George Washington's Incredible Antique Clocks Discovered on Antiques Roadshow!

My mother picked it up in probably the late 40s at an antique store. Time doesn't just tick on this extraordinary French masterpiece. It rotates. Crafted around 1890 in Paris, this remarkable annular clock reimagines how we read time. Instead of traditional hands sweeping across a dial, a circular enamel band revolves smoothly within a bronze sphere, guided by a fixed arrow indicator. At its heart stands the iconic trio known as the Three Graces, daughters of Zeus in classical mythology, symbolizing beauty, charm, and creativity. Cast in bronze and treated with a dark patina, they rise gracefully above a triangular marble base adorned with intricate gilt-bronze ornamentation. Delicate garlands, open fretwork, and beaded borders elevate the design into something almost sculptural rather than functional. Inside, an eight-day movement signed by J. Lefebvre Fils of Paris powers the mechanism, a respected name among French clockmakers of the late 19th century. Though inspired by an earlier 18th century model attributed to François Vian, this later interpretation became highly fashionable in Parisian decorative arts. In a retail setting, this clock would sell for around $15,000. Wow. That's amazing to me. It's always been in my family. My great-great-grandfather bought it from Baltimore. It was in Baltimore for many years until my grandmother moved to Richburg. Few clocks capture American history quite like this early 19th century commemorative masterpiece honoring George Washington. Created between 1808 and 1816, this rare mantle clock was made in France specifically for the American market, a powerful tribute to Washington's legacy shortly after his death. The sculptural bronze figure portrays him during his emotional farewell to his officers, a defining moment that cemented his image as both military hero and reluctant statesman. Beneath the dial appears the famous tribute describing him as first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen. The casting quality is exceptional, reflecting the refined craftsmanship of Parisian bronze workshops. The clock bears the name Dubuc, the bronzier responsible for producing these finely detailed cases before exporting them across the Atlantic. Only a small number were made, and remarkably, examples reside in the White House collection. Elevating this model into the realm of national symbolism. This has some problems. The hands are replaced and the hormelous redone. This clock has a value today at, let's say, auction between $50,000 to $80,000. Oh my goodness, I can't believe it. I inherited this from my grandparents. They had it on their mantle. I have it on my mantle now. But I was with them when they bought it in 1967. My grandfather fell in love with this clock because of the horses, and I'm so pleased that I have it on my mantle like they had it on theirs. Do you remember what your grandparents paid for this clock back in 1967? I do not. Created around 1850, the sculptural group depicts a mounted warrior in triumph, widely associated with Clovis I at the Battle of Vouillée. Whether or not the exact historical reference was the maker's intention, the scene captures the romantic nationalism popular in mid-19th century France. The rearing horses, drawn weapons, and loyal hound at the base create a dynamic composition that feels almost cinematic. The sculpture itself is cast in bronze, paired with contrasting brass military motifs, crossed weapons, bows, and ornamental flourishes that have aged into a subtle two-tone effect. The heavy base is carved from Belgian slate, as is the dial, giving the clock both visual depth and substantial weight. Elegant French hands sweep across the dark surface, reinforcing its refined craftsmanship. Inside beats an eight-day movement, striking on the hour. Clocks of this scale and quality were expensive decorative statements in their day, intended for prominent mantle display. While many French figural clocks have fallen in and out of fashion, exceptional examples continue to command attention. What do you think the value of this clock is? I have no idea. When you said it's over the top, I don't know. Yeah, if you were to sell this clock, I think you would really want to find a high-end store on like a Madison Avenue or a Royal Street in New Orleans, which is where I think it would do the best, priced at a retail value of eight to ten thousand dollars. I'm surprised. That's great. My grandparents would really like that. I mentioned that it strikes. Maybe we can make it strike. I guess we can make it strike, but it needs a little fine-tuning. My mom gave it to me in the early 90s, and it was from her father, Matthew Scott Sloan. It was from the Reifsteiner auction in the 20s. He was at the auction, and he bid on it, and he got upbidded. His friend Henry Ford was apparently in the back of the audience. Several weeks after the auction, a courier brought a box, and it was a presentation from Henry Ford, his good friend, to Matthew Scott Sloan. For her to give it to me was an honor and a pleasure and a big, big, big, big, grand, because this is my honey. Made around 1795 to 1800 in Redding, Pennsylvania, this walnut shelf clock represents the very best of early American horology. Its clean federal lines, tall hood, and beautifully proportioned case reflect the refinement of the young republic. Though once attributed to Daniel Frost, research now points to Daniel Rose as the true maker. The painted dial, likely executed by regional artist Benjamin Whitman, features the distinctive reading eagle motif, a signature element of clocks from that area. The case, crafted primarily of walnut with pine as a secondary wood, shows age consistent with the late 18th century. While the dial was professionally repainted at some point, explaining its unusually smooth surface, the moon phase disc retains its original crackled paint, a quiet confirmation of authenticity. Earlier restoration may have been heavy-handed, but the core structure remains period and correct. Its provenance is just as remarkable. Once exhibited at what is now the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and later discussed in major collector publications, this clock has long been recognized among scholars. I think a collector would pay, in a retail situation, in the vicinity of $50,000 for this clock today. Wow. Awesome. Wow is right. If this clock were perfect, and the dial were not repainted, I would put an insurance value of $250,000 on the clock. That's how special it is. Multiple wows. For insurance purposes, you'd probably appraise it for $75,000. If you needed to replace it, you couldn't. This clock originally belonged to my great-great-great-grandfather, Judge John Kearsley. He was appointed by Patrick Henry. After that, it was passed down to his son, who passed it down to his son, which was Major George Kearsley, who owned the clock during the Civil War. There's a family story that says that the lead weights were melted down and used for ammunition during the Civil War, and that the clock was hidden away and forgotten about for a few years. It was discovered again in 1880 and given back to Major George Kearsley. Really? Before America had factories turning out timepieces by the thousands, there was the Willard family, and at the heart of it stood Aaron Willard. Crafted around 1785 in Massachusetts, this extraordinarily early shelf clock represents the infancy of painted dial clockmaking in New England. Willard, the younger brother of the legendary Simon Willard, built his reputation on precision, elegance, and innovation. This example showcases all three, retains a rich original finish, something serious collectors prize deeply. At the top, a graceful balloon hood frames a rare kidney-shaped dial, one of the earliest forms used on Massachusetts shelf clocks. The painted dial remains remarkably crisp, free of significant loss, and fitted with delicate poker beetle hands, an early and highly desirable hand style. The movement is robust and beautifully preserved, and even the weight appears consistent with the period. For collectors and institutions alike, this is museum-quality material, the kind of clock that defines a category rather than merely belonging to it. This clock in a showroom would certainly sell between $125,000 to $150,000. Wow. It's a little surprising. Most carriage clocks of the late 19th century came from France. This one didn't. As far as I know, it's a carriage clock. My uncle bought it in around 1956, 58, in Sturbridge, Mass., at an antique shop. Completed on March 29, 1889, this extraordinary example was made in New York by the clock division of Tiffany & Company, specifically under the Tiffany Makers Workshop established in 1879. Unlike earlier periods when Tiffany imported European timepieces, this division brought elite clock production in-house under master clockmaker Joseph Lindauer. And the rarity is staggering. Tiffany makers produced only 829 clocks in total, and just 91 were carriage clocks. This is one of that tiny group. The fire gilt brass case is boldly designed with spiral columns and refined detailing. Inside, the complexity rivals high-end European counterparts. It features a grand sonnerie mechanism, meaning it automatically strikes both the hours and quarter hours. A repeat button allows the last strike sequence to sound again on demand. Three hammers, multiple gongs, and a separate alarm dial further elevate it into serious complication territory. Original Tiffany production records still exist and confirm the build date and cost. $107.13 to manufacture in 1889. Do you have any idea how much your uncle paid for this clock? My uncle told me he paid $400 for it. My father, his brother, told him he spent too much on it. Do you have any estimate on what the value of this might be? $3,000 maybe? Well, $3,000 would be a good guess for something that was French-made, grand sonnerie, fairly standard. $3,3500. I feel really confident to tell you that, conservatively, this clock probably has a value in the retail marketplace, along with its case, within the $10,000 price range. You're kidding me. Oh, my God. Holy cow. I guess it was worth carrying around all day. Not only a workup, but worth the value. Wow. Holy cow. Never dreamed that. Never. My son, Eric, talked my husband and I into going to an auction that we really weren't planning to go to, and we fell in love with this clock. We were planning to go to Italy for our 30th wedding anniversary and decided it was going to be either the clock or Italy, and we decided on the clock. We thought we could enjoy it every day and a trip to Italy would be over, so our son was kind of pushing for us to get it also, and we knew nothing about clocks. This French table clock carries the name Thoret on its dial, referencing a celebrated Parisian clockmaking family active in the late 17th and early 18th centuries. Naturally, that signature suggests enormous age and importance. The case is decorated in the style known as boule work, intricate brass inlay set against a dark ground paired with elaborate gilded mounts and a bold starburst pendulum below. But closer inspection tells a different story. Instead of true tortoise shell typically used in early boule pieces, the surface here is painted veneer imitating the effect. The hinges, screws, castings, and overall construction reveal techniques consistent not with 1700 but with the 1870s. This is a high quality revival piece, a 19th century homage to the grandeur of earlier French masters. That distinction matters. Had it been an authentic late 17th century example from the original Thoret workshop, its value could have exceeded $100,000. As a well-executed reproduction from around 1870, it remains desirable but far more accessible. Now it's a wonderful clock. It's a beautiful clock. And you bought this at auction. And would you mind saying what you paid for it? We paid $7,000 for it. $7,000. Well, you paid full retail for it at auction. But I would have no problem at all appraising this for insurance purposes for $7,000. And you have a lovely clock that you can enjoy for many years. Whereas if you went on that holiday over to Italy, that would be over quite quickly. OK. Well, thank you so much. It's my wife's grandparents' clock purchased by her grandfather. My wife remembers it always being in the house growing up. I know it's J.E. Caldwell. I don't know if he was the manufacturer or if he was more of a importer and reseller. Mahogany, brass, and precision engineering come together in this commanding Victorian bracket clock from around 1880. Retailer J.E. Caldwell and company built its reputation in Philadelphia by offering only the finest timepieces. And this example reflects exactly that standard. The richly carved mahogany case is boldly architectural. Fluted columns crowned with Corinthian capitals, ornate brass mounts, chased feet, applied floral swags, and a domed top finished with five decorative finials. It doesn't whisper quality. It announces it. But the real brilliance lies within. The robust fusee movement was designed for accuracy and longevity, a hallmark of high-grade 19th century clockmaking. A selector on the dial allows the owner to silence the chimes or enjoy full quarter hour and hourly striking. One of its melodies is the iconic Westminster chime, the same sequence associated with London's Big Ben, installed in 1859, helping confirm its late 19th century origin. Even more impressive, a front-facing regulator allows fine adjustments without moving the clock, compensating for temperature shifts that naturally affect timekeeping. In its current state, in a retail setting, this probably has a value of somewhere to $3,000 to $4,000. Once it's serviced, this clock should easily make somewhere in the $6,500, $7,000 price range. Oh, that's great. I brought two clocks and the matching bases for the pink one, and I bought them at an estate sale here in Charleston, and I think I paid $500 for the group together. Okay, and why did you happen to select these clocks? Well, I was drawn to the pink ones, of course, because I love pink. I just thought they were beautiful and unique. The earlier example dates to the Louis-Philippe period, around 1850. Crowned with its original glass dome, a survival that dramatically boosts desirability, it reflects a time when protective domes were both fashionable and practical. Beneath the glass, the gilt bronze retains an unusually bright finish, shielded from decades of dust and oxidation. The base, formed from luminous onyx, catches and reflects light beautifully, enhancing the warm glow of the metalwork. With its porcelain dial and French movement, it embodies mid-century elegance at its height. The second clock, produced roughly between 1880 and 1890, shifts toward a more decorative, ornate aesthetic. Hand-painted panels bring color and personality, while the matching ewers complete the set, an important detail, as these companion pieces are often separated over time. Though stylistically evolved, its internal construction remains distinctly French, built on a metal framework designed to support elaborate ornamentation. The upper clock, that clock today, if you were to find that in a finer shop, it would easily be priced at $2,500. This clock down here, as a clock set, the clock itself and the two ewers, the value would be around $1,800. So for a $500 investment, you did very, very well. That's great. Thank you. The clock belonged to my great-uncle. He had it near the front door in his house on Long Island. When we were children, my sister and I used to go visit, and we used to look at the clock all the time, and we were fascinated by it. I can remember sitting around and waiting for Tagong. When he passed, my dad got the job of cleaning out his place. As soon as I walked in, I saw the clock. No one wanted it. I just took it. That was in 1995. It's been sitting in my living room. My dad found the bill of sale, which was dated in 1936. It says, Grandfather Clock, Thomas Wildebon, Reading, Pennsylvania. The price was $100. Built around 1795 to 1800 in Berks County, this tall clock showcases the expressive flair regional craftsmen were known for. The walnut case is alive with contrast. Radiant sunbursts, delicate line inlay, and light wood banding that frame the dial area dramatically. It's the kind of statement piece that would have anchored a prominent home at the turn of the 19th century. But look closer, and the story becomes more complex. The case and the works did not begin life together. At some point, the door was carefully cut down to accommodate a larger dial, and interior alterations confirm what collectors call a marriage, an earlier Pennsylvania case paired with a later movement. The dial and mechanism likely date to around 1820 and show strong Scottish influence, even down to the pendulum bob, which reflects British design characteristics of the period. That combination affects value significantly. While the case alone is highly desirable, originality is everything in early American tall clocks. At auction, it would probably sell in the vicinity of $6,000 to $7,000 today. That's good to know. Good to know. If it were not altered, if this were a signed Berks County movement, in this case, maybe cleaned up a little bit, it would easily be a $25,000 or $30,000 clock based on how expressive this case is. It's really fantastic. Nice. My parents were stationed in the military and were in La Rochelle, France back in the early 60s. And when I was probably about 10 years old, I was out with them antiquing, and we found this in an old barn and finally was able to talk them into buying it for me because I always loved all the intricate carving and everything on the clock. Carved leaves tumble downward, birds perch mid-song, and acorns cluster along the sides. This clock feels more like woodland sculpture than timekeeper. Though often associated with Germany's Black Forest tradition, this example was likely made in France around 1880. The confusion is understandable. The dense foliage, pheasant finial, and deeply sculpted case echo the dramatic naturalism collectors expect from Black Forest carvings. But subtle clues point elsewhere. The porcelain cartouche numerals on the dial are distinctly French in character, and the square-shaped movement plates reinforce that attribution. Inside beats an eight-day mechanism with a count-wheel strike, chiming the hour and half-hour on a bell. A step above the simpler cuckoo clocks many people associate with this style. The wood, possibly walnut or alder, has a tight grain that supports the extraordinary carving detail. Powder post beetle damage once left traces, but the structure appears stable today. Even the brickwork detail on the rear adds an unexpected decorative flourish. This was never a rustic novelty. It was a high-quality decorative clock built for visual impact and mechanical reliability. Today, I would retail this clock for $3,500. Very surprising. And how much did they pay for it? I think it was about $20. Boy, can you imagine how proud they would be today? Yes, they would. It belonged to my father. I think he bought it from a dealer somewhere in the Midlands area, Herefordshire. My father always referred to it as a chronometer. The unique thing I always thought was the mechanism in there. Right. Where you've got a curved cone. Right. And when you wind up the spring, as the little chain runs down the cone, it maintains a constant torque on the actual clock mechanism. Precision like this was never accidental. Crafted around 1845 by Dwerrihaus and Fletcher, this English table clock represents the highest tier of mid-19th century horology. John Fletcher, a respected chronometer maker working in London during this period, incorporated a true chronometer escapement into the movement, a feature typically reserved for nautical instruments where absolute accuracy was critical. Although designed as a refined library clock rather than a shipboard instrument, it carries that same technical sophistication. The fusee mechanism, with its tapered cone and chain system, ensures steady power delivery throughout the week, while the chronometer escapement elevates timekeeping precision even further. The rosewood case exudes quiet authority, complemented by beveled glass panels that reveal finely turned not pillars within. The porcelain dial is exceptionally preserved, framed by a gilded brass mat and fitted with elegant blued steel hands. Even the back plate is meticulously engraved with the maker's address on Davies Street, London, a mark of pride and craftsmanship. Clocks of this caliber were expensive luxuries when new, built for discerning buyers who valued engineering excellence as much as appearance. Do you have any idea of the value? I was thinking maybe $500 to $1,000, but I don't really know. That's a little low. If I were to put this in a retail showroom, I'd expect to see a price of $5,000 to $6,000 on such a great quality clock. That's great. I think my father would be very pleased. It's great that you cherish it so much, and it's a wonderful memory of your father. The clock was given by my English great-great-great-great-grandfather to his daughter Sarah in 1784. It went to one of the women in each generation. Music, craftsmanship, and Georgian elegance come together in this exceptional 18th century bracket clock. Made around 1770 by Thomas Wagstaff of London, the clock represents the height of English horology during the Georgian era. Wagstaff, a respected Quaker craftsman from Oxfordshire, earned a reputation for both technical skill and refined design, and this piece proves why. The dial is beautifully proportioned and signed with his London address. Above it sits a subsidiary selector allowing the owner to choose among four different tunes, a luxury feature in the 18th century. Musical bracket clocks like this were costly statements of wealth and taste, designed not only to keep time but to fill a room with melody. Inside, the movement plays on a nest of bells, producing clear, resonant chimes. The engraved backplate is richly decorated with foliate scrollwork and the original cowtail. Pendulum survives, a detail collectors deeply value. Even a strike silent option is built into the dial, giving control over both time and sound. Clocks with musical complications are significantly rarer than standard examples, and originality plays a major role in desirability. This clock, the retail value would certainly be around twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars. Now I'm going to be brave enough to actually wind it and get to listen to it again. So I'll play it. It was my friend's and she used to keep it in her closet and I just admired it and kept after her to get it from her and what she has told me it was her grandparents and they were in Germany and in the 30s they went to London and when she was a little girl it was in the nursery and she used to remember seeing the red Roman numerals light up. And eventually you acquired it. I did. This extraordinary late 17th century night clock was crafted in Prague by Christoph Munchhofen around 1675 to 1700. Designed to glow in the darkness, it features a beautifully painted dial depicting the nativity, crowned by the star of Bethlehem. Behind the artwork, a pierced rotating disc displays Roman numerals that become visible when illuminated from within. Open the small door and the secret is revealed. A chamber originally meant to hold a candle. As the flame flickered, light would shine through the dial, allowing the owner to read the hour in the middle of the night. A vented chimney at the top released heat and smoke, though not without risk. Fire hazards made survival rates extremely low, which is why authentic night clocks are so rare today. At some point, a careful and reversible modification introduced an electric light source, preserving both the case and the home it lived in. Remarkably, the internal movement retains its original verge and crown escapement, a mechanism typical of the period and seldom found intact. I would appraise this for auction purposes today at eight to twelve thousand dollars. Wow. Wow. So that was a nice gift. Oh my gosh. I'm shocked. Wow. I'm going to move it to the living room. It's been in my hallway. It's a small mantel clock which I purchased about 10 years ago. I want to say it was around a thousand dollars. This miniature bracket clock was crafted around 1875 by Edward White, whose workshop operated for decades at 20 Coxborough Street in London. Though compact enough to sit comfortably on a mantel or desk, it houses a surprisingly substantial movement, a reminder that Victorian clockmakers refused to compromise precision simply because the case was smaller. The walnut veneer gives the clock warmth and depth, its rich grain enhancing the elegant proportions of the classic bracket form. Architectural details, subtly scaled down, mirror the larger examples popular throughout the 18th and 19th centuries. The dial proudly carries White's name and London address, matched again on the movement inside. A reassuring sign of authenticity and maker pride. Miniature bracket clocks like this appeal to collectors for their charm and craftsmanship. They offer all the mechanical sophistication of their full-sized counterparts, but in a refined, display-friendly format. Finding one with a quality movement and clear maker attribution elevates it further. It's a miniature bracket clock. In terms of value, I would think that in a retail store you'd expect to pay $3,000 for this clock today. Excellent. Excellent. This clock has been in my house since I was very little. My mother was at her friend Connie's house and noticed it on her shelf and just told her that she liked it and Connie told her to take it home, that she could have it. And she put it on the shelf at home and it was there for the next 50 years. Wow. This striking desk clock was produced around 1915 by Tiffany Studios in its distinctive bookmark pattern. The design incorporates stylized printer's marks inspired by 15th and 16th century typography, a nod to history that reflects the intellectual elegance of the arts and crafts movement. Unlike standard examples that often feature a simple gilt finish, this clock retains its rarer coal-painted surface. The darker ground dramatically enhances the raised bronze ornament, giving the piece depth and contrast that collectors find especially desirable. Even more impressive, the original winding key survives, neatly housed inside the door, and it too carries matching decorative motifs. Small details like that significantly elevate value. When first offered in the early 20th century, this clock was part of a coordinated desk set that could include more than 20 matching pieces. Priced around $70 at the time, a considerable sum then, it represented refined taste and serious craftsmanship. The artistic vision behind Tiffany Studios was shaped by figures like Lewis Comfort Tiffany, whose emphasis on design excellence defined the company's legacy. In a retail shop today, this would cost between $6,000 and $8,000. Oh my god, it's much more than I thought it would be. That's huge. It's a great present. Amazing. Refined, weighty, and unmistakably British, this early 19th century table clock embodies London craftsmanship at its peak. This is a McCabe 1790 carriage clock. It's been in the family a long time and it's been on the dining room table when I grew up. And it sounds like from your accent it wasn't here on this car tonight. No, it's London, England. London, England. Made around 1800 to 1805 by James McCabe, the clock comes from a maker whose workshop operated within London's prestigious Royal Exchange, a hub reserved for the finest manufacturers of the era. Though sometimes mistaken for a carriage clock, its proper classification is a table or library clock designed for display in an elegant interior rather than travel. The brass case retains its original finish, softly aged but never stripped of character. The dial, formed of brass with a silvered surface, carries McCabe's name, matched again on the back plate of the movement, a proud signature from a maker confident in his work. Inside, the fusee mechanism reveals true quality. Powered by a coiled mainspring housed in a barrel, the movement uses a tapered cone and chain system to regulate power evenly throughout the week. It's an ingenious solution that ensures consistent timekeeping. And remarkably, the original chain still survives, a rare and desirable detail. The clock strikes the hour on a bell, adding sound to its mechanical presence. If you were to replace this clock, I think that you probably would have to budget somewhere in the neighborhood of $4,500 to $5,000, buying it out of a good shop. Yeah, well, it's a great clock. Thank you. Very, very good quality. Okay, thank you very much. Compact, clever, and unmistakably Victorian, this double dial calendar clock showcases American ingenuity at its finest. Well, I brought in a calendar clock that was my parents, they bought it at an auction in New York a little over 67 years ago. Produced around 1880 by the Ithaca Calendar Clock Company, this piece combines everyday timekeeping with a fully integrated calendar display. The upper dial handles the standard duties, hours, minutes, and strike, while the lower dial tracks the date, creating a functional centerpiece that would have fascinated households of the era. Ithaca became known for precisely this kind of mechanical creativity. Calendar clocks were more complex to manufacture than standard timepieces, requiring additional gearing to advance the date automatically. That added complication made them both desirable and slightly more expensive in their day. Visually, the clock delivers as much charm as engineering. Rich Victorian ornament frames the dials with decorative flourishes that balance elegance and accessibility. It's neither overly grand nor overly simple, just a beautifully proportioned example of late 19th century American design. I would put a retail value on this clock of $3,500. Wow. I'm sure it's a lot more than what they spent many years ago, so. I'm sure. That's awesome. That's great. Thank you. My husband got it at a garage sale in Michigan before 1983, and I paid, at the most, $50 for it. Manufactured around 1900 by the Chelsea Clock Company, it reflects the company's reputation for rugged, nautical timepieces. Chelsea became synonymous with marine precision. Producing clocks built to withstand life at sea while maintaining dependable accuracy. This example was retailed by the Star Brass Manufacturing Company of Boston, a firm known for producing steam and pressure gauges. The connection makes perfect sense. The dial layout echoes industrial instrumentation and the engraved retailer's name served as subtle advertising. Even more appealing is the inscription linking it to the Detroit Shipbuilding Company, tying the clock directly to America's maritime industry. The solid brass case is substantial and beautifully engineered. A push-button latch releases the hinged bezel, allowing access to the dial and movement. The subsidiary seconds dial adds visual balance, while the slow-fast regulator offers fine adjustment for precise timekeeping. Though it doesn't strike, it was never meant to. Clarity and reliability were the priorities. Its timeless utilitarian design appeals strongly to modern collectors, fitting effortlessly into both contemporary and traditional interiors. Do you have any idea of what the value is today on a clock like this? None. $100? No, it's better than that. It's a clock that would retail for about $1,500. Oh my God, you're kidding me. No, I'm not kidding you. I guess my husband had a good eye. He had a good eye. I like things that younger people are gravitating towards because they're the ones responsible for keeping this market going. The sculpture depicts the goddess of the hunt, known as Diana in Roman tradition and Artemis in Greek mythology, poised with confidence beside her loyal hound. At her feet lies the spoils of the hunt, reinforcing the classical theme that was so fashionable in early 19th century France. These mythological subjects were especially popular during the Restoration and early July monarchy periods, when decorative arts embraced both Romanticism and Antiquity. Though unsigned, the clock's craftsmanship clearly points to French origin. The finely cast bronze figure shows careful modeling in the drapery and anatomy, while the gilded elements add warmth and contrast. The base supports a high-quality French movement, typical of the era, designed to strike the hour with clarity and reliability. Unlike later mass-produced figural clocks, earlier examples from around 1830 tend to display stronger sculptural refinement and heavier casting. The composition feels balanced and intentional, less ornamental excess, more classical discipline. This was purchased by my grandfather in Toronto, Canada or nearby, sometime between maybe 1910 and 1939, and I expect it was plain, and he had this done to it. He paid one dollar for it in a used furniture store, or as my mother called it, a junk store. By the 1830s, the great era of handcrafted tall clocks was quietly fading, and this Scottish example stands right at that turning point. Made around 1830 to 1835, it reflects the final phase of individually produced longcase clocks before factory production began to dominate. The painted dial offers important clues to its date. Earlier dials featured detailed outer minute markers, later ones simplified the design, and here, those outer markings have disappeared entirely, placing it near the end of the tradition. The dial is richly painted in classic Scottish fashion. In the corners, allegorical figures represent Ireland, Wales, England, and Scotland. In the arch above, the lion and unicorn symbolize the 1707 Union of the English and Scottish Parliaments, forming the United Kingdom. The imagery is bold, patriotic, and unmistakably British. The case features cut-out bracket feet, a panelled door, and a swan's neck, or broken arch pediment. Though the surface has been repainted in decorative chinoiserie with intentional crackle effects, the work is visually appealing and skillfully executed. Rather than diminishing the clock, the finish enhances its decorative charm. I think in a retail store, this clock would sell probably in the $2,500 range. Okay, we'll just hang on to it. I don't blame you. I brought in a clock that has been in the family for approximately, oh, 40 years or more. My father was a clock collector, and he was stationed in Germany in the late 50s, early 60s. And while we were over there, he purchased this clock. He used to name his clocks, and this one he named Andreas. It was my favourite clock, and I had it in my room when I was a little girl. And then when I turned 30, he gave it to me as a birthday present. Made around 1900, this whimsical, winking eye clock likely originated in Germany's Black Forest region, an area famous for imaginative wooden clockmaking. The case is constructed much like a picture frame, enclosing a vibrant chromolithograph of a sharply dressed Bavarian hunter, complete with feathered hat and impressive mustache. The colours remain remarkably vivid, helped by the protective glass covering the image. Inside, the movement combines brass and steel gearing set within a wooden framework, construction typical of Black Forest clocks. But what truly sets this piece apart is its animation. As the pendulum swings, the hunter's eyes shift side to side, creating a playful illusion of life. That simple mechanical linkage transforms it from an ordinary wall clock into something theatrical and memorable. Clocks from this region were produced in large numbers, yet examples with moving automaton features in such strong condition are far more desirable. The added motion elevates it beyond basic timekeeping and into the realm of folk art. A clock like this I could see quite easily selling in a retail shop or at a well-placed auction somewhere in the neighborhood of $1,800 to about $2,000. Oh, my father would be thrilled. I love the clock. It's entertained me since I was a little girl. It's been in my family since 1737. Dating to around 1790, it represents one of the earliest portable clock forms. Compact, practical, and durable enough to accompany its owner on long journeys. Often associated with military officers and diplomats, campaign clocks were crafted to withstand transport while still delivering reliable timekeeping. The restrained design reflects that purpose. Unlike elaborate decorative mantle clocks of the same era, these examples emphasize function. The brass case protects the movement, while the clean dial ensures clarity in low light or unstable conditions. Early portable clocks like this bridged the gap between domestic horology and field-ready instruments. Though family tradition may place it earlier in the 18th century, stylistic and mechanical features firmly situate it in the late 1700s. That still makes it an impressive survivor. More than two centuries old, and part of a period when Europe was defined by constant political and military movement. I would put a retail value on it for between $3,000 and $4,000. Wow. Well, it's a Meissen clock that my mother bought in Berlin in 1947. And she bought it with a few cartons of cigarettes. A few cartons of cigarettes? On the black market. Made around 1885 by the legendary Meissen porcelain manufacturer, the clock represents the height of late 19th century decorative porcelain. Meissen, founded in 1710, was Europe's first true hard-paste porcelain manufacturer. And by the 1800s, its sculptural work had become internationally admired. Here, the real magic lies in the case. Finely modeled figures, delicate blossoms, and elaborate Rococo-inspired scrollwork surround the dial. The painting is vibrant and precise, with exceptional detail in the faces and garments. Pieces of this complexity often suffer damage over time. Chipped petals, broken fingers, cracked wings. Yet this example remains in remarkable condition. Even the dial is free of the hairline so commonly seen. Inside beats a quality French movement, a common pairing for high-end German porcelain cases of the period. The blend of German artistry and French horology results in a clock that is both mechanically reliable and visually breathtaking. A clock that would sell for $10,000 to $15,000. $10,000 to $15,000. It's come a long way since 1986. I got it from my mother, who got it from my father. He repaired and worked on watches and clocks, and this was given to him in payment for a repair that he had done for a gentleman that didn't have the money to pay him. He didn't like the clock, so he gave it to my dad for payment. Exotic, dramatic, and unapologetically bold, this Egyptian revival clock captures a moment when the West became fascinated with the mysteries of the ancient world. Created in France around 1880, the clock reflects the 19th century obsession with Egypt that followed archaeological discoveries and expanding global travel. The case is built from richly variegated marble and deep red onyx, materials chosen not just for durability, but for visual impact. Across its surface, finely cast bronze mounts display unmistakable Egyptian motifs, culminating in a sculpted Great Sphinx poised across the top. The craftsmanship is unmistakably French. The bronze detailing is sharply executed, with careful finishing that highlights the sculptural forms along the front and sides. Inside, a high-quality French movement powers the mechanism, striking the hour with a resonant double chime that adds presence to its already commanding design. Pieces like this were luxury statements in their day, costly decorative objects meant to signal worldliness and taste. The Egyptian revival movement blended history, fantasy, and fine craftsmanship into a single dramatic centerpiece. In today's auction world, this clock could be six to eight thousand dollars. Oh my goodness. A friend of mine had it, and we decided to buy it from him. I like clocks. I made a grandfather clock in high school, and I know it was four ships. That's about all I know about it. Before GPS, before radio signals, before satellites, navigation depended on precision like this. Built around 1815 by Thomas Earnshaw, this marine chronometer represents one of the most important breakthroughs in maritime history. Earnshaw refined the spring detent escapement, a temperature compensating mechanism that dramatically improved accuracy at sea. In an era when a few minutes' error could mean wreckage on hidden rocks, that innovation changed global navigation. Housed in a protective wooden box, the chronometer sits within a brass bowl mounted on gimbals, allowing it to remain level even as a ship pitched and rolled. Inside, a chain fusee system delivers consistent power from the mainspring, while the porcelain dial offers clean legibility. Even the original chain survives, an impressive detail for a working instrument over two centuries old. The quest to measure longitude had famously driven competitions sponsored by Britain's Board of Longitude, ultimately rewarding pioneers like John Harrison. Earnshaw's refinements built upon that foundation and became widely adopted, earning him recognition as a central figure in chronometer development. Despite a minor hairline on the dial, this example remains a serious piece of horological history. Tell me what you bought this clock for. I paid $125 for it. How long ago did you purchase this clock? Within the last year. This particular clock would probably have an auction estimate of somewhere between $6,500 and $8,500. It's a pretty good investment. I've sort of inherited it from my grandfather, who was a collector for 35 years. He probably acquired this clock sometime in the early 60s. This wall acorn clock was produced in the 1840s to 1850s by J.C. Brown Company, a short-lived but daring Connecticut maker. Among the various acorn models Brown created, the wall version is considered the rarest and likely one of the last variations made. Its sculptural silhouette defies traditional clock design. Instead of the expected rectangular or columned case, this piece curves inward and outward in dramatic fashion. Creating a shape that feels almost modern, despite its mid-19th century origins. Early mantle versions differed significantly, making this wall model even more distinctive. The ebonized laminate on the door appears original, giving the clock its dark, almost mysterious presence. Inside, the original maker's label survives, a critical detail for collectors. The reverse-painted glass shows minor in-painting restoration and some side surfaces were later varnished, but overall condition remains strong for a piece approaching two centuries old. Once thought quirky, these clocks have gained serious appreciation among advanced collectors of American horology. Well, it's very rare, its condition is good. It's about $12,000, $13,000 when you consider it's greatly unrealized and undiscovered American antique. This elegant enameled desk clock dates to around 1920 and was produced by Tiffany & Company during a period when refined craftsmanship defined the brand. The luminous enamel dial is its true centerpiece, smooth, glassy, and richly finished, reflecting the technical mastery associated with the firm's decorative arts. Though often associated with jewelry and silver, Tiffany also retailed high-quality clocks, many powered by reliable Swiss or French movements. The clean layout of the dial, paired with subtle detailing, gives this piece a quiet sophistication rather than excessive ornamentation. It's the kind of object that would have sat confidently on a banker's desk or within a well-appointed library. By the 1920s, Tiffany's name had become synonymous with American luxury, building on the legacy of design excellence tied to figures like Louis Comfort Tiffany, whose artistic influence elevated the company's aesthetic standards. Even when not directly designed by him, pieces from this era reflect that commitment to quality and artistry.