There are two kinds of clocks. There is the clock that is
always wrong, and that knows it is wrong, and glories in it; and
there is the clock that is always right--except when you rely
upon it, and then it is more wrong than you would think a clock
_could_ be in a civilized country.
I remember a clock of this latter type, that we had in the
house when I was a boy, routing us all up at three o'clock one
winter's morning. We had finished breakfast at ten minutes to
four, and I got to school a little after five, and sat down on
the step outside and cried, because I thought the world had come
to an end; everything was so death-like!
The man who can live in the same house with one of these
clocks, and not endanger his chance of heaven about once a month
by standing up and telling it what he thinks of it, is either a
dangerous rival to that old established firm, Job, or else he
does not know enough bad language to make it worth his while to
start saying anything at all.
The great dream of its life is to lure you on into trying to
catch a train by it. For weeks and weeks it will keep the most
perfect time. If there were any difference in time between that
clock and the sun, you would be convinced it was the sun, not
the clock, that wanted seeing to. You feel that if that clock
happened to get a quarter of a second fast, or the eighth of an
instant slow, it would break its heart and die.
It is in this spirit of child-like faith in its integrity
that, one morning, you gather your family around you in the
passage, kiss your children, and afterward wipe your jammy
mouth, poke your finger in the baby's eye, promise not to forget
to order the coals, wave at last fond adieu with the umbrella,
and depart for the railway-station.
I never have been quite able to decide, myself, which is the
more irritating to run two miles at the top of your speed, and
then to find, when you reach the station, that you are
three-quarters of an hour too early; or to stroll along
leisurely the whole way, and dawdle about outside the
booking-office, talking to some local idiot, and then to swagger
carelessly on to the platform, just in time to see the train go
As for the other class of clocks--the common or always-wrong
clocks--they are harmless enough. You wind them up at the proper
intervals, and once or twice a week you put them right and
"regulate" them, as you call it (and you might just as
well try to "regulate" a London tom-cat). But you do
all this, not from any selfish motives, but from a sense of duty
to the clock itself. You want to feel that, whatever may happen,
you have done the right thing by it, and that no blame can
attach to you.
So far as looking to it for any return is concerned, that you
never dream of doing, and consequently you are not disappointed.
You ask what the time is, and the girl replies:
"Well, the clock in the dining-room says a quarter past
But you are not deceived by this. You know that, as a matter
of fact, it must be somewhere between nine and ten in the
evening; and, remembering that you noticed, as a curious
circumstance, that the clock was only forty minutes past four,
hours ago, you mildly admire its energies and resources, and
wonder how it does it.
I myself possess a clock that for complicated
unconventionality and light-hearted independence, could, I
should think, give points to anything yet discovered in the
chronometrical line. As a mere time-piece, it leaves much to be
desired; but, considered as a self-acting conundrum, it is full
of interest and variety.
I heard of a man once who had a clock that he used to say was
of no good to any one except himself, because he was the only
man who understood it. He said it was an excellent clock, and
one that you could thoroughly depend upon; but you wanted to
know it--to have studied its system. An outsider might be easily
misled by it.
"For instance," he would say, "when it strikes
fifteen, and the hands point to twenty minutes past eleven, I
know it is a quarter to eight."
His acquaintanceship with that clock must certainly have
given him an advantage over the cursory observer!
But the great charm about my clock is its reliable
uncertainty. It works on no method whatever; it is a pure
emotionalist. One day it will be quite frolicsome, and gain
three hours in the course of the morning, and think nothing of
it; and the next day it will wish it were dead, and be hardly
able to drag itself along, and lose two hours out of every four,
and stop altogether in the afternoon, too miserable to do
anything; and then, getting cheerful once more toward evening,
will start off again of its own accord.
I do not care to talk much about this clock; because when I
tell the simple truth concerning it, people think I am
It is very discouraging to find, when you are straining every
nerve to tell the truth, that people do not believe you, and
fancy that you are exaggerating. It makes you feel inclined to
go and exaggerate on purpose, just to show them the difference.
I know I often feel tempted to do so myself--it is my early
training that saves me.
We should always be very careful never to give way to
exaggeration; it is a habit that grows upon one.
And it is such a vulgar habit, too. In the old times, when
poets and dry-goods salesmen were the only people who
exaggerated, there was something clever and _distingue_ about a
reputation for "a tendency to over, rather than to
under-estimate the mere bald facts." But everybody
exaggerates nowadays. The art of exaggeration is no longer
regarded as an "extra" in the modern bill of
education; it is an essential requirement, held to be most
needful for the battle of life.
The whole world exaggerates. It exaggerates everything, from
the yearly number of bicycles sold to the yearly number of
heathens converted--into the hope of salvation and more whiskey.
Exaggeration is the basis of our trade, the fallow-field of our
art and literature, the groundwork of our social life, the
foundation of our political existence. As schoolboys, we
exaggerate our fights and our marks and our fathers' debts. As
men, we exaggerate our wares, we exaggerate our feelings, we
exaggerate our incomes--except to the tax-collector, and to him
we exaggerate our "outgoings"; we exaggerate our
virtues; we even exaggerate our vices, and, being in reality the
mildest of men, pretend we are dare-devil scamps.
We have sunk so low now that we try to _act_ our
exaggerations, and to live up to our lies. We call it
"keeping up appearances;" and no more bitter phrase
could, perhaps, have been invented to describe our childish
If we possess a hundred pounds a year, do we not call it two?
Our larder may be low and our grates be chill, but we are happy
if the "world" (six acquaintances and a prying
neighbor) gives us credit for one hundred and fifty. And, when
we have five hundred, we talk of a thousand, and the
all-important and beloved "world" (sixteen friends
now, and two of them carriage-folks!) agree that we really must
be spending seven hundred, or at all events, running into debt
up to that figure; but the butcher and baker, who have gone into
the matter with the housemaid, know better.
After awhile, having learned the trick, we launch out boldly
and spend like Indian Princes--or rather _seem_ to spend; for we
know, by this time, how to purchase the seeming with the
seeming, how to buy the appearance of wealth with the appearance
of cash. And the dear old world--Beelzebub bless it! for it is
his own child, sure enough; there is no mistaking the likeness,
it has all his funny little ways--gathers round, applauding and
laughing at the lie, and sharing in the cheat, and gloating over
the thought of the blow that it knows must sooner or later fall
on us from the Thor-like hammer of Truth.
And all goes merry as a witches' frolic--until the gray
Truth and fact are old-fashioned and out-of-date, my friends,
fit only for the dull and vulgar to live by. Appearance, not
reality, is what the clever dog grasps at in these clever days.
We spurn the dull-brown solid earth; we build our lives and
homes in the fair-seeming rainbow-land of shadow and chimera.
To ourselves, sleeping and waking there, _behind_ the
rainbow, there is no beauty in the house; only a chill damp mist
in every room, and, over all, a haunting fear of the hour when
the gilded clouds will melt away, and let us fall--somewhat
heavily, no doubt--upon the hard world underneath.
But, there! of what matter is _our_ misery, _our_ terror? To
the stranger, our home appears fair and bright. The workers in
the fields below look up and envy us our abode of glory and
delight! If _they_ think it pleasant, surely _we_ should be
content. Have we not been taught to live for others and not for
ourselves, and are we not acting up bravely to the teaching--in
this most curious method?
Ah! yes, we are self-sacrificing enough, and loyal enough in
our devotion to this new-crowned king, the child of Prince
Imposture and Princess Pretense. Never before was despot so
blindly worshiped! Never had earthly sovereign yet such
Man, if he would live, _must_ worship. He looks around, and
what to him, within the vision of his life, is the greatest and
the best, that he falls down and does reverence to. To him whose
eyes have opened on the nineteenth century, what nobler image
can the universe produce than the figure of Falsehood in stolen
robes? It is cunning and brazen and hollow-hearted, and it
realizes his souls ideal, and he falls and kisses its feet, and
clings to its skinny knees, swearing fealty to it for evermore!
Ah! he is a mighty monarch, bladder-bodied King Humbug! Come,
let us build up temples of hewn shadows wherein we may adore
him, safe from the light. Let us raise him aloft upon our
Brummagem shields. Long live our coward, falsehearted
chief!--fit leader for such soldiers as we! Long live the
Lord-of-Lies, anointed! Long live poor King Appearances, to whom
all mankind bows the knee!
But we must hold him aloft very carefully, oh, my brother
warriors! He needs much "keeping up." He has no bones
and sinews of his own, the poor old flimsy fellow! If we take
our hands from him, he will fall a heap of worn-out rags, and
the angry wind will whirl him away, and leave us forlorn. Oh,
let us spend our lives keeping him up, and serving him, and
making him great--that is, evermore puffed out with air and
nothingness--until he burst, and we along with him!
Burst one day he must, as it is in the nature of bubbles to
burst, especially when they grow big. Meanwhile, he still reigns
over us, and the world grows more and more a world of pretense
and exaggeration and lies; and he who pretends and exaggerates
and lies the most successfully, is the greatest of us all.
The world is a gingerbread fair, and we all stand outside our
booths and point to the gorgeous-colored pictures, and beat the
big drum and brag. Brag! brag! Life is one great game of brag!
"Buy my soap, oh ye people, and ye will never look old,
and the hair will grow again on your bald places, and ye will
never be poor or unhappy again,; and mine is the only true soap.
Oh, beware of spurious imitations!"
"Buy my lotion, all ye that suffer from pains in the
head, or the stomach, or the feet, or that have broken arms, or
broken hearts, or objectionable mothers-in-law; and drink one
bottle a day, and all your troubles will be ended."
"Come to my church, all ye that want to go to Heaven,
and buy my penny weekly guide, and pay my pew-rates; and, pray
ye, have nothing to do with my misguided brother over the road.
_This_ is the only safe way!"
"Oh, vote for me, my noble and intelligent electors, and
send our party into power, and the world shall be a new place,
and there shall be no sin or sorrow any more! And each free and
independent voter shall have a bran new Utopia made on purpose
for him, according to his own ideas, with a good-sized,
extra-unpleasant purgatory attached, to which he can send
everybody he does not like. Oh! do not miss this chance!"
Oh! listen to my philosophy, it is the best and deepest. Oh!
hear my songs, they are the sweetest. Oh! buy my pictures, they
alone are true art. Oh! read my books, they are the finest.
Oh! _I_ am the greatest cheesemonger, _I_ am the greatest
soldier, _I_ am the greatest statesman, _I_ am the greatest
poet, _I_ am the greatest showman, _I_ am the greatest
mountebank, _I_am the greatest editor, and _I_ am the greatest
patriot. _We_ are the greatest nation. _We_ are the only good
people. _Ours_ is the only true religion. Bah! how we all yell!
How we all brag and bounce, and beat the drum and shout; and
nobody believes a word we utter; and the people ask one another,
"How can we tell who is the greatest and the cleverest
among all these shrieking braggarts?"
And they answer:
"There is none great or clever. The great and clever men
are not here; there is no place for them in this pandemonium of
charlatans and quacks. The men you see here are crowing cocks.
We suppose the greatest and the best of _them_ are they who crow
the loudest and the longest; that is the only test of _their_
Therefore, what is left for us to do, but to crow? And the
best and greatest of us all, is he who crows the loudest and the
longest on this little dunghill that we call our world!
Well, I was going to tell you about our clock.
It was my wife's idea, getting it, in the first instance. We
had been to dinner at the Buggles', and Buggles had just bought
a clock--"picked it up in Essex," was the way he
described the transaction. Buggles is always going about
"picking up" things. He will stand before an old
carved bedstead, weighing about three tons, and say:
"Yes--pretty little thing! I picked it up in
Holland;" as though he had found it by the roadside, and
slipped it into his umbrella when nobody was looking!
Buggles was rather full of this clock. It was of the good
old-fashioned "grandfather" type. It stood eight feet
high, in a carved-oak case, and had a deep, sonorous, solemn
tick, that made a pleasant accompaniment to the after-dinner
chat, and seemed to fill the room with an air of homely dignity.
We discussed the clock, and Buggles said how he loved the
sound of its slow, grave tick; and how, when all the house was
still, and he and it were sitting up alone together, it seemed
like some wise old friend talking to him, and telling him about
the old days and the old ways of thought, and the old life and
the old people.
The clock impressed my wife very much. She was very
thoughtful all the way home, and, as we went upstairs to our
flat, she said, "Why could not we have a clock like
that?" She said it would seem like having some one in the
house to take care of us all--she should fancy it was looking
I have a man in Northamptonshire from whom I buy old
furniture now and then, and to him I applied. He answered by
return to say that he had got exactly the very thing I wanted.
(He always has. I am very lucky in this respect.) It was the
quaintest and most old-fashioned clock he had come across for a
long while, and he enclosed photograph and full particulars;
should he send it up?
From the photograph and the particulars, it seemed, as he
said, the very thing, and I told him, "Yes; send it up at
Three days afterward, there came a knock at the door--there
had been other knocks at the door before this, of course; but I
am dealing merely with the history of the clock. The girl said a
couple of men were outside, and wanted to see me, and I went to
I found they were Pickford's carriers, and glancing at the
way-bill, I saw that it was my clock that they had brought, and
I said, airily, "Oh, yes, it's quite right; bring it
They said they were very sorry, but that was just the
difficulty. They could not get it up.
I went down with them, and wedged securely across the second
landing of the staircase, I found a box which I should have
judged to be the original case in which Cleopatra's Needle came
They said that was my clock.
I brought down a chopper and a crowbar, and we sent out and
collected in two extra hired ruffians and the five of us worked
away for half an hour and got the clock out; after which the
traffic up and down the staircase was resumed, much to the
satisfaction of the other tenants.
We then got the clock upstairs and put it together, and I
fixed it in the corner of the dining-room.
At first it exhibited a strong desire to topple over and fall
on people, but by the liberal use of nails and screws and bits
of firewood, I made life in the same room with it possible, and
then, being exhausted, I had my wounds dressed, and went to bed.
In the middle of the night my wife woke me up in a great
state of alarm, to say that the clock had just struck thirteen,
and who did I think was going to die?
I said I did not know, but hoped it might be the next-door
My wife said she had a presentiment it meant baby. There was
no comforting her; she cried herself to sleep again.
During the course of the morning, I succeeded in persuading
her that she must have made a mistake, and she consented to
smile once more. In the afternoon the clock struck thirteen
This renewed all her fears. She was convinced now that both
baby and I were doomed, and that she would be left a childless
widow. I tried to treat the matter as a joke, and this only made
her more wretched. She said that she could see I really felt as
she did, and was only pretending to be light-hearted for her
sake, and she said she would try and bear it bravely.
The person she chiefly blamed was Buggles.
In the night the clock gave us another warning, and my wife
accepted it for her Aunt Maria, and seemed resigned. She wished,
however, that I had never had the clock, and wondered when, if
ever, I should get cured of my absurd craze for filling the
house with tomfoolery.
The next day the clock struck thirteen four times and this
cheered her up. She said that if we were all going to die, it
did not so much matter. Most likely there was a fever or a
plague coming, and we should all be taken together.
She was quite light-hearted over it!
After that the clock went on and killed every friend and
relation we had, and then it started on the neighbors.
It struck thirteen all day long for months, until we were
sick of slaughter, and there could not have been a human being
left alive for miles around.
Then it turned over a new leaf, and gave up murdering folks,
and took to striking mere harmless thirty-nines and forty-ones.
Its favorite number now is thirty-two, but once a day it strikes
forty-nine. It never strikes more than forty-nine. I don't know
why--I have never been able to understand why--but it doesn't.
It does not strike at regular intervals, but when it feels it
wants to and would be better for it. Sometimes it strikes three
or four times within the same hour, and at other times it will
go for half-a-day without striking at all.
He is an odd old fellow!
I have thought now and then of having him "seen
to," and made to keep regular hours and be respectable;
but, somehow, I seem to have grown to love him as he is with his
daring mockery of Time.
He certainly has not much respect for it. He seems to go out
of his way almost to openly insult it. He calls half-past two
thirty-eight o'clock, and in twenty minutes from then he says it
Is it that he really has grown to feel contempt for his
master, and wishes to show it? They say no man is a hero to his
valet; may it be that even stony-face Time himself is but a
short-lived, puny mortal--a little greater than some others,
that is all--to the dim eyes of this old servant of his? Has be,
ticking, ticking, all these years, come at last to see into the
littleness of that Time that looms so great to our awed human
Is he saying, as he grimly laughs, and strikes his
thirty-fives and forties: "Bah! I know you, Time, godlike
and dread though you seem. What are you but a phantom--a
dream--like the rest of us here? Ay, less, for you will pass
away and be no more. Fear him not, immortal men. Time is but the
shadow of the world upon the background of Eternity!"
Notes on the editing of this text:
1. Italicized phrases are delimited by the
underline character ("_"). 2. Hyphens have been left
in the text only where it was the clear intention of the author.
For example, throughout the text, "tonight" and
"tomorrow" appear as "to-night" and
"to-morrow". This is intentional, and is not simply a
legacy of words having been broken across lines in the printed
3. The pound (currency) symbol has been
replaced by the word "pounds".