An old clock, that had stood for fifty years in a farmer’s kitchen,
without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer’s
morning, before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped.
Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable,) changed
countenance with alarm; the hands made a vain effort to continue their
course; the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung
speechless; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. At
length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the
stagnation, when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice protested their
innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below from the pendulum, who
thus spoke:--
“I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and I am
willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth
is, that I am tired of ticking.” Upon hearing this, the old clock became
so enraged, that it was on the very point of _striking_.
“Lazy wire!” exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands.--“Very
good,” replied the pendulum: “it is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial,
who have always, as every body knows, set yourself up above me,--it is
vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness! You, who
have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in
the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the
kitchen! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life
in this dark closet, and to wag backwards and forwards, year after year,
and do.”--“As to that,” said the dial, “Is there not a window in your
house, on purpose for you to look through?”
“For all that,” resumed the pendulum, “it is very dark here: and,
although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to
look out at it. Besides, I am really tired of my way of life; and, if
you wish, I’ll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. I
happened this morning to be calculating how many times I should have to
tick in the course only of the next twenty-four hours: perhaps some of
you above there can give me the exact sum.”
The minute hand, being _quick_ at figures, presently replied,
“Eighty_-_six thousand four hundred times.”
“Exactly so,” replied the pendulum; “well, I appeal to you all, if the
very thought of this was not enough to fatigue one; and when I began to
multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really it
is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect; so, after a great
deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I’ll stop.”
The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but,
resuming its gravity, thus replied:--
“Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful,
industrious person as yourself should have been overcome by this sudden
notion. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time; so
have we all, and are likely to do; which, although it may fatigue us to
_think_ of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to _do_. Would
you now do me the favour to give about half a dozen strokes, to
illustrate my argument?”
The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace.--“Now,”
resumed the dial, “may I be allowed to inquire, if that exertion was at
all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?”
“Not in the least,” replied the pendulum; “it is not of six strokes that
I complain, nor of sixty, but of _millions_.”
“Very good,” replied the dial; “but recollect, that though you may
_think_ of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to
_execute_ but one; and that, however often you may hereafter have to
swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in.”
“That consideration staggers me, I confess,” said the pendulum. “Then I
hope,” resumed the dial-plate, “we shall all immediately return to our
duty; for the maids will lie in bed till noon, if we stand idling thus.”
Upon this the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used
all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as with one consent,
the wheels began to turn, the hand began to move, the pendulum began to
swing, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a red beam of
the rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the kitchen shutter,
shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up as if nothing had
been the matter.
When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the
clock, he declared that his watch had gained half-an-hour in the night.
* * * * *
A celebrated modern writer says, “take care of the _minutes_, and the
_hours_ will take care of themselves.” This is an admirable remark, and
might be very seasonably recollected when we begin to be “weary in
well-doing,” from the thought of having much to do. The present moment
is all we have to do with in any sense; the past is irrecoverable; the
future is uncertain; nor is it fair to burthen one moment with the
weight of the next. Sufficient unto the _moment_ is the trouble thereof.
If we had to walk a hundred miles, we should still have to set but one
step at a time, and this process continued would infallibly bring us to
our journey’s end. Fatigue generally begins, and is always increased, by
calculating in a minute the exertion of hours.
Thus, in looking forward to future life, let us recollect that we have
not to sustain all its toil, to endure all its sufferings, or encounter
all its crosses at once. One moment comes laden with its own _little_
burthens, then flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier than the
last; if _one_ could be borne, so can another, and another.
Even in looking forward to a single day, the spirit may sometimes faint
from an anticipation of the duties, the labours, the trials to temper
and patience that may be expected. Now, this is unjustly laying the
burthen of many thousand moments upon _one_. Let any one resolve always
to do right _now_, leaving _then_ to do as it can; and if he were to
live to the age of Methusalem, he would never do wrong. But the common
error is to resolve to act right after breakfast, or after dinner, or
to-morrow morning, or _next time_; but _now_, _just_ now, _this_ once,
we must go on the same as ever.
It is easy, for instance, for the most ill-tempered person to resolve,
that the next time he is provoked he will not let his temper overcome
him; but the victory would be to subdue temper on the _present_
provocation. If, without taking up the burthen of the future, we would
always make the _single_ effort at the _present_ moment, while there
would, at any time, be very little to do, yet, by this simple process
continued, every thing would at last be done.
It seems easier to do right to-morrow than to-day, merely because we
forget, that when to-morrow comes, _then_ will be _now_. Thus life
passes with many, in resolutions for the future, which the present never
fulfils.
It is not thus with those, who, “by _patient continuance in well-doing_,
seek for glory, honour, and immortality:” day by day, minute by minute,
they execute the appointed task to which the requisite measure of time
and strength is proportioned: and thus, having worked while it was
called day, they at length rest from their labours, and their “works
follow them.”
Let us then, “whatever our hands find to do, do it with all our might,
recollecting that _now_ is the proper and accepted time.”[179]
[179] From the _Youth’s Magazine_, for November, 1819.
~June 22.~
_St. Paulinus_, Bp. of Nola, A. D. 431. _St. Alban_, Proto-Martyr of
Britain, A. D. 303.
_American Newspapers._
The following singular advertisement, appeared in the “Connecticut
Courant,” of June 2, 1784.