Cover image for Time lord : Sir Sandford Fleming and the creation of standard time
Time lord : Sir Sandford Fleming and the creation of standard time
Blaise, Clark.
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
New York : Pantheon Books 2000.
Physical Description:
xv, 256 pages ; 22 cm
Reading Level:
1310 Lexile.
Program Information:
Reading Counts RC High School 11 17 Quiz: 24897 Guided reading level: NR.
Format :


Call Number
Material Type
Home Location
Item Holds
QB223 .B58 2000 Adult Non-Fiction Open Shelf
QB223 .B58 2000 Adult Non-Fiction Central Closed Stacks

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The remarkable story of the man who created and then convinced all the nations of the world to adopt a unified standard for telling time. Standard Time was one of the crowning achievements of Victorian progressiveness and one of the few Victorian innovations to have survived practically unchanged into our era. Few technological inventions have proven to be both as invisible and as important. Today we take it for granted that the world is divided into twenty-four time zones, but before Standard Time was established in 1884, time was an arbitrary measure decided by individual localities. With the advent of continent-spanning railroads and transatlantic steamers, the myriad local times became a mind-boggling obstacle and the rational ordering of time became an urgent priority. After laboring for years to create a scientific consensus, Sandford Fleming gathered scientific and political representatives from the world's twenty-five independent nations in Washington, D.C., for the Prime Meridian Conference. There, after considerable rancor, delegates agreed to the Greenwich Prime Meridian, the International Date Line, and a single system by which the entire world would measure its longitudes and tell the same time. In Time Lord, Clark Blaise introduces us to an almost-forgotten figure, who saw the world as a whole and overcame traditional and national objections to the rational accounting of time.

Author Notes

Clark Blaise was born April 10, 1940 in Fargo, North Dakota. He is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop at the University of Iowa, and he was also the director of the International Writing Program. While living in Montreal in the early 1970s he joined with authors Raymond Fraser, Hugh Hood, John Metcalf and Ray Smith to form the celebrated Montreal Story Tellers Fiction Performance Group. In 2009, he was made an Officer of the Order of Canada "for his contributions to Canadian letters as an author, essayist, teacher, and founder of the post-graduate program in creative writing at Concordia University.

His works include Southern Stories, Time Lord, Pittsburgh Stories, and Montreal Stories.

(Bowker Author Biography)

Reviews 4

Publisher's Weekly Review

Although he had consulted his guide to Irish railroad travel for the correct time of his train's departure, Sanford Fleming discovered that the train scheduled to depart at 5:35 p.m. would actually depart 12 hours later, at 5:35 a.m. Prior to 1884, conflicts like Fleming's were not unusual since time was not standardized as it is today. Determined to impose a rational order over something so elusive, Fleming, a Canadian engineer and surveyor, turned his attention to the creation of a standard global time based on a 24-hour clock, which he presented to an assemblage of leaders from around the world in 1884 at the Prime Meridian Conference in Washington, D.C. After much scrutiny and debate, these leaders accepted Fleming's proposal, agreeing that the day would begin at midnight and establishing both the Prime Meridian at Greenwich and the International Dateline. Blaise's splendid account traces Fleming's starring role as the creator of a method of measuring time that rules people's lives even today. Blaise, author of 15 previous books of both fiction and nonfiction (Brief Parables of the Twentieth Century: New and Selected Stories, etc.), presents an important history of ideas and examines how this invisible yet remarkable technological achievement of the Victorian era, a period marked by a dogged confidence in its own capacity for progress, changed the world. Blaise writes with perfect pitch and graceful narrative; his most beautiful chapter explores the ways that writers like Thomas Mann, Marcel Proust and Virginia Woolf manipulated time in their work even as they were constrained by it. (Apr. 20) Forecast: Every popular science book that comes down the pike these days is compared by its publisher to Dava Sobel's Longitude. But this beautiful little book may really follow in Sobel's footsteps. Blaise's six-city author tour (San Francisco, Minneapolis, Chicago, Iowa City, Seattle and Portland, Ore.) can only help to garner attention. (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Choice Review

This book, by a good professional writer, makes for interesting light reading. It nominally tells the story of Sir Sanford Fleming and the creation of 24 time zones and a world standard time. (Fleming, a Scotch-Canadian engineer, agitated for a single world time and attended the pivotal 1884 Prime Meridian Conference held in Washington.) Blaise (formerly, Univ. of Iowa) is especially good at depicting the historical, political, and conceptual obstacles that stood in the way of the global time system we take for granted; he likewise emphasizes the technologies of the railroad and telegraph that steamrolled the standard time movement. But with less success and plenty of personal asides, the narrative also reaches for a grand sweep of 19th-century cultural history, from Victorian science to the rise of modernism. The historical and sociocultural effects of changes in the experience of time in the 19th century get a more-than-superficial analysis here, but the author's excursions into art and literary criticism may not work for all readers. General readers. J. McClellan III Stevens Institute of Technology

Booklist Review

It takes a rare personality to turn a missed train ride into a global transformation. But it is precisely such a personality that Blaise rescues from obscurity in recounting how Sandford Fleming's vexation at an avoidable error in a train schedule propelled him into a worldwide crusade for a rational and universal standard for time. In that crusade, this one remarkable man--surveyor, investor, engineer, and nation builder--wrestles with the elusive fluidity of time, struggling to fix it within the bounds demanded by industrial science and modern commerce. Yet in memorializing Fleming's improbable triumph, Blaise also shrewdly notes the ironies and paradoxes that still cloud its meaning. Thus, Fleming's 1884 victory in effecting standard time, defined in 24 international time zones, lies in the shadow of his failure to win support for a cosmic time, a failure that computer experts are just now trying to redress. And though this Victorian gentleman did not realize it, his civil and balanced arguments actually reinforced a cultural riptide in which new perceptions of speed and efficiency were tearing up the traditions of authority and restraint. Asking more questions than he answers, Blaise pushes readers far beyond Fleming's nineteenth-century formula for keeping clocks into the mystery of time itself. --Bryce Christensen

Library Journal Review

Rather than a traditional linear biography of Fleming (for that, see Lorne Green's Chief Engineer), this is a rumination on society's conception of time and how it was dramatically changed at the end of the 19th century. The pace is leisurely as Blaise, former head of the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa, asks philosophical questions such as "Who owns time?" and explores the interrelations among time, distance, invention, art, and myriad other topics. The main and unifying topic, however, is the Canadian railroad engineer's efforts to create a single universal time, or, failing that, standard time zones that streamlined commerce and travel and scientific research by bringing a welter of "local times" into synchronicity. This book approaches the topic of time zones and railroads in a much more general and nontechnical way than Ian Bartky's Selling the True Time (LJ 7/00) and, as such, is recommended for general science and college collections. Wade Lee, Univ. of Toledo Libs., OH (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



1 The Discovery of Time An obvious question demands to be answered from the outset: Can anyone have a definition of time? Time is invisible and indescribable, endlessly fascinating and universally compelling. Time is everywhere; thus nowhere. It animates the world, yet nothing survives it. We can only guess how it started, or when it will end. It is our intimate assassin. One thing it lacks, however, except in Greek myth, is a compelling narrative. Natural time?the time of the gods, the sun and the moon?starts in a savage, glorious myth and ends on an Irish railway platform in 1876, when Sandford Fleming missed his train. Originally, Time was embodied in a god, Uranus. He ruled over an immutable world. His children were the seven visible planets. Acting on a prophecy that his life was in danger from one of them, Uranus did the natural thing and slaughtered them all. Their mother, his sister Gaia, was able to hide one son, Kronos. Kronos, upon maturity, did the natural thing?castrated and killed his father. He married his sister, Rhea. When he learned of a plot against him, he cannibalized his children, but for Zeus, whose sleeping body Rhea had replaced with a stone. Zeus, of course, would castrate and kill his father. Time is a bloodthirsty savage. None of us gets out alive, regardless of piety, decency, beauty, or innocence. But Zeus, at least, made it tolerable by setting the clock of mortality and mutability. We die, but we are replaced. Our children do supplant us; and they bury us. They can't admit it, but they want their parents dead. And parents can't admit it, but they want their children forever helpless and dependent. So long as they remain babies, we stay in our virile prime. Their maturing is our death. Mutability saves us from unthinkable violence, at the cost of our own life. I can't imagine a more ethically charged dilemma. The powers of Time were scattered. Different gods attended to prophecy, history, fate, and dreams. Priestly castes learned the natural periodicities of the days, months, and years and determined rituals and sacrifices required for harvests, protection from floods, and return of the rains. Natural time is cyclical, a closed system, not admitting to change. Gods of the natural world are mysterious, unknowable, and violent. Any variation in worship might?or might not?bring instant death. The collapse of "natural" thinking was most sudden, and most dramatic, in England. It was in England that the Romantic embrace of nature reached doctrinal intensity, where rambles in the Lake District inspired poetry, where the great and permanent forms of nature were invoked as guides in time of crisis and despair. One thinks of nature?s power not only to soothe but to inspire reveries of timelessness, as in Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn" (1818). But England soon embraced the Industrial Revolution with even deeper fervor, so that within little more than a generation, the nation had been transformed into a virtual laboratory for creative destruction. Thirty years after Keats's ode, in The Communist Manifesto , time became cheaper than sand, not dearer than gold, a servant, not a master. It could be leased back to an employer at a fair rate and for a set duration, or even confiscated by the proposed new state on the behalf of labor. The social structure and the political order were transformed, but not by Marx and Engels. The revolutionary agent was speed, the new velocity introduced by trains and the telegraph. If industrialism and rationality teach anything, it is that nothing is permanent, especially nothing found in nature. There is no "natural" law. Displaying gratitude for the gods' gift of time became less important than showing up punctually for a day's work and collecting a guaranteed wage at the end of the week. Standard time, which also arrived in Britain in 1848, is the ultimate expression of human control over the apparently random forces of nature. writers who find themselves fascinated by some aspect of time usually confess their inadequacy, or their confusion, by invoking St. Augustine's famous admission in his Confessions . It reads in essence: "I know what time is, but when I try to describe it, I cannot." That leaves quite an opening for anyone who would rise to the challenge. The English historian Simon Schama, in the opening of Landscape and Memory , speaks directly to the issue: For a small boy with his head in the past, Kipling's fantasy [Puck of Pook's Hill] was potent magic. Apparently, there were some places in England where, if you were a child (in this case Dan or Una), people who had stood on the same spot centuries before would suddenly and inexplicably materialize. With Puck's help you could time-travel by standing still. On Pook's Hill, lucky Dan and Una got to chat with Viking warriors, Roman centurions, Norman knights, and then went home for tea. The American physicist George Smoot, combining astrophysics with autobiography, begins his Wrinkles in Time on a simpler note: "There is something about looking at the night sky that makes a person wonder." A few sentences later, he brings that childhood wonder up to date: I could discover not only new things, like ponds and tadpoles, but I could also find out what caused things to happen, how they happened, and how things fit together. For me it was like walking into a dark museum and turning on a light. There were incredible treasures to behold. Fiction writers attracted to time can only envy historians and astronomers. Time, after all, is their raw material. Novelists are no less wonder-struck, no less time-besotted, and no less driven to fit things together, but their tool is the story, the actors and plot. Their approach lies closer to the way of sociology and psychiatry (or perhaps forensic science), stopping time, fragmenting it, backing it up, moving it forward, examining the pieces. Time lacks that narrative base, it is so nebulous that it might evade definition all together, by anyone. "Time is like Oakland," the sociologist Murray Davis once said, echoing Gertrude Stein, "there's no then there." First of all, time comes in two distinct varieties: the untamed, mysterious Time, born with the big bang itself, and civil, obedient standard time, as in "What time is it?" or "How long has this been going on?" It's not clear that the same word even applies to both, or what the nature of their relationship, if any, might be. Perhaps time should have two names, like "horse" and "equus," the one to stand for hardworking, domesticated time, that which we control and can describe?the calendars, clocks, minutes and hours of the civil day?and the other for the untamed and unnamable, that which nature has not yet released. The cesium-ion atomic clock is so accurate that it "loses" only one second every ten thousand years, and even that exact standard is open to further precision. It divides each second into more than twenty billion pulses. But what exactly is it dividing, what is it measuring, what is a second, what is a minute? And if we "lose" it, where does it go? When basketball games are won or lost in the final seconds, or when downhill ski races and Olympic dashes are decided by tenths, hundredths, thousandths, or ten-thousandths of a second, are we honoring accuracy or exposing the arbitrary nature of measurement, the meta-measuring of measurement itself? It seems apparent that some contests are not won or lost in head-to-head competition, but in the anachronism of relying on a starter's pistol, our inability to mark a true beginning?or, in terms of this book, our failure to fix a proper prime meridian. A smart lawyer could argue that a runner lined up in an outer lane, twenty yards away from the starter's pistol, hears it a significant thousandth of a second later than a runner five or six lanes closer. The irony is inescapable. Ever-finer precision creates ever-widening ambiguity. The nineteenth century's faith in rationality led supremely confident rationalists in anthropology, sociology, and psychology to study the presumptions behind civilization, or reason itself. Only confident rationalists could explore the irrational, but once they got there, what they discovered undermined the confidence that had got them there in the first place. Enthusiastic evolutionists, as most late-Victorian scientists were, believed they?d been given a key to understanding far more than the origin of species. They saw evolution as applying to history, society, economics, to God, the cosmos, language and logic and the mind itself. Thomas Henry Huxley, the great apostle of Victorian science, believed, in 1887, that applied evolutionary theory would deliver a unified explanation of everything?biology, physics, chemistry, and religion. In 1879, Leslie Stephen, introducing the essays and lectures of his polymathic classmate William Clifford, who had died tragically young of tuberculosis that year, recalled their undergraduate enthusiasm for rationalism in all fields: Clifford was not content with merely giving his assent to the doctrine of evolution; he seized on it as a living spring of action, a principle to be worked out, practised upon, used to win victories over nature, and to put new vigour into speculation. Natural Selection was to be the master key of the universe; we expected it to solve all riddles and reconcile all contradictions. Among other things it was to give us a new system of ethics, combining the exactness of the utilitarian with the poetical ideals of the transcendentalist. Two years after writing this, a formidable presence appeared in Leslie Stephen's life, his daughter Virginia. She would grow up just as High Victorian certainties were yielding to doubt. Her generation would devote their creative lives to the refutation of nearly all the comforting, steady-state theories of consciousness they'd ingested in their privileged, progressive childhoods. The scientific and material advances that gave leaders of the Victorian establishment, like Leslie Stephen, their faith in reason became a pompous culture of confidence to Edwardian progressives like H. G. Wells, and a target of ridicule for Oscar Wilde. A generation later, Lytton Strachey, D. H. Lawrence, and Leslie Stephen's daughter Virginia Woolf saw their complacency as a pathology of posturing. The thing we call time, in other words, is very difficult to disentwine from the ways we measure it, from language, social convention, or the internal clock of our DNA. It cannot be described in terms outside of itself. It is, as St. Augustine discovered, a tautology. Many things are like time, but time is only like itself. What can be described, however, is the history of standard time, clock-and-calendar time, the man-made system of time-reckoning. The great achievement of standardization in the nineteenth century, culminating with the Prime Meridian Conference in 1884, was to rationalize ?real time? over thousand-mile (or fifteen-degree) zones, and to give it a starting line, Greenwich, agreed to by all. Thanks to standardization, we had the man-made tools to calculate that New York?s four o?clock was simultaneously Chicago?s three o?clock, London?s nine o?clock or Sydney?s . . . whatever. (At least, we know how to figure it out.) It is useful, of course, to know what the "real" time is in other parts of the world when we make telephone calls and run the risk of waking up real people from real sleep, though it hardly matters to e-mailers or stock-traders. Standard time as we?ve inherited it is the final great achievement of Victorian rationality; unreformed, it is vulnerable to the same forces that swept away other golden keys to understanding. (I can't imagine that twenty or thirty years from now we will still be computing time on a foundation that we?ve inherited, unchanged, from the age of steam.) Adjusting to new time will be like learning a new language, perhaps very much like learning a new language, if we're hard-wired with space-time coordinates, as Immanuel Kant originally proposed, or as some modern followers of Noam Chomsky might endorse. time has only one visible analogue, and that is space. For Fleming, leader of the standard-time movement in the late nineteenth century and a trained surveyor, time and longitude were interchangeable. He even devised elaborate new watch-faces to prove his point. A glance at the outer wheel of longitudinal letters would give the time, and the inner wheel of clock numbers would disclose the longitude. In 1860, when he was then a thirty-three-year-old surveyor and civil engineer, the University of Toronto selected him as external examiner for the first-year course in Surveying and Geodesy. John Sang would have been proud. The test he set bears a close resemblance to his own apprenticeship as a teenager in Scotland: 1.?Give a general description of a theodolite, its construction, and the uses of its essential parts. 2.?What is understood by the line of collimation, and how is the error of collimation detected and corrected? 3.?Describe the construction and uses of an optical square. 4.?Describe generally one or more methods of conducting a trigonometrical survey and protracting the same, also the instruments employed in the field and office. 5.?Explain the principle of the vernier. 6.?State how the latitude of a place is ascertained. 7.?What is understood by magnetic variation, as well as by the changes in the variation? 8.?Give a description of one or more methods by which a true meridian may be determined, pointing out the comparative advantages of each method in practice. 9.?Point out how the longitude is formed. 10.?From the following bearings and distances, protract the figure, prove the accuracy of the bearings, correct the error, if any, and find the approximate area: [a six-sided figure was given]. 11.?A solid has two parallel ends 128 feet apart; the area of one end is 450 square feet; that of the other 270 square feet; find the number of cubic yards it contains by the prismoidal formula, and by any other method. In many ways, Fleming's surveying test of 1860, conceived to judge ability in the measurement of space, applies equally well to time. A vernier (named for its French inventor), incidentally, is a kind of gauge, analogous to the second hand on a watch, that can be attached to a larger measuring instrument in order to provide an instant readout of more precise divisions of distance. The theodolite, then as now, is the basic instrument of surveying and civil engineering. Mounted on a tripod and precisely leveled, it measures vertical and horizontal angles. When the "lines of collimation" are connected, uneven surfaces are converted into a precisely rendered grid. In 1860, determining one's precise geographical location was a thoroughly rational profession. Temporal positioning, by contrast, was still arrived at by solar approximation. Before the decade had ended, in 1869, the first tentative proposal for linking time and longitude?that is, for rationalizing the dimensions of time and space?would be launched. The surveyors' instruments have their great and small applications, from establishing the earth's longitudes and building railways, to determining property lines. They have analogies to timekeeping. Verniers and theodolites date from the sixteenth century, and both were in Fleming?s trunk carried from Scotland. When John Sang and his sons were forced to sell their instruments in a bankruptcy proceeding, they were giving up the tools of their identity. Excerpted from Time Lord: Sir Sandford Fleming and the Creation of Standard Time by Clark Blaise All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgmentsp. vii
Foreword: The Gauge Agep. ix
Part 1 A (Very) Brief History of Time
1 The Discovery of Timep. 3
2 Time and Democracyp. 15
3 What Times Is It?p. 30
4 Time and Mr. Flemingp. 47
5 The Decade of Time, 1875-85p. 69
6 The Practice of Timep. 91
Part 2 Time Was in the Air
7 Notes on Time and Victorian Sciencep. 109
8 Riding the Railsp. 138
9 The Aesthetics of Timep. 153
10 The Prime(s) of Mr. Sandford Flemingp. 180
Part 3 After the Decade of Time
11 Britain, 1887p. 219
12 Time, Morals, and Locomotion, 1889p. 229
Afterword: The Ghost of Sandford Flemingp. 238
Bibliographyp. 241
Indexp. 247