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.

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The Secret Conclave System

Nowadays, after the death or resignation of a pope, the designated cardinals — including bishops and other church officials — are summoned to the Vatican. When all confirmed electors are accounted for, the conclave commences with the sequestering of cardinals in the Sistine Chapel. All phones, televisions, and communications with the outside world are removed, with only two doctors and select members of the Vatican staff permitted to enter the secure premises.

On the first day of the conclave, the cardinals celebrate Mass in the morning before proceeding to the chapel, where they have the option of holding a single round of voting in the afternoon. For this process, the most junior elector randomly selects the names of nine colleagues: three “scrutineers” to record the votes, three “infirmarii” to collect the ballots from any sick cardinals confined to their quarters, and three “revisers” to check the work of the others.

Each of the voters receives a ballot with the printed words Eligio in Summum Pontificem ("I elect as Supreme Pontiff") and a space to enter their choice. Instructed to write in a manner that does not clearly identify the voter, and forbidden from casting a vote for themselves, the electors then fold the paper twice so the name is concealed. Any baptized Roman Catholic man can be elected pope, although it's been a cardinal every time since 1379.

Each cardinal brings his ballot to an urn at the altar, and repeats the oath in Latin, which translates to, "I call as my witness Christ the Lord, who will be my judge, that my vote is given to the one who, before God, I think should be elected."

After all the cardinals have taken their turn, the designated scrutineers count the ballots to make sure the number corresponds with the known number of electors. One of them then reads the names on each ballot out loud, and pierces each page with a needle through the word Eligio (“I elect”) to collect the ballots on a single thread.

On all but the first day, when voting begins in the afternoon, a failure to elect a pope in one round of voting is immediately followed by a second round. From that point forward, two successive rounds can be held during the morning session, with up to two more held in the afternoon.

If no winner emerges after successive rounds, the ballots are burned in a stove in the back of the chapel with a chimney that reveals the results to the outside world. Except for on the first day when there's just one round of voting, the burning happens after the conclusion of two voting rounds in the morning, and again after two rounds in the afternoon. The activation of a cartridge releases chemicals that produce black smoke, a signal that the election remains ongoing.

The Winner Adopts His New Name

On the other hand, if a candidate receives two-thirds of the vote, that outcome will be signaled with white smoke from the burning ballots. 

Once a two-thirds vote is achieved, the winner is asked whether he accepts the results, and what name he wishes to adopt as pope. He then receives the homage of his former fellow cardinals and is taken to be fitted for his papal robes in the Vatican’s Room of Tears, a small chamber next to the Sistine Chapel.

The new pontiff is then introduced to the world with an appearance on the balcony over St. Peter’s Basilica, a continuation of the chain of command that began when the building’s namesake was said to have accepted the enormous responsibility some two millennia ago.

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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.

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India’s Kama Sutra Provided Instructions for Reeling in Lovers

The Greeks and Romans weren't the only ancients to encourage the common use of love-inducing ingredients. The Kama Sutra, composed in North India around the third century BCE, is famed as an erotic how-to manual, but also includes instructions for how to win over a mate. One such entry describes how a man who plays a reed pipe treated with the juices of various plants could ignite the passions of his love interest.

The Islamic cultures that flourished in the Middle East and Africa devised their own methods of romantic inducements culled from local specialties. The 11th-century physician and philosopher Ibn Sina (known in the West as Avicenna) wrote of a love brew composed of honey, pepper, and ginger.

Honey was also a prime ingredient cited in Muhammad ibn Muhammad al-Nefzawi's The Perfumed Garden, a 15th-century Arabic erotic manual. One fail-proof recipe for summoning a lover, according to Nefzawi, involved heating purified honey with onion juices, before adding water and pounded chickpeas. The resulting broth was to be taken in small doses, just before going to bed, during a spell of cold weather.

Things Took a Turn Toward the Bizarre in the Middle Ages

The European Middle Ages marked a culmination of centuries of potion-making on the continent. Easily found in marketplaces, these philtres included many traditional plants and foods, but also crossed into the realm of the bizarre by incorporating human and animal body parts and fluids.

The 13th-century German polymath Albertus Magnus, known as Doctor Universalis, wrote of one such recipe: "If thou wilt that a woman bee not visious nor desire men, take the private members of a Woolfe, and the haires which doe grow on the cheekes or eyebrowes of him, and the haires which bee under his beard, and burne it all, and give it to her to drinke, when she knoweth not, and she shal desire no other man."

By the Elizabethan era in late-16th-century England, William Shakespeare was among those who dramatized the appeal of love potions among the populace. One such spell appears to comedic effect in A Midsummer Night's Dream, when petals are laid on the eyes of the sleeping fairy queen Titania, enchanting her to fall in love with the hapless weaver Nick Bottom.

Yet love potions remained very much in existence beyond the fictional realm of the stage and printed page. King Louis XIV of France, who was known to partake in pleasures of the flesh at the Palace of Versailles, was famously administered such mind-warping tonics by a cunning mistress, Madame de Montespan. Supplied by alleged sorceress Catherine Monvoisin, Montespan treated the Sun King's meat and wine with mixtures made of "blood, bones, intestines, along with parts of toads and bats," binding Louis XIV to her wiles long enough to produce seven children.

Future Drugs May Replace Archaic Potions

While many cultures continue to rely on local dishes designed to stimulate amorous feelings, the old-fashioned love potion comprised of roots and hairs and crafted to win over a longed-for mate primarily endures among the tropes of popular culture. "Love Potion No. 9" was a hit song for the Clovers in 1959, as well as the title of a 1992 Sandra Bullock film. And Harry Potter fans might recall that the dreaded Lord Voldemort's parents were brought together by a philtre.

Of course, pharmaceuticals serve as something of a replacement for these traditional mixtures, from the libidinous inducements of Viagra to the warm and fuzzy feelings ignited by MDMA. Along those lines, scientists have teased the unveiling of new drugs that trigger the release of the "love hormone" oxytocin among affection-seeking users.

The difference is that these stimulants would be geared toward couples who are looking to rekindle a spark, as opposed to the old (and problematic) method of eliminating the autonomy of a would-be lover. It remains to be seen how effective such doses would be, but given the long history of love potions as a remedy for unrequited lovers, it’s a good bet that people will be willing to find out.

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Oversized Doors Also Reflected Wealth

Beyond their symbolic role, large doors served as tangible displays of wealth and prestige. Only the richest individuals and institutions could afford the materials, labor, and craftsmanship required to create these grand entrances. One of the most famous examples is at the Palace of Versailles in France, built for King Louis XIV in the 17th century. The large gilded doors in the Hall of Mirrors and royal apartments were designed to reflect the king’s immense wealth and absolute power. Intricately adorned, these doors reinforced the exclusivity of the spaces they guarded, permitting only the most privileged individuals to pass through.

Another impressive example of large doors reflecting the owner’s wealth is at Hearst Castle in California, constructed by newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst in the early 20th century. The estate features enormous bronze and carved wooden doors, many imported from Europe. By incorporating historic architectural elements, Hearst not only put his wealth on display, but also aligned himself with the grandeur of European aristocracy.

But it wasn’t just those with vast wealth who favored oversized doors for their homes. Historical townhouses in both Paris and London often featured oversized entryways, reflecting the architectural styles of certain periods. In Paris, during the Haussmannian era of the mid-19th century, buildings were designed with impressively large, ornately decorated entrances. Similarly, London’s Georgian-era townhouses of the 18th and early 19th centuries often featured oversized front doors with decorative moldings and fanlights. These architectural features were symbolic representations of the wealth and status of those who lived there.

Big Doors Served Practical Purposes, Too

Beyond their symbolic and aesthetic roles, large doors also met important practical needs in historical architecture. In medieval castles and fortified cities, oversized doors allowed for the passage of horses, carriages, and large groups of people. These grand entryways balanced accessibility with security, often reinforced with heavy wood, iron, or bronze to withstand sieges while still permitting the movement of goods and troops. Religious structures, such as cathedrals and mosques, also required large doors to manage the flow of congregations and accommodate ceremonial entrances. Their scale complemented the grand architecture, creating visual harmony while inspiring awe and reverence.

A notable example is the Florence Baptistery in Italy, famous for its massive bronze doors, particularly the Gates of Paradise by sculptor Lorenzo Ghiberti. Standing more than 15 feet tall, these doors allowed for large crowds to enter during baptisms in the Middle Ages and Renaissance era. Similarly, the Pantheon in Rome features enormous bronze entrance doors, nearly 24 feet high, which facilitated the movement of worshippers and religious statues during ceremonies. Their durability and scale also showcased Roman engineering mastery.

Why Doors Shrunk to a Standard Size

The shift toward smaller doors began at the turn of the 19th century, as advancements in construction made oversized entrances less necessary. Earlier architecture relied on heavy pivots and iron strap hinges, requiring oversized doors for structural support. But the development of newer materials and designs allowed for more practical, durable doors without the need for excessive size.

Urbanization and industrialization further reinforced this downsizing trend. As cities became denser and streets narrower, space constraints made large doorways impractical. In the 20th century, standardized building materials and construction techniques led to more compact, functional doors in residential and commercial buildings. And as societies grew more egalitarian, the rise of the middle class and private homeownership reduced the appeal of large and imposing entryways.

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The skull whistles are capable of producing sounds that are unsettling and even frightening to the listener. They make a chilling sound often compared to a high-pitch human scream or shriek. In 2024, a team of researchers at the University of Zurich led by neuroscience professor Sascha Frühholz conducted a study to analyze the whistles, including their psychological impact, and published the findings in the journal Communications Psychology. 

Participants were asked to listen to recordings of original and replica skull whistles (without being told what the sound was), identify what they were hearing, and rate their feelings about the sound. Researchers also recorded the brain activity of the participants while they were listening to the recordings. 

The study resulted in listeners identifying the skull whistle recordings as the sound of a human scream and rating it, according to a press release issued by the researchers, as “extremely chilling and frightening.” Brain activity indicated that regions belonging to the affective neural system were activated during listening, confirming the unsettling nature of the sound.

Consider that fair warning, then, before listening to the sound of the skull whistle, though for anyone who’s curious, a selection of sound samples from the University of Zurich study can be found here. The variety of samples includes recordings of the whistles being blown with different air pressures; lower pressures result in a more windlike tone, while higher air pressures are more screamlike. A longer clip, played in a more varied style, is available here. And a popular video (below) features a demonstration by Indigenous instrument maker Xavier Yxayotl.

To learn what causes the skull whistle’s distinctive sound, Frühholz’s team used CT scans and 3D imaging to visualize the inner mechanisms of the instrument. The scans revealed a cylindrical duct leading from the top opening, tapering to a point of constriction along three opposing chambers, known as the counter pressure chamber, collision chamber, and bell cavity. 

The design results in an unusual, turbulent airflow that creates a Venturi effect — a drop in pressure that occurs when air (or liquid) flows through a constricted point, and results in increased velocity. (An everyday example of the Venturi effect is how placing your thumb over the opening of a garden hose results in a faster stream.) In the case of the skull whistle, the increased air velocity results in acoustic distortions, which become all the more pronounced the harder the whistle is played. To quantify the sound, the researchers ran a spectrum analysis, which showed elements of pink noise and, not surprisingly, a great deal of high frequencies. The whistles also corresponded to a distinctive pitch associated with primate screams.

The result was something truly unique. The skull whistle, as Ars Technica pointed out, “doesn’t fit into any existing Western classification for wind instruments.” In the study, Frühholz similarly expressed the prevailing, almost supernatural mysteriousness of the skull whistle, noting, “We don’t know of any comparable musical instrument… from [any] other historical [or] contemporary contexts.”

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