One of the most unprincipled clocks I can think of is
just outside my window. I use unprincipled with intention, for this
clock is not vicious, but giddy. If it were consistently late or
consistently early, one might get used to it. But to look out of the
window at 9:30 and find this clock pointing to eleven, and to look out
ten minutes later and find it pointing to 9:35, is extremely
disconcerting. One is inclined to expect something more restrained in a
clock connected with the most prosperous parish of one of our most
conservative denominations.
What I have said of clocks is largely true of the weighing-machine. Like
the public clock, it thrusts itself upon us, and like the clock it
betrays the confidence which it invites. I feel convinced that no one
would ever think of using a weighing-machine if it did not constitute
the most characteristically national piece of furniture in our railway
stations. All weighing-machines cheat, but, if cheat they must, give me
the machine that flatly refuses to budge from zero after it has
swallowed your coin. I prefer that kind to the spasmodic machine on
which the indicator moves forward one hundred pounds every two minutes
and leaves a person utterly uncertain as to whether he should
immediately begin dieting or purchase a bottle of codliver oil.
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