Thread: Making a Reading Table - Part One

I have a longstanding soft spot for metamorphic furniture. The intriguing and often sophisticated library steps that extend out of the bowels of tables and apparent chests of drawers etc. just shout out to be put through their motions, but some of the simpler forms are equally tantalising. I really admire the stark simplicity of this library seat (after a design in Thomas Chippendale's 1750's Modern Fashion), which, when up-ended, metamorphoses into library steps.

George II Mahogany library seat/steps, c.1755.

I don't have need of library steps (more is the pity), but as I become more sedentary, I find I do have the need of a piece of bibliographic furniture to support the heavy quarto and folio reference books I frequently peruse. I don't want anything as large or convoluted as an architect's table, nor do I want a table-top book stand, however, a tripod (or pillar and claw, to give it its imaginative 18th century name[1]) metamorphic reading table would suit me very nicely thank you.

I have sold/restored various Georgian reading tables, book stands and architect's tables over the years and have keenly observed the differences in design and construction and noted, what, in my opinion, makes one configuration better than another.


Book stops

Sheraton published a design for a four-legged 'reading and writing table' in The Cabinet-maker and Upholsterer's Drawing-Book which illustrates a detachable book stop. The book stop was presumably intended to be stored in the table's drawer when not required, but so often they have been lost. A reading table without a book stop is… just a table.

'A Reading and Writing Table', Thomas Sheraton, c1793.

Reading tables with mechanical or cantilevered book stops are all very well and clever, but the obtrusive hinge knuckles can mark books and other valuables when the table is in the closed position and the knuckles are a downright liability when drinking glasses containing wine or spirits frequent the table!

Sheraton's design for a 'Kidney Table' incorporating a reading slope with automatic book stop.

Permanently attached book stops may initially appear conspicuous and inconvenient, but as they're inevitably located on, or near, one edge of the table top, they don't normally restrict the table's usage in non-book-supporting mode. I haven't lived with a table that possesses a fixed book stop, but I imagine it wouldn't become an issue and what's more, when the table is turned – so-to-speak – it could also prevent fugitive items, such as pens, from throwing themselves off that side of the table like lemmings.

Another option is the tray-top table where, when the top is inclined for reading purposes, the tray rim along the hinged side becomes the book stop.

George II telescopic reading table with tray top, c.1750. Image: Christies.

Drawers and accessories

A plain and dedicated reading table is a blatantly self-indulgent piece of furniture, nicer examples being the delicate ones made for ladies to read by a bed chamber window or in some other quiet retreat.

Ethereal Mahogany reading table, c1790.

The ingenious Georgians produced reading tables in an assortment of styles and with all manner of accoutrements. The inclusion of a single or pair of pull-out wooden candle slides or swing-out brass candle holders was prevalent. Box carcasses containing one or more drawers were popular; the right hand drawer often being fitted-out with a pen tray and compartments for an ink well and pounce pot.

George III reading table with fitted drawer, c1770.

A point worth mentioning regarding tables with tray-tops, box carcasses and drawers etc. is that the additional materials involved raises the centre of gravity, necessitating a fairly substantial base by way of compensation to maintain stability. As a result, these versatile tables can be quite incommodious, rather defeating the purpose of a peripatetic table in the first instance.

Good lighting is essential when reading to avoid damaging the eyes (reputedly, inserting carrots into them can help) and between dusk and dawn, the main source of light in the 18th century was from candles. Candle sticks necessarily have large bases to prevent them from toppling, but dimensions being economic with most furniture contrived for reading and writing, cabinetmakers devised slides which could be withdrawn to provide suitable resting places for candles. Slides are sturdy and normally operate without issue.

Reading tables provided unique circumstances for swing-out candle holders which were fashioned from either wood or brass. Their weakness though lies in their attachment points. The pivots (merely a steel screw in most cases) and pivot holes wear, allowing the candle holders to droop or even fall off! Candle holders are also easily abused by people carelessly setting heavier articles on them than was intended.

Wooden swing-out candle holders, c.1750.

Rising mechanisms

Pillar and claw reading tables were often height-adjustable, doubling as transposable lecterns (presumably for the patriarch to stand at after a hearty dinner and read to his assembled family from Gulliver's Travels or to enlighten them of the latest innovations of the 1st Earl of Leicester's revolutionary animal husbandry).

A design for an (apparently two-legged!) adjustable 'Reading or Music Desk' from the 'Universal System of Household Furniture' by William Ince and John Mayhew, London, 1762.

Early rising tables involved a telescoping internal column whose height was secured either by the clamping pressure exerted by a turned and threaded wooden (usually Box, Lignum Vitae or Rosewood) locking screw which was mated to a female thread in the top of the pillar, or by the tip of the screw engaging in one of a series of holes in the telescopic column.

George II telescopic reading table with wooden locking screw, c.1750.

Plain telescopic column and Box locking screw, c.1740.

Some of these tables have not stood up well to the passage of time: Original locking screws are frequently missing or have been replaced with crude substitutes. In some instances the tops of the pillars have split due to the pressure of screws being over-tightened against plain columns like that above. The telescopic columns can warp or twist, causing them to seize, or at the least, requiring considerable effort to raise them. Conversely, columns can shrink, causing the raised table to develop an annoying wobble.

A later innovation consisted of a perforated brass strip, let into the telescopic column, into which a brass locking screw or spring catch located. This provided improved engagement and avoided the tip of the screw from chewing up the wooden column. Brass locking screws with a superior thread were an improvement over the easily damaged wooden locking screws. Brass collars and even cast brass capitals were on occasions incorporated into the tops of late 18th century table pillars which effectively prevented them from splitting.

George II telescopic reading table with sheet-brass collar and locking catch (and replaced detachable book stop), c.1755.

George II telescopic reading table with cast brass capital, c.1755. Image: Sotheby's

Another style of rising table employed a substantial wooden screw as the rising element. In 1770 Lord Mansfield of Kenwood House purchased 'a large Mahogany Reading Stand on a Stout Pillar and Claw, with a screw nutt, work'd very true, capable of screwing to rise 10 ins if required' from William France (working from 1768-1786) for the sum of £6 14s. [2]

From this description, it sounds as if the screw on France's table was the column itself that screwed in and out of a wooden (or possibly brass) 'nut' attached to the top of the pillar. A wooden nut would have necessarily been made from a separate piece of wood with its grain running perpendicular to that of the pillar. The reason being that threads cut into the pillar's end grain would be exceedingly weak and likely to break away; therefore, the female thread would have been cut into a thick piece of wood, at right angles to the grain, and subsequently worked into a suitable shape for attachment to the top of the pillar. Adjusting the height of the table would have been achieved by simply rotating the table top.

Alternatively, one could interpret France's description of his 'nutt' as a more conventional nut capable of spinning freely on the threaded column. In this circumstance (an example of which I have encountered), the column is threaded, but of rectangular section, telescoping in a matched rectangular hole in the pillar. Raising the height of this type of table is achieved by manually raising the table top (as one would with a plain column and locking screw) and running the nut down the column against the top of the pillar, or, if friction permitted, by simply rotating the nut against the pillar top.

Many years ago, a customer brought in a reading table in unrestored and very desirable, 'country house' condition. The table had a rising top and retained its original wooden locking screw, however, when the screw was slackened-off, the table top developed a curious sponginess. Further exploration revealed the pillar and claw made an uncharacteristic clunking sound, so I withdrew the table top and column and peered inside the pillar. The source of the clunking wasn't obvious, but when I up-ended the pillar, something rattled out of its interior.

Anticipating some centuries-old jewels secreted away in piece of silk tied up with ribbon, I was somewhat disheartened when out dropped two tatty coil springs – or to be more accurate, two pieces of the same tatty coil spring. I initially imagined some estate handyman had cut a segment of motorcycle fork spring and inserted it into the pillar, inspiration possibly gained following a stint in hospital having used one of the spring-assisted over-the-bed tables that are used in such institutions. It was not the case: The spring wasn't coiled from modern uniform round wire, rather it looked uniquely handmade – possibly hand drawn by a blacksmith, and it had undeniable age to it.

The spring also had a hand-formed plate attached to each end with integral staples. The edges of the plates were neatly filed which appeared to precisely mimic the filed edges of the steel triangle[3] that reinforced the three legs beneath the pillar. Following close examination of the triangle and its retaining nails, I concluded the triangle and spring were commensurate with the date of the table's manufacture.

I hadn't previously (nor have I subsequently) encountered anything akin to this from the first half of the 18th century. Steel springs were nothing new in the early 18th century; coiled (that is, flat and spirally wound in one plane) springs had been one form of clock motivation since the 15th century. English physicist, Robert Hooke (1635-1703), discovered the Law of Elasticity (Hooke's Law) in 1676, but – and please feel free to set me straight – I am of the understanding that helically wound coil springs didn't appear until the second half of the 18th century[4].

At any rate, I had a local spring works make up a replacement spring using the same diameter of wire and number of coils so its force would match that of the original. The table performed admirably.

[1] The London Society of Cabinet-makers, The Cabinet-makers London Book of Prices, 1788, pp. 99.


[2] Ralph Edwards, The Shorter Dictionary of English Furniture, 1983, p. 514.


[3] The London Society of Cabinet-makers, The Cabinet-makers London Book of Prices, 1788, p.103.


[4] Richard Tredwell, spring-maker, of Rotherham, York, was successful in his application for a patent pertaining to a coil spring on the 29th of July, 1763.