By Jerome K. Jerome
There are two kinds of clocks. There is the clock that isalways wrong， and that knows it is wrong， and glories in it；and there is the clock that is always right—except when yourely upon it， and then it is more wrong than you would think aclock could be in a civilized country.
I remember a clock of this latter type， that we had in thehouse when I was a boy， routing us all up at three o’clock onewinter’s morning. We had finished breakfast at ten minutes tofour， and I got to school a little after five， and sat down on thestep outside and cried， because I thought the world had cometo an end； everything was so death-like！
The man who can live in the same house with one of theseclocks， and not endanger his chance of heaven about oncea month by standing up and telling it what he thinks of it， iseither a dangerous rival to that old established firm， Job， orelse he does not know enough bad language to make it worthhis while to start saying anything at all.
The great dream of its life is to lure you on into trying tocatch a train by it. For weeks and weeks it will keep the mostperfect time. If there were any difference in time between thatclock and the sun， you would be convinced it was the sun，not the clock， that wanted seeing to. You feel that if that clockhappened to get a quarter of a second fast， or the eighth of aninstant slow， it would break its heart and die.
It is in this spirit of child-like faith in its integrity that， onemorning， 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 toorder the coals， wave at last fond adieu with the umbrella， anddepart for the railway-station.
I never have been quite able to decide， myself， which is themore irritating to run two miles at the top of your speed， andthen to find， when you reach the station， that you are threequartersof an hour too early； or to stroll along leisurely thewhole way， and dawdle about outside the booking-office，talking to some local idiot， and then to swagger carelessly onto the platform， just in time to see the train go out！
As for the other class of clocks—the common or alwayswrongclocks—they are harmless enough. You wind them upat the proper intervals， and once or twice a week you put themright and “regulate” them， as you call it （and you might just aswell try to “regulate” a London tom-cat）. But you do all this， notfrom any selfish motives， but from a sense of duty to the clockitself. You want to feel that， whatever may happen， you havedone 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 neverdream of doing， and consequently you are not disappointed. Youask what the time is， and the girl replies：
“Well， the clock in the dining-room says a quarter past two.”
But you are not deceived by this. You know that， as a matterof fact， it must be somewhere between nine and ten in theevening； and， remembering that you noticed， as a curiouscircumstance， that the clock was only forty minutes past four，hours ago， you mildly admire its energies and resources， andwonder how it does it.
I myself possess a clock that for complicated unconventionalityand light-hearted independence， could， I should think， give pointsto anything yet discovered in the chronometrical line. As amere time-piece， it leaves much to be desired； but， consideredas 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 saywas of no good to any one except himself， because he was theonly man who understood it. He said it was an excellent clock，and one that you could thoroughly depend upon； but youwanted to know it—to have studied its system. An outsidermight be easily misled by it.
“For instance，” he would say， “when it strikes fifteen， andthe hands point to twenty minutes past eleven， I know it is aquarter to eight.”
His acquaintanceship with that clock must certainly havegiven 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 inthe course of the morning， and think nothing of it； and thenext day it will wish it were dead， and be hardly able to dragitself along， and lose two hours out of every four， and stopaltogether in the afternoon， too miserable to do anything； andthen， getting cheerful once more toward evening， will start offagain of its own accord.
I do not care to talk much about this clock； because whenI tell the simple truth concerning it， people think I amexaggerating.
It is very discouraging to find， when you are straining everynerve to tell the truth， that people do not believe you， and fancythat you are exaggerating. It makes you feel inclined to goand exaggerate on purpose， just to show them the difference.
I know I often feel tempted to do so myself—it is my earlytraining that saves me.
We should always be very careful never to give way toexaggeration； it is a habit that grows upon one.
And it is such a vulgar habit， too. In the old times， whenpoets and dry-goods salesmen were the only people whoexaggerated， there was something clever and distingue abouta reputation for “a tendency to over， rather than to underestimatethe mere bald facts.” But everybody exaggeratesnowadays. The art of exaggeration is no longer regarded asan “extra” in the modern bill of education； it is an essentialrequirement， held to be most needful for the battle of life.