Other Clinking Theories

One alternative theory, of no precise origin, suggests that clinking glasses was meant to frighten away evil spirits. In medieval Europe, there was a superstitious belief that evil spirits lurked in alcohol or hovered around celebrations. The high-pitched sound of touching glasses, according to the theory, would chase them away. It’s a nice idea, and there may be some truth to the story, but there’s scant evidence to support it being the sole, or even partial, origin of this toast ritual. 

Another theory suggests the practice was a way to complete the sensory experience of drinking. Sipping wine and toasting already involved sight, touch, smell, and taste — and the clink added sound, the last of the five senses. Historian Margaret Visser argues that clinking grew in popularity during the 17th century, when Venetian glassmakers perfected the art of clear, resonant crystal. For the first time, drinking vessels produced a beautiful ringing tone when struck together, and that sensory pleasure became part of the ritual.

The Bottom Line

The most accurate answer to why we clink glasses is also the least satisfying: Nobody really knows for sure. The toasting of someone’s health is an ancient ritual, rooted in Greek and Roman drinking culture and quite likely long before — and these ancient civilizations may well have knocked their mugs and cups together in rowdy celebration or solemn toasts. 

The more delicate clink likely became fashionable in the 17th century, when new glassware made the sound more appealing — and possibly because it gave people a way to maintain the communal spirit of shared drinking in an age of individual cups. The one thing that seems almost certain is that the poison theory holds no water, let alone any wine. Despite being the most widespread theory — repeated at dinner tables and now online — it is almost certainly a myth.

Sharing (Beds) Is Caring

For most people, sleep was also a communal activity. Beds were valuable — sometimes one of the most expensive items a household owned — and they were rarely reserved for just one person. Entire families might pile into a single bed, often joined by visitors. In inns or when traveling, sharing a bed with a stranger was standard practice. 

This arrangement came with its own etiquette. In a family home, women usually slept toward the wall to keep them safe from intruders, with men and visitors closest to the door. Bedfellows were expected to lie still, keep to their side, and avoid hogging the covers. Not everyone succeeded. Samuel Pepys, the 17th-century English diarist, even ranked his bedmates based on their conversation and behavior. 

Famous American figures weren’t exempt, either. In 1776, John Adams and Benjamin Franklin shared a bed at a crowded inn, arguing over whether to keep a window open — Adams feared catching cold, while Franklin insisted fresh air was good for one’s health — until Adams finally fell asleep mid-lecture.

Night, but Make It Hazardous

Before habits changed between roughly the 15th and 17th centuries, many Europeans slept on simple straw pallets laid on dirt floors. Even later, poorer households continued to rely on mattresses stuffed with straw or rags. In parts of Scotland and Ireland, entire families slept on floors strewn with rushes or heather.

Winter brought another challenge: the cold. Without central heating, beds could be freezing. People used bed warmers — pans of hot coals or heated stones wrapped in cloth — to take the edge off, though these came with obvious risks. And fire was a constant concern. A stray spark from a candle or hearth could quickly ignite thatched roofs, wooden beams, or straw bedding, turning a quiet night into a disaster.

Night air itself was widely thought to be dangerous, leading people to wear caps in bed or even cover their faces outdoors. Meanwhile, fears of burglary meant going to bed was often described as “shutting in,” a defensive act in a world where darkness provided cover for thieves — and, many believed, for witches, spirits, and other supernatural threats prowling about in the night.

When People Slept in Shifts

As for those unbroken eight hours of shut-eye we imagine in the past? Far from it. For centuries, many people slept in two distinct phases: a “first sleep” and a “second sleep.” After a few hours of rest, they would wake naturally in the middle of the night and remain awake for an hour or two before returning to bed.

This interval — sometimes called “the watching” in English — wasn’t considered a problem. People used the time to pray, reflect on dreams, chat, do light chores, or even visit neighbors. Some medical texts suggested it was an ideal time for intimacy, when the body was relaxed.

Historian A. Roger Ekirch has uncovered hundreds of references to this pattern across diaries, literature, and legal records, not just in Europe but around the world. Later studies have found similar nighttime wakefulness in places such as Madagascar, where people often wake briefly after midnight and nap frequently during the day.

Not everyone agrees on how universal segmented sleep was, but there’s growing evidence that it was widespread — and that our bodies may still be wired for it. In the 1990s, a sleep experiment conducted in extended darkness found that participants naturally fell into a two-part sleep pattern, with a calm, meditative waking period in between.

How Night Transformed

So what changed? Beginning in the 17th and 18th centuries, the conditions around nighttime, and our ideas about it, evolved. Street lighting, coffeehouses, professional police, and a growing culture of evening entertainment encouraged people to stay up later, while the Enlightenment helped banish the associations between nighttime and evil.

By the 19th century, consolidated sleep was the norm, at least outside rural areas — and by the 20th century, the idea of waking in the middle of the night had shifted from normal to problematic. 

All of which is to say: However restless your nights may feel, they’re probably still an improvement. Your bed likely isn’t crawling with lice, doubling as a livestock shelter, or shared with a traveling stranger. Modern sleep may not be perfect — but compared to 300 years ago, it’s practically a dream.

The Faneuil Hall Weather Vane

There’s an argument to be made that the 38-pound copper grasshopper on top of Boston’s Faneuil Hall isn’t a time capsule in the true sense, but it does kind of fit the bill. In 1742, a copper grasshopper weather vane was installed atop the structure. Later, in 1768, Thomas Drowne (the son of the master craftsman who built the weather vane) placed a note inside the body of the grasshopper entitled “Food for the Grasshopper.” The note, addressed to “my brethren and fellow grasshoppers,” mentioned some of the building’s history, including an earthquake that once toppled the grasshopper from its lofty position. 

After that first note was placed, people began adding coins and notes every time the weather vane was brought down for repairs, creating an inadvertent time capsule. Unfortunately, the weather vane, valued at around $300,000, was stolen in 1974. It was later found, but its historic contents were missing. The grasshopper was returned to its rightful place, with fresh notes and items added to its belly, beginning the process anew. 

The Massachusetts State House Cornerstone Capsule

In 1795, American revolutionaries Samuel Adams and Paul Revere placed a time capsule beneath a cornerstone of the Massachusetts State House in Boston. It was a ceremonial affair, with 15 white horses — one for each state in the union — pulling the stone to its resting place. The time capsule contained an engraved silver plaque, a medal honoring George Washington, and coins dating to 1652. It was dug up and opened in 1855, at which time more items were added — including silver and copper coins from 1851 to 1855 and a selection of newspapers. Everything was placed in a newly built brass box and returned to the original resting place. 

In 2014, builders doing work on the foundation of the State House rediscovered the time capsule. It was X-rayed and then carefully opened at Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts, allowing conservators to examine the long-buried contents. The artifacts were then placed in a new stainless steel time capsule — along with a mint set of 2015 U.S. coins and a silver plaque commemorating the latest unearthing and reburial — and returned to their location beneath the cornerstone. 

The Cathedral of the Good Shepherd Capsule

During restoration work on the Cathedral of the Good Shepherd — Singapore’s oldest Catholic church — in 2016, workers discovered a shoebox-sized time capsule beneath a foundation stone. The capsule was placed in 1843, probably by French Catholic missionary priests. When conservators opened the 173-year-old capsule, they found a prayer booklet and newspapers from 1843, along with 24 British, French, and Spanish coins from the 18th and 19th centuries. The historic artifacts were placed on public display in the cathedral’s heritage gallery. 

The Century Safe

In 1876, Anna Deihm, a publisher from New York, came up with the idea for a time capsule for the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia to commemorate the nation’s 100th anniversary. Unlike earlier time capsules, this one — called the Century Safe — had a specific future opening date: the bicentennial in 1976. 

A velvet-lined safe was chosen as the capsule, which was then stuffed with all manner of 19th-century relics, including a gold pen belonging to poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, a book on temperance, a scroll signed by members of the 44th Congress, and portrait photographs of President Ulysses S. Grant. 

The capsule was placed under the East Portico of the U.S. Capitol — and largely forgotten about. Thankfully, some diligent soul remembered the Century Safe just in time to have it restored and unlocked on schedule in 1976. At the opening ceremony, Senator Mike Mansfield said that the unveiling of the time capsule had fulfilled “the wish of a lady who sought to speak to us from the other side of a 100-year gulf.”

Gender Norms

Novels and their later dramatic adaptations helped popularize fainting, but Victorian society made it believable. Strict gender roles were the norm, with men expected to be rational and sturdy and women gentler and more fragile. These conventions helped reinforce the ideals that valued women as morally upright and composed, yet prone to emotional delicacy. 

Fainting, then, was a socially acceptable — even expected — way for women to express emotion: It was seen as just dramatic enough without being rebellious or excessive. A sudden swoon could signal just the right kind of femininity, perhaps acting as more of a social cue than a physiological event. Even mild episodes — a moment of dizziness or a need to sit down — were easily dramatized with props such as smelling salts carried around in beautiful cases, helping to punch up the cultural script.

The Physical Reality

Victorian fainting, of course, wasn’t all fiction. People fainted then as they do now, and 19th-century English life was rife with conditions that could make anyone lightheaded. Poorly ventilated homes that burned coal for heat; crowded and polluted cities; arsenic-laced beauty treatments and wallpaper; and even dangerous additives in food posed additional, very tangible, hazards. Add to that the weight of layered Victorian clothing, and it’s easy to imagine moments of dizziness. 

Of course, no discussion of Victorian fainting is complete without mentioning corsets. An essential part of the Victorian silhouette, corsets could indeed restrict breathing or affect blood pressure, especially if tightly laced. But historians agree that the idea of women regularly tight-lacing to the point of passing out has been largely exaggerated. Most women wore corsets for support, not spectacle; women of all classes were able to work or remain active even while wearing the everyday garment. It is probable, however, that corseting, along with these other environmental factors, did contribute to some lightheadedness and fainting during this era.

Fact or Fiction?

The image of women draped dramatically in parlors or fainting rooms — which, along with the famous fainting chairs, didn’t acquire their names until the turn of the 20th century — owes more to melodrama and modern imagination than it does to historical reality. The Victorian era had no shortage of medical issues, from infectious diseases such as cholera and typhoid to heart problems and complications during childbirth. But fainting wasn’t a persistent epidemic. Instead, it very likely became a myth that persists today as part of the broader Victorian idea of female fragility.

They Woke Up at Night

Instead of a single, uninterrupted stretch of rest, many Victorians followed what historians call segmented or biphasic sleep. After going to bed, they slept for roughly three to four hours — known as the “first sleep.” They then woke naturally around midnight and remained awake for an hour or more before returning to bed for a “second sleep,” lasting until morning.

This pattern is well documented in diaries, medical texts, and literature from early modern Europe through the 19th century. Historian Roger Ekirch, who pioneered the modern study of segmented sleep, found hundreds of references to “first sleep” and “second sleep” in English-language sources alone.

This waking interval was not treated as insomnia. In fact, it was widely regarded as normal and even beneficial. People prayed, reflected, talked quietly, read by candlelight, checked the fire, or tended animals and household tasks. Religious writers saw it as an ideal time for spiritual contemplation, while physicians believed the mind was less overstimulated and more receptive during these hours.

It was only in the late 19th and early 20th centuries — as artificial lighting, factory schedules, and later bedtimes compressed the night — that the concept of eight uninterrupted hours of sleep became the cultural expectation. In total, Victorians likely slept seven to eight hours a night, much like today, but it was divided into two distinct phases.

They Made Their Bed a Sanctuary

Victorian bedrooms were designed to support longer nights in bed. Rather than heating entire rooms, people focused on warming the bed. Fireplaces often went out overnight, and coal or wood was expensive. Instead, heavy quilts, layered blankets, and featherbeds trapped body heat while the surrounding air remained cool.

Fresh air and sunlight were widely believed to be essential to health. Advice of the era recommended bedrooms be bathed in sunlight and well ventilated during the day, and windows were often left partially open even in cold weather and at night. While people’s understanding of germs and disease was incomplete at the time, these recommendations likely helped improve quality of sleep.

Beds themselves reinforced rest, marking a clear boundary between daytime activities and sleep. Many featured curtains or partial enclosures, which reduced drafts, conserved warmth, and created a protected sleeping space within the larger room. In contrast to modern bedrooms that double as offices, media rooms, and gyms, the Victorian bedroom served a singular purpose: preparing the body and mind for rest.

Signing of the Declaration of Independence (1776)

In May 1776, John Adams wrote, “The Affairs of America, are in so critical a State… Yet I dread the melting Heats of a Philadelphia Summer.” In the days leading up to the signing of the Declaration of Independence — which was adopted on July 4, 1776, and officially signed on August 2 — the air would have felt oppressive inside the Pennsylvania State House, crowded with dozens of men in wool waistcoats. Ink, parchment, and wood lent mild background scents, but unwashed clothing and body odors likely grew stronger as debates dragged on through long, poorly ventilated days. Open windows offered little relief, admitting warm air along with faint smells of horses, street dust, and nearby waste.

Meanwhile, light came from a mix of candles that added their own scents into the mix. Cheap tallow candles released a greasy, smoky odor that further thickened the air, while beeswax and bayberry candles — likely used for such an important occasion — burned more cleanly. Beeswax added a subtle honeyed sweetness, and bayberry a crisp, herbal note, though it’s probable neither could fully counter the dense combination of heat, smoke, sweat, and wool filling the room.

The Battle of Waterloo (1815)

From the opening hours of the Battle of Waterloo in June 1815, the battlefield was likely dominated by the sharp, acrid scent of gunpowder from cannons, muskets, and rifles. Rain-soaked Belgian soil released a damp, earthy odor as tens of thousands of boots, hooves, and wheels churned the ground. Thousands of horses added the smells of exertion, hay, and urine, while wool uniforms and leather from saddles, boots, and harnesses contributed heavy, pungent notes. Natural odors from grass, crops, and nearby trees likely quickly overpowered by the smells of battle.

As the day wore on, the air likely grew heavier with the scent of blood and open wounds from both soldiers and animals, adding a metallic tang that mixed with the existing smoke, sweat, and scorched earth. Fallen horses and casualties probably contributed to the lingering odors, particularly in areas where bodies and animals accumulated. By the time the weapons fell silent, low-lying areas where water collected carried the first smells of decay. Observers who arrived in the days and weeks following the battle described it as the smell of death.  

Queen Victoria and Prince Albert’s Wedding (1840)

On February 10, 1840, Britain’s Queen Victoria married Prince Albert in a ceremony followed closely by the nation, and scent played a quiet but powerful role in shaping the day’s atmosphere. Victoria herself was a fragrant presence: A wreath of orange blossoms crowned her hair, their delicate, sweet aroma signaling love, purity, and fertility. Sprays of the same blossoms decorated her bodice and trimmed her silk satin gown, infusing her immediate surroundings with a light, floral perfume. Orange blossom was so closely associated with this ceremony that it became a lasting bridal tradition in Britain.

The Chapel Royal at St. James’s Palace was awash in subtle scents on the day. Floral arrangements of orange blossom, myrtle, and white seasonal blooms filled the air with leafy and floral notes, softening the chapel’s stone interior. Beeswax candles burned cleaner without the smoke of tallow candles and added a faint honeyed aroma. The natural fabrics of the attendants’ garments — silk, wool, and linen — carried their own organic, slightly sweet scent. Meanwhile, perfumes, colognes, and hair pomades likely added hints of lavender, rose, and other florals, and the resin smell of furniture polish — made from beeswax, linseed oil, and turpentine — lingered on pews and railings.

The Wright Brothers’ First Flight (1903)

On a chilly December day in 1903 in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, the air carried the clean, biting scent of the Atlantic, swept inland by a brisk north-northeast wind. Salt, damp sand, and cold grass dominated the dunes, typical for the coastal environment. The first new smells came from the Wright Flyer itself: Its wings were made of unbleached muslin stretched over a wooden frame of spruce and ash, with metal fittings and rope used in the control mechanisms. When the Wright brothers’ custom gasoline engine started, it likely released the distinctive odors of fuel, lubricant, and heated metal, sharply contrasting with the crisp sea air.

The first successful powered flight lasted only about 12 seconds and covered roughly 120 feet, so these industrial smells were likely brief and localized. The handful of witnesses standing nearby would have caught the fleeting scent of the engine and moving mechanical parts as the aircraft lifted off, before the strong coastal wind dispersed them across the dunes.