Before Watches, Clock Towers Were How People Kept Time

Before we could glance at a watch or unlock a phone screen, time was a communal experience. Most people didn’t own personal timepieces until the late 19th century, so towns relied on a clock tower to keep track of the minutes and hours. Positioned in market squares, atop town halls, or on church steeples, clock towers helped everyone from farmers and merchants to schoolchildren and their teachers stay on schedule.

In towns where personal timepieces were rare or unavailable, the clock tower served as the central, public authority on time. Its bell signaled the community’s schedule, helping people coordinate their activities. Markets opened, laborers began their work, and life flowed according to the bell's toll. This communal timekeeping was a reflection of the collective daily rhythm — time was not a personal concept but something shared by everyone in the town.

In medieval Europe, monastic communities initially set the pace of the day, following canonical hours with the aid of sundials and water clocks. But as secular life and commerce expanded, towns needed a visible — and audible — way to regulate daily activities. That’s when mechanical clock towers began to appear. One early example is the Salisbury Cathedral clock in England, believed to date back to 1386. It’s one of the oldest working mechanical clocks in the world and still runs today without a face because its purpose was simply to chime the hour.

Bells Kept Towns Running on Time — and in Tune

The sound of clock tower bells became a constant in the lives of townspeople, creating a synchronized community rhythm. The bell’s toll, heard across the town, marked not only the hour but also the moments of the day. Whether it was indicating the start of work, a midday break, or the time to gather for prayer, the bell provided structure to the day. For agricultural or working-class communities, this auditory cue transformed time into a shared experience, where every day was divided by the same familiar toll, uniting people through a common schedule.

The bells weren’t interchangeable, either. Many were custom-cast, precisely tuned, and designed to carry across hills or cut through noisy streets. Their unique tones became part of a town’s identity. In Boston, the Old North Church still rings the same set of bells cast in 1744 — making them among the oldest in North America. These historic chimes continue to connect the modern city to its colonial history.

Clock Towers Were Built To Last 

Clock towers were not only timekeepers but also public monuments, engineered to impress and endure. Early towers relied on intricate mechanisms of weights, gears, and escapements and were maintained by full-time clock keepers who wound the clocks and kept the bells running on schedule. Over time, technological innovations such as pendulums and electric motors improved precision, but many towns resisted modernization in favor of preserving the timepieces’ original craftsmanship.

This commitment to preservation says as much about the cultural role of clock towers as it does about their practical one. In Auxerre, France, the Tour de l’Horloge still operates with a 15th-century mechanism — a living link to a time when keeping time was a hands-on task. In Japan, the Shinkorō Clock Tower in Izushi, originally built in 1871, blends traditional castle architecture with Western clockwork and is the oldest Japanese-style clock tower in the world. In Prague, the medieval astronomical clock on the Old Town Hall has been carefully maintained since 1410, drawing crowds daily as its animated figures still mark the hour. And at Fort Monroe in Hampton, Virginia, two clock towers that are more than a century old still operate with their original mechanical systems, maintained by volunteers who wind them weekly. Though no longer essential for timekeeping, these clock towers — and the care they require — preserve a sense of continuity, tradition, and shared memory.

Corporal Punishment as Standard Discipline

Alongside this structured classroom order, many schools across the U.S., U.K., Canada, and Australia applied corporal punishment as a formal disciplinary tool well into the late 20th century. Teachers and principals used paddles, straps, or canes for infractions that might seem minor today, including talking in class and incomplete work. In some systems, physical punishment escalated from earlier steps such as warnings or written penalties, with physical discipline reserved as a “last resort.” Private and religious schools often maintained these practices longer and with fewer procedural restrictions.

Punishment was routine and highly visible, sometimes occurring within earshot or sight of other students, reinforcing the authority structure of the school. While now banned or heavily restricted across most Western education systems, corporal punishment remains one of the clearest examples of how disciplinary approaches in schools have fundamentally changed.

Left-Handed Students Were Forced To Switch Writing Hands

Across many school systems in Europe, North America, Australia, and other regions from the late 19th century through much of the 20th century, left-handed students were often required to write with their right hand instead. Left-handedness was frequently viewed as something that needed to be corrected, particularly in the context of handwriting instruction, where uniform penmanship was considered an important part of schooling.

Teachers commonly enforced this expectation by retraining left-handed students to use their right hand. This could include physically repositioning a student’s hand, repeatedly correcting grip and posture, or requiring extensive practice using the right hand until the habit changed. Some students underwent this correction over months or even years of instruction, especially in early primary education where handwriting drills were a daily part of classroom routines. The practice gradually declined in the second half of the 20th century as educational research increasingly recognized left-handedness as a natural variation rather than a behavior requiring correction.

Strict Dress and Grooming Codes

Across many public and private schools in the U.S. and U.K. from the 1920s through the 1970s, student appearance was governed by detailed dress and grooming codes. For girls, pants were often prohibited and skirt length was among the most closely enforced rules. Teachers and administrators sometimes checked skirts during morning inspections or at classroom doors, and some schools used yardsticks or other methods to ensure hemlines met regulations.

Girls also faced restrictions on makeup, jewelry, and hairstyles, while boys were expected to maintain short hair and a neat appearance. As longer hairstyles became associated with youth counterculture during the 1960s, many schools adopted strict “above-the-collar” hair regulations, and students could be disciplined for failing to comply. Facial hair was commonly prohibited, and some schools conducted routine inspections to ensure all students met appearance standards. Today, while many schools still implement dress codes, particularly rigid rules typically face significant public scrutiny and debate.

Gender-Separated Classes

For much of the 20th century, schools commonly separated boys and girls for certain subjects, particularly physical education. Boys were typically assigned to competitive sports, strength training, and endurance activities, while girls participated in programs focused on grace and flexibility, such as dance and gymnastics. 

The division extended beyond P.E. Girls were typically required to take home economics courses that taught cooking, sewing, childcare, budgeting, and household management, while boys were directed into shop or industrial arts classes covering woodworking, metalworking, drafting, and mechanical repair. These courses were frequently mandatory and reflected prevailing assumptions about the different roles men and women would occupy in adulthood.

Beginning in the 1970s, these practices faced growing scrutiny. A major turning point came with the passage of Title IX in 1972, a federal law prohibiting gender-based discrimination in federally funded education programs. While implementation took time, the law contributed to the gradual decline of many school policies that assigned classes and activities according to gender.

Cold War “Duck and Cover” Nuclear Drills

During the height of Cold War tensions in the 1950s and early 1960s, civil defense training became a routine part of school life in the United States and some allied countries. Among the most recognizable practices were “duck and cover” drills, which prepared students for the possibility of a nuclear attack. When an alarm sounded, students were instructed to drop beneath their desks, crouch against interior walls, and cover their heads and necks.

Schools often reinforced the lessons with government-produced instructional films that taught children how to respond calmly during an atomic explosion. Some districts also designated hallways, basements, or specially marked areas as fallout shelters, and students practiced moving to these locations as part of emergency preparedness exercises. For a generation of students, preparing for a potential nuclear attack was considered a normal part of the school day.

High School Smoking Areas

Although policies varied widely by region and school, structured smoking areas for students were once a recognizable — and normalized — feature of secondary education. From the 1950s through the 1980s, many high schools in North America and parts of Europe maintained designated smoking areas for older students. Teen smoking rates were significantly higher during this period, and tobacco use was far more socially accepted, with many students beginning the habit in early adolescence.

Smoking zones were usually placed outdoors in courtyards, side yards, or designated areas behind school buildings. In some schools, staff supervised these spaces, while in others they operated with minimal oversight as long as students remained within boundaries during allowed times. Students who smoked outside designated areas could face punishment, but within the assigned zones the behavior was formally permitted under school rules — a sure sign of a very different era in education.

The Florentine Diamond

The Florentine diamond is a clear, pale-yellow diamond with nine sides and 126 facets, weighing 137.27 carats (27.454 grams). Originally from India, it later found its way to Europe. Legend has it that the magnificent jewel was owned by Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, but he lost it when he fell in battle during the Battle of Nancy in 1477. 

The jewel’s first documented owner was Ferdinando II, the Grand Duke of Tuscany and a member of the powerful Medici family, in the mid-1600s. It then found its way into the hands of the storied Habsburgs, and by 1743 had become part of the Austrian crown jewels. There it remained until the fall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire after World War I. To keep the diamond safe, Emperor Charles I smuggled the stone to Switzerland, where he was being sent into exile. 

This is where the fate of the Florentine diamond becomes unclear. Rumors abound, including one that claims a household servant or other person close to the imperial family took the stone and fled with it to South America. Another claims it was broken into smaller pieces and sold to unwitting jewelers. The hunt continues, with the diamond potentially worth around $12 million in today’s money — if it remains intact.    

The Amber Room

Before it disappeared during World War II (a fate suffered by many priceless works), the Amber Room was one of the most treasured artifacts in Russia. The room, sometimes referred to as the “Eighth Wonder of the World,” was an ornate chamber decorated with amber panels backed with gold leaf and mirrors. Originally designed in the early 18th century as a showpiece chamber for Frederick I, king of Prussia, it was then gifted to the Russian Tsar Peter the Great in 1716 and installed in Catherine Palace near St. Petersburg. 

The room was quite a sight, with its 180-square-foot floor surrounded by walls decorated with 6 tons of glowing amber. But when World War II broke out, the Nazis looted the room and transported it to Königsberg Castle in what is now Kaliningrad, Russia. In early 1944, with the Allies closing in, the room was disassembled and crated for storage in the castle basement — and then the trail went cold. 

Despite decades of investigation by both Russian and German authorities, the original Amber Room has never been recovered. Theories abound, with some believing it was destroyed during Allied bombing raids or loaded onto a ship or submarine that was then sunk. Alternatively, it might still be hidden in an abandoned German bunker or mine. With its finishing touches of gold and other semiprecious stones, historians estimate the room would be worth at least $142 million in today’s dollars, with some estimates as high as $500 million.

Honjō Masamune

The Honjō Masamune is arguably the most significant lost sword in Japanese history. Crafted by the legendary swordsmith Gorō Nyūdō Masamune in the early 14th century, it represents the pinnacle of Japanese sword-making. The katana, with Masamune’s unique wavy pattern along the hamon, or blade, was passed down from one shōgun or general to another. It was wielded by the samurai general Honjō Shigenaga, the namesake of the sword, who won it in battle in 1561 by defeating its previous owner. From there, the sword was passed along to ever-more prestigious owners, cementing its legendary status. 

Then, when Japan lost World War II and the Allies demanded the Japanese hand over all their weapons — including their swords — the Honjō Masamune was lost. Its owner at the time, Tokugawa Iemasa, turned in the sword to a police station in 1945. According to records, the sword was handed over to a Sgt. Coldy Bimore — but no such person ever seems to have existed. While it’s possible the Honjō Masamune was melted down or tossed into Tokyo Bay, there’s still a chance that one day it will be found, once again allowing Japan and the world to lay eyes on one of the finest swords ever made.

The Irish Crown Jewels

In 1783, George III, king of Great Britain and Ireland, established the Order of Saint Patrick as an equivalent order to England’s Order of the Garter and Scotland’s Order of the Thistle. Half a century later, William IV introduced a new set of regalia for the order, commonly known as the Irish crown jewels, that included a heavily jeweled badge, ceremonial collars, and an eight-pointed star. The items in the collection contained hundreds of gems and precious stones, including emeralds, rubies and, most notably, brilliant Brazilian diamonds. 

On July 6, 1907, the Ulster King of Arms, Arthur Vicars, opened the safe in Dublin Castle where the crown jewels were housed, and made a terrible discovery: The jewels had been stolen. No one had checked on the collection in weeks, making it hard to attach a culprit to the crime, and the investigating detectives were stumped — there was no sign of a forced entry, suggesting the thief had their own key. 

The king was enraged and the heist became a huge national scandal. Rumors spread and theories were put forward, with suspicion falling on everyone from Arthur Vicars himself to Francis Shackleton (the brother of Antarctic explorer Ernest Shackleton), who also possessed a key to the tower. Such was the mystery surrounding the robbery that even Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes, offered his assistance. 

Despite the outcry and massive public attention, the crime was never solved and the crown jewels never recovered. It’s possible that the pieces were broken down and the precious stones sold off separately, but we may never know. What we do know is that the collection was worth around £50,000 in its day, equivalent to some $5 million today.

Courtly Love 

The practice of kneeling was not confined to religious and feudal ceremony in medieval Europe. Knights and noblemen also knelt before noblewomen as part of the tradition of courtly love, a cultural phenomenon in which a man would pledge his admiration and service to a lady. It was all a bit confusing back then, as the man might already have been married — often as the result of a business deal or strategic alliance. Sometimes, a new courtly commitment to a woman was serious but strictly platonic.  

Nonetheless, the male admirer would dedicate himself fully to the noblewoman, kneeling before her in a gesture signifying love, loyalty, and service. By lowering himself physically to one knee (the left), the nobleman was elevating the woman above him, placing her in a position of honor. 

Medieval men didn’t necessarily propose marriage this way, but the act of kneeling before a woman to show respect and love became a custom in its own right. The ritual slowly filtered down from the nobility to the common people, shedding its feudal connotations and taking on a more romantic meaning.

The Role of Silent Films 

While getting down on one knee to propose marriage has its roots in the courts and castles of medieval Europe, it didn’t become a custom in the Middle Ages or the centuries that followed (the majority of proposals up until the modern era were more like business transactions between families rather than romantic propositions). The practice only became a common part of marriage proposals hundreds of years  later — in the cinemas of the silent movie era. According to author and university professor Paullett Golden, kneeling to propose marriage is largely a modern convention that began in the U.S.: “One of the first places we see bended knee proposals,” Golden writes, “is in the silent films of the 1920s.” 

In these movies, having a suitor bend the knee to propose marriage was a clear way to visually represent what was happening, rather than having two actors stare at each other with captions explaining that a proposal was taking place. The gesture was already familiar to the audience due to its widely known historical context, so it was a simple and dramatic way to show a romantic marriage proposal with no audible dialogue. This visual convention was repeated so often, and proved so effective, that it gradually crossed over from fiction into real life.

Having begun as a gesture of religious devotion, feudal fealty, and courtly love, bending the knee therefore became a standard element of the marriage proposal thanks in large part to Hollywood. According to tradition, a person proposing marriage should get down on their left knee — a relic of the medieval custom. But most people today don’t make this particular historic distinction when gearing up to pop the question.