 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
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THE CLOCKS OF GNOSTER-TOWN
It was ever so many years ago,
In the days when few were wise, and so
All thought they were wiser than any, you know,
In the kingdom of Mhundus over the sea,
The town of Gnoster used to be;
And on a day which is known to me
Yunus, a small man, bald and brown,
Came to dwell in this Gnoster-town.
In the days when few were wise, and so
All thought they were wiser than any, you know,
In the kingdom of Mhundus over the sea,
The town of Gnoster used to be;
And on a day which is known to me
Yunus, a small man, bald and brown,
Came to dwell in this Gnoster-town.
'T was a queer little village, getting full
Already when Yunus arrived; quite dull,
Or a little stupid, you might say,
For the Now was ruled by the Yesterday,
And highly indecorous it was deemed
To differ from what one's neighbors seemed,
So the average ran rather low,
Respectable though, as majorities go,
And the social tone was safe, but slow.
Already when Yunus arrived; quite dull,
Or a little stupid, you might say,
For the Now was ruled by the Yesterday,
And highly indecorous it was deemed
To differ from what one's neighbors seemed,
So the average ran rather low,
Respectable though, as majorities go,
And the social tone was safe, but slow.
All over Mhundus time was law;
'T was the promptest kingdom ever you saw,
The royal rule was, “Follow the sun;
Do what you do when 't is time 't was done.
Do with your might; seek wisdom, pursue it;
Don't wait for the licensed venders to do it.”
'T was the promptest kingdom ever you saw,
The royal rule was, “Follow the sun;
Do what you do when 't is time 't was done.
Do with your might; seek wisdom, pursue it;
Don't wait for the licensed venders to do it.”
So Gnoster, too, went in for time
In its feeble way, and thought the chime
Of its thousand clocks pealed out so far
That they kept the hour for the furtherest star;
And many a citizen demure
Slept sound and sweet, in the thought secure
That Caph and Phad could scarce go wrong
While Gnoster clocks beat staunch and strong.
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Of its thousand clocks pealed out so far
That they kept the hour for the furtherest star;
And many a citizen demure
Slept sound and sweet, in the thought secure
That Caph and Phad could scarce go wrong
While Gnoster clocks beat staunch and strong.
A thousand clocks! But for setting them going
The village a terrible tax was owing.
Not to mention the cost and care
Of keeping them all in good repair;
For the clock-tinker's trade, all up and down,
Was one of the very best in town.
The village a terrible tax was owing.
Not to mention the cost and care
Of keeping them all in good repair;
For the clock-tinker's trade, all up and down,
Was one of the very best in town.
There was the clock on the great town-hall,
Frowning over its spike-toothed wall.
It made the base for a liberty-pole,
Whose crest meant, Everybody had stole
Somebody's cap, and gilded it so
That the owner never his own could know.
Hugging the dial with bent arm bone
Sat a figure of Justice, asleep in stone;
Her broken sword had been crooked, at best;
In one of her scales was a hornet's nest;
And the bandage over her stony eyes,
What with the weather, and what with the flies,
A pair of gold spectacles you would think,
With one eye screwed in a pleasant wink.
Frowning over its spike-toothed wall.
It made the base for a liberty-pole,
Whose crest meant, Everybody had stole
Somebody's cap, and gilded it so
That the owner never his own could know.
Hugging the dial with bent arm bone
Sat a figure of Justice, asleep in stone;
Her broken sword had been crooked, at best;
In one of her scales was a hornet's nest;
And the bandage over her stony eyes,
What with the weather, and what with the flies,
A pair of gold spectacles you would think,
With one eye screwed in a pleasant wink.
There was the clock at the factory yard,
Ticking and clicking sharp and hard,
With a dingy little iron face,
And a bell that banged the hours apace.
The dial was flat, the figures were lean
As if half-starved—all cheap and mean;
And a timid flower, in a chink forlorn,
The hands had scissored and dropped in scorn.
Ticking and clicking sharp and hard,
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And a bell that banged the hours apace.
The dial was flat, the figures were lean
As if half-starved—all cheap and mean;
And a timid flower, in a chink forlorn,
The hands had scissored and dropped in scorn.
On an ancient, somewhat ruined building
Was a college clock; no paint or gilding,
Stern and classic, dreary and dread,
And the ivy on it was dead—all dead.
Some cherubs were sculptured around in places,
But the moss was growing on their faces,
And the dial was propped by an angel which
Had been clipped in the wings to fit its niche.
In the old stone belfry's chinks and loops,
With coo and flutter the soft white troops
Of the doves were just beginning to come,
With a breath of purity and home.
Was a college clock; no paint or gilding,
Stern and classic, dreary and dread,
And the ivy on it was dead—all dead.
Some cherubs were sculptured around in places,
But the moss was growing on their faces,
And the dial was propped by an angel which
Had been clipped in the wings to fit its niche.
In the old stone belfry's chinks and loops,
With coo and flutter the soft white troops
Of the doves were just beginning to come,
With a breath of purity and home.
Hundreds such secular ones he saw,
But the great church clocks laid down the law.
Throned on the stone cathedral's tower,
A huge old time-piece thundered the hour.
Its face like a face in a mask appeared,
For above, it scowled, and below, it leered.
The dial figures were shrunken men,
And Peter's keys made the X for ten.
The hour-hand clawed as an invitation
Beckoning every tribe and nation,
But a trick of perspective made you suppose
The finger was laid aside of the nose.
The wheels all creaked and groaned as they went;
It would soon run down, that was evident.
But the great church clocks laid down the law.
Throned on the stone cathedral's tower,
A huge old time-piece thundered the hour.
Its face like a face in a mask appeared,
For above, it scowled, and below, it leered.
The dial figures were shrunken men,
And Peter's keys made the X for ten.
The hour-hand clawed as an invitation
Beckoning every tribe and nation,
But a trick of perspective made you suppose
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The wheels all creaked and groaned as they went;
It would soon run down, that was evident.
Close on the great cathedral's toes
A spick-span little building rose,
With a door like the arch of a Roman nose.
Its Gothic windows were stained so thick
That scant was the light that could through them prick.
Around on the spires were a dozen clocks,
As though they had settled there in flocks—
A brood from its neighbor's single tower;
And whenever the old clock struck the hour,
These little gilt ones with all their power
Chimed hurriedly in. They were all so made
That lively Italian tunes they played,
And odd little figures, all arrayed
In patch-work petticoats, trotted out
(Moved by machinery, no doubt),
And bobbed, and trotted in again,
Every time that the hands said when.
In place of Peter's keys for ten
Was a fat St. Timothy, going to take
A little wine for his stomach's sake.
A spick-span little building rose,
With a door like the arch of a Roman nose.
Its Gothic windows were stained so thick
That scant was the light that could through them prick.
Around on the spires were a dozen clocks,
As though they had settled there in flocks—
A brood from its neighbor's single tower;
And whenever the old clock struck the hour,
These little gilt ones with all their power
Chimed hurriedly in. They were all so made
That lively Italian tunes they played,
And odd little figures, all arrayed
In patch-work petticoats, trotted out
(Moved by machinery, no doubt),
And bobbed, and trotted in again,
Every time that the hands said when.
In place of Peter's keys for ten
Was a fat St. Timothy, going to take
A little wine for his stomach's sake.
Up a street that was always choked with people
Was a great, thick clock, on a great, thick steeple.
'T was a wooden building, big and bare,
With not much light, but plenty of air,
And a dead-earnest look, as if the man
That made it had understood his plan.
'T was a thumping, whacking clock, that would chase
All sensitive birds away from the place,
And it seemed to have struck itself red in the face.
Was a great, thick clock, on a great, thick steeple.
'T was a wooden building, big and bare,
With not much light, but plenty of air,
And a dead-earnest look, as if the man
That made it had understood his plan.
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All sensitive birds away from the place,
And it seemed to have struck itself red in the face.
One clock, on a building of colors various,
Had beside it a statue of St. Arius.
The dial-face seemed made of shell,
It shifted its changeable hues so well.
Its figure three had been whittled away,
And it wore a smile which seemed to say
That all was sweet and nothing vile,
And the universe made of sugar and style;
That this hitherto troublesome mortal coil
Could be made quite smooth with honey and oil.
'T was really a little hard to say,
In spite of its air of being au fait,
Exactly what was its time of day;
Its pointers were stretched so far from the dial,
That you gave it up, on the second trial,
For you saw at once it depended rather
Which side you stood, and how near it, whether
The hand and a figure fell together.
Had beside it a statue of St. Arius.
The dial-face seemed made of shell,
It shifted its changeable hues so well.
Its figure three had been whittled away,
And it wore a smile which seemed to say
That all was sweet and nothing vile,
And the universe made of sugar and style;
That this hitherto troublesome mortal coil
Could be made quite smooth with honey and oil.
'T was really a little hard to say,
In spite of its air of being au fait,
Exactly what was its time of day;
Its pointers were stretched so far from the dial,
That you gave it up, on the second trial,
For you saw at once it depended rather
Which side you stood, and how near it, whether
The hand and a figure fell together.
But a positive clock, on a new French school,
Seemed to pride itself it was no such fool
To go groping around to follow the sun:
Why, who could prove there was any sun?
So its hands were nailed at half-past one,
And its wheels, all dust, in a crust of rust,
Were bound not to budge till 't was proved they must.
Seemed to pride itself it was no such fool
To go groping around to follow the sun:
Why, who could prove there was any sun?
So its hands were nailed at half-past one,
And its wheels, all dust, in a crust of rust,
Were bound not to budge till 't was proved they must.
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Well, besides these and hundreds more,
Each man had a watch, and over his door
A family clock, and folks do say
That many a soul kept hidden away
In a secret pocket, innerly sewed,
A private watch that he never showed,
Which the maker and giver had begged might be
Kept with the great sun to agree.
But nobody trusted to these—not one.
It was too much trouble to take the sun,
And, besides, it would bring on knocks and shocks
From the public to differ with the clocks.
So by them they ate, drank, rose, and slept,
Blessed and cursed, rejoiced and wept.
Each man had a watch, and over his door
A family clock, and folks do say
That many a soul kept hidden away
In a secret pocket, innerly sewed,
A private watch that he never showed,
Which the maker and giver had begged might be
Kept with the great sun to agree.
But nobody trusted to these—not one.
It was too much trouble to take the sun,
And, besides, it would bring on knocks and shocks
From the public to differ with the clocks.
So by them they ate, drank, rose, and slept,
Blessed and cursed, rejoiced and wept.
And every clock thought: “Ho! my chime
Keeps the great world in tune and time!”
And every church thought: “Ho! my tower
Points upward, motionless, hour by hour—
Aims ever the same with steadfast power!”
And little they knew, as they watched the blue,
That round with the plump old earth they flew,
Eternally shifting to somewhere new;
Till there was n't a star in the dusted fire,
Eastern or western, lower or higher,
But had blinked along each silly spire.
Keeps the great world in tune and time!”
And every church thought: “Ho! my tower
Points upward, motionless, hour by hour—
Aims ever the same with steadfast power!”
And little they knew, as they watched the blue,
That round with the plump old earth they flew,
Eternally shifting to somewhere new;
Till there was n't a star in the dusted fire,
Eastern or western, lower or higher,
But had blinked along each silly spire.
So Yunus, the small man, bald and brown,
Entered this clock-ridden Gnoster-town.
His watch ran well; 't was a gift from the king;
A quaint, old-fashioned sort of thing,
With a rough and wrinkled leathern case,
As if it copied from his face
The parchment wrinkles there, well-earned,
The spectrum-lines where life had burned.
It seemed with salt-brine crusted dim,
But safe within the rusty rim
Its bright, clean wheels ran true and trim,
And steadily by the steady sun
With cheery tick their race went on.
No need had he that another tell
The hour which the deep sky told so well,
For still was the rough-faced watch kept true
By the golden furrow across the blue.
Entered this clock-ridden Gnoster-town.
His watch ran well; 't was a gift from the king;
A quaint, old-fashioned sort of thing,
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As if it copied from his face
The parchment wrinkles there, well-earned,
The spectrum-lines where life had burned.
It seemed with salt-brine crusted dim,
But safe within the rusty rim
Its bright, clean wheels ran true and trim,
And steadily by the steady sun
With cheery tick their race went on.
No need had he that another tell
The hour which the deep sky told so well,
For still was the rough-faced watch kept true
By the golden furrow across the blue.
Through the gate and up the street
Trod Yunus with unresting feet.
'T was three o'clock; he was belated;
In Gnoster dinner never waited.
But lo! he stops in dumb amaze:
The swarm of clocks confronts his gaze.
Some ticked loud, and some ticked soft;
One seemed to wheeze, another coughed;
And their thousand hands gave out that soon
Their thousand throats would bellow noon.
Trod Yunus with unresting feet.
'T was three o'clock; he was belated;
In Gnoster dinner never waited.
But lo! he stops in dumb amaze:
The swarm of clocks confronts his gaze.
Some ticked loud, and some ticked soft;
One seemed to wheeze, another coughed;
And their thousand hands gave out that soon
Their thousand throats would bellow noon.
Then Yunus saw, what dazed him more,
That each man motionless stood by his door,
Holding his watch in his open hand,
As a carved tobacconist's man might stand,
Waiting breathlessly to see
If his time with the great town-clocks agree.
That each man motionless stood by his door,
Holding his watch in his open hand,
As a carved tobacconist's man might stand,
Waiting breathlessly to see
If his time with the great town-clocks agree.
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Then a silent laugh just pushed its way
Over Yunus' face of wrinkled clay,
Like a gleam of sun on a cloudy day.
And he asked of a citizen standing near,
“Pray, which is the standard time-piece here?”
“Oh! well, there 's a many of 'em,” quoth he,
“So we strike an average, and agree
Once a week, by majority.
If some seem getting rather slow,
Nor any progressive zeal can show,
We touch 'em up a little, you know;
And if some are ahead, and seem to lack
Conservative sense, we set 'em back.”
Over Yunus' face of wrinkled clay,
Like a gleam of sun on a cloudy day.
And he asked of a citizen standing near,
“Pray, which is the standard time-piece here?”
“Oh! well, there 's a many of 'em,” quoth he,
“So we strike an average, and agree
Once a week, by majority.
If some seem getting rather slow,
Nor any progressive zeal can show,
We touch 'em up a little, you know;
And if some are ahead, and seem to lack
Conservative sense, we set 'em back.”
Then Yunus stammered: “Should n't you say
That this was rather a dubious way?
And don't you really happen to know
That your time is at least three hours too slow?”
That this was rather a dubious way?
And don't you really happen to know
That your time is at least three hours too slow?”
The man winked wildly with both his eyes
In a kind of horrified surprise,
Gasped once or twice like a shower-bathed wight,
Then, utterly speechless, took to flight.
In a kind of horrified surprise,
Gasped once or twice like a shower-bathed wight,
Then, utterly speechless, took to flight.
And then to a boy: “My little lad,
Are these Gnoster people all stark mad?
Those clocks are three hours too slow!” he said.
But the frightened urchin screamed and ran,
And running he screamed that here was a man
Who doubted and flouted the Gnoster clocks.
And forth the populace rushed in flocks,
With threat and curse and club, pell-mell,
All eager to rout the infidel.
Are these Gnoster people all stark mad?
Those clocks are three hours too slow!” he said.
But the frightened urchin screamed and ran,
And running he screamed that here was a man
Who doubted and flouted the Gnoster clocks.
And forth the populace rushed in flocks,
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All eager to rout the infidel.
Well, Yunus thought that his watch was right;
But, rather than make a scene, or fight,
He hid himself till the wrath died down,
Then hired him a lodging in Gnoster-town.
Yet he never could snatch a quiet walk
But the streets were hissing with muttered talk;
The urchins followed him with stones,
The elders filled the air with groans,
As they watched, those steady streets along,
The wretch who thought their clocks were wrong.
But, rather than make a scene, or fight,
He hid himself till the wrath died down,
Then hired him a lodging in Gnoster-town.
Yet he never could snatch a quiet walk
But the streets were hissing with muttered talk;
The urchins followed him with stones,
The elders filled the air with groans,
As they watched, those steady streets along,
The wretch who thought their clocks were wrong.
Then Yunus, taking himself to task,
Began to pluck his beard, and ask,
“O heretic, O hapless wight!
Can a thousand be wrong, and one be right?
O Yunus, Yunus! they must be true,
For there 's more of them than there is of you!”
Began to pluck his beard, and ask,
“O heretic, O hapless wight!
Can a thousand be wrong, and one be right?
O Yunus, Yunus! they must be true,
For there 's more of them than there is of you!”
Ofttimes he thought he would climb, next day,
To that mountain summit, high away,
Still, unvisited, cold, severe,
Like a soul that is far from earth, and near
To the starry spaces, vast and clear.
“And there, lift up alone,” thought he,
“That heaven's true hour mine eyes may see,
A dial I will build for me;
A marble cube, all carven square,
With a silver gnomon, white and fair,
Down which the good sun, calm and sure,
Shall point the hours with finger pure.
And power to my life that light shall bring
To beat with the wide world's rhythmic swing.”
To that mountain summit, high away,
Still, unvisited, cold, severe,
Like a soul that is far from earth, and near
To the starry spaces, vast and clear.
“And there, lift up alone,” thought he,
“That heaven's true hour mine eyes may see,
A dial I will build for me;
A marble cube, all carven square,
With a silver gnomon, white and fair,
Down which the good sun, calm and sure,
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And power to my life that light shall bring
To beat with the wide world's rhythmic swing.”
But more and more it seemed to him
That his own conviction was a whim.
And yet, as it fell out, ere long,
In spite of their being a thousand strong,
His lonely thought was right, they wrong.
That his own conviction was a whim.
And yet, as it fell out, ere long,
In spite of their being a thousand strong,
His lonely thought was right, they wrong.
For weeks he slept when his own watch said
'T was the proper time for going to bed,
And he waked at the kiss of the dawn's first beams,
While the Gnoster people were deep in dreams.
'T was the proper time for going to bed,
And he waked at the kiss of the dawn's first beams,
While the Gnoster people were deep in dreams.
At first it was a pleasant thing
To hear the dawn's first preluding,
Till the tinkle of starlight died away,
And the golden trumpet-blast of day,
Clanging all up the eastern gray,
Broke on a hollow, silent world;
And to see the banneret flowers unfurled
From the battlements of the turf, and own
A new earth, lit for him alone.
His eyes were clear, his soul all free
To stand at Nature's mother-knee,
And greet, with reverent forehead bare,
His brothers of the sky and air.
To hear the dawn's first preluding,
Till the tinkle of starlight died away,
And the golden trumpet-blast of day,
Clanging all up the eastern gray,
Broke on a hollow, silent world;
And to see the banneret flowers unfurled
From the battlements of the turf, and own
A new earth, lit for him alone.
His eyes were clear, his soul all free
To stand at Nature's mother-knee,
And greet, with reverent forehead bare,
His brothers of the sky and air.
But slowly he had lost that tone;
'T was something still and ghostly grown,
And dull, to be up so long alone;
A little chilly, too, withal,
While each long shadow seemed a pall;
And being of too weak a mood
To feed on Nature as a food,
It turned him somewhat faint, at last,
To wait till the village broke its fast.
So the hollow goneness, hunger-lined,
His little courage undermined.
He gave it up, abjured, confessed,
Took him a business, made much pelf,
Laid by his watch on a dusty shelf,
And kept his squints at the sun to himself;
Even gained a place from the orthodox
As winder to one of the public clocks.
'T was something still and ghostly grown,
And dull, to be up so long alone;
A little chilly, too, withal,
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And being of too weak a mood
To feed on Nature as a food,
It turned him somewhat faint, at last,
To wait till the village broke its fast.
So the hollow goneness, hunger-lined,
His little courage undermined.
He gave it up, abjured, confessed,
Took him a business, made much pelf,
Laid by his watch on a dusty shelf,
And kept his squints at the sun to himself;
Even gained a place from the orthodox
As winder to one of the public clocks.
So for many a day it ran;
He had changed his time, but it changed the man.
There were flesh-pots plenty and stoups of wine,
But no more solitudes divine—
No gaze towards the mountain height afar—
No friendship with the beckoning star.
He had changed his time, but it changed the man.
There were flesh-pots plenty and stoups of wine,
But no more solitudes divine—
No gaze towards the mountain height afar—
No friendship with the beckoning star.
“All very well,” you'll say, and take
The ground, “What difference does it make
What hour we eat, or sleep, or wake?”
But the Lord of Mhundus thought not so.
He had observed, with inward woe,
That, what with tobacco, wealth, and rum,
And natural heaviness with some,
Great sloth his realm had overcome.
So an edict, which was framed to fix
The rising hour at half-past six,
Throughout the land he caused to go;
And then, the law's success to know,
He took a trip incognito.
The ground, “What difference does it make
What hour we eat, or sleep, or wake?”
But the Lord of Mhundus thought not so.
He had observed, with inward woe,
That, what with tobacco, wealth, and rum,
And natural heaviness with some,
Great sloth his realm had overcome.
So an edict, which was framed to fix
The rising hour at half-past six,
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And then, the law's success to know,
He took a trip incognito.
You guess the sequel. Happening round
At Gnoster after nine, he found
The village sunk in sleep profound—
One choral snore the only sound;
Save where, o'erhead, the clocks, sedate,
Stupid and solemn, little and great,
Went ticking on, three hours too late.
At Gnoster after nine, he found
The village sunk in sleep profound—
One choral snore the only sound;
Save where, o'erhead, the clocks, sedate,
Stupid and solemn, little and great,
Went ticking on, three hours too late.
The royal wrath was deep and wide:
He called a magician to his side,
Who swift his hocus-pocus plied,
And laid a thrice-inwoven spell
On the Gnoster sleepers, deep and well.
Not a soul of them waked forevermore,
And some who are versed in ancient lore
Say when it thunders you hear them snore.
He called a magician to his side,
Who swift his hocus-pocus plied,
And laid a thrice-inwoven spell
On the Gnoster sleepers, deep and well.
Not a soul of them waked forevermore,
And some who are versed in ancient lore
Say when it thunders you hear them snore.
Ah! if only Yunus had held his own,
Though they were a thousand and he alone!
For had he been up, that morning bland,
He, faithful alone to the king's command,
Had risen a duke by the royal hand.
But he let it be as it was to be,
And was doomed with the great majority.
Though they were a thousand and he alone!
For had he been up, that morning bland,
He, faithful alone to the king's command,
Had risen a duke by the royal hand.
But he let it be as it was to be,
And was doomed with the great majority.
All the king's sages then searched to see
How in the world it could possibly be,
When the noon was so simple a thing to find,
That a town should stay three hours behind.
How in the world it could possibly be,
When the noon was so simple a thing to find,
That a town should stay three hours behind.
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It was found they had fetched the time of day
From a place three hundred leagues away—
An hour too slow, of course, nor thought
Of getting their own from the sky as they ought.
Then a timid bird, a poor scared thing,
Flying on panic-stricken wing
Past the clock on the great church tower,
Brushed back its hand another hour;
And at last, by their average method blind,
They had crept the third long hour behind.
From a place three hundred leagues away—
An hour too slow, of course, nor thought
Of getting their own from the sky as they ought.
Then a timid bird, a poor scared thing,
Flying on panic-stricken wing
Past the clock on the great church tower,
Brushed back its hand another hour;
And at last, by their average method blind,
They had crept the third long hour behind.
To finish the story, let me say
What the court preacher preached next day.
What the court preacher preached next day.
“Don't borrow a creed from other people,
Nor hang most faith on the stoutest steeple.
Look up for your law, but oh! look higher
Than the hands on any human spire.
If ten think alike, and you think alone,
That never proves 't is ten to one
They are right, you wrong; for truth, you see,
Is not a thing of majority.
It never can make you false, them true,
That there 's more of them than there is of you:
If your touch is on Truth's garment's hem,
There is more of you than a world of them.
'T is not alone in the Orient region
That a certain hero's name is Legion.
Nor was it only for once to be
That the whole herd together ran down to the sea.
Your zenith for no man else is true;
Your beam from the sun comes alone to you;
And the thought the great God gave your brain,
Is your own for the world, or the world's in vain.”
Nor hang most faith on the stoutest steeple.
Look up for your law, but oh! look higher
Than the hands on any human spire.
If ten think alike, and you think alone,
That never proves 't is ten to one
They are right, you wrong; for truth, you see,
Is not a thing of majority.
It never can make you false, them true,
That there 's more of them than there is of you:
If your touch is on Truth's garment's hem,
There is more of you than a world of them.
'T is not alone in the Orient region
That a certain hero's name is Legion.
Nor was it only for once to be
That the whole herd together ran down to the sea.
175
Your beam from the sun comes alone to you;
And the thought the great God gave your brain,
Is your own for the world, or the world's in vain.”
Horae pereunt et imputantur.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |