“DESIGN No. 17.” sits above a slender, tapering tower rendered with the crisp restraint of an engineering plate, its surface wrapped in a tight spiral of horizontal bands that suggest a bold, modern silhouette. The sheet reads like a proposal meant to be judged quickly and fairly: clear central elevation, minimal ornament, and a confident emphasis on height and proportion. Even on the page, the structure feels like an invention—part monument, part machine—aiming to stand out among the many competitive designs envisioned for a Great Tower for London.
The draughtsman’s approach favors rhythm and vertical pull, with each ribbed course narrowing as it climbs, giving the concept a sense of motion rather than static mass. At the base, stepped platforms anchor the form, while the shaft’s twisting texture hints at practical thinking about structure and wind, as much as it does visual flair. For readers interested in Victorian architecture, late-19th-century engineering, and the era’s fascination with record-breaking height, this design offers a window into what “modern” could look like on the eve of a new century.
Credit and origin are printed plainly beneath the drawing—“J. Horton, Copley, near Halifax, Yorks.”—a reminder that ambitious London schemes attracted ideas from far beyond the capital. In the context of 1890 inventions and exhibition culture, these submissions weren’t merely sketches; they were arguments about materials, progress, and civic identity. Browsing this plate today, you can almost hear the competition’s quiet drama: dozens of visions competing on paper to become the skyline’s next great statement.