart, killing the horse, and sending hundreds of pounds of metal shrapnel flying through the crowded, lunchtime rush on Wall Street!
The bomb-blast could be felt right across the narrow thoroughfare. Its victims were mostly messengers, couriers, stenographers and stockbrokers, moving between their various places of work. The blast killed thirty-eight people and wounded over a hundred and forty other people! The exterior of the J.P. Morgan bank, which the cart was parked outside, was severely damaged by broken glass, chips of masonry and flying shrapnel.
Several other buildings on Wall Street were significantly damaged. Cars, trucks and other vehicles nearby were flipped over and smashed from the force of the exploding dynamite, as you can see in the photograph above. Within minutes, emergency services were on the scene to clear up the wreckage and treat the injured.
The injuries sustained in the blast were horrific. A stockbroker was decapitated by the flying debris, his headless body found in the street, a packet of work-papers and stocks still clutched in his hands. One man was blinded in the explosion and lost the use of his eyes. Dead bodies lay everywhere. Initially, the death-count was low, but the appalling injuries soon caused it to rise to the number of 38, which was the official number of deaths caused by the blast.
Some of the bodies of victims killed in the blast
The police were quick to respond to the explosion, and within minutes, they’d cordoned off the blast-area and had commandeered all operational motor-cars within the radius of the explosion, using them to transport the injured to hospital. One 17-year-old messenger-boy packed thirty people into one of these cars before driving it to safety.
The Aftermath of the Explosion
Terrified and furious New Yorkers were quick to condemn the blast that killed over three dozen people and horribly maimed and injured up to a hundred and forty or more of their friends, colleagues, family-members and just plain fellow New Yorkers. The BOI (that’s the Bureau of Investigation, the forerunner to the current FBI) immediately launched an investigation into the attack. Business-owners and the Board of Governors for the New York Stock Exchange were anxious to start trading again as soon as possible. The street was cleaned up overnight (literally) and trading resumed the next morning.
The front page of the New York Times, September 17th, 1920. The day after the bombing.
Investigators theorised that the bombers might have been communists or anarchists. Why else would they wish to attack America’s centre of wealth, business and finance? The noted newspaper, the Washington Post, declared the bombing an “act of war”.
While the BOI theorised about possible foreign terrorist groups, or the possibility of a group of Italian anarchists, the police started investigating the source of the horse and cart. Despite checking dozens of stables, they were unable to find out who had purchased, or perhaps stolen, the horse and cart which was used to transport the dynamite to Wall Street. While investigative authorities came up with many theories and leads, officially, at least – the case was never definitively solved.
Imagine this – It’s December! You’ve booked yourself an international flight to the Far East to enjoy a balmy, sandy Christmas in the sun! You board the plane and take off across the Pacific headed for Southeast Asia, and settle in for several hours of relaxation, conversation and sightseeing over the ocean.
Before you’ve even reached your destination – your entire world is turned upside-down! Reports come in over the radio that suddenly, the whole world is at war! You can’t fly back, you can’t go on ahead, you have no idea where the plane is even going to land, and you could be shot down at any minute!
This is the terrifying tale of the Pacific Clipper, one of the long-haul luxury passenger seaplanes operated by Pan-American Airways in the 1930s and 40s, and the record-breaking flight that it took around the world in December, 1941, as the South Pacific exploded into war beneath its wings.
What Was the Pacific Clipper?
Introduced in 1938, the Boeing 314 Clipper was, in the late 1930s, the most modern of commercial, long-haul passenger aircraft being sold around the world at the time. Only twelve were ever constructed. Nine went to Pan-American Airways, and the remaining three went to BOAC – the British Overseas Airways Corporation.
The Boeing 314 was a large aircraft for the day, but even it wasn’t able to cover the entire width of the Pacific Ocean in a single, uninterrupted flight. Instead, the accepted practice of the day was to “island-hop” around the world, providing long-distance travel to the paying public by flying from one airbase to another, completing long-haul flights in stages. It wasn’t fast, and it wasn’t exactly glamorous, and it certainly wasn’t cheap!…But it beat the hell out of trying to cover the same distance by ocean liner!
The Pan-Am clippers came with most of the stuff that modern aircraft come with: Lavatories, seats that could convert to lie-flat beds, delicious food, and full steward service! However, they differed in many other ways:
First – journey-times were much longer. From California to Hawaii took up to 19 hours! Second – Passenger-volumes were much-reduced – The average pre-war Pan-Am clipper barely carried more than 70 passengers. Third – the Pan-Am clippers were all seaplanes, or “flying boats” – they had no landing-gear – instead, the planes took off and landed on flat bodies of water – large rivers, lakes, or along the coastline during calm weather.
Last but not least – tickets were expensive! A one-way flight from California to Hong Kong was $760 – around $14,000USD in modern prices!
Piloting a Pan-Am clipper was very different from flying a modern aircraft. Because the planes could only take off and land on water, pilots had to be extremely skilled, not only in flying, landing, taxiing and take-off – but they also had to know a lot more about weather, sea-conditions, how to spot a safe stretch of water, and how to read the windspeeds and directions accurately enough to know when, where and how to make a safe water-landing! These days, most pilots hope to only make one water-landing in their entire lives, if they ever have to – but for Pan-Am clipper pilots, it was literally a daily occurrence!
In an age when long-haul passenger-flights were limited and the industry was only, quite literally, getting off the ground – flying was far more dangerous than it is today. Engine-failures and emergency-landings happened much more frequently, and a full-service crew flew with the aircraft at all times to tackle all kinds of mechanical incidents that could happen during flight. The crew of the Boeing 314 Flying Boat was 11 in number: The captain, first officer, second officer, third officer, fourth officer, two flight-engineers, two radio-operators, the purser, and his assistant.
It was one of these fantastical flying machines – a Boeing 314 – which came to be known as the ‘Pacific Clipper’.
Pan-American Airways named all its early aircraft, just like how steamship-lines at the time named all their ships. And just like how shipping lines followed naming conventions (Cunard named all ships “-ia” – Carpathia, Lusitania, Muretania, Berengaria, etc, and White Star named all their ships “-ic” – Titanic, Olympic, Atlantic, etc), Pan-Am also followed similar conventions: All their aircraft were called “clippers”, a reference to clipper sailing ships, which were famed for their speed. The names were typically related to the plane’s assigned route.
There was the Atlantic Clipper, the China Clipper, the Caribbean Clipper, the Honolulu Clipper…and the subject of this posting: The Pacific Clipper.
The Farthest Flight of the Pacific Clipper
It is December 2nd, 1941. Off the coast of sunny San Francisco, the Pacific Clipper is preparing for a routine flight across the Pacific towards Auckland, New Zealand. There are twenty-three people on board: Twelve passengers, and eleven crew. The pilot is Capt. Robert Ford, a Pan-Am veteran, well-used to the rigors of long-haul passenger-aircraft flights.
With a range of 5,000 miles, the Pacific Clipper was never able to make the flight from California to New Zealand nonstop, and it was accepted that the plane would land several times during the trip to drop off and collect mail, passengers, food, drinks, trash, and most importantly – fuel! When Captain Ford fired up the engines and took to the skies, nobody on board could’ve imagined what lay ahead.
The aircraft’s first stop was San Pedro, California, then out across the ocean. It landed in Honolulu, Hawaii, then Kanton Island near Kiribati, then Fiji, and then finally, New Caledonia. In the preceding days, it had covered over 6,000 miles! The final leg of the journey was still ahead: Auckland, a mere 1,200 miles away – well within the limits of the Pacific Clipper’s operational range.
As the plane took off from New Caledonia and flew southeast towards Auckland, wireless operator John Poindexter was relaxing at his station, his headphones strapped onto his head as the aircraft hummed around him. Right now, he was probably thinking about his wife – the same wife that he had advised, he would be home early for – and to keep dinner for him on the kitchen table.
That was before one of the two radio-operators on the flight pulled out sick, and Poindexter stepped in to replace him. Had he known what was about to happen, Poindexter would’ve told his wife not to bother about dinner, because he was going to be home late.
Very late.
Halfway through their current leg, the radio suddenly crackled to life, and Poindexter scribbled down a message in Morse Code. Ripping it off his pad, he hurried to tell the rest of the crew what had just come in over the airwaves.
It was December 7th, 1941. A date which would live in infamy. Poindexter had just found out about the Japanese aerial attack on Pearl Harbor in Hawaii.
As the pilot, his co-pilot, the stewards, navigator, flight engineers and radio-operators all looked at the message, they suddenly realised what a horrible position they were all in!
While they could safely make it to New Zealand, offload their passengers, cargo and mail, refuel and take-off again – it was immediately obvious that there was no way that they could ever go home…or at least…not in the conventional way.
Under normal circumstances, the plane would’ve flown northeast towards Hawaii, where it would land, refuel, and then continue on back to the mainland United States. With Japanese aircraft, warships and aircraft carriers between the South Pacific and Hawaii, however, such a route was impossible – an aircraft bearing American markings would almost certainly be shot out of the sky if it was discovered by Japanese surface vessels.
With Hawaii on high alert, landing and refueling there, even if they managed to evade the Japanese, would be next to impossible. Unable to make the journey back to California without at least one stopover, getting back home seemed impossible!
Landing in New Zealand
The first leg of this epic adventure was relatively easy – landing. Two hours after receiving the world-changing news that the naval base at Pearl Harbor had been blasted by the Japanese, Captain Ford and his crew executed a landing off the coast of New Zealand, taxiing up to Auckland and tying off. Passengers and cargo were offloaded and the plane was prepared for…well…they weren’t exactly sure what for…but they wanted to be prepared at the very least!
Unsure of what else to do, the crew made their way to the American Embassy in Auckland. Here, they managed to contact Pan-American Airways Headquarters…in New York…and waited for further instructions.
With facilities in Hawaii put out of action, the harbor inoperable and any aircraft-fuel being needed for military aircraft, flying back to California was all but impossible.
In the week that it took for headquarters to make up its mind on the crew’s next move, the Pacific was erupting into war around them. The Philippine Clipper at Wake Island had managed to evacuate all Pan-Am employees and a lucky few civilians, taking to the air as Japanese forces rolled in, riddling the aircraft with gunfire as it fought to get out of range. In Hong Kong, another Pan-Am flying boat had been blown up at its dock before it even had a chance to leave.
Knowing that time was running out and that their options were dwindling rapidly, it was eight days before Captain Ford and his crew found out what they were expected to do.
Finally, on the 15th of December, a cypher-telegram was dispatched from New York to the U.S. Embassy, Auckland, New Zealand. It instructed Captain Ford to strip the Pacific Clipper of all identifying marks, fuel-up, and to get home by whatever means were necessary. During the trip, radio silence was to be observed at all times, to prevent the aircraft from being detected by the Japanese, and to land in New York when it arrived back in American waters.
When he found out what he was expected to do, Captain Ford probably thought that it would’ve been better if he’d kept his mouth shut! There was no way the aircraft could fly that far without stopping several times for fuel. There was no way that they’d have enough food, equipment or supplies to last that long! They didn’t even have any money, and because Captain Ford only flew the Pacific routes – he had no maps or navigational charts to guide him across Eurasia, Africa, or the Atlantic Ocean! They were entirely on their own, with orders to make it home by any means necessary.
After refueling the aircraft, Ford and his passengers and crew took off once more, to an uncertain fate.
It was the 16th of December when they left New Zealand, and their first stop was one of their previous legs – New Caledonia. Here, Ford had been ordered to land, refuel, and take on evacuees – the staff of the Pan-Am facility that operated out of the New Caledonian capital – Noumea. Fearing that the island could be captured by the Japanese at any minute, Ford told the Pan-Am staff that they had exactly one hour to grab whatever they could, and flee. This wouldn’t be easy – each passenger was only allowed one bag each!
While the Pan-Am staff scrambled to pack their bags and secure their essentials, the plane was refueled. With everybody safely aboard, the plane took off once more, this time flying west.
The only other major landmass in the region that had not yet been taken by the Japanese was the Commonwealth of Australia – the Pacific Clipper’s next stop. It landed off the Queensland coast near the town of Gladstone, where once again – it started to refuel. While the ground-staff prepared the clipper for its next leg, the crew offloaded the Pan-Am employees from Noumea, judging Australia to be far enough away from Japanese aggression to be a safe evacuation-point.
While this was going on, Ford had to tackle another issue that hadn’t been an issue before last week!…money!
With each flight, the crew was provided with enough funds to cover their expenditures – food, fuel, and any necessary repairs – from California to New Zealand…but Pan-Am in New York had not been able to send them any extra funds for their long-haul flight around the world!
Wondering what to do, Captain Ford was suddenly approached by a young man, who identified himself as a local banker. The aircraft had enough food and fuel to last the trip – but what about money?
“We’re broke!” Ford recalled saying, and explained how they had only been given enough funds to support them there and back – not for halfway around the world!
“I’ll probably be shot for this”, the banker replied, but he went to his local branch, unlocked the vault in the back, and returned with $500 cash-money – American dollars! A not-inconsiderable sum in 1941!
Accepting the cash without another word, Ford handed it to Rod Brown, the aircraft’s navigator – the only person on board with access to the plane’s strongbox. The funds were deposited, and the aircraft prepared to take flight again.
The Pacific Clipper continued its journey westwards, flying across the Australian interior. Being a seaplane, the Pacific Clipper could only take off or land on water – and Australia being one of the driest countries on earth – there ain’t much water around! Certainly not enough to land a commercial aircraft in!
The afternoon of the 17th saw the Pacific Clipper landing in Darwin, the capital of Australia’s Northern Territory. The weather was atrocious and the plane came down in the midst of a tropical thunderstorm. Although it was the capital of the Northern Territory, Darwin was hardly a bustling metropolis! The crew were stunned to discover just how small Darwin was – little more than a large, country town. Even in 2020, Darwin’s population is still barely 150,000 people!
Despite this, Darwin was still an important military base, with an airfield, army-base, aircraft facilities, and a naval base in the deep-water harbour nearby. Darwin was such an army town that the crew found that their refreshment station was actually the local brothel!
While in Darwin, Captain Ford and his navigator, Rod Brown, had to decide what on earth they were going to do next. Australia was likely to be the last friendly nation that they would be able to land in, before they had to strike out on their own and try and make it home across the rest of the world. There would be no way to know where they could land, find fuel, repair the engines if they malfunctioned, could receive medical care, or even communicate with Pan-Am headquarters in New York, if they had to!
Leaving Australia…
After freshening up, the crew had to refuel the aircraft…again. 5,000 gallons of aircraft fuel had to be poured into the tanks before they could take off – not with pumps or hoses or anything as sophisticated as that!…Oh no.
It had to be done by hand.
1,000 5gal. jerry-cans of fuel had to be literally manhandled up the side of the aircraft and poured into the tanks over the wings, passed down, refilled, and then passed back up again! All this in the raging North-Australian heat! It was past midnight before the job was done, and the crew were exhausted! They allowed themselves a few hours’ sleep, and then took off again the moment it was light.
Lifting off from Darwin on the morning of the 18th, Captain Ford and his crew flew north to Surabaya in Java, then part of the Dutch East Indies.
Desperate to hold the island by any means necessary, British and Dutch forces were understandably on-edge when they saw an unidentified aircraft entering Javan airspace. Unable to make radio-contact, the Pacific Clipper was almost taken out by friendly fire! When it finally was allowed to land – the local authorities refused to give them any aircraft fuel! They insisted that their limited stock was for military uses only – but – they didn’t want to be seen as being unsympathetic – there was a war on, after all!…and they graciously informed Captain Ford that he was welcome to help himself to as much gasoline as he could load onto the aircraft! It’s not like anybody was going for a relaxing, Sunday drive right now, so there was more than enough petrol to spare! Even enough to fuel a commercial airliner!
The lower-quality automobile fuel had never been used in an airplane before, and Ford was skeptical about whether it would even operate properly at high altitudes! But he had no choice – it was either take the lower-grade fuel – or run out of fuel entirely, and crash in the ocean!
Erring on the side of caution, Ford ordered his flight engineers to siphon the remaining aircraft fuel into one tank, and fill the other tanks with the lower-grade gasoline. The plane would take off using aircraft fuel, but would carry out the next leg of its journey using the automobile fuel.
Once the plane was airborne, Ford switched the feed-valves on the tanks, shutting off the aviation fuel and switching on the pumps for the lower-grade petrol – the engines gurgled and spluttered and smoke started pumping out, but once they’d gotten over the initial shock of the change in their diet – they started firing once more.
Chasing the Sunset
Determined to put as much space between himself and the Japanese as possible, Captain Ford steered the Pacific Clipper westwards, and out across the Indian Ocean, and over waters which were, quite literally – uncharted! With no detailed maps, Ford, his navigator, co-pilot and the aircraft’s stewards were basically flying blind, only having the vaguest idea of where they were going. Navigator Brown had no navigational documents for this part of the world, and warned Ford that all they had to go on were rough bearings.
Ford decided that their next logical destination had to be a colony of the British Empire – somewhere that the Pacific Clipper would stand a greater chance of a friendly reception. To that end, the plane attempted to find the island of Ceylon – today – Sri Lanka – off the Indian coast.
Had they been traveling by sea, this would’ve been called an “all-red route” – a sea voyage which stopped only in “red” parts of the map – red being the colour of the British Empire. As they flew on, the crew of the Pacific Clipper encountered heavy cloud-cover. Unable to determine his position, Ford dropped the plane below the clouds to get his bearings – a decision he would immediately regret!
As he broke cloud-cover, Ford got the shock of his life when a Japanese submarine appeared below! The Japanese started manning their deck-guns and began firing at the Pacific Clipper and Ford had to quickly manipulate the controls to bring the aircraft back up into the clouds!
Sustaining no damage from the Japanese attack, the Pacific Clipper finally landed in Ceylon and the crew were welcomed by the local British military garrison, where they were invited to a meeting to give them whatever intelligence they could regarding the current state of the South Pacific.
After the aircraft had been refueled, it took off once more. It was now the 24th of December – Christmas Eve, and Captain Ford was about to get a very nasty Christmas present! They had barely flown more than a handful of miles when an explosion in one of the starboard engines made everybody jump! Peering out the window, Ford and his co-pilot were stunned to see smoke and oil gurgling from the #3 engine! Ford shut the engine down and spun the plane around back to Ceylon!
When they landed, Ford pulled the engine coverings off and discovered that one of the 18 cylinders had ruptured and worked itself loose from its mounting, causing the oil to leak out. Repairing the loosened mounting was not difficult…but it did take a long time, and it was Boxing Day before the plane could take off again.
Deciding to stick with their “British-Empire” strategy, Ford and his crew headed for Karachi, then part of British India (today part of Pakistan), and from there to the Kingdom of Bahrain, at the time, a British protectorate.
So far, so good.
Arriving in Bahrain, the crew once again made contact with the British military authorities stationed there, explained their situation, and their onward plans. Captain Ford was warned to avoid flying over Saudi-Arabia if at all possible, due to the potentially hostile reception he might receive – more than a few British aircraft had been shot down over Arabian airspace, and while the Pacific Clipper had, by this time, been stripped of all its identifying marks to avoid enemy attention, there was still a good chance that an unmarked, un-identifiable aircraft might still be targeted by hostile forces.
Captain Ford provisioned and refueled his plane, and they took off again. With fuel a precious commodity, Ford wasn’t in any position to take a ‘scenic route’ back to America, and so, ended up flying across Saudi-Arabia anyway! To protect against gunfire, the clipper remained in the clouds for the majority of the leg, only dipping down to check their bearings every few miles. They’d been in the air about 20 minutes when Ford took the plane down to check their progress. The crew got the shock of their lives when they realised that they were flying right across central Mecca! Fortunately, anti-aircraft installations did not exist in Mecca, and the Pacific Clipper flew on, unmolested.
The aircraft’s next stop was Khartoum, the capital of the Sudan. Landing on the famous River Nile, Captain Ford and his crew were greeted by representatives of the British Royal Air Force, who helped them refuel the Pacific Clipper, provision it for the next leg of its epic journey, and wished them godspeed.
Exactly where to go next was a bit of a challenge. Flying to Europe was dangerous at best, unwise at worst. While they could probably head to somewhere like Gibraltar, Ford feared that the clipper’s engines, already taxed to breaking-point, would not survive the heat of the Sahara Desert – a forced landing there would be a death-sentence to everybody! This also meant that places like Casablanca, Spain or Portugal were out of range.
Instead, the crew decided to fly to Leopoldville in the Belgian Congo – it would at least be further west, and would take them one step closer to home.
Landing on the river near Leopoldville, the plane was tied up at a jetty and the crew disembarked for their next rest-stop. Upon their arrival in town, they received the shock of their lives! Two Pan-Am employees – an airport manager, and a radio-operator – greeted them! Relieved to see colleagues again, the crew relaxed, had a meal, exchanged news…and thanks to the two Leopoldville employees – enjoyed something that none of the Pacific Clipper crew had had, probably since leaving Australia – a nice, cold beer!
The crew rested in Leopoldville overnight while they planned the next leg of their journey. They also refueled the aircraft and prepared it for the next day’s flying – in fact, they prepared it so well, that come dawn, the plane was almost too heavy to take off! With tanks full of fuel and oil, cargo and crew, and with the soggy, humid air of the equator all around them, the Pacific Clipper narrowly avoided plunging off the edge of a waterfall as it lurched ungainly into the air once more!
The Atlantic Crossing
The next leg was one of the most dangerous – flying across the Atlantic to South America – a journey that took them nearly all day and night! When they finally landed in Natal on the Brazilian coastline, port authorities insisted that the aircraft – by then looking very battered, worn-out and worse-for-wear, due to it serving as the home for the ten crew-members for the past month – had to be fumigated for mosquitoes, which could carry deadly yellow fever. The crew disembarked the plane and started planning the next part of their journey while a team of fumigators boarded the aircraft and got to work.
And boy, did they ever! When Captain Ford and his colleagues returned, the ‘fumigators’ had robbed them blind! Anything that wasn’t nailed down had been stripped off the aircraft! All their personal papers, most of their charts, maps, travel-documents, company papers, and most of their money had been stolen!…a fact they only discovered once they had already left Brazilian airspace!
Finally back in the Americas and in familiar skies once more, Captain Ford flew towards the Port of Spain, the capital of Trinidad & Tobago. This was the first place they’d landed in since leaving New Caledonia a month before, that had actual Pan-Am facilities, and Ford was relieved to be among friendly faces once more. The next leg was the last one – the final flight home to New York!
Captain Ford and his colleagues were so eager to get home that they took off almost immediately. It was now the 5th of January, and New York was just a short jaunt away. They left Trinidad so early that when they arrived in New York, it wasn’t even daylight yet! As a result, when Captain Ford contacted La Guardia Airport Air-Traffic Control with the words: “This is the Pacific Clipper, inbound from Auckland, New Zealand! Overhead in five minutes!”, the air-traffic controller called back that the Pacific Clipper was not allowed to land!…for 50 minutes. Only when the sun rose near 7:00am, did the plane finally touch down in American waters once more!
In the end, Captain Ford had made history! And in so many ways! Let’s count them, shall we?
The first-ever round-the-world flight by a commercial airliner.
The longest continuous flight made by a commercial airliner.
The first circumnavigation of the world by following the equator.
The longest nonstop flight in the entire history of Pan-American World Airways: 3,583 miles from Leopoldville to Natal.
In the nearly four weeks it took them to get home, Ford and his crew had visited twelve nations on five continents, and had made eighteen landings! They had also made incredible history!
In this posting, we’ll be looking at the birth of the ‘Golden Age of Travel’, and exploring how the changes and innovations made to transport and communications during the 19th century, gave birth to the first great age of travel and tourism. We’ll be looking at what tourism and travel was like when it first became available to ordinary people, how the tourist experience differed between then and now, and what we might have lost and gained during the journey.
‘The Golden Age of
Travel’ is defined as the era from the second half of the 1800s up to the
early 1940s, when cheap international travel and the tourist trade really
started taking off, thanks to technological and transport advances made during
the Industrial Revolution. It was an age of wonder and excitement, and was the
first time that ordinary people were able to travel in style, speed, safety,
and comfort. It was also the first time when people could travel strictly for
pleasure at reasonable prices.
The Second World War, and the subsequent geographical,
technological and political changes which it forced, irreversibly changed the tourist
landscape, making the difference in the travel-experience between the first and
second half of the 20th century almost as different as night and
day.
The changes brought about by the War made it impossible to
return to the elegance, excitement, wonder and grandeur of the pre-war travel experience
– it’s something which exists only as a ghost, which lingers in old
photographs, antique luggage, hotel and steamship-tickets and the stamp marks
found in fading passports. So what was it really like? What was travel and tourism
like before and after the War? How did pre-war travel differ from post-war
travel, and how did post-war travel morph into what we know today? In this
issue, we’ll find out together, on our very own tour through history!
So stamp your passport and clip your tickets. Strap down
your trunks and hold onto your Baedekers. We’re about to take a trip back into
history. Our ancestors may not have been jetsetters, but they were
globetrotters, who still managed to explore the world in a haze of smoke, steam
and gasoline. A flag waves, a whistle blows. It’s time now to depart! All
aboard!
Before the Golden Age of Travel
For much of history, travel was slow, boring, painful,
expensive and dangerous. People rarely travelled any great distance unless it
was absolutely necessary, and almost never for pleasure. It was not uncommon
for people to be born, live, and die all within the confines of the communities
of their birth, or within a very few miles thereof. Travel meant days and weeks
on the road. It meant needing money to pay for bed and board, it meant having
to guard yourself against those who would wish you harm in any number of ways. Thieves
and robbers on the public roads also meant that you were restricted in your
travel, largely to daylight hours when it was easier to protect yourself. This
limited your travel-time each day, and made travel even slower. And this if you
were poor. If you were rich, travel was slightly easier, but still not without
considerable risks.
Even if you had the money to allow for travels, and even if
you did travel for pleasure, the journey was still slow, costly and potentially
dangerous. Money had to be paid for coachmen, horses, carriages, food and
lodgings, and servants. And there was the constant danger of being attacked
during your journey. Travelling ‘in style’ told every highwayman along your
route that you were rich, and that attacking and robbing you would likely gain
a highwayman rich rewards for his efforts. This put you in just as much danger
of assault and even death, as someone who had almost no money at all. And the
manner of your travel did not change these odds at all.
For most people, travel meant walking. And walking was
slow. Walking made you vulnerable. Walking along a country road, or through a
town, city or village left you open to all manner of dangers – cutpurses,
footpads, pickpockets, muggers, rapists, beggars, robbers and thieves who would
all do their level best to relieve you of your worldly possessions. But for
most people, this was the only way to travel from A to B – horses were
expensive to keep, feed and maintain. And only the wealthy could afford
carriages. And even those were not as safe as one might think.
Travelling in the relative speed and comfort of a private carriage or stagecoach did not guarantee you protection. Coaches or carriages which ran regular routes, and even private carriages running along busy Highways, risked being held up. Highwaymen created roadblocks to hold up coaches and force them to stop. Once a carriage was stopped, they could rob its passengers of their valuables and money, and even kill them if they wished. Famous highwaymen made names for themselves, like Dick Turpin, who was a notorious outlaw in Georgian-era England.
If you wanted protection on long journeys, you had to
either bring your own weapons and know how to use them, or else pay for armed
coach guards, who protected you with swords and loaded blunderbusses, or later,
shotguns. To this day, sitting in the front passenger-seat of a motor-vehicle
is still called “riding shotgun” – an allusion to the armed coach guard who
would sit next to the driver of a stagecoach, to provide armed protection in
the event of a holdup.
For all these reasons and more, for much of history, most
people did not travel great distances. And if they did, it was rarely for
pleasure, but mostly out of necessity – to escape disease, danger, poverty, a
troubled home life, or to find employment or other business related reasons.
What were the changes that happened in society and technology that allowed
people – ordinary people – to travel for pleasure for the first time in their
lives? And what was it like to travel and go on a vacation during this first
great age of travel? What allowed this to happen?
The Birth of Mass Transport
Widespread travel for pleasure would not be possible
without a corresponding development of means of cost-effective mass transport.
Spurred on by the Industrial Revolution, the second half of the 19th
century, saw efficient, cheap mass-transport becoming a reality, and for the 19th
century, and the first half of the 20th century, efficient, cheap
transport was symbolized by two great new inventions of the age: The
steam-powered locomotive, and the steam-powered, ocean-going passenger-ship –
the ocean liner! Where did these machines come from, and how did they change
the world?
Steam Boats & Steam
Trains
The two vehicles which would allow for the movement of
large numbers of people with ease and economy were both invented in the early
1800s. By the start of the Victorian era, the first passenger ships and
locomotives powered entirely by steam were plying trade around the world.
Locomotives and steamships both originated in England, and it was this steam-powered
transport technology that gave birth to the modern travel industry.
Conflicts during the 19th century such as the
Crimean War, the Chinese Opium Wars, the American Civil War, and the Franco-Prussian
War of the 1870s were the conflicts that laid the groundwork for the expansion
and improvement of steam technology. Expansion of railroad networks caused by
the need for rapid troop movements now allowed for swift, efficient movement of
civilian passengers.
Advances in steamship technology for wartime uses now
allowed for faster, safer and more comfortable ocean travel in peacetime. No
more was it about sleeping in hammocks on rocky, creaky, cramped sailing ships
that relied on the wind and weather. Now you could steam across the Atlantic or
the Pacific in a berth, or a cabin of your own, in comfort and style, lulled to
sleep by the throbbing of the powerful steam-pistons deep beneath the ship,
that turned paddle-wheels, and later, screw-propellers, which drove great
vessels across the ocean at speed.
No more was travelling by train a smoky, dusty, sooty
experience, full of coughing and gasping for air in uncomfortable, windswept,
open-topped carriages; now you could travel on a train with enclosed, corridor
carriages with separate day-compartments, or if the journey was an overnight
ride, in the relative comfort of a sleeper-car. If you found yourself hungry or
thirsty, dining-cars and kitchen-cars provided you with food. If you wanted
somewhere to relax, the lounge-car provided you with comfortable seating and
bright lights to read, write, smoke, or chat with friends on the journey.
By the late 1800s, travel was safer, faster, cheaper and
far more comfortable than lurching around inside a horse-drawn carriage with
little suspension. It was also open to a wider range of people. You paid a
ticket according to your means. First Class, Second Class, Third Class, or on
ocean crossings – Steerage. ‘Steerage Class’ on ocean liners got its name from
the fact that third-class passengers were often housed at the back of the ship,
and deep in the hull, in the smallest cabins, the closest to the ship’s
engines, power generators and steerage mechanisms. First- and Second-Class
passengers got cabins on the upper decks, with the bright sea-views, away from
the throb and rumble of the engines.
Motorised Transport
Along with steam-powered transport, the rise of cheap,
personal and public motor-vehicles in the early 1900s also contributed to the
Golden Age of Travel. Vehicles like motorcars, motorcycles and buses freed
people from the restrictions of train and streetcar timetables, allowing them
to make the best and most use of their free time. Planning trips and holidays
around the country or continent became much easier and faster when each person
or family had their own vehicle with which to travel in, which was not
dependent on such variables as horses, timetables or weather, and which was
much faster and more comfortable than previous methods of transport.
Cheap cars for the ordinary middle-class worker such as the
Model T and Model A Fords in the United States, the Austin 7 in England, and
the Volkswagen ‘Beetle’ in Germany meant that more people could go more places,
and weekend drives to explore locations previously impractically far from home
could now be accomplished in a few hours. Trips to the country or to other
cities and towns were now easy and simple. And a car was easier to maintain and
faster to start than a horse and carriage!
The Birth of the Golden Age of Travel
Along with steam-powered transport, the rise of more
personal transport also contributed to the birth of the Golden Age of Travel.
Starting in 1885, you had the world’s first modern bicycles, and increasingly
as the Victorian era came to an end, the rise of the motorcar. Able to take
people places that the railroads could not reach, these two inventions further
improved people’s ability to travel and explore. This led to an increase and
improvement of road networks.
Travelling around the country and going from city to city –
road-trips – became popular. Rest stops, motels and diners popped up around the
United States. The famous “Route 66”
in the United States stretched from Chicago, Illinois all the way to Los
Angeles, California, passing through many cities and states on the way, making
it a popular road-trip and an easy way to visit many famous cities and towns
along your tour of the American interior.
With the infrastructure for safe, speedy, comfortable and cost-effective mass transport now in place, and social changes such as the rise of the five-day working week, it was now possible for people to take time off, and time away from home and work, and to start travelling and go on holiday for the first time in history. The Golden Age of Travel had begun!
Now, it was easy to travel to such places as the
countryside, the beach, the bay, or to take day trips into town to go window shopping,
to buy gifts, necessities for the house, or to explore cities and towns far
from home. It was possible to live far from the city in a new, quiet suburb and
commute into town. Journeys that might once have taken days or weeks could now
be done in hours or minutes. The amount of free time available to people was
beginning to grow. Holidays became popular, with more people getting time off
work. People with time off work and money to spend wanted to go travelling, and
the number of exciting destinations to visit was growing, catering to all
levels of tourist, as were the ways to get there, and places to stay, once you
arrived.
As the 20th century progressed, travel became faster still. With the opening of the Suez (1869) and Panama (1914) Canals, long detours around the horns of Africa and South America were eliminated for all but the largest of ships, slicing days off of voyages to Asia, the Middle East, the Mediterranean and the coastal cities of the United States.
To lure people away from their homes to far flung
destinations, travel agencies, railroad companies and shipping lines produced
vivid, colourful posters advertising luxurious travel to the edges of the world
in fast, sumptuously appointed ocean liners and railroad-carriages, fast
connecting trains and short crossings; anything to part a potential traveler
from his living-room, and the money from his wallet.
Steamships of all sizes now plied the oceans, seas and
rivers of the world. No longer was sailing from England to the Continent
(Europe) a dangerous, costly endeavor. Now, you could buy a ticket. You could
get on a ferry and in steam-powered speed and comfort, take a trip across the
English Channel to France. With rail-links around Europe, cities like Paris,
Berlin, Rome, Milan, Venice and Pompeii became great tourist attractions which
were easily accessible thanks to efficient public transport services from the
port cities of France, Denmark, Germany and Italy. People could travel all over
Europe, America, and Asia, in speed, comfort and safety for the first time in
history. All this was what contributed to the birth of the Golden Age of
Travel.
Packing for a New Age
As the 19th century progressed into the 20th
century, travel became cheaper still. After the hell of the First World War,
the United States of America tightened its once open door policy on
immigration. No longer were shiploads of poor European refugees allowed to be
dumped on Ellis Island for large-scale processing. The ending of this policy in
1924, and the subsequent introduction of immigration quotas (which allowed only
a set number of people from different countries or backgrounds to migrate each
year to specific countries) meant that steamship companies, which had once made
thousands of pounds and dollars a year in the immigrant trade, suddenly had
their main passenger base swept out from under them!
In the new, optimistic age of the “Roaring” 1920s, a
solution had to be found! The answer was ‘Tourist
Class’. Ships no longer transported human cargo from A to B. They now
transported fare-paying passengers, or ‘tourists’
in comfort, from their home ports to destinations far and wide around the
world, for a reasonable price. Cheap tickets were snapped up by eager
holidaymakers with free time on their hands, and international, ocean going
travel began!
Travelling by ocean liner to cities and countries all over
the world often meant long sea-voyages! Very long! London to Paris might take half
a day by steamer and rail. London to New York might take a week or more.
Melbourne to Singapore might take three or four days. But it was for the
mammoth, long-haul voyages, such as those from Naples to Shanghai (eight weeks
by steamer!) for which a whole new kind of luggage was required!
These days, we have check-in luggage and carry-on luggage,
and it’s all weighed and measured and assessed and tagged. You can only have
10kg carry-on and 40kg check-in and if you want more you have to pay for more,
and you have to repack, redistribute and reorganize everything over and over
again, so that the plane doesn’t crash into the ocean and sometimes you wonder
whether going on holiday is even worth it?
Packing for a long voyage during the Golden Age of Travel
was just as challenging, although those challenges were of a rather different
nature. One benefit of travelling by steamship was that there weren’t really
any luggage weight restrictions. So long as it fit in the hold, or in your
cabin or suite on board ship, you were fine. But even for short holidays, you
often brought mountains of luggage. Remember that you did not go on ‘holiday’
or ‘vacation’, you went on ‘tour’ –
hence ‘tourist’.
You expected to be away from home for days and weeks at a
time – and that might be just the ocean voyage, before you even reached your
destination! And having spent days and weeks at sea, you weren’t going to spend
just a couple of weeks at your destination and then sail for days and weeks,
all the way back home again! You expected to be away for a long, long time. A
month or more, at least! So the kind of luggage that our grandparents and
great-grandparents brought with them on their epic journeys was significantly
different from what we would pack and carry today. So, exactly what kind of luggage
would you expect to bring on a long ocean voyage?
The Steamer Trunk
The mainstay of luggage for most of the 20th century, and indeed, for most of history, was the trunk – large, wooden boxes into which everything you might require for a long voyage was packed. Considering that an ocean voyage to any destination could take anywhere from a few days to a few months, such large personal storage space was deemed necessary to fit in all the clothing, accessories and other related travel paraphernalia that might be required for a long time spent at sea.
Trunks were designed to be tough. They had to withstand being hoisted by cranes, roped up in nets, and being stacked up, lashed down, and rocked around at sea. They had to put up with rough train rides, carriage journeys, motor trips, being dragged around and shunted from place to place by porters, bellhops and stewards. To protect against damage, they were reinforced with wooden ribs and braces. This was to prevent cracking and warping from the weight of extra luggage stacked on top.
Rivets and studs were hammered into corners and joints to
strengthen them. Exposed wooden parts of trunks were varnished to prevent
wood-rot, or were lined on their exteriors with leather or canvas to provide a
weatherproof finish. Corners were again reinforced with brass plates which were
again, riveted on, to prevent damage from abrasion and rough handling. Catches,
locks and clasps were made of brass. This made the trunks all pretty and
attractive, but it also came with an added bonus – unlike steel, brass does not
rust, so provided further protection against the moisture and corrosion of
seawater.
The Suitcase
These days, most people pack their clothes and belongings into roll-on cabin-baggage when they go travelling. The days of the actual ‘suitcase’ are steadily disappearing. But there was a time when people who went on holiday carried suitcases, and these cases actually contained the suits which provided them with their names.
A typical suitcase of the Golden Age of Travel, from the
late 1800s through the early 20th century was made of leather or
canvas. It came with two lockable clasps to hold it shut, and depending on the
style, may or may not have come with additional leather belts that were
strapped over the suitcase. These belts provided a failsafe mechanism if the
clasps were broken, but the belts (which wrapped around the entire suitcase)
could also be removed from the belt loops around the suitcase and linked
together. They could then be used to strap the suitcase on top of other
suitcases or luggage, to keep them together, or to secure them to the roof or
luggage-rack of a motorcar or horse-carriage during transport, if other storage
space was not available.
The Gladstone Bag
Sturdy, of large capacity, secure and easy to carry,
Gladstone bags were the backpacks of their day. Everyone who travelled anywhere
on a regular basis was likely to have at least one of these, and like
backpacks, the humble Gladstone was used to carry as wide a range of items as
you could possibly imagine.
The Gladstone was invented by a London bag-maker in the 1800s and named after globetrotting British prime-minister William Ewart Gladstone. It was immediately popular because of its large capacity, and secure, gate-mouth opening. Reinforced with a metal frame, the bag could be opened, and remain open while it was packed. This made it ideal as an overnight-bag into which anything could be packed with haste.
Once packed, the bag was closed, locked, and then simply
carried away. No consideration had to be given to how the bag’s contents might
shift upon movement, since it did not have to be tipped onto its side to grasp
the handle, unlike a suitcase.
This was likely the reason why this style of bag was so
popular with physicians, who commonly carried sharp, dangerous and breakable
objects in their medical-kits, which were likely to be broken if they shifted
unexpectedly inside a backpack or other type of luggage. The gate-mouth opening
also meant that a doctor’s hands were free to dive in and out of the bag to
retrieve whatever instruments and medicines might be required in an emergency,
without having to constantly pull the bag open over and over again.
The Portmanteau
‘Portmanteau’ is a French loanword for a type of luggage which has all but disappeared from travel in the 21st century. You never see these things anymore unless they’re in museums or in period movies and TV-shows.
Literally meaning “Coat-Carrier” (‘porte’ as in ‘portable’, and ‘manteau’ meaning ‘coat’), or also called a ‘wardrobe trunk’, this style of trunk was used for carrying your more expensive clothes – your best dresses, favourite suits, your dinner suit or your white tie and tails. It was stood on one end, and then opened up, looking for all intents and purposes, like a portable closet, complete with hanger-rack and separate drawers and compartments for shoes, shirts, trousers, socks, underwear and space for coats, trousers and jackets so that they wouldn’t get crushed during long journeys.
Portable
Word-Processing – Vintage Style
Then, just as now, our globetrotting forebears often wished
to keep some sort of record of their travels, or wished to inform others of
their travels. Or had a need to communicate and write to others during their
travels.
If we had to do this today, we’d bring along an iPad or a
laptop computer and seek out the nearest establishment boasting free WIFI. And
in their own way, our grandparents and great-grandparents had their own methods
for keeping in touch and connected with others.
The Writing Slope
The reservoir pen which could be carried around in your pocket, and used anytime, anyplace, anywhere, at a second’s notice, is a relatively recent invention. If you went travelling any time before 1900 and you needed to write while away from your desk, chances are that you probably had one of these things packed in amongst your trunks, boxes and cases:
Writing-slopes were the laptop computers of their day. They
carried everything that you required for on-the-move communications: Ink, pens,
paper, stamps, sealing-wax, seals, spare nibs, matches, envelopes, pencils,
paper-knife, eraser, paper-folder, and storage for money, letters, important
documents and valuables. The writing box or writing-slope shown here is typical
of the more expensive, up-market writing-slopes of the 1800s. It comes complete
with desk accessories in elephant-tusk ivory, inset matchbox and inkwell, and an
automatic deadlock security system (and the original key!).
Half-closing the writing-box exposes three,
flat ivory panels, or an ‘Aide Memoir’. Here, simple notes and reminders could
be scrawled on the ivory slates in graphite pencil. They could be erased using
a moist cloth, and the ivory could be reused.
Writing boxes were common travelling companions of the
educated globetrotter or travelling businessman of the 19th century.
They died out at the turn of the century when they were replaced by fountain
pens, and by yet another common piece of luggage which might be brought with
you on a long voyage during the early 20th century.
The Portable Typewriter
Invented in the 1870s, early typewriters were bulky, heavy things. Weighing up to 15-20kg (about 30lbs+), they were impractical as portable writing machines. As travel increased towards the end of the 19th century, and as typewriters became better designed and more commonplace, a market was realized: Portable typewriters would surely prove popular with the travelling public, if only such a machine could be produced!
The first portable, laptop typewriters came out in the first decade of the 1900s, but their golden age started in the 1920s. Portable typewriters were manufactured by Remington, Royal, Underwood, Corona and countless other typewriter companies. They were snapped up by reporters, authors, journalists, travel writers and businessmen who often had to travel as part of their jobs, and needed to be able to correspond swiftly and neatly while on the road.
This Underwood Standard Portable from the second half of
the 1920s was typical of the portable typewriters carried around the world by
tourists and writers during the Golden Age of Travel. Newspaper reports, story drafts,
letters home, business reports and magazine articles were all typed up on
machines like this and sent home across the seas by untold thousands of
writers, eager tourists, journalists and businessmen during the early 20th
century.
Oddments and
Accessories
Along with large pieces of luggage like suitcases,
Gladstone bags, trunks and portmanteaus, our globetrotting predecessors also
brought with them all manner of smaller boxes, bags and cases for holding
almost everything you could imagine. Shoeshine kits, collar-boxes, handbags,
hatboxes, stud-and-link boxes, and toiletry cases carrying everything from
straight-razors to talcum-powder.
Such large amounts of such small luggage were often packed inside trunks and suitcases, to separate and organize one’s belongings on long trips, but also to keep the items most commonly used closer to hand. Until the 1930s, men’s shirts came in general ‘one-size fits all’ style with longer sleeves, and without attached collars and cuffs (called ‘tunic shirts’). The separate collars and cuffs were stored in collar-boxes. The studs and links to attach these to the shirts were stored in jewellery cases.
As it would be impossible to store all of one’s belongings
into a ship’s cabin or berth, or on a railroad-carriage, only the trunks and
cases carrying the most essential items were stored close-at-hand. Clothes and
other belongings that would not be required until the ship or train reached its
destination would be stored in the hold, or in the luggage vans coupled to the
backs of trains.
Classic Luggage
Stickers
Hotel chains as we know them today did not exist in the
early 20th century. Every hotel in town was owned and operated
separately, and competition between them was fierce. Every hotel had to be
grand, classy, have a catchy and elegant sounding name, and have everything
that the guest might desire. Hotels that wanted to stand out had everything
custom made. Everything from the stationery, silverware, glassware, china and
towels were emblazoned with the hotel’s monogram or logo. And of course, every
hotel had to have its own distinct and immediately recognizable set of stylish
and colourful luggage-stickers.
Luggage stickers were once like tattoos – unique,
colourful, and evidence of a varied and well-travelled past. Just like how
sailors who went to sea came back festooned with ink, a steamer-trunk, set of
suitcases or a well-travelled Gladstone bag often returned home plastered from
lid to base in stickers. Stickers came from almost anywhere and everywhere:
from train stations, stickers from shipping companies, and stickers from
hotels.
Stickers contained information such as the name of a
trunk’s owner, his room number, the train which he had taken, or the name of
the ship he had boarded. And if he had boarded a ship, then the sticker might
also have his deck and cabin number. If he was on a long train journey and his luggage
was stored in the goods-van at the back of the train, his trunk sticker might have
his carriage or compartment number.
Today, luggage-stickers are just ugly, black-and-white barcoded,
print-out, rip-off, stick-on-and-done affairs. As soon as you arrive at your
destination, it’s immediately your mission to remove these stickers as soon as
possible, lest their blandness offend the eyes and sensibilities of the
delicate. On the other hand, vintage luggage stickers were works of art. They
often had bold letters in artistic fonts and colours which spelt out the hotel
name, the ship name, the city or port where the sticker was plastered on, and
came with decorative pictures or photographs as part of the design. They were
like miniature travel posters in their own right and passengers often kept the
stickers on their luggage as proof of their travels, and as proof of the extent
of their travel. And also because it gave their luggage ‘character’, with the
various stickers creating a rainbow patchwork of paper on the bland leather
surfaces of their cases and trunks.
Hotels During the Golden Age of Travel
The rise in the frequency of travel from the late 1800s to the start of the Second World War saw a corresponding rise in the number of hotels. A number of the world’s most famous hotels trace their roots back to this first great age of tourism. In the United States, the Stanley Hotel (1909) was opened by Freelan O. Stanley, co-owner of the famous Stanley Motor Carriage Co., which produced the well-known Stanley steam-powered automobiles of the 1900s-1920s. Notoriously haunted, it gave Stephen King the inspiration for one of his most famous horror novels: “The Shining”. Its guests included Titanic survivor Margaret Brown, musician J.P. Sousa, and President Theodore Roosevelt.
In New York City, the famous Plaza Hotel was opened in 1907. In London, the Langham and Grosvenor Hotels were opened in 1865 and 1862 respectively. The Ritz (1907) and the Savoy (1889) in London remain two of the most famous hotels in the world. In Singapore, Raffles Hotel opened in 1887. But as grand and famous as all these structures are, they all owe a debt to one hotel which has sadly faded into history, no longer operating, and which has been overshadowed by the fame of all the other hotels that have come after it.
The Tremont Hotel, in Boston (closed 1895), one of several hotels named Tremont House or Tremont Hotel scattered around the United States (there were five in total) was the first hotel in the world as we would know them today, which offered amenities like lockable bedroom doors, indoor plumbing, indoor heated baths, indoor toilets, a proper reception area, and bellhops to carry the mountains of luggage mentioned earlier on. Opened in 1829, it predated many of the most famous hotels in the world which still operate, and paved the way for standards in hotel amenities and services which we take for granted today.
As the numbers of hotel guests started to climb as more
people found more time and more spare cash with which to travel, hotels started
competing with each other. To lure in more customers, they came up with more
and newer amenities, better service and furnishings, and all kinds of features
and extras which today are considered standards across the hotel industry. In
some respects, the service was also much better than what we might be used to
today.
These days, we arrive at the hotel and check in. Then, we’re
given our key-cards and told our room numbers and left to it, and that’s
basically it. In older times, when hotel competition was fierce, this level of
‘service’ was not always acceptable. Back when even a short journey meant
bringing a small cartload of luggage with you, the front-desk clerk would ring
the counter-bell (similar to the one shown above) to summon a youth who would
take your room key and some or all of your luggage, which he either carried
upstairs, or loaded onto a hotel luggage-trolley and took upstairs in an
elevator. This boy (they were traditionally young men) got his name from the
very bell used to summon him – ‘Bellhop’. Once at your room, he unlocked the
door for you, helped you carry in your luggage, handed you your key and then
left you to your thoughts.
A luxury hotel of the era would’ve come with such amenities
as a lobby, hotel restaurants, lounges, bars, and even a ballroom, where a
house orchestra or jazz-band would provide music which you could dance to, if
you wished. Hotels which had their own house-bands included the St. Francis
Hotel in San Francisco, the Savoy Hotel in London, the Hotel Pennsylvania in
New York, and Raffles Hotel in Singapore. Big names like Glenn Miller and Benny
Goodman would often broadcast live from the Pennsylvania Hotel at set times
each evening, for hotel guests to dance to, and for people at home to listen to
via radio.
Popular Tourist Destinations
During the Golden Age of Travel, from the late 1800s
through to the mid-20th century, a number of countries became
popular, famous, and even infamous destinations for the well-heeled
globetrotter of yesteryear. Countries like Canada, the United States, Cuba,
Mexico, Germany, Italy, Egypt, Spain, France, Scotland, Ireland, England,
Australia, India, the British Straits Settlements, Hong Kong, Japan and China
were all popular tourist spots. If you had the time and money, you might take a
whole year off, and visit all of them, going on a world tour.
Among the most popular travel destinations were those
considered ‘exotic’, such as Egypt, the Middle East, India, the Dutch East
Indies, the Straits Settlements, Japan, and one of the most famous of all: The
International Settlement of Shanghai.
The Shanghai
International Settlement
Shanghai, China’s most famous port city was a free port
from 1843-1943, one of several treaty-ports opened and developed by the British
after the Opium War of 1839. Anyone could go there and free trade was
encouraged, much like Singapore during the same era. Shanghai in the first half
of the 20th century, free from the ravages of war in Europe,
flourished. It was not only famous, it was notorious.
Tales abounded of gambling, prostitution, drug-trafficking
(mostly opium), giddy nightclubs with raucous jazz music, high living,
department stores, the Shanghai racetrack, grand ballrooms and luxurious
hotels. But Shanghai, for all its glitz and glamour, pulsing nightlife and
sheen of neon, also held a seedy underbelly reeking of gangland violence and
crime. The police fought riots, stabbings, shootings, kidnappings, rape and an
endless battle against the fierce underground opium trade. Shanghai was the
original Sin City.
Who wants to go to Shanghai?
Visiting Shanghai in the early 20th century was like visiting Las Vegas today. Its lurid reputation more than anything else, was its biggest draw card. And for the right price, any and all kinds of thrills could be had, if you knew where to look, and who to contact in the crime-infested underworld of the International Settlement.
One of the first views of Shanghai that you got was The Bund. The Bund, or raised embankment, was the main riverfront thoroughfare of pre-war Shanghai, then called the Shanghai International Settlement. Stretched out along the entire length of the Bund were banking houses, shipping offices, grand hotels, newspaper headquarters, upscale clubs, the Shanghai Customs House, and foreign consulates.
As your ship sailed up the Huangpu River and away from the Yangtze, this was your first view of the city – all its grandeur out on display like some gaudy jewellery-shop window display. The Bund ran the entire width of the British and French Concessions of Shanghai, from Suzhou Creek, and down the west bank of the Huangpu River. And the ships docked right there on the riverside. The moment you got off, you were plunged right into the heart of Old Shanghai. You had your choice of the two best hotels in town: The Palace Hotel, and the Cathay Hotel (which remain there still, along with all the other buildings, which are heritage protected, although the hotels have since been renamed).
Shanghai was so popular that in the United States, some
young men joined the United States Marine Corps (USMC) hoping to be posted to
the 4th Marine Regiment, also called the ‘China Marines’, because they were based in Shanghai, a city of
exotic and oriental wonder! Due to the city’s cheap labour and high standards
of living, even humble soldiers lived in relative luxury while deployed to
Shanghai. Here, their main tasks were protecting the boundaries of the city and
the American Concession, and enforcing the laws of the International
Settlement, although this second duty was also carried out by the multi-ethnic
Shanghai Municipal Police, whose job it was to enforce law and order within the
Settlement.
The SMP was originally largely British, but also included
Chinese, Indian, French, and American officers as well. In 1917, famous
American songwriter, Irving Berlin, wrote a now, almost-forgotten song called ‘From Here to Shanghai’, which spoke of
the singer’s longing to experience something more exotic than just a trip to
‘dreamy Chinatown’. 1922 saw the publication of ‘Goodbye, Shanghai’, and in 1924, one of the most famous jazz standards
of the day, ‘Shanghai Shuffle’ was
published, showing how popular this destination was among travelling Europeans
and Americans.
Travelling to Shanghai from Europe, or even America, took
several weeks. Most ships did not sail to most of their destinations directly.
Even the largest ocean liners didn’t do that. There was far more money to be
made by making regular stop-offs along the way, which at any rate, were
necessary to re-coal the ship, drop off mail and passengers, pick up more mail
and more passengers, restock the ship for the next leg of its voyage, and then
carry on. A ship sailing from England to China might stop at Cherbourg,
Casablanca, Marseille, Naples, Port Sa’id, Bombay, Singapore, Hong Kong, and
Tokyo before finally dropping anchor at its final destination: Shanghai. You
can see now, why such a trip would take up to two months to complete!
The Shanghai International Settlement went by many names.
‘The Paris of the East’, and ‘The Whore of the Orient’ were two of the most
common, reflecting both its ritzy, exotic nature, and its Devil-May-Care way of
life.
The Peking Legation
Quarter
For tourists wanting to visit the old capital of China (it
was moved to Nanking in 1927), you either caught a train from Shanghai to
Tientsin, and then to Peking, or else sailed to Tientsin directly and caught a
train from there. And while in Peking, you stayed at the famous Peking Legation
Quarter, at the Grand Hotel de Pekin, or the Grand Hotel Des Wagons Lits. The
Legation Quarter, like the International Settlement to the south, was the Western
expatriate enclave within a larger, Chinese city.
After the famous Siege of the Legations in 1900, the entire
compound was surrounded by walls and gates to protect it against possible
future uprisings, making it look like a walled city. The Grand Hotel Des Wagons
Lits was operated by the same company which ran the famous Orient Express, the
Compagnie Internationale Des Wagons Lits (“International
Sleeping-Car Company”). In Peking, just like in modern Beijing, chief
tourist destinations were the Great Wall, and the Forbidden City. After the end
of the Qing Dynasty in 1911, the Forbidden City was opened to the public as the
Palace Museum in 1925, a position it has held ever since.
Singapore: The
Crossroads of the East
Another popular tourist stop was Singapore. Called ‘The
Crossroads of the East’, Singapore was ideally situated for a quick stopover on
your inspection of the South Pacific. A British colony since the 1810s,
Singapore was widely considered to be one of the nicest, grandest, most exotic,
and safest places in the world to have a holiday. After all, it had one of the
finest military airbases in Asia, as well as some of the best coastal
fortifications. For this reason, it was also proudly touted as the ‘Gibraltar
of the East’, as well.
The place to stay at while in Singapore was of course,
Raffles Hotel. Opened in 1887, Raffles has housed all manner of celebrities,
from Noel Coward to Rudyard Kipling and even British royalty. Raffles’ main
slogan in the early 20th century came from a review given by Kipling
in 1887, months after the hotel opened. Glowing with praise, Kipling had said:
“When in Singapore, feed at Raffles!”
– however, Raffles was careful not to publicise the rest of his review, which
continued: “…and sleep at the Hotel De L’Europe!”
– The Hotel De L’Europe was Raffles’ main competition in Singapore at the
time! Unlike the Hotel De L’Europe, however, Raffles survived the Great
Depression. The De L’Europe, by comparison, closed its doors in the mid-1930s
due to falling guest numbers.
As a free port and main stopover for ships plying the
passenger trade from Europe to Asia, Singapore boasted excellent shopping. A
visit to Orchard Road was almost mandatory, to seek out the latest oriental
wonders brought to the colony by ships sailing back from China and Japan.
Berlin: Cultural Center
of Europe
Despite the scourge of the Franco-Prussian War and the
First World War, during the late 1800s and early part of the 20th
century, the city of Berlin, Germany, was a popular tourist-spot for the
well-to-do. Renowned as a center of culture, art, music and politics, Berlin
attracted writers, journalists, politicians and famous actors.
Hotels like the Adlon became famous as haunts for foreign
newspaper-reporters and visiting VIPs. As the Hotel Adlon in particular was
(and still is) located in the governmental and diplomatic quarter of Berlin, it
was the ideal place to stay for journalists wishing to cover German politics.
Foreign embassies and the Reichstag were all nearby. Even today, the Russian
and British embassies in Berlin are located just a few blocks from this famous
hotel, which was rebuilt in the 1990s on its original location.
Before the scourge of Nazism in the mid-1930s, Berlin was
famous for its café culture, its jazz-music and its contributions to film and
theatre. European cabaret flourished in Germany during this period and
developed its own unique, raunchy humor in the nightclubs and taverns of
Berlin. The center of commercial and social life in Berlin was Potsdamer Platz,
one of the city’s main squares. Originally formed by the intersection of five
different roads, this large, open space was an ideal hub in the center town
from which almost anything could be reached. Grand hotels were built nearby,
the Potsdamer Platz railroad station was built near this location, and in 1897,
the Wetheim department-store was
opened near the square. By the 1920s, it was the largest department-store in
Europe.
The Nazi rise to power spelt the end to almost all of this.
Many of the actors and musicians were at least partially Jewish, and they fled
Germany in droves to escape persecution. Many of the actors in the famous 1942
film “Casablanca” were German,
Austrian or Czech Jewish refugees which had been actors in their
home-countries. They fled to America during the 1930s and reestablished
themselves in Hollywood, when it became clear that they could no-longer act in
Nazi-controlled countries. German cabaret, which had a strong focus on
political and social satire, was all but abolished by the Nazis.
Baedeker Guide Books
Any eager tourist heading off to far-flung destinations
today might consult TripAdvisor, or read up on their Lonely Planet guidebooks.
If you went anywhere during the Golden Age of Travel, most likely, you stopped
off at your local bookshop or travel agency, and asked to be shown their current
stock of ‘Baedekers’.
‘Baedeker’ was a German publishing house established in
1827. Throughout much of the 19th and the first half of the 20th
century, the Baedeker family became famous for printing guidebooks. Published
in German and English, ‘Baedekers’ covered everything from countries around the
world, to counties or states within countries, to cities and towns within
states, and could be remarkably detailed. From the mid-1850s, Baedeker guides,
which were regularly updated, covered countries all around the world. They
started being printed in English in 1861, when company founder, Karl Baedeker,
realized that for their firm to be successful, they had to appeal to as many
languages as possible.
Countries which had Baedeker guidebooks written about them
included: Germany, Belgium, Switzerland, France, Palestine, Syria, Norway,
Sweden, Great Britain, Italy, Greece, Egypt, Mexico, Canada and the United
States! And that’s just from 1861-1900! Other countries that were included in
editions printed in the 20th century included Spain, Portugal,
Austria-Hungary, and Russia. Cities which earned their own guidebooks were
numerous, and extended from London, to Paris to Peking, in China!
Stop and consider for a minute what a challenge it would’ve
been to amass such a stockpile of information in an age before the internet.
Imagine having to write guidebooks on cities and countries thousands of miles
away, and having to rely on steam-post and electric telegraph for
communications. Imagine the effort and time it took to send people thousands of
miles away to far-off countries to research and gather this information.
Far-off countries? In 1914, Baedeker published its first guidebook (in German)
on the South Pacific, covering the British Straits Settlements (Malaya,
Singapore) and the Dutch East Indies (Indonesia). A journey from Germany to
Singapore took over a month by steamship!
An Ongoing Journey
The number of things that a person could say and write about this exciting and romanticised element and era of history are almost endless. I’ll be making another posting soon, about the three most famous vehicles of the Golden Age of Travel – the Hindenburg Airship, the Queen Mary, and the Orient Express!
Sometimes, you really do find the weirdest things, when you’re out antiquing. Over the years, I’ve stumbled across everything from Pieces of Eight to razor-blade sharpeners, pill-rollers and writing slopes. But sometimes…just sometimes…you find something so obscure and unheard of that not only have you never seen it before, you’ve never heard of it before, and you’ve never even come across one on the internet! Likely, you’ve never even considered that such a thing might even exist!
Such was the case last week!
It was on a very windy Sunday morning in July when I picked up this curious rectangular, metal object. It was pointed out to me by the stallholder as something in which I might show a particular interest! And boy, was he right!
I remember staring at this object, a mounting sense of curiosity building up inside me as I laughed at it and picked it up.
“What is it!?” “Ever seen something like this before?” “Hell no! What’s it do?” “It’s pretty fantastic, huh? It’s for heating sealing-wax! You like that kind of old-world writing stuff, don’t you?” “Well…yeah!” “Buy it! You’ll never see another one of these, mate!”
Deciding that he was probably right, I haggled the price down and handed him the money. Apart from a bit of rubbing and wear, the piece was in absolutely wonderful condition – no cracks, no scratching, no dents, no missing or broken parts – everything was in perfect working order! A bit stiff in its operation, perhaps, but nothing that a good cleaning couldn’t fix!
The furnace, or stove, is comprised of four main parts.
First is the body or shell. This is divided into two sections – the upper section, accessed by a flat, hinged lid, and the lower section, accessed by another hinged lid, with a circular handle screwed into the front.
The second part is the two-piece burner or spirit-lamp. This is the little rectangular unit that slides out of the bottom compartment. The top half of the burner comprises of the wick, and the adjustment-knob on the side, with the reservoir underneath.
It’s basically a small oil-lamp which burns kerosene or lamp-oil. The burner-unit is unscrewed, the reservoir is filled with oil, the wick and burner-unit are screwed back on, and once the oil has wicked its way up the wick, it can be lit with a match. Turning the wick up creates a strong, bright flame that is used as a heat-source for melting the wax.
The sealing wax itself is stored in the third component – the wax pan. The pan is basically a metal dish or trough into which chunks or sticks of sealing wax are placed to be melted. The trough is heated from below by the flame of the spirit lamp, and once the metal is hot enough, the wax inside the trough melts into a liquid state.
Riveted to the sides of the body of the stove is the fourth component of the stove – an insulated carrying handle – suggesting that the stove is meant to be portable – this is borne out by the fact that the burner-unit fits into flanges or grooves inside the lower compartment of the stove-body, presumably to hold it in position under the middle of the wax-pan, and to stop it from sliding around when it’s being carried – important when you’ve got boiling hot wax and open flames around!
Is It A Rare Item?
I suspect that it is. I mean how many antique, working sealing-wax stoves have there got to be in the world? A look online revealed a surprisingly large number of sealing-wax melting devices, variously labeled as ‘stoves’, ‘kilns’ or even ‘furnaces’, but these were all modern ones. They’re low capacity, low-heat devices, usually incorporating a tealight candle.
They’re cheaply made with wooden and metal frames and bases, and are used only for melting small quantities of wax – enough for maybe one or two seals at a time. None of them have any age to them, and none of them are designed for large-scale, long-term use. They’re sold more as a cutesy gimmick, not as an actual piece of office or desktop equipment.
During all my searching, I found only two other antique sealing-wax stoves online, and only one of them was similar in design to mine. This would lead me to believe that they aren’t that common, and that if others do exist out there, then they’ve probably been mis-identified…which wouldn’t surprise me – after all, how many offices would’ve had a device like this sitting around?
What Is The Purpose of the Stove?
The stove is designed to melt and liquefy sealing wax, used for sealing documents and parcels, and provide a device for evidence of tampering. Traditional sealing-wax is very hard and brittle – it’s designed to shatter and crack if any stress is applied to it. Unfortunately, this quality means that it’s also much harder to melt than conventional candle-wax, or even modern, soft-textured sealing-wax.
Given that it would take higher heat and a longer time to melt traditional sealing-wax, it would make sense that any office where documents had to be sealed regularly, such as a post-office, bank, or lawyer’s office, would have a stove like this constantly lit, so that a supply of hot, liquid sealing-wax was on standby at the moment’s notice. To seal a document, one simply had to open the lid, scoop out the required amount with a ladle, and pour it over the document or parcel which required sealing.
How Does It Work?
Very simply! You place sticks or pellets of sealing-wax in the pan at the top of the stove. Drop the pan in, and close the lid. Then you fill the spirit lamp or burner with lamp-oil, or kerosene. You let the fuel rise up the wick, then light it with a match, like any other oil lamp. Turn the wick up to the highest level it can go without smoking, and then slide it into the bottom compartment between the two guide-rails. Then close the lower door (or leave it open, up to you).
Once the lamp is lit, it’s just a matter of waiting for the flame to heat the pan, to melt the wax down to a liquid state. Obviously, the more wax there is in the pan, the longer it takes to melt. I imagine they did this on a case-by-case basis – they’d melt just enough wax to make a few seals, and after every 2-3 uses, they’d toss in another stick of wax to melt, so that it’d be liquid by the time they needed to use it again, while keeping the stove burning all day long throughout office hours.
The carrying-handle on the stove suggests that it was meant to be portable – and that it was intended that the stove could be moved from desk to desk around a large office so that different people could use it, rather than taking their documents to a central table to seal them when needed.
How Old Is the Stove and Who Made It?
I honestly don’t know. I’d estimate early 1900s, probably not later than after the First World War, and as far back as the 1880s or thereabouts. There’s no real information on the device itself that gives us any information as to its history.
The only information provided is “SUTHERLAND, THOMSON & Co., 31 Tooley Street, London“. They’re identified as late as the 1930s, as being a supplier of “Dairy equipment and Scientific Glassware” – but that doesn’t mean that they made the stove. They might’ve sold it as the retailer, or simply have bought it for their own use in sealing documents and parcels. I saw one other one online supposedly sold by the same company, so they may have been an established retailer, although I have no real proof one way or the other. There are no patent-numbers, model-numbers, serial-numbers or any other marks on the device at all that tell us anything about it.
Made of silver-plated brass, what we have here is an icon of classic, 1920s design, made by one of the most famous companies in the world.
I picked this up at my local flea-market. I’ve always wanted a lighter like this. It’s solid, chunky, dependable, stylish, and it looks so much more interesting than the bog-standard Zippo-lighter, which most people are doubtless familiar with, from movies and TV shows. In this posting, I’ll be going through the process of how I restored the lighter, and also a bit about its history in general.
What Is a Lift-Arm Lighter?
This style of lighter is of a kind hardly seen in the 21st century. There’s only a handful of companies that still make them (if that), and prior to their limited resurgence in recent years, haven’t been widely manufactured since the 1950s.
Generally featuring a horizontal flint-tube and striking-wheel, a spring-loaded snuffer-arm, and a refueling hole underneath, usually accessed via a screw-on cap, lift-arm lighters were among the most common types of cigarette lighters available from the end of the First World War, up until the end of the 1950s. In the long and storied history of the lighter, that’s only about 40 years of existence. Not much, when you think of something like the ZIPPO which has been around now, for nearly 90 years!
The name of this style of lighter comes from the very distinctive spring-loaded snuffer-arm which is mounted on the top of the body, parallel to the horizontal flint-tube and striking-wheel. To operate the lighter, you flip the arm upwards and then strike the wheel to create the necessary sparks to light the fuel. When you’re done, you flip the snuffer-arm the other way, and it snaps down to extinguish the flame and protect the wick. Since you had to flip or ‘lift’ the snuffer-arm each time you wanted to use the lighter, they became known as ‘lift-arm’ lighters.
How Old Are Lighters Such as These?
A traditional, liquid-fuel lighter of this kind typically dates from the late 1910s/early 1920s, up to the late 1930s/early 40s. They appear to have died off during the war. This style made a BRIEF resurgence in the 1950s, but then appears to have died off again by the end of the 1960s.
That being the case, the majority of lift-arm lighters of this style date from the 20s and 30s, when they were in their heyday. Prominent manufacturers include POLO, PARKER, and DUNHILL, along with a variety of European and American manufacturers. If you’re looking to buy an original lift-arm, then in most cases, you’ll be hunting down a lighter that is the better part of 80 – 100 years old.
Lighters like these date back to the days when smoking was not only common, but highly fashionable. The dangers of smoking were unknown (or at least unacknowledged), and tobacconalia was extremely popular. For most men and a lot of women, owning a flashy lighter was as common an accessory in 1930, as owning a smartphone is today. Lighters were made of solid gold and silver, and in some truly beautiful and fascinating designs and styles.
It’s a thrill to own a lighter from this fascinating and bygone era, full of such elegance, even for something as questionable as smoking. While I don’t smoke, I have always felt that smokers from the 20s, 30s, 40s and 50s had some of the most interesting and beautiful smoking accessories ever made.
What is YOUR Particular Lighter?
The model that’s being featured in this posting is the DUNHILL Model A ‘Sports’ lighter, manufactured in the second half of the 1920s (ca. 1924-1928, according to my research). As far as lift-arm models go, it’s one of the most famous designs ever produced.
The lighter has certain features which were iconic to the Dunhill brand, such as the distinctive, downward-curving lift-arm, with “Dunhill” on it, and the three-slot windshield (what ZIPPO would later call a ‘chimney’, in the early 1930s).
The lighter is made of brass, and is plated in silver. Here and there, the silver plating has started to wear off, most likely from use, cleaning, and just the friction from being shoved into, and being pulled out of, pockets for 95 years!
One of the more interesting features of the lighter is the windshield or chimney which surrounds the wick. Although it has a number of horizontal vents cut into it, the purpose of the windshield is, nonetheless – to guard the flame and wick against the wind. The vents in the sides of the windshield allow for airflow and sufficient oxygen for the flame, while the body of the shield reduces the likelihood of the surrounding wind to snuff out the flame accidentally.
Whatever you call them – wind guards, windshields or chimneys, this feature was very rare on early lighters. Most lighters from the 1890s through to the 1930s had no wind-protection of any kind (or at least, had very, very little), making them nigh impossible to use outside on anything but the calmest of days. One of the selling points of the ZIPPO when it came out in 1932, was that it was the ZIPPO WINDPROOF LIGHTER!
While no lighter can be said to be fully windproof, the chimney or windshield did at least give the flame a fighting chance, allowing the lighter to be used more easily outdoors.
That said – even into the 1930s, such features were rare (and still are rare) on the majority of cigarette lighters – especially those of the lift-arm variety, so the presence of the shield makes this one stand out quite significantly.
Restoring the Lighter
This lighter, while functional, was in a very sorry state of affairs when I bought it. The whole body and mechanism were black and grey with heavy tarnish and the mechanism itself was clogged with dust, grime, ash and soot.
Removing the Windshield
The first order of business was to clean the lighter and remove all the grime and tarnish. Part of this process was removing the windshield or chimney from around the wick and flint-wheel. Easy in theory, but difficult in practice!
The windshield, chimney or wick-guard (whatever you want to call it) was held onto the top of the lighter’s body by two absolutely microscopic screws. The first step was to clean out all the gunk inside the windshield, and then locate the screws. Using a very small, very thin flathead screwdriver, I unscrewed the two screws and very carefully lifted the shield off of the lighter. I tipped the two screws into a glass cup nearby to stop them from rolling away, and then started cleaning the shield, polishing it, removing dust and grime, picking out old bits of wick, cleaning the wick-housing and everything else that I could reach while the windshield had been removed.
Once the shield was clean and the area where it was mounted onto the lighter was clean, I had to reassemble the whole thing. To do this, I mounted the shield back on top of the lighter and then I had to get the two screws down through the shield and onto their holes, and then screw them back in.
How?
The screws are TINY (about half a grain of rice), and there’s no way to grip them while screwing them in. In the end, I used Blu-Tak (what some people might call adhesive Plasticine) to stick the screws onto my screwdriver. Then I lowered them one at a time, through the gap in the windshield and into their respective holes. Then I very carefully screwed them back in.
Don’t be fooled into thinking this was easy – it took about 3-4 tries for each screw, before I got the threads to line up properly, but once they do, the actual act of screwing them down was thankfully – very easy.
Replacing the Wick, Flints and Wadding
Next came the relatively easy task of replacing the wadding, the wick and the flint inside the lighter. This was done by unscrewing the fuel-cap underneath the lighter, and removing all the cotton-ball wadding using a pair of tweezers. After teasing out little tufts of cotton wool, it was a matter of grasping them in the fingers and then spinning them around and pulling at the same time. This caused the wadding fibres to mesh together. This means you can pull them out more easily, and you can pull out more wadding each time, instead of little tufts.
Once the wadding was out, the wick came next. At some point in this lighter’s history, some ingenious fellow had come up with the idea of wrapping very thin steel wire around the base of the wick, and leaving several inches of this wire to trail off the end. This is a great idea! It means that you can feed the wire through the body of the lighter…and out the other side.
That means that you can grab the wire, and yank it through the lighter, and that pulls the wick inside along with it. No more screwing around with trying to stuff the wick inside, just pull it in. Any old copper or steel wire (of an appropriate thinness) will do. Just make sure you wrap it around the wick a sufficient number of times so that it doesn’t unexpectedly unravel when you use it to tug the wick through the lighter.
If you find replacing the wick on your lighters to be particularly troublesome, perhaps try this method? About six inches of wire should be more than enough. Once the wick is through, simply roll or fold up the excess wire and stuff it into the lighter along with the wadding.
Once the new wick was inserted, it was just a matter of packing in fresh wadding. Now this isn’t strictly necessary, but I like to replace the wadding with fresh wadding when I restore my lighters. The wadding is ordinary cotton wool balls so they cost nothing, anyway. The average lighter (eg – Zippos, and lighters of that size) typically take 6-8 balls, firmly packed inside. Once it was full, I put the cap on and then looked at the flint.
The next step was to replace the flint. Now this lighter didn’t have a flint when I bought it, but I have plenty of spares, so it was easy enough to unscrew the screw and spring on the flint-tube and drop in a fresh flint and then screw it shut again. Now what some people may not be aware of, is the fact that the majority of antique lighters actually take TWO flints!
One flint goes into the flint-tube at the top of the lighter, the other flint – the spare flint – goes inside the lighter. In the majority of antique lighters (including this one), the spare flint is housed in a TINY compartment INSIDE the fuel-compartment screw-on cap. Simply remove the cap from the fuel-tank and inside should be a little cylindrical cap – unscrew that – the spare flint goes in there. Usually, they’re big enough to hold one flint, but sometimes you can cram two in there.
Removing the Engraving
Once all the working parts of the lighter had been seen to, the next thing to address was the engraving on the snuffer-cap.
Now personally, I hate engravings. Unless it’s a gift, a dedication, reward, a date, or a monogram, I find them really tacky and unsightly. Given a choice, I’d almost always prefer an antique without an engraving. That said, some engravings can be fun because they add something to the object – a date, an event, an important name, etc. In some antiques, engravings can be a useful dating or research prompt.
Not in this case. The engraving of the owner’s initials just didn’t add anything to the lighter. So I decided to remove it.
Removing the engraving was just a matter of polishing. Lots and lots of polishing. I started with 200-grit sandpaper for the initial scrubbing, then moved up to 400-grit paper, and then finally, 0000-grade steel wool, mixed with sewing-machine oil and Brasso. What you’re doing with this process of polishing and sanding, is removing the surrounding metal, a microscopic layer at a time, until the surrounding metal reaches the lowest point of the engraving. Once the metal is level again, the engraving will disappear, leaving smooth, glossy metal (in this case, brass) behind!
Of course, this can only be done properly once, so you need to be very careful. Fortunately, the engraving on this lighter was very shallow, so removing it was no challenge.
Once that was gone, it was simply a matter of polishing the entire lighter, to remove as much of the grime and blemishes, marks, tarnishing and crud as possible. The lighter would never look 100% brand-new, what with plating-loss and such, but it at least looked clean and attractive enough to be picked up and used!
Fueling up the Lighter
The final step in the restoration was, of course, making sure that the lighter works! I juiced up the fuel-tank with four or five generous squirts of lighter-fluid and screwed the cap on.
Lighters like this 1920s Dunhill are designed to be operated by one hand – indeed, by one FINGER of one hand – typically the thumb. In normal operation, the lighter is held upright with the flint-tube facing towards you (so that you’re looking at the lighter from ‘behind’, with the lift-arm snuffer-cap facing away from you).
The lift-arm is flipped up using the thumb, and then the flint-wheel is struck rapidly from right to left. Assuming that everything is clean and functional, one half-turn of the flint-wheel is all it takes to create enough sparks to light the fuel-vapours and ignite the lighter.
Help! My Lighter Won’t Light!?
When it comes to repairing or restoring antique lighters, this is one of the most annoying things ever. You spend all that time lavishing care on your newfound lighter, and the damn thing just refuses to repay your kind attentions by deigning it necessary to carry out its primary function – lighting up!
Why not??
Antique lighters fail to light for a number of reasons. Here are some of the most common ones:
There’s No Fuel!
Probably the most obvious reason – there’s no go-juice in the tank! Antique lighters take liquid fuel – typically some manner of petroleum spirits. For there to be enough fuel to burn, the tank needs to be full. The cotton wadding soaks up the fuel and the wick transports this fuel up to the top of the lighter. But if there isn’t enough fuel, it’s not going to reach the wick. The lighter is full when you’ve thoroughly saturated all the wadding (typically 4-5 generous squirts of the can will be enough).
The wick is too short…
Antique lighters have wicks, just like old-fashioned oil-lamps or candles. And the same principles apply – if the wick is too short, then there’s nothing to burn! Now, on a properly functioning lighter, it’s not the wick itself that burns. What burns is the fuel-vapour around the wick that is drawn up through capillary action. But if the wick is too short, there isn’t enough surface-area above the top of the lighter for there to be enough vapour to light.
This is easily remedied by tugging out the wick until it’s long enough for the sparks to catch the fuel-vapour. Typically, the wick should be as high as the top of the windshield, or as high as the top of the snuffer-cap.
The wheel isn’t sparking
Another really common reason as to why lighters won’t light is because there’s no spark to get it going.
When you strike a light, you spin the corrugated flint-wheel or striking-wheel against the small pellet of flintstone inside the lighter. The corrugations scrape the flint and this produces sparks – it’s a principle known for hundreds of years that steel plus flint = sparks.
But this won’t happen if there isn’t enough friction between the flint and the wheel for the lighter to spark properly. Why is this?
There’s three reasons.
1). The flint isn’t touching the flint-wheel.
A REALLY common problem with old lighters is that when you buy them ‘in the wild’ in flea-markets, etc, they often still have old, corroded flints inside them! These old flints are beyond saving, and they’re often impossible to spark. They must be removed from the flint-tube, and a new flint should replace it. To remove the flint, just take the flint-tube cap and spring out, and tap the old flint out.
Sometimes if it’s stuck, you may need to tap the lighter on a table or something, to coax it out. If it’s REALLY stuck up in there, you can use something like a nail, a pin or a screwdriver to smash up the flint and pick at it. This will break up the flint into chunks and they should fall out on their own. Use pipe-cleaners or toothpicks to make sure that all the flint is gone, and then replace the old flint with a new flint.
2). The compression is incorrect.
Every lighter that operates with a flint has a flint-spring inside it. This spring is used to apply pressure to the flint, so that it’s kept hard-up against the side of the flint-wheel, so that when you spin the wheel, there’s enough friction to generate sparks. If you spin the wheel and there’s no sparks, (or very few sparks) then there’s probably either not enough (or too much) pressure from the flint-spring pressing on the flint.
Fix this by fiddling with the screw-cap at the end of your flint-tube. The tighter you screw it shut, the more pressure and friction there is, the looser it is, the less pressure and friction there is. Typically, the tighter you can get it, the better the lighter will work. But, you can get it SO TIGHT that there’s no way for the wheel to spin. If so, loosen the screw-cap slightly until there’s just enough laxity for the wheel the spin, but enough compression that the spring holds the flint against the wheel.
Now when you strike the wheel, the lighter should light.
3). The wheel is clogged!
Another reason why the lighter may not strike right is because the corrugations on the flint-wheel are clogged with gunk (either dust, lint, or more commonly – flakes and chips of old, corroded flints). All that gunk means that the edges of the corrugations can’t catch the flint and strike it. This grime can be removed using a stiff brush and plenty of scrubbing.
That said, another reason your lighter may not strike is because the flint-wheel is simply worn out. This is VERY rare, because flint-wheels last almost forever, but it can happen. If it does…well…sorry to say it, but you have a dead lighter. But, barring that, just about any antique lighter in decent condition can be made to be serviceable again.
Closing Remarks
That pretty much brings this little saga to a close. While some might baulk at the idea of lavishing this much attention on a cigarette lighter, it is nonetheless, a very old and I think, beautiful cigarette lighter, and one that was well worth the effort used to improve its condition, to something resembling its original appearance.
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this posting! Perhaps it’s given you some instruction on how to fix your own antique or vintage lighters that you’ve collected, inherited or found in the wild. I’ve always wanted a functioning, Dunhill lift-arm lighter from the 20s. They’re iconic! And I was so glad to have the opportunity to breathe new life into this worn-looking antique.
After selling one of my telescopes last year at an antiques fair (and making a very healthy profit on it, if I do say so myself!), I was able to splurge a bit on another ‘scope – of a particular style which I have, until now, not had the privilege of adding to my collection.
I’ve seen a number of these telescopes over the years, but they were all in absolutely terrible condition. Most of them were covered with dents, scratches, loose or broken lenses…and outrageous price-tags! I don’t know about you, but $650 for a telescope with no glass inside it sounds like a very steep price to pay for what is basically a very nice, polished metal tube covered in leather.
I got this particular ‘scope from my local flea-market and after checking it all over for flaws and damage, decided that it was worth the expense to buy it. It had one or two minor faults, all relating to the leather sheathing, but nothing that some restoration (eventually…if it ever needs it) couldn’t rectify. So, for much less than the nearly $700 that the other telescopes were going for, I decided to buy it.
What is an ‘Officer of the Watch’ Telescope?
With its long, thin profile and single draw-tube, sliding glare-shield and smooth, leather cladding, this telescope is quite different from a lot of the others that you’ll find out ‘in the wild’ as it were. Most antique telescopes that you’ll find out and about are multi-tube telescopes without any type of sliding glare-shield, and they’re usually much smaller, with a closed length of anywhere from four to six to eight inches; some slightly larger ones might be about twelve inches, but not many will be longer than that.
By comparison, an officer-of-the-watch telescope typically measures 18 inches when closed up, stretching out to about two feet when fully extended. Most other telescopes can double or triple their lengths easily when they’re extended, while this particular model does not. Exactly why it was designed this way will be explained later on.
These telescopes are called Officer-of-the-watch/officer-on-watch (‘OOW’) telescopes because they were usually purchased by officers or captains serving in the navy or the merchant marine for use on the ship’s bridge. Such telescopes were either the private property of the officers who carried them, or else were the property of the ship, and were kept on the bridge at all times for use by the crew. Their purpose was to provide a vision-aid close to hand for officers on the bridge in the event of an emergency.
Why are they shaped like they are?
As I said earlier, Officer-of-the-Watch telescopes are long and narrow, with single draw-tubes and sliding glare-shields over their objective lenses. Their unique shape is due to the constraints of their working environments. Since these telescopes were usually kept (and used in) the bridge of a ship at sea, they had to be compact. A shorter, two-foot telescope was lighter, easier to carry and easier to use in the confined space of a ship’s wheelhouse, compared to a more conventional naval telescope (some of which could be three or even four feet long!). Try swinging that around inside a wheelhouse without cracking the helmsman in the head! He won’t thank you for it!
How Old are these Telescopes?
Officer-of-the-watch telescopes date to the early 20th century and appear to have been made exclusively in Britain. They were manufactured starting ca. 1900 up to the middle of the century. and were originally manufactured for the Royal Navy, but their use drifted into regular merchant-marine use as well due to their practicality of design.
So, what is an Officer of the Watch?
In the ship’s crew, an officer of the watch (or ‘officer on watch’) is the officer in charge of watchkeeping. Every officer on the ship, generally from the captain down to the lowest-ranking officer, covers watchkeeping in shifts. Traditionally, a watch was four hours long. During that four-hour shift, an officer stood watch on the bridge. Here, he could oversee the ship’s navigation, the weather, the speed and direction of travel, and could respond swiftly to emergencies. The officer of the watch had to be good at navigation, reading the weather, and at assessing dangerous situations such as storms, reefs, rocks and other hazards. In the absence of the captain (who might be sleeping, working, having dinner or be otherwise engaged), the officer of the watch was in charge of the ship’s immediate handling and navigation.
Typically, the officer of the watch was joined by at least two other sailors – a forward lookout or two, and a junior seaman known as a quartermaster, whose job was usually that of controlling the ship’s direction by manning the helm or the ship’s wheel. Officer-of-the-Watch telescopes were usually mounted on the wheelhouse walls, secured in place by brackets or rings to stop them rolling or sliding around.
In the event of something posing a hazard or threat to the ship (such as an oncoming storm, a coastline, rocks, a lighthouse or other ships), the officer of the watch could use the telescope provided (or one which he himself had purchased) to assess the situation ahead.
Since it could be dangerous to leave the wheelhouse during rough or stormy weather, a slimmer, more compact telescope which could be used easily indoors was preferable to the much longer, thicker, and heavier telescopes usually used at sea. Once the hazard had been identified, the ship could take appropriate action, either changing course, or else ordering the ship to stop or slow down, usually done by operating the engine-order telegraphs on the bridge, to send or ‘ring’ orders down to the engine-room below (each telegraph was equipped with a bell that dinged with each movement of the telegraph-arm so that the engineer could hear the change in orders from the bridge, over the drone of the engines).
What Features do these Telescopes Have?
To begin with, one of the most noticeable features of these telescopes is how thin they are. Typically not more than about three inches wide (if that!). A useful feature, since it would make the telescope easy to grip and hold – even if it’s winter on the Atlantic, and you’re wearing gloves to stop frostbite, but you need to spot an iceberg right ahead!
Another useful feature is the leather, non-slip cladding on the barrel. This was partially done for style purposes, but it also makes the telescope easier to grip with wet, cold hands in an emergency.
The third most noticeable feature that you’ll find on every officer of the watch telescope is the sliding shield at the front. Variously called ‘dew shields’ and ‘glare shields’, their purpose was to keep rain, seawater, spray and sunlight off the main lens (known as the ‘objective lens’). By sliding the shield out ahead of the lens, it prevented the sun’s rays from reflecting off the glass and potentially blinding the user, and it also kept the glass clear of raindrops or sea-spray in heavy weather, and was a popular feature on maritime telescopes.
Are These Types of Telescopes Common?
They are fairly common, yes. I’ve seen about four or five before I eventually bought this one. Most of them were in terrible, unusable condition due to their age and the lives they led, but you can find working examples for not too much money, if you’re patient. They’re typically made of brass (which may or may not be nickel-plated. Mine is plated) and are typically 18 inches long, extending out to about 24 inches in open length. Living in Australia, a country which until the late 20th century was accessible only by ship, finding maritime antiques isn’t that difficult. Barometers, ship’s clocks, telescopes, binoculars and sextants are pretty common here.
If you’re thinking of buying an antique telescope, then you need to check for things like dents, cracks, scratches and warpage. Damaged lenses can be hard to replace, and so should be avoided. Dents on the barrel (but even moreso on the draw-tubes) should be avoided as much as possible. Dents will misshape the profile of the tube and make it harder to draw in and out of the telescope. Dents on the draw-tubes will cause the telescope to jam.
If you have the right tools and enough patience, you can press and roll out (or at least reduce) stubborn dents, but you should be careful not to warp the shape of the tube. I was able to use a heavy, wooden rolling pin to roll out the dent inside the glare-shield on one of my favourite telescopes with great success. It wasn’t entirely eliminated, but it was reduced significantly – enough that it was no longer causing the shield to jam every time I opened or closed it.
You should check that the sliding eyepiece shutter over the eyepiece lens is in good condition. If loose, they can be tightened by screwing them back into place. If they’re too tight, loosen the screw slightly. If the screw works itself loose repeatedly after tightening, every time you open and close the shutter, then a DROP of oil on the shutter will provide enough lubrication to allow the shutter to slide open and shut, without the friction that would also loosen the screw.
Simply tighten the screw as much as possible, apply a dab of oil and work it in. I’ve had to do that with a couple of telescopes in the past and provided the oil doesn’t dry out completely (unlikely), then it’s a very effective little fix.
Last but not least, you should check the telescope for its lens cap. Not all telescopes were designed to have lens-caps, but most did. This one does not have a cap over the objective lens, and never did. Instead it has a leather hood that drops over it, but most telescopes are meant to have them, to protect the objective lens from dust, water and damage. That said, it’s rather common to buy antique telescopes without their lens-caps included.
Anyway, that wraps up my posting about my rather different and interesting addition to my collection. For more information about antique telescopes, I can strongly recommend the blog of Nicholas Denbow, at The Telescope Collector. His posts are both entertaining, informative and fun to read!
With the news that there’s going to be a Downton Abbey MOVIE in the works, with most of the original cast teaming up all over again to make a big splash on the big screen (and just in time too. I mean, Maggie Smith ain’t gettin’ any younger, here…), I’m sure that a lot of period drama buffs will be dusting off their DVD collections or hard-drives which contain the episodes of ‘Downton Abbey’, and will sitting back to enjoy all that high-class British drama once again, to bone up on everything that’d happened in the series from the pilot episode in April 15th, 1912.
Downton Abbey has singlehandedly been attributed to a rise in interest in things like classic formal attire, household servants, early 20th century history – and that most high-class of all high-class things: owning a grand country estate and a huge manor house which is centuries old! Indeed, the whole thing of ‘grand country house living’ has always been something that people have been fascinated about for decades, probably because it’s where all the major action happens in all those old love-stories, drama series, and of course, who could forget the classic ‘country house mystery’ genre (“It was Colonel Mustard in the billiard room with the candlestick!”).
In this posting, I’ll be looking at the country house way of life. Where it came from, what it was like, how it survived, and finally – what happened to make that way of life disappear almost entirely from the face of the earth in the space of a few short years. So, let’s begin…
Ham House, near London, dates back to the 1610, and is among the earliest examples of what we would call a ‘grand country house’ today.
All around the world, throughout history, one of the biggest status symbols that there has ever been, is the grand country house estate. They existed in Canada, America, all throughout Europe, in Asia, and even as far away as Australia.
But when most people think of grand country house estates, they almost invariably imagine the great estates and grand houses built in England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland during the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries. When people picture the pinnacle of high-fashion, high-class, ultra-rich living, a grand country estate is almost always one of the prerequisites to such a lifestyle and way of life.
That said, most people – even most rich people – don’t live this way anymore. Why not? How and where did this style of living come from, how did it sustain itself, how did it survive, and finally – how did it finally collapse, to become a forgotten, romanticised remnant of history, something to be elegantly recreated in TV dramas and movies such as Upstairs Downstairs, Downton Abbey, The Secret Garden, Gosford Park and the stories of Jane Austen?
Before Grand Houses – Castles and Manors
The first grand houses were not really houses as we know them today. They were castles! Castles as we imagine them today originated in France in the early Middle Ages. Originally made of wood and earthworks, large, elaborate castles, built of stone and with impressive defenses like earthworks, moats, ditches, drawbridges, gatehouses, corbels, jetties, battlements and crenelations started being built in the 1000s, 1100s and 1200s. One such example is the Tower of London.
Castles were not just houses, though. They served multiple purposes. They could be houses, sure. But they were also usually centers of government, storehouses, military barracks, vaults, prisons and much more besides. Nevertheless, they were the original ‘grand country houses’.
By the 1500s and 1600s, with the rise of cannons, muskets and pistols, and the decline of traditional European feudalism, the castles of old started changing, too. They became less imposing and more like military fortresses and strongholds, rather than large, multipurpose structures. Now, castles existed purely for defense, and any thoughts to turning the structure into a home were generally considered secondary (think of Walmer Castle, once home to the Duke of Wellington himself!).
It was at this point that the ‘castle’ started splitting apart into three distinct entities: The palace, the fortress, and the manor house.
The Fortress
All castles are fortresses. Not all fortresses are castles. That’s what a fortress is in a nutshell – a fortified or strengthened structure designed as a military barracks and stronghold – from the Latin word ‘Fortis’ – meaning ‘strength’.
That said, some fortresses were still called ‘castles’, likely out of habit. Castles built in the 1500s by rulers such as Henry VIII were still called ‘castles’ even though they bore very little resemblance in design or appearance to castles of the Middle Ages. 16th century ‘castles’ were lower, more angular and were designed to house musketeers and heavy artillery, not archers, crossbowmen, knights and men-at-arms.
The Palace
As society stabilised, the need to house the country’s ruler in a fortified castle or stronghold lessened. This gave rise to another structure – still grand and imposing, but designed more as a statement of wealth, power and opulence, rather than as one of protection and military might – the palace! Structures like Hampton Court Palace, Whitehall Palace, the Palace of Westminster, the Palace of Versailles, the Winter Palace and Summer Palace, and the Palace of the Forbidden City reflect this. They’re grand and protected, but are built more as showpieces rather than as military strongholds.
The Manor House
Last but not least comes the manor house.
As the need for castles disappeared, the first ‘great houses’ built by the nobility or the military aristocracy started to appear. These were called ‘manor houses’. They were built more as homes rather than as military fortresses or castles, and were designed chiefly – like with palaces – for comfort and good living. Yes, some still had a nod to their militaristic pasts, such as moats, battlements, bridged entryways and gatehouses – but these were now seen more as anachronistic design-features, meant to make the building look more impressive and flashy, rather than actually serving any real defensive functions. The battlements built on the tops of 16th and 17th century manor-houses were small and thin – not designed as shield for defending soldiers, as battlements on castles centuries before, had been.
The Rise of the Manor House
As fears of endemic warfare died away in the 17th and early 18th centuries, the aristocracy started producing grander and grander country houses. With no wars to blow money on, the wealthy started blowing money on flashy homes instead. Homes with features like huge, double-hung sash windows with lots of glass, features like huge doors, high ceilings, a fireplace in every room, elaborate kitchens to produce gargantuan feasts, ballrooms, living rooms, music rooms, lounges, bedroom suites and enfilades.
Hardwick Hall in Derbyshire. Built in the 1590s, it represents a new type of grand house that was being built at the time, very different from the castles of the Middle Ages. Meant for comfort and good living, rather than defense and security, it earned the nickname ‘Hardwick Hall, more Glass than Wall’, due to its gigantic windows.
An enfilade, by the way, is a long series of rooms one after the other that stretches from one end of the house to the other. In later times, these would slowly be closed off, and the leftover corridor became known as a Long Gallery, or just a ‘gallery’. With so much wall-space, people would hang their pictures, sketches, portraits and paintings there. This is why we view art in a ‘gallery’ to this day.
The North Enfilade at Blenheim Palace.
Along with the gallery and everything else came the inclusion of a chamber for private parties where people could withdraw and be alone with each other. Today, we call them ‘drawing rooms’.
It was during this time that bedrooms and bedroom suites started becoming a thing. Instead of sharing rooms (or even sharing BEDS, which was very common in those days!), you now had your own bedrooms! And if you were really wealthy, then your room would also have a ‘closet’.
The ‘closet’ was a small chamber next to your bedroom. It served a function similar to a study or sitting-room, and a private space to do personal things like pray, write, read or relax. Since only one’s most intimate and personal activities and deepest emotions and feelings were expressed within a closet, it became associated with secrecy and personal thoughts and feelings. That’s why we call someone who has revealed their sexuality – something extremely personal – to the world – ‘coming out of the closet’.
Inside a Manor House
Along with bedrooms, a gallery, dining room, kitchen and large reception rooms, early manor houses had a few rooms which we don’t have today, or whose functions have changed significantly.
One such room is the pantry. Yes, in times past, a pantry was an actual room, not just a cupboard full of instant noodles, coffee and tea. The pantry was the room where all things associated with baking bread were stored, including mixing-bowls, kneading-boards, dough-troughs, forms, molds and other baking implements, along with baked goods themselves, which were stored there to keep them cool and dry and away from moisture which would cause mold.
On top of that came a room which has disappeared entirely – the still room.
The still room was the chamber where you distilled (hence the name) essentials oils, drinks, alcoholic beverages and medicines. At a time when country houses had to be much more self-sufficient than they are today, a chamber for making your own drinks, medicines and alcoholic beverages was important. As it became more and more possible to buy these things rather than make them, by the start of the Victorian era, still rooms had disappeared, incorporated into kitchens in older houses, and being left out completely in newer ones.
Another room which used to exist in old houses was something called a ‘buttery’.
No, the buttery was not where you stored butter and cream and jam (delicious as they are…) – no. A buttery was where you stored…butts!
Okay, stop giggling.
Butts are kegs…barrels…casks!
Casks of beer, casks of wine, kegs of rum and so on. Basically, it’s where you put drinks. Now obviously drinks have to be kept cool, so the buttery was almost always a basement room, usually under the kitchen. The person who was in charge of looking after the buttery was the…butler, and originally, the man’s job was to maintain and serve the household stocks of beverages. In time, the butler took on more and more responsibilities until by the 1700s and 1800s, he had become the chief of ‘below-stairs’ life, organising and rostering all the other servants.
The Heyday of the Country House (1500s – 1700s)
The country house as we know it, or even as we imagine it, started being a thing as early as the 1500s. From then to now, it went through many changes and morphed in and out of different forms. First they were fortified manors, then graceful mansions, then sprawling estates!
Where, you might ask, did they get the money to build these houses?
Make no mistake, a country house was expensive to build, and even more expensive to maintain (but more about that, later).
Highclere Castle, the setting for the hit period TV series, ‘Downton Abbey’. Highclere has featured in many TV shows over the years, including numerous episodes of the 1990s ‘Jeeves & Wooster’ series, and at least one episode of ‘Miss Marple’.
Many of the people who owned country houses also owned vast, vast, VAST tracts of land, usually passed down father-to-son, father-to-son for countless generations dating all the way back to the Middle Ages. Charging rent on this land for farmers who wished to use it to grow crops, raise livestock, or otherwise make a living there, was the chief form of income for landed aristocracy.
The same applied for anything else – any watermills, flour-mills, brick or tile kilns, any ovens or bakeries, and any villages and taverns or inns built on the extensive lands owned by the local landlord all had to pay rent or taxes to the lord of the manor. So long as he was smart, the lord of the manor could live off this income more than just a little comfortably, without ever having to lift a finger…except to coin his money, perhaps. This is where the whole thing about the ‘idle rich’ and the idea that aristocracy didn’t have to work for their money, came in. This is touched on in “Downton Abbey” where Miss O’Brian says that “gentlemen don’t work, not real gentlemen!“.
This system lasted for years, decades, centuries! Passed down father to son over and over again. In this way, landed families could amass GIGANTIC fortunes, and since most of this money wasn’t taxed – they could do whatever they liked with it – and most of them blew their fortunes on building bigger, grander, more opulent houses, amassing huge collections of silverware, antiques, furniture, paintings and foreign curiosities. If the lord of the manor had a day-job (like being a government minister, army officer, or a naval captain of skill and fame), then they could swell their coffers even MORE by earning a salary, or winning prize-money during battles.
Laws favourable to the aristocracy keep them in power, and in money and for centuries, they held a near monopoly on much of the land, enabling them to milk it for all it was worth.
Keeping it in the Family
One reason why the aristocracy held onto their homes for so long and were able to maintain these lavish lifestyles for generations was because of the peculiarities of English law, which stipulated that (unless stated otherwise), country house estates and their contents always passed from the master of the house to his eldest son and heir (or the second-eldest, if the first had died and left no heirs of his own).
This was all maintained due to one of the key plot-elements that ran through the core of award-winning TV series “Downton Abbey“. As Maggie Smith put it, “The entail must be smashed!“.
OK. Point taken.
What the hell is an entail?
In its simplest terms, an entail was a legal device which regulated the laws of inheritance in Britain. An entail was a form of trust (whereby one party – say a parent – sets something aside – say, the house and estate – in the hands of a second party – say, a lawyer – to give to a third party at a particular time – say, the heir to the estate, when that parent dies).
Basically, the entail stipulated that houses HAD to be passed down, father to son, father to son, generation after generation. Or if not father to son, then at least homeowner to his closest living male descendant (be he a cousin, a nephew, or a brother, and so-on).
Passing land and property down like this through the generations is how you end up with these massive country houses filled with all kinds of expensive treasures – because the properties were never ALLOWED to be sold or gifted to anyone outside the family – it was basically illegal to do so. In Downton Abbey, as Lady Mary isn’t a man, she can’t inherit the house and estate or the money that goes with it, which leads to all sorts of complications, which drives the series along.
The Country House Enters the Modern Era (1700-1900)
The 1700s and early 1800s was the era of the great expansion of country houses. This is when aristocracy built grand houses and expanded on even grander ones. Money was flowing in from trade and commerce and rent and taxes, and they were all living the good life. But something happened in the 1700s that started to force a change.
The Industrial Revolution.
Prior to the 1700s, most people lived in small towns or villages, or out in the country. Most people were farmers or artisans or tradesmen. The pace of life had barely changed in centuries because there was nothing to change it, and nothing around to make it worth bothering to change. But when the first steam-engines, canals, and later, train-lines started being developed, life would never be the same again. Suddenly, it was possible to work faster, produce more, earn more, do more with what you had! And this had a huge impact on the country house way of living.
A great example of a grand country manor built without any regard for expenses is Manderston House in Scotland. Constructed at the start of the 20th century, when architect John Kinross asked the owner (Sir James P. Miller, 2nd Bt. Manderston) what the construction-budget would be, he was simply told that “It doesn’t matter”, and to just get on with building it.
With the rise of factories and warehouses, better wages and a more reliable income than could be had from farming or rearing livestock, peasantry, tenant farmers and villagers in the countryside fled from their jobs that they’d had for centuries, and moved to cities like London, New York, Paris, and Berlin, to work in better jobs with better pay and better conditions and more job-security.
Suddenly, there weren’t so many people working the land anymore.
Fewer people working the land meant fewer people that the local landlord could tax.
This meant that for the first time in centuries, the cornerstone of aristocratic wealth – control of the land, and taxing the people who lived on it – was starting to crumble. At the same time, a new landed gentry started to rise up to challenge the old aristocracy. They had no titles, no fancy lineages going back to the Middle Ages, no flashy family names or noble birth – but the one thing they did have was MONEY.
And LOTS OF IT. These were the industrialists. Factory-owners, mill-owners, railway entrepreneurs, shipping magnates, import-export moguls, bankers, manufacturers and wheeler-dealers. And they wanted a taste of what previously had been the preserve of the aristocracy – a big flashy house out in the country, away from the smog and dust and soot of the big cities. And so, they started building.
And building.
AND BUILDING.
The 1700s and 1800s saw dozens of country houses being raised from the ground upwards in Canada, America, Europe, Britain and Australia. If the way to show you’d arrived at the top echelons of society was to have a flashy house surrounded by fields, then the nouveau riche of the industrial age were going to make damn sure that they would have the biggest and flashiest houses possible, and some even started competing against each other to see who could have the biggest, grandest, most outlandish homesteads, much like how the ultra-rich now compete for yachts, jets and cars – 300 years ago, they competed with gardens, dining halls, gilded entryways and grand ballrooms for those swanky, all-night parties.
The Rise of Industry
As industry started to rise and rise, and the new industrialised landed gentry started buying up land and building grand houses on them, the old aristocracy started to crumble. By the 1830s and 40s, steamships had become a thing. Now, it was possible to buy a ticket, get on a train and head to the docks, get on a ship and sail safely across the Atlantic to the New World – all in a couple of weeks – whereas it would’ve taken MONTHS to do this by horse and cart, and in a sailing ship! Since people could now move, and could now seek newer and better opportunities, they were no longer tied to the land. As travel and trade rose, the grip of the old country house owners started to crumble.
One huge blow was dealt in the 1800s in the massive farming slump that happened across Britain and Europe. America, with its huge tracts of land, railway systems and steamships, could grow, harvest, and import grain, flour, wheat, barley and other foodstuffs to Europe much faster and more efficiently than the Europeans could produce them on their own. As a result, farming in Europe (and especially in Britain) started to crumble – and in England, the bottom basically fell out of the agricultural market. Wheat prices in Britain disintegrated and farmers fled their farms, or else moved to livestock instead of crops.
And what did the aristocracy rely on for their money? Rent from farmers. If there weren’t any farmers, there wasn’t any rent. If there was no rent to collect, there was no money coming in! And this had a massive impact on country house living.
Maintaining a Country House Estate
Country houses are huge structures. Dozens of bedrooms, loads of reception rooms, servants quarters, laundries, kitchens, cellars, basements, guestrooms, stables, carriage-houses…remember that they used to have to be self-sufficient, so they had to have everything they needed to support themselves. This meant that they were HUGE. And in the 1700s when the money was flowing – noblemen and noblewomen built bigger and bigger houses, expanding and expanding, renovating and rebuilding over and over again.
This is fine – great, even – when you have a steady income coming in from the land that you can charge rent on, but what happens when that disappears?
The problem was that these country houses were massive money-pits. It took thousands of pounds to run them every single year. Cleaning, heating, water, food, drinks…and that doesn’t include maintenance – water-pipes, flooring, roofing, sweeping the chimneys, repairing the windows, fixing the gutters, repairing the masonry and upkeeping the gardens.
And we haven’t even begun to look at the wages for the indoor servants, which in some houses could number up in the dozens of people! This was made even MORE complicated by the fact that, from the 1700s to the 1850s, Britain actually had a servant tax.
Yes, that’s right. A SERVANT TAX.
To be specific – a tax on male servants.
See, men are really useful – they can serve as stable-boys, footmen, coachmen, gardeners, butlers, valets, hallboys…but the problem is – they can also serve as soldiers, sailors and military officers. In time of war, (such as during the American Revolution in the 1770s, the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Conquests of the 1790s and 1810s, and the European conflicts such as the Crimean War in the 1850s), the country needed soldiers and sailors. And if they were busy serving you, instead of fighting for king and country, then you, as the householder, were expected to recompense the government for their loss in manpower – by paying a tax on every single male servant that you had in your employ!
Add that to the costs of heating, lighting, water, food, drink, wages, maintenance…see how expensive this is?
And that’s provided that you’re not also trying to keep up with the Joneses by trying to live like a billionaire every day of your life! By the second half of the 1800s, British aristocrats were struggling to maintain their lifestyles. Rising costs, falling income and the fact that their houses were gigantic caused a lot of them to just give up!
Many were now cursing their ancestors for blowing millions of pounds on big flashy extensions and expansions, which were now far too expensive to maintain properly. Some aristocrats maintained more than one house – most of them maintained at least two! A country house (the big flashy one) and the townhouse – a smaller, more modest, usually terraced Georgian or Victorian house, often situated in London, which was the family’s base of operations during the London social season in the summer months. As country houses grew more and more expensive to look after, most families abandoned them and just upped sticks and moved into their townhouses fulltime instead.
The Dollar Princesses
The European and British industrialist classes didn’t have to worry about money. They’d built their fortunes from the ground up and had lots of money flowing in from factories and mills, shipping lines, railroad companies and mercantile ventures. As such, they could afford to fuel their luxurious country house lifestyles much more easily than the old aristocracy. Too proud, or unable to work for a living, the aristocracy struggled on, running their houses on dwindling inheritances, and shrinking income from their estates due to the sharp decline in farming. But just as it all seemed lost, salvation was at hand, from, as Churchill would later put it, “in God’s good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old“.
For the British aristocracy, liberation from their growing financial nightmares came in the form of the ‘dollar princesses’.
The term ‘dollar princess’ comes from the late Victorian era. It referred to young American or Canadian heiresses of marriageable age who came from the social elite and the upper professional classes of North American society. The daughters of families like the Vanderbilts, the Carnegies, the Rockefellers and the Morgans – the big, old-money robber-baron clans who had amassed gigantic fortunes in the 1830s to the early 1900s.
In most cases, rich American fathers wanted their daughters to marry into respectable, high-society families. Naturally, you don’t get much more high-society than British nobility, and so wealthy American fathers and mothers started looking across the Atlantic for potential marriage-partners for their little baby girls. At the same time in England, impoverished English noble heirs (remember that houses and estates ALWAYS passed down the MALE line of inheritance) were looking for potential wives who would be loaded with cash in order to dig them out of their present financial disasters.
To kill two birds with one stone, the logical thing to do was for American heiresses to marry English heirs. And they did. In their droves! The heir to the Vanderbilt fortune married the Duke of Marlborough and a Brooklynite named Jennie Jerome married a certain Lord Randolph Churchill.
Yes. THAT Churchill.
If not for the dollar princesses, Winston Churchill would have never been born.
Working in a Country House
One of the reasons why English country houses were so expensive to run was simply down to the sheer amount of manpower required merely to keep it operating on a daily basis. Country houses were enormous structures and without modern technology, it took a small army of servants, inside and outside, just to keep them functioning smoothly, never mind what happened during big events like holidays, family birthdays, wedding anniversaries and Christmas!
The servants on Downton Abbey.
A typical household could have up to a dozen or more staff including the butler, housekeeper, chef or cook, at least one kitchen-maid, at least two or three housemaids, at least two or more footmen, scullions or scullery maids and hall-boys who did double- or even triple-duty as boot-boys and pantry-boys (basically hall-boys did all the heavy manual labour below stairs). On top of that you have valets, ladies maids, and if there are young children – governesses or nannies all on top of that.
“You rang, m’lady?” – Many 18th, 19th, and early 20th century grand manor houses (and even many townhouses built in the same era) were equipped with extensive service-bell systems, comprised of wires or cables, pulleys, levers, pivots and springs, which attached a bell at one end in the servants’ hall to a specific room in the house. The wires and pulleys ran up the walls and along the ceilings (usually behind the walls and ceilings) and in and out of rooms, up and down stairs. Usually the bells were all grouped together on a ‘bell-board’ where each bell was tagged to the room it served. It’s the earliest form of ‘intercom’ found in households. In the early 1900s, some of the old cable-and-pulley networks were replaced by new electric bells, but in some houses which couldn’t be bothered (or couldn’t afford) to replace the old systems, the traditional cable-and-pulley system remained in operation still.
And that’s just the inside staff! Tack on a coachman or chauffeur, stable-boys, and gardeners and you’re looking at a staff upwards of 15 or 20 people at least, to serve a family consisting of maybe – six or eight members. By the early 20th century, as an industry, domestic service (or being ‘in service’, as it was called) was THE largest single employer in Britain.
The Country House in the 20th Century
By the early 1900s, the country house was just about ticking over. Money from dollar princesses, wiser investments and careful money management had just about staved off the wrecking ball, but not for everyone.
Remember how I said that in the 1600s and 1700s and early 1800s, country houses were being built bigger and grander and more luxurious every passing week?
By the 1880s and 1900s, such grandeur was considered excessive…and expensive! It was during this time that some grand country houses started being demolished! Families either moved into a smaller villa on the estate, or just gave up country living altogether, and moved to London to their townhouse in Belgravia or Mayfair.
Nevertheless, country house living was still a thing in the early 20th century. With money to burn, some houses were modernised. Plumbed bathrooms with hot water were installed, electrical wiring was set into the walls, gas fittings and oil-lamps were replaced by switches, wall-sconces and pendant lights. In some houses, even telephones were installed. Coachmen, stable-boys and the park drag coach soon got the boot, to be replaced by a chauffeur, mechanic, and the new Rolls Royce open touring-car.
1910s Rolls Royce Silver Ghost Touring Car. One of the most sought-after automobiles of the early 20th century.
The early 1900s was rapidly becoming the end of an era, though. As noted historian Ruth Goodman said, the Edwardian era was “the last great blast of country house living“.
The country house lifestyle was living on borrowed time by the Edwardian era. Rising taxation and then the Great War in 1914, kicked it in the knees and it was now starting to stumble. Servants left to find better and more stable work in shops, offices, factories, on the railroads and other industries. Domestic service was becoming much less appealing as a career by the 1900s.
Part of the problem was the extremely – EXTREMELY long work-hours; 16-18 hour workdays almost every day of the week were normal for most servants, and time off was very, very limited. On top of that, wages just could not compare with what someone might earn working in an office, a shop, running their own business etc, where there was more flexibility in hours and time off. When the war came, thousands of male servants chucked it in, rushed off to enlist, and, whether they survived the war or not, most never came back!
The kitchen at The Breakers, one of the many grand Belle Epoque mansions constructed for, and lived in by, the stupendously wealthy Vanderbilt family. Here, meals for the entire household – upstairs, for the family, and downstairs, for the servants, would’ve been produced, at least three times a day, every day of the year.
The interwar boom known as the Roaring Twenties kept the country house chugging along for another decade or so, but the writing was on the wall. High taxation after the war, and a significant reduction in the manpower required to run a country house estate – even with modern conveniences – meant that they were getting more and more expensive to operate, and as Lady Grantham’s mother said, “These houses were built for another age“. And she wasn’t kidding!
Rear view of ‘The Breakers’, the Vanderbilt family’s mansion at Newport, in Rhode Island, now owned by the Preservation Society of Newport County.
The Crash of 1929 hit a lot of country house owners hard. With heirs lost in the Great War, and now family fortunes on the line (once again) because of the coming of the Great Depression, it was just getting harder, and harder, and harder to enjoy – let alone maintain – the country house lifestyle. It was during this time that many country house owners sold up, packed up, and moved out. Houses were demolished, turned into schools, office-buildings, hospitals and hotels. But worse was yet to come.
The End of the Country House Lifestyle
The final nail in the coffin for the country house lifestyle was the Second World War. Rationing, bombing, evacuations, lack of funds, lack of manpower, and rising taxation after the war meant that the country house way of living was just impossible to maintain, or continue.
By the 1930s and 40s, and certainly by the 1950s, the whole idea of living in a grand country house, waited on by an army of servants – was rapidly being seen as increasingly outdated and old-fashioned. People just didn’t live like that anymore, didn’t work like that anymore! As the years clocked by, country house living was seen as some sort of relic, a grand remembrance from the lavish excesses of the Victorian age, but in no way applicable to people living modern lives in the postwar period.
Demolished almost in its entirety, the palatial Trentham Hall was one of the first grand English country houses to be pulled down, in the early 1900s. This painting dates to 1880, when the house was already in decline.
Finding domestic servants to run the houses was almost impossible now, and unless you were stinking rich – and could remain stinking rich for the rest of your life, come what may, paying servants was getting harder and harder and harder.
The plight of many old English country houses was summed up in the famous Noel Coward song “The Stately Homes of England“. Although meant to be comical, the song graphically outlines just how desperate some country house owners were to do anything to keep their old family estates together, including selling off absolutely anything “with assistance from the Jews, we’ve been able to dispose of rows, and rows, and rows of Gainsboroughs, and Lawrences, some sporting prints of Aunt Florence’s, some of which, were rather rude!” and that “although the Van Dykes have to go, and we’ve pawned the Bechstein grand, we’ll stand by the stately homes of England!”
It was during the 1920s, 30s, 40s and 50s that a lot of the grandest country houses were consigned to history. Demolished, repurposed, sold off, or simply abandoned, it was up to national historic trusts, social history groups and historical preservation societies to step up to the plate.
In England, the National Trust, in Australia, the National Trust of Australia, and in America, entities such as the Rhode Island Historical Society, and the National Register of Historic Places all rushed to snatch up, preserve and protect grand country houses. In England, Scotland and Wales, surviving country houses are mostly looked after by the National Trust (usually gifted to the Trust by families who no longer wished to live there). In America, the Rhode Island Historical Society protects and preserves the grand villas or ‘cottages’ (as they were euphemistically called, so as not to be seen as being too ostentatious…) which the wealthy of the Gilded Age and the Belle Epoque built on the island’s coastline.
The Country House Lifestyle Today
Although the upstairs-downstairs, masters-and-servants lifestyle of yesteryear is now little more than a distant memory, what is life like inside grand country houses today? Do any of them still exist anymore?
Actually, yes they do! A number of grand country houses (both in the UK and abroad) are still lived in and operated as private homes (some even by their original families), today. However, as was the case a hundred-over years ago, living in an old, grand country house is still a major hassle. It was a hassle 100 years ago when these houses were 100, 200 years old…now it’s even MORE of a hassle when some of them can be 300, 400 years old! The biggest hassle by far, is just the sheer upkeep required. Guttering, roofing, windows, heating, plumbing…trying to get effective rewiring done on a gigantic house is hard enough – imagine how much harder it is when it was built 300 years ago!
As an example – Buckingham Palace recently underwent rewiring, and miles and miles and MILES of antique gutta-percha and cloth electrical cords were stripped out, to be replaced by safer, and more reliable modern cabling and wiring. Imagine how much that costs – and that’s for a building that’s in regular use with regular maintenance…
Living in a Grand Country House Today
Living in a grand country house today comes with many, many challenges. Chief among these is just the sheer upkeep required to keep the house standing. Remember that many of these places are now centuries old and require constant maintenance. Gutters, roofing, heating, plumbing, electronics, gas supplies…another burden is taxation, and at some times, even the limitations placed on what can be done to the house under local historical preservation laws.
But that aside, do people still live in grand country houses?
“Althorp”, the country manor which is the traditional home of the Spencer Family. Princess Diana lived here before her marriage. It remains in the Spencer family to this day.
Amazingly – yes, some do. The Spencer family (famous members include Princess Diana and Winston Churchill) still live at Althorp, their country seat, and Princess Diana grew up and lived there before her famous marriage to Prince Charles. Another famous country house which is still inhabited by the original family is Chatsworth House in Derbyshire. In the 1800s and early 1900s, Chatsworth was a very popular hangout for British aristocracy, and even British royalty – King Edward VII, son of Queen Victoria, was a frequent guest there.
Chatsworth House in Derbyshire, built in the early 1500s.
Chatsworth House is the country seat of the family which holds the title of the Dukes of Devonshire. Since the mid-1500s, that’s been the Cavendish family…and they’ve lived there ever since, including during a particularly scary year of English history – 1665.
For those not up on their English history, 1665 was the year of the Great Plague of London. During this time, the plague spread (through contaminated cloth) to the village of Eyam (“Eem“), just a few miles from Chatsworth. Within a couple of weeks, the entire village was infested with the plague and to prevent a nationwide pandemic, the village leaders ordered that everybody in the village had to adhere to a strict quarantine. Nobody in, nobody out, until the disease had run its course, and the quarantine could be lifted.
Of course, the villagers could not do this alone. The Earl of Devonshire (as the head of the Cavendish family was, at the time), as the local landowner, felt sympathy for the villagers and agreed to provide whatever assistance he could offer. In exchange for silver coins washed in vinegar, he would send deliveries of food, drink and medicine to the village common at regular intervals (but always at night), in order to give the infected villagers the bare necessities to keep going.
Eyam is now famous as the plague village, because despite the ravages of the Black Death, a disease so infectious that even today, it is only studied under STRICT controls – a surprisingly large number of villagers survived, and it was the Earl of Devonshire, operating from nearby Chatsworth House, which aided in this miracle.
That particular earl (William Cavendish), was later promoted to the Duke of Devonshire (the title they hold today) by King William III (of ‘William & Mary’ fame) in 1694, for his assistance in the Glorious Revolution of 1688, which saw the much-hated Stuart, King James II, kicked off the English throne, to be taken by William of Orange and his wife, Queen Mary.
Anyway…enough of 17th century English history, the black death, and the Glorious Revolution. We digress…
Biltmore Estate (photographed here in 1900) is the largest privately owned home in the entire United States. It still stands today and it’s still owned by the Vanderbilt Family.
In a word – yes, there are still grand country manors (both in England and elsewhere, such as Australia, France, Germany, America and Canada, to name a few) which are still lived in by families and run as private homes. In some cases, they’re even still lived in by the ORIGINAL families which built the house when it was new (although this is very rare). But that said, most grand country houses now survive as a mix of half-house, half-business. In order to fund the maintenance and restoration of the house, most families which still live in them usually also operate them as businesses – either renting out spaces for parties, weddings, anniversaries, receptions, or as filming locations for period dramas and movies (as mentioned previously, Highclere Castle has fulfilled this role many, many times – check Wikipedia for a full list of the castle’s film credits, which are quite extensive).
Will grand country-house living ever return?
Honestly? I doubt it. While it’s very elegant and refined and reeks of upper-class sophistication, the fact of the matter is that it’s a lifestyle that is extremely hard on the wallet. Unless you’re a billionaire who’s making millions every day, and can afford to keep a full-time army of, live-in domestic staff to run the house, then honestly…no.
That’s not to say that some people don’t do it, as seen above, there are some houses which are still used in this way, but they’re very much the minority. Most people – even most people with the money to do it – would generally prefer not to, just because of the expense, but also because most people just don’t live their lives that way anymore, even if they did have the money to not only maintain it, but also enjoy it. The days of upstairs and downstairs, servants bells, footmen and butlers, of servants halls and bringing the car round to the front of the house after an evening’s entertainment.
Today, it’s a lifestyle and a way of life that exists in novels and movies, TV shows and historical romances. As the movie says…
“…Look for it only in books, for it is no more than a dream to be remembered. A civilization gone with the wind“.
The things you stumble across at the flea-market, hey?
Today, one of…many…things…which I stumbled across at my local market, on a cold, windy, drizzling Sunday morning, was A cute little piece of antique brassware…
The back of the lighter, showing the striker-wheel, snuffer-cap, flint-tube, and the threaded cap to the tube. Inside the flint-tube is a piece of cylindrical flint-stone, and a small flint-spring, used to adjust the pressure of the flint against the wheel, for optimum striking.
I’ve always had a thing for oldschool, lift-arm cigarette lighters. And today, I finally found one – in brass (which I love) – from one of the most prolific makers of flashy, stylish lighters in the world: A. Dunhill. I was able to haggle the price down and toddled off into the cold and blustery morning air with a really cute piece of antique smoking paraphernalia (not that I smoke or anything, I just think lighters are cool…).
Lift-arm cigarette-lighters (so-called because of the spring-loaded arm with the snuffer-cap on the end of it), were among the world’s first truly successful cigarette lighters. With the invention of standard-sized lighter-flints in the early 1900s, mankind realised that portable firelighting was now possible, and on a scale much larger than just a box of matches. Lighters could be any size, any shape, and any style, so long as they all had the major components of a striker-wheel, wick, fuel-reservoir, flint-tube, flint and snuffer-cap or lid.
Early lighters were fiddly things. They resembled lipstick-tubes. You removed the cap, spun the wheel, and once you were done with the flame, you blew it out, or snuffed it by putting the cap back onto the lighter.
This might be alright, if you didn’t need a hand free to light the candle…or a cigar, or cigarette…or lamp…or incriminating business-documents…clearly, something better needed to be devised.
Enter: The lift-arm lighter.
Lift-arms started being made roughly around the time of the First World War. Two-part lighters with a separate body and cap were still around, but obviously in combat, it’s kind of tricky to be fiddling around with stuff like that when you need to light a fuse or a lamp or a candle in a hurry.
By the 1920s, lift-arms (and variations on that theme) became the go-to lighters for the discerning smoker. The design was simple:
A spring next to the snuffer-arm held it under tension. It either kept the arm closed, or open. The spring forced the arm to assume one of two positions, with the pressure of the spring holding it in that position until it was changed.
With this design, the size of lighters could be made more compact. There was no need for removable caps anymore, and as such, the whole top half of a lighter (which would usually cover the flint-wheel and wick etc) could be made much smaller. On top of that, a cigarette lighter could now be operated easily in one hand, rather than two.
In fact, a lighter could easily be operated by one FINGER, on one hand. When holding the lighter in one’s hand, ready for use, the only digit that moves, to open the snuffer-cap and strike the wheel, is the thumb. All other fingers remain stationary.
The famous concave-shaped lift-arm, on the top of the lighter, with ‘DUNHILL’ marked on it. To the left is the snuffer-cap, to the right is the L-shaped spring that holds the arm open, or shut.
Companies like K.W. Weiden, Dunhill, and many others besides, all made variations on lift-arm lighters, which were most popular between about 1920-1939. This particular model dates to 1930. For reasons I’ve never understood, the design died out after World War Two, with very few, if any, of this particular type of lighter being made in the postwar era. Some companies (Dunhill among them) did make some right up through the 1950s, but by the 60s, they appear to have dropped off the map completely.
After that, most companies (Dunhill included) switched over to spring-loaded snuffer-cap lighters, which could be opened, and lit, all in one movement, instead of the two-movement lift-arm-and-strike-wheel motion of the older lighters (the ZIPPO, based on a pre-war, 1930s design, is about the only lighter made today which still does that).
I think it’s because this style of lighter was around for such a short period of time (probably not more than two decades between the wars), that I find it so interesting. It dominated the world for a few brief years, and then was seen no more.
The arm lifted, ready for use…
Are Lighters like this Collectible?
Yes they are. Well, all lighters are collectible, but I think people like these above some other designs just because they represent a particular era in lighter manufacturing.
Are they Rare?
Not especially. The nicer ones, which were made in sterling silver, or even solid gold, are rare, sure. But a standard brass or nickel-plated one, similar to what’s shown here, is not especially rare. That said, they do cost a bit more than your average, vintage, liquid-fuel lighter just because of their age.
I notice the cap on the flint-tube doesn’t screw in all the way. Is it broken?
Nope! It’s designed that way. As the flint wears down, you tighten the cap, which increases pressure on the spring inside the tube, which causes it to press the remaining flint harder against the striker-wheel.
So What did you Have to Do to Get it Working?
Well, a fair bit, actually. Remember, this lighter is about ninety years old!
To get it working, I removed the wick, I removed the cotton wadding inside the lighter, and using a needle, I poked at, and broke up, the old chunk of flint still left inside the lighter.
The flint-spring was long gone. I got another one of the right size from another, broken lighter, and trimmed it to the right length using a pair of pliers. Then I simply slipped it into the tube, after a fresh flint. When buying a vintage lighter, keep in mind that there’s usually a piece of old flint stuck in the tube, from when the lighter was last operational. After decades, this flint hardens up, crumbles and clogs the tube. You can’t put another one in before you remove the blockage, and this can easily be achieved by poking the old flint with a needle or pin until it crumbles to dust. Then just tap it out of the tube. The tube is clear when you can see the corrugated striker-wheel at the other end.
The next step was to replace the wick. I’m not going to lie – replacing a wick is a real lesson in patience. First, you need to remove all the cotton wadding inside the lighter…Yes, through that tiny hole in the bottom. The wick comes out after it.
After that, you need to insert a new wick. I recommend using Zippo wicks because they come with copper wire woven into the length of wick. This is useful because you can bend, shape and twist the wire to stop the wick from bunching up and kinking. Once you’ve twisted the wick and the wire into a thin enough point, you can simply poke it through the hole in the TOP of the lighter.
You may need some tweezers to help you with this. Ideally, the wick will snake through the body of the lighter, and come out the fuel-hole in the bottom. If it doesn’t, just catch it with some tweezers and yank it through, leaving maybe a quarter-inch of wick at the top (fold the wick over using the copper wire, to stop it from being accidentally yanked through the lighter).
The next step is to re-stuff all the wadding back into the lighter. If you want, you can change this for fresh wadding (use cotton-balls), but this isn’t strictly necessary. Cram the wadding into the body of the lighter any which-way, using tweezers or something similar to stuff it in. Fold and coil the wick back into the lighter as you go along, first one way, then the other, holding it in place using the chunks of wadding as you stuff them back in.
The final task is to juice up your lighter. Fill the wadding-packed compartment with as much lighter-fuel as you can squeeze into it. Be prepared for a bit of runoff.
Finally, screw in the filler-cap.
Last but not least, take a closer look at that filler-cap. You may notice that the inside of the cap has a little ‘nipple’ on it. Twist that thing and see what happens. In most cases, the nipple will gradually unscrew. This little compartment inside the filler-cap is meant to store spare flint-stones. Depending on the size of your lighter and the cap, you can easily store one or two extra flints in here. Don’t worry, the lighter-fuel all around them won’t damage them, and at any rate, the cap will keep them dry.
My Lighter Won’t Light!
The end-result.
Yeah that’s a bitch, huh?
A vintage lighter not lighting can be due to a number of factors.
1). The striker-wheel is worn out.
This rarely happens, but it can happen. Basically, the corrugations on the striker-wheel are worn so smoothly that they no longer catch the flint. Not much you can do about this. If you can actually remove the striker-wheel (this is sometimes possible, depending on the design of the lighter), then you can try filing in new grooves, but it’s a fiddly process. In most cases, a lighter with a worn-out striker wheel is a lost cause.
2). The striker-wheel is clogged.
Basically, the striker-wheel won’t strike because the grooves in the wheel won’t catch the flint. Same as above, except this time, they won’t catch the flint because the grooves that do the catching are clogged – usually with flint-dust from hundreds of previous strikings. You can fix this by using a needle or pin to scrape out all the gunk hiding inside the grooves. To make the process easier, you can try cleaning out the gunk using lighter-fluid, and cotton-buds.
3). The lighter won’t spark, but it has a new flint…?
Yeah this can happen from time to time. Usually the reason it won’t spark is because there isn’t enough pressure between the flint, and the wheel, which is regulated by the flint-spring (mentioned above).
To increase pressure, tighten the flint-tube cap. If the spring is really tired and worn out and dead, you can increase pressure in another way – put two flints into the tube, instead of one. This isn’t always possible, but if you can do it, it’s a cheap and dirty fix.
So How old is this Lighter?
Researching a number of online collections and catalogues suggests that this lighter is from ca. 1930, with a ‘wafer-pattern’ design on the body, as made by Dunhill in gold, silver, and brass (this is the brass model), the last of which could come with gold or silver plating as a variation. I doubt this one ever had any plating, but I love it, regardless!
I got interested in pocketknives when I was in university. I found that I was doing a lot more cutting than I did previous to that point in my life. Cutting open food-containers, cutting open boxes, slicing paper, cutting open wrappers and plastic packaging, cutting tags…all kinds of things. And I often found myself in a situation where I needed a pocketknife, but didn’t have one. And after this happened more than a couple of times, I decided that the time was right for me to actually go out and find a nice knife.
Well, that was about ten years ago, and since then, I’ve gained a minor appreciation for antique and vintage pocketknives. I wouldn’t say that I’m an active collector of pocketknives, but I know what I like, and I sometimes go hunting for them at flea-markets and antiques fairs, and if I see something nice for a good price, I buy it. Depending on how practical the knife is, or how interesting or different it is, I may either add it to my small collection, or sell it after I’ve finished tinkering with it.
My current, modest knife collection. The largest knife is four inches from bolster to bolster.
That said, I don’t have a large collection of pocketknives. Maybe three or four small ones? I used to have loads more – at my max, about eight or nine, but I sold the vast majority of them simply because I tend to be a USER more than a COLLECTOR. I don’t like owning things that I don’t use, and so because of that I sold almost all of them, except ones which I really, really liked.
I have three little pen-knives with mother-of-pearl and ivory scales (if you’re a regular follower of this blog, you might remember I did a posting about a couple of those a few months back), and I used to have four or five others – which I gradually sold over time as I found better knives to replace them.
As of the writing of this particular post, I just sold another knife (a two-bladed English Barlow-pattern) online to trim down the collection a bit.
But that’s not what this posting is about. This posting is about the knife I found, which replaced that English Barlow!
…and there it is!
The German Stockman
I bought this knife about two weeks ago for a couple of tens of dollars. I don’t exactly blow the bank when it comes to buying pocketknives, and this is probably the most I’ve ever spent on a knife in my life! It’s a three-bladed slip-joint folding pocketknife, of a style known as the ‘stockman’, so-called because this design was originally meant for use by farmers, cowboys, drovers, shepherds and livestock managers. The three blades were meant to accomplish different tasks when it came to looking after livestock (I’ll get into that later on down the line…).
I liked the knife because it was a nice, medium-sized knife with blades of decent length and thickness, and it had the sort of simple, clean look that I generally go for in things that I like to use on an everyday basis. The three blades gave me options, and the black scales were elegant without being flashy.
How Do You Know it’s from Germany?
I’m not entirely sure what company made the knife, but it comes from Solingen, Germany. This much I do know, because it’s stamped on the shank of the blade. And as the ShamWow guy says: “You know the Germans always make good stuff!”
They sure do! After all, not for nothing has Solingen been the cutlery capital of Europe for the better part of…what? Five hundred, six hundred years? The cutlery trade in Solingen dates back, quite literally – to Medieval times.
They still make surgical blades, razors, scissors, kitchen-knives and cutlery and pocketknives there today! Famous companies like DOVO (straight razors), Wusthof (kitchen knives), and Boker (more razors), are all based in Solingen. The city was originally home to a famous guild of swordsmiths back in the Middle Ages. If you’re collecting antique straight-razors or pocketknives, you can generally rest assured that any knife with ‘SOLINGEN’ stamped onto the blade is worth the money spent to get it. After all – 700-odd years worth of knife-making has to count for something, right?
I don’t know how old the knife is, exactly, but my guess is that it’s from the early 20th century, most likely before WWII. That being the case, I doubt this knife is more than about 80 or 90 years old.
The Anatomy of a Pocketknife
The classic, slip-joint, folding pocketknife comes with about half a dozen different components. So you can follow what I’m going to write later on in this post, here’s a breakdown…
The Blades
A knife obviously starts with the blade. Most slipjoint knives have at least two blades. Some only have one, most will have two or three. Some models made by other manufacturers (such as Victorinox in Switzerland) have knives which have loads of blades and accessories folded away. But for the basic knife, one, two, or three blades – sometimes four – is standard.
A slipjoint pocketknife will have blades that have ‘nail-nicks’ cut into them. These are the little grooves that run under the spine of the blade, so that you can actually pull the blade out of the knife-handle.
The Handle
The handle of the knife is made up of about four or five different components, they are…
The Bolsters
The bolsters are the end-pieces on the ends of the knife, usually made of nickel-silver, steel, or brass.
The Liners
The liners are flat strips of metal inside the knife. They’re usually made of brass, to prevent rusting. The liners serve as washers to reduce friction between the moving parts of the knife. There is a liner between each blade, and the exterior of the knife.
The Back-Spring
The spring is the flat, flexible steel lever or leaf-spring on the knife that holds the blades open, or shut. It flexes up and down as the blades are opened and closed. The tension on this spring is what stops the blades from flopping around.
The Pins/Rivets
Knives have pins or rivets punched through them. These are here to serve as pivots or hinges for the blades, and to hold the handle components (spring, liners, blades etc) together.
The Scales
Last but not least, you have the scales. Not all pocketknives have scales. Some do, some don’t. Their purpose is to protect the liners and the rivets and other components of the knife from damage, although these days, scales are largely there for decorative purposes. Scales can be made from almost anything – celluloid, wood, bone, ivory, mother-of-pearl, tortoise-shell, and even solid silver…are very common on antique and vintage knives.
Different Knife Models
Pocketknives come in various styles and types. While these days there are loads of different variations – when you’re looking at vintage and antique knives, you’ll largely come across a set group of basic designs, although these are by NO MEANS the only types out there, and there are countless variations. Here are just three or four of the really common ones…
The Stockman.
The three blades of the stockman, from left to right: Spey, Sheep’s Foot, and Clip.
The stockman is the knife-type which I’m building this posting about. Used by livestock cowboys, farmers and shepherds in the past – hence the name. The stockman is a three-blade folding knife, typically consisting of a clip, sheepsfoot, and spey blade. They range in size from a couple of inches to four or five inches long (the one I have is four inches, closed up).
The Barlow
My old Barlow knife which the stockman has now replaced! As you can see, I like simple, clean styling.
One of the OLDEST knives around, the ‘Barlow’ style pocket-knife has two blades at one end, one long all-purpose blade, and one shorter blade, usually for cutting pen-points for quills, and sharpening pencils. Barlows go back for CENTURIES and their use is dated all the way back to the 1600s.
The Trapper!
The trapper knife comes from the knives originally used by fur-trappers back in the 1700s and 1800s. Trapper knives have two blades on one end of the handle, and the blades are long and equal-length, used for killing and skinning animals for their fur pelts.
The Canoe.
The canoe-knife is exactly what it sounds like – a knife shaped like a canoe! It’s a smaller knife, with two blades, one on each end of the handle. The body of the knife is cigar-shaped, but with a dip in the middle on one side, and curved edges at the ends, giving it the general appearance of an American Indian canoe, hence the name.
There are loads of other knife-styles out there, but these are four of the most common ones that you’re likely to find at flea-markets, antiques shops, auction-houses, etc.
Restoring Your Pocket Knife!
Keep in mind that not ALL knives can be restored. Some can, some can’t. Some are just too far gone, too broken, rusted or damaged to be repaired or revived. Here, I’ll be walking you through what I do to all the knives that I’ve ever bought, fixed and sold, or kept and used.
If you have the tools and equipment, you can literally pull a knife to pieces and clean it that way, but I’m working with the assumption that you, like me, probably don’t have most of those things, and that you’ll be cleaning and restoring your knife WITHOUT pulling it apart. Based on that assumption, let’s begin!
So, you found a really sweet pocketknife at the flea-market, or in an antiques shop, that you really love! It’s just the right size, or perhaps it’s the style or shape, or the scale-material, or maybe it’s manufactured by the same folks who made the one that grandpa gave you…which you lost as a teenager…However it happens, you found a knife! Only…it’s not in the best condition. It’s not completely dead, but it’s a bit rusty, it’s really stiff and crudded up, and it couldn’t slice melted butter. So, what do you do?
Rust-Removal.
For me, the first step is always rust removal. To do this, you need sandpaper. Get fine or ultrafine sandpaper, and a lubricant (Brasso, or sewing machine oil are generally good). Rub the lubricant over the rusty areas (usually the blades, hilts and back-springs) and start rubbing the sandpaper over it. Start coarse, and work to fine, then ultrafine. If you want to, you can also use 0000-grade ultrafine steel wool for the really soft, last cleaning. The aim is to remove the rust, and polish the blade at the same time.
If the back-springs on the knife are really rusty, then if it’s on the outside – just run the knife back and forth across your chosen polishing-abrasive to remove the rust, with oil as a lubricant. If it’s INSIDE, then you can use a popsicle stick with some really fine steel wool, or sandpaper, to try and sand out the rust on the inside of the spring between the brass liners.
This should remove most of the surface-rust on your knife, while also polishing the blade. Keep in mind that almost all antique pocketknives have CARBON STEEL BLADES. These things rust if you even sneeze at them wrong, so having restored the shine on the blade, or at least, having removed the rust – keep the blades DRY when not in use, to prevent rusting, and clean them immediately after any use involving moisture. A single drop of water is all it takes to get rust growing on these antique blades.
Cleaning Out the Guts!
Antique knives are often CLOGGED with crud! Dust, grit, pocket-lint, hair and all other kinds of CRAP usually ends up jammed up inside these things. To clean it out, open the knife entirely, and using a needle, pin, or other suitable long, thin, sharp object – clean out the grooves and gullies between the washers, the springs and the blades. This can take a while.
Cleaning under the Scales.
On the vast majority of antique pocket-knives, scales are simply riveted or pinned onto the outside of the knife and are largely decorative in purpose. But that’s no reason why they shouldn’t look nice! Loads of gunk and crud can EASILY get BEHIND the scales, between the back of the scales, and the brass liners that make the body of the knife-handle. One way to clean this crud out is to use a pin or needle.
Only do this if you can actually get the needle into the gap between the liner and the scales. If you can, simply stick the needle in and wiggle it around from side to side, up and down, back and forth. This will scrape up all the crap that’s accumulated inside there over the course of DECADES, and sweep it out when you remove the needle.
Don’t be afraid if the scales suddenly POP UP! or even worse – drop off! This is nothing to be worried about. If the scales DO fall off, simply clean them (and the liners) as best as you can (either with tissues, water, oil, or a polishing compound) and them simply pop them back on, over the same rivets that held them in, in the first place. You may need to tap the scales back on to pop them back into place. If the scales are loose – apply some glue to them (or the liners) before reattaching the scales, then simply apply pressure to ensure proper adhesion, wiping away any glue that pops out the sides.
Voila! Nice, clean scales.
Lubricating and Cleaning the Pivots and Springs
When it comes to cleaning and restoring antique or vintage folding pocketknives, this is, almost without a doubt, the one part of the restoration that can take ages. Hours. Days. Even WEEKS, if you want to do it properly!
Loads of gunk builds up inside these knives, just from decades of use, and dust and crud and lint and grime getting into the mechanisms. This can make the knives very, very, VERY stiff. This makes them hard to open, hard to close, the blades pull on your fingernails, they’re painful to use, and even worse – you could CUT yourself if the knife suddenly springs open when you’re fighting with it!
So, how to fix this?
To do this, you’ll need three or four things:
A bottle of sewing machine oil (you could use WD-40 as well, but you’ll be using a LOT of lubricant, and WD-40 STINKS after long use, so…it’s not my first choice…)
Fine and Ultrafine Sandpaper.
Loads of tissue paper or toilet paper, or paper-towels.
Cotton-buds/Q-Tips.
A needle or pin (optional).
So long as it’s not physically broken or damaged in some way, the main reason why the blades on your folding, antique pocketknife jam, jar and won’t open or close smoothly, is because the knife is DIRTY. REALLY, REALLY, REALLY DIRTY. To have a knife that opens and closes smoothly – this DIRT needs to be REMOVED. Dirt causes FRICTION. That’s why your damn knife ain’t workin’ properly! Capiche?
“Can’t you just…I dunno…LUBRICATE IT with OIL?”
…Yeah. But what happens when the oil dries up? You’re right back to square one. To do it properly, the gunk has to be REMOVED.
“Yeah but I don’t have any way of pulling the knife apart. How do I remove this stuff?”
Fear not, young grasshopper!
What you’re gonna do is flood the knife with oil. Then, once the knife pivots and springs are full of oil, you’re going to open and close the blades several times. This wiggling and movement spreads the oil around inside the knife, inside the pivots and springs and hinges, between the blades and liners. It also dislodges any of the crud and gunk trapped inside.
Once you’ve done that – get a paper towel or tissues or whatever – folded up a couple of times, to make an absorbent pad. Place it on a flat surface like a tabletop.
Now, put the knife, spring-side DOWN (blades facing upwards), on top of the paper. Applying as much pressure as you can – rub the knife HARD, back and forth lengthwise across the tissue-paper.
I’ll pause here for a minute, while you recoil in disgust, at the black, oily, gunky brown crud that comes seeping out of your knife…
“But my knife ain’t that dirty!”. Wanna bet? This is what about ten minutes’ cleaning of the back-springs and liners on the stockman, looks like. The black, grimy streaks is all the crud and gunk trapped inside the knife, that the oil managed to dislodge and flush out! You wonder why your knife keeps jamming? THIS IS WHY!!
See all that stuff? That’s what’s inside your knife. That’s the grunk you’re trying to get rid of. That is the stuff that’s causing your knife to jam. Remember that the oil is transparent – so anything that comes out of the knife that is NOT transparent – is grime that’s causing the knife to jam.
Repeat this process as often as you must, until the oil that seeps out onto the tissue-paper is clear and transparent (or as close to transparent as you can get it). That means that the crud between the springs and pivots has finally been removed.
If you have an ultrasonic cleaner – pop the knife in there every now and then, to flush out even MORE gunk. Just remember to DRY it really well once you fish it out of the water.
Finally – you can use sandpaper to sand down the shanks and springs when they’re exposed, to remove any surface-rust or grime, to improve the action of the knife.
To achieve results this way, it can take days, even weeks, before all the crud is removed, but once it is, your knife will open and shut as smoothly as if it were new. No more stopping, jerking, tugging, breaking finger-nails, or risking slicing your fingers off, when opening your knives, ever again! If you haven’t achieved the results you want, that means that the knife is, in all likelihood, still clogged with grime. Keep going and don’t give up on it!
Also, it’s good to repeat this process every now and then (like every few months, if you use the knife regularly) to stop gunk from building up and jamming the blades again. Finally, once the knife is opening and closing nice and smoothly, lubricate the pivots and springs with one last drop of oil, and wipe it down to clean it.
Sharpening the Blades
The final step in restoring your antique or vintage knife, is sharpening the blades! For this, you’ll need a bucket of water, two or three high-quality sharpening stones, a sink, and a towel or tissue-paper. I always recommend leaving the sharpening of your knife to the VERY END. This prevents accidental cuts during the polishing, rust-removal and lubrication stages.
Soak your sharpening stones in your bucket of water for as long as possible (overnight or longer is best) until they’re nice and wet and have soaked up the water (high quality stones are often quite porous). Then rest them on a flat surface (kitchen counter or similar) and start sharpening.
Open one blade at a time, from your knife, and rest it on the flat surface of the stone, raised slightly on the spine, and so that the edge of the blade just kisses the stone. Slide the blade back and forth along the stone, in a wide, oval or figure-eight pattern, adjusting the angle and position of the blade as you go, to sharpen its entire length, including any curves in the blade. Do this as fast as you can without damaging the blade, at least twenty times. Flip the blade over and repeat the process on the other side. If done properly, the blade will slide smoothly along the stone. If it jars or scrapes, then you’ve got the wrong angle!
Once you’ve done twenty or more strokes for each side, remove the blade, wash or wipe it down with the tissues or towel, and then start on the next blade. It can take a while to sharpen a blade successfully (especially if it’s curved) but patience will yield results!
Closing Remarks
Anyway, that just about does it for me. Hopefully these instructions were useful to you in reviving that old pocketknife you found lying around somewhere, and has restored it to being a useful tool yet again! Tinkering with stuff like this is lots of fun and it stops otherwise useful things from being discarded and tossed out. Which in the case of this knife, would’ve been a real shame…