by J.S.
Originally published in The Leisure Hour (Religious Tract Society) vol.1 #1 (01 Jan 1852).
It was the 31st of December; the cold winter sun had gone down the sky, every crimson streak had for hours vanished, and the heavens looked like a dome of clear blue crystal, from which the stars were shining out as in their youth, not seeming like other things ever to grow old. I looked from my cottage window for a few moments on this scene of calm and melancholy beauty, and watched the lustrous and diamond-like sparkling of those many, many orbs, and then, amidst the deep silence of that last night of the dying year, I was startled by the rich-toned strokes of the village clock, which through the crisp and frosty air tolled out—deliberately pausing between the strokes—ELEvEN. Chilled by the keen and searching atmosphere, I closed the casement, and sat down in the black oaken chair that had stood beside that hearth so many years, and, stirring up the embers of the logwood fire, mused on the curling, quivering sparks which, like the joys of earth, go out the moment after their brightest flashes. The drowsy ticking of the clock beside the door fell on my ears, and seemed to wind round into my eyes with somniferous effect; and after the shadowy and the real had a little while contended for the mastery, the latter retired and left me in the power of the former, whereby I was gently carried into the realm of dreams.
And I thought I was at sea, on an ocean that was more changeful than even those which roll over so large a portion of this globe—an ocean that strangely passed from calm to storm, and from storm to calm—an ocean, too, that at the same moment presented in close contiguity spaces that were still as an angel's peace, and stormy as a demon's rage. And there were more barques than I could number, some of which were the sport of tempests, and others were sailing over quiet, sunlit waters. But all were moving on--rapidly moving on; and opposite these rose a shore, rock-bound and strong, which spread far away; and on the summit of a bold beetling crag there stood a tower—I never saw a campanelle like that—having a large illuminated dial-plate with stars upon it, and astronomic signs; and as we sailed past it, it struck, and the stroke was startling. It boomed out upon the main like thunder; yet though loud as thunder, it was not rough like thunder, but it had in it a soft melancholy and wailing sound. I wondered greatly at it; and before the echo had died away, I thought I saw with me, in my vessel, another beside myself—not like myself—in form, aspect, and voice far different. Very thoughtful looked he; and gazing in my eyes, he told me that was God's great clock of time, of which the mechanism lay deep in nature, and spread out far and wide with wheels and springs that had been set in motion centuries ago. And he told me how it marked and manifested the flight of years, and months, and days, and hours: how it had been striking so some thousand times at annual intervals: how, while the ocean before it rolled or rested—how, while the ships went fleeting on with music or with mourning—how, while some were wrecked, and others rode out the storm—how, while some were heaving in sight, and others were melting out of view—how, while the heaven changed and the ocean changed—the great old clock went on steadily, sweeping round its iron hand, tolling forth at the end of every three hundred and sixty-fifth day the requiem of that period past, and a solemn welcome to the like period coming. And, he said, so it would go on to strike, how many more times he knew not; but this he knew, that there was One to come, at whose touch that bell tower would fall, and he would stand with one foot on the sea and another on the land, and swear by Him that liveth for ever and ever, that there should be time no longer.
As I thought on this, my guide steered me near the tower-crowned rock; so near to it did my little boat approach, and so still was all around me at the moment, that I heard the pulsations of the pendulum, and though the sweep was wide, and the motion I was told was hourly, yet did it in my thought seem but like a moment's space. "Hark! to that measured solemn ticking," said my guide; "each sound marks off an hour. God, who made that clock, is thus measuring out time by hours—measuring it out to all mortals, and to you. The deep sonorous stroke on the bell—the voice of years—secures a thousand listeners; but few come hither, and having shut out the solicitation of other sounds, strive to catch the equally steady, but fainter intonations of the voice of hours. Yet it is this latter, which, after all, is most important. The worth of years is not known to him who reckons not the worth of hours. Hours make years. Years are the sum of hours. Vain is it at wide intervals to say, 'I'll save this year;' if at each narrow interval you do not say, 'I'll save this hour.' Time is like a parchment roll, to be written over line by line, word by word. He is a fool who thinks only of paragraphs, not of lines; of sentences, not of words. To save each hour is to save the year. The hours lost, the year is lost."
And then, methought, I passed into strange regions, and saw strange things; the doors of nature's laboratory were opened, and the mysteries of her mechanism disclosed; and I saw what I cannot utter; but this I learned, that not an atom moves, that not an impulse in the air takes place, that not a fleecy cloud can sail, nor a sleeping infant sigh, but there is left behind it a result—a permanent or still producing result—a consequence that becomes a cause, the parent of a long generation of consequences and causes, that shall go on living and dying to the end of time. "And so," said my grave Mentor, "so is it with time; not an hour is cut off time's web, but it tells for something. Each portion as God measures it out comes charged with power, or is the vehicle or instrument which, passing under the touch of moral creatures, catches power and becomes surcharged with it, and then goes forth to diffuse what it has received—to spend the force it has acquired. Hours are indeed at first blanks, but man writes on them what he will, and they are forthwith missives, delivering a message afterwards, not in this world merely, but the next—carrying a report to the very throne of God, to be written down in books which moth cannot corrupt, nor time moulder. Men cast away hours like dust, but those rich massive golden lives which some have lived, were all made up of these atomic particles. Nay, a single hour may prove a pearl of great price. Each hour has a history. As Time's clock ticks, a zone of hours is belting the world, and receiving from each mortal some mark which shall yield some meaning for good or evil at the end. Multitudes of hours receive a common mark, yet not a few have gathered within them a pregnant and marvellous signification. In an hour, thoughts have been conceived, and purposes have been formed, and deeds have been done, that have changed all afterlife. They have been seeds of sin and death, or of holiness and immortality."
After he had so spoken I thought I was on the shore, and trees were throwing over me a deep solemn shade, and the sun was going down, and there was a grave-like silence; when there came gliding past me, forms of varied shape and mien, and each I was told was the spirit of an hour. First, there came one who was dark and demon-like, his eye-balls glaring with fire, while his brow was as the thunder-cloud, as if thick with misery and despair; and he told of hours that had been spent in weaving evil purposes under the teaching of accursed passions; how lust had been conceived, and intemperance nursed, and the coals of resentment blown into the flame of revenge, and all manner of impurity, injustice, and violence, brought out into deadly perpetration—within the short period of one sweep performed by the old clock's huge pendulum. And I thought of young souls whom I had known, who in one short hour had been poisoned by temptation, whose beauty like a leaf had all at once been seared as by a scorching sirocco blast. Next there came another, and the form was bowing down, the face was sorrowful, big tears were flowing, the voice was sad, and the step was trembling, but he had a staff like a cross, wherewith he stayed himself; and I heard him speak of hours that had been spent in mourning over other hours—hours of repentance and godly sorrow—of confession, humiliation, and prayer. And I thought of David's psalm which I had read, and which the brokenhearted King of Israel had written in hours of holy sorrow, when he was sowing seeds of immortal joy; and of the hour when Peter went out and wept bitterly; and of the hour when the three thousand were pricked to the heart, and cried out, "Men and brethren, what shall we do?" And next appeared one far different; he was like a warrior, his armour flashing with a lustre brighter than steel, while there waved from his helmet a plume as if each feather had been a sunbeam; his shield was broad and embossed, and as to his sword I never saw one like it. And he went on to tell of hours of spiritual warfare and victory, and how by an hour's resolute resistance temptation had been crushed; how by an hour's mortification a lust had been slain; how by an hour's prayer Satan had been vanquished; and I at once thought of Paul, and Luther, and Bunyan, and such men, and of the critical hours in their lives when, by the dexterous use of Faith's shield, or the Spirit's sword, the tide of victory had been turned, and the hosts of darkness had been driven away in utter rout and discomfiture.
After this I saw one diverse from all the rest; he came down direct from heaven, and was too ethereal for words to describe; his descent was like the gentle fluttering of a dove, fragrance filled the air, there was a halo of light all round about, and a still small voice came from the mysterious presence; and spoke of the great hour of regeneration—of the beginning of spiritual life in man's dead heart—of old things passing away, and all things becoming new; and I began to think of Saul of Tarsus, and of Colonel Gardiner, and of many more whose hour of conversion was so plain and notable; and the thought too came, that though the hour be unknown until after it is past, yet is there an hour in every renewed man's history, when the sun began to rise—the seed to quicken—when the night melted into day, and life triumphed over death.
And he whom I next saw was like unto the Son of man; yet did I know him to be the Ancient of days, and he proclaimed himself the Lord of all hours; but he spake of some which he had once spent on earth, which had made the hours of man quite different from what otherwise they could have been—which had given birth to the hours of regeneration, and bound a rainbow round the hour of death. The hour in which he was betrayed—the hour and power of darkness—the hour when his soul was troubled—the hour when they crucified him—the hour when he cried, "Father, into thy hand I commit my spirit:" hours were they of love and sorrow, such as none ever spent before, and from which, as from hidden roots that went down deep into a dark soil, there sprung up strong branches and green leaves, and bright fruits of pardon, sanctity, and bliss. And I remembered how, through faith in him, the whole of Time's story had been changed to many a one, and the voyage over human life's uncertain ocean had ended in a landing on the pearly beach of the heavenly country.
Afterwards, I beheld one more, whose form was changeful; there were crowds of mortals busy about the path along which he moved; and he touched one after another as he went his way, and to some he seemed a ministering angel, and to the rest a king clothed in terror; they who were touched by his mysterious finger were forced to follow him, and he led some through a glorious palace archway, where the sun was shining brighter than on the brightest summer's day; but he thrust the rest through a grim prison gate, where blacker clouds were gathering than ever covered a winter's sky. Perplexed by these visions, I turned to look for my guide and counsellor, who again stood by me, and told me it was the spirit of man's last hour—the hour of dying and of changing worlds; that it was coming soon to me; and he asked how I thought it would look on me, and where it would carry me. Whereupon I recollected what I had often thought, that in every year I spend a day which is of the same date as that which will be hereafter carved on my grave-stone—and that every day, asleep or awake, I cross the hour which corresponds in number with my last.
And then—there was no more sea—and the stars of heaven fell—and the old clock tower of time crumbled to pieces—and the rocks were as molten lead—and stretching out in august magnificence, while there gathered round it countless hosts, was a great white throne. And now "the hour was come, when the dead that were in their graves heard the voice of the Son of man, and came forth." And all the hours came up for judgment; and every one was examined, and what had been thought and done in each was discovered; it was as a living voice, and there was no secret that it kept, but. with a truthful tongue told all. And I thought I saw the hours of my life, as if borne on wings, come sailing up from the deep ocean of the past, and I looked not for those that would speak of earthly acquisitions and joys, however rich and bright, but for those which would speak of faith and prayer, of love and service—hours spent in musing on the Bible, in communing with and imitating Christ—in mortifying sin—in conquering the world—in making known the Saviour to lost souls. I was beginning to feel agonized that there were so few of these, when, under the influence of my agitation, I awoke.
The last spark was playing on the perished ember; the parting flame was quivering on the top of the burnt-out lamp—emblem of the passing hour; for amidst the deep silence, just then, there came from the village church clock the knell of the dying year. I slowly counted the twelve strokes, and made the hour they ushered in, an hour of prayer.