". . . he left as his monument a clock that, up to the present day, no person has ever been able to improve."
Sermon by James W. Crawford
at the Old South Meeting House
November 22, 1998
Those of you who can, take a look at that clock back there on the face of the balcony. It's beautiful, isn't it? At the base of the clock where you can just see the pendulum rocking back and forth, when you look closely you will see the words, "Simon Willard Patent." That clock is a copy -- a copy -- of a classic gallery timepiece invented and built by Simon Willard of Roxbury, Massachusetts.
A copy, you ask? A copy? Indeed. The original Simon Willard gallery clock, designed for and hung from that balcony from the early 19th century until 1872, now hangs in Mary Norton Hall in our Copley Square building. And it still works beautifully. It is a Willard Clock -- a Simon Willard Clock! And as such, it happens to be one of the most intricate and ingenious, as well as beautiful and ornamentally decorative, inventions of 19th century New England. When you see a Simon Willard Clock -- a shelf clock, a wall clock, a gallery clock, a light house clock, a turret clock, a tower clock -- to be sure, it will give you the correct time, but never take the clock itself for granted. You see a masterpiece of craftsmanship, hand and eye coordination, mechanical ingenuity, incredible durability, designed, and fitted before the advent of machine tools -- the file, the drill the hammer being the fabricating instruments -- yea, the testimony of Simon Willard's great grandson hits the mark: "As a clockmaker, Simon Willard ranks with the best, and he left as his monument a clock that up to the present day, no person has ever been able to improve."
Now just a couple of vital statistics: Simon Willard was born in Grafton, Massachusetts, in 1753, one of twelve children, a direct lineal descendent of the founder of Concord and leader in King Philip's War, Major Simon Willard. As a boy he resisted the rudiments of hard study -- a Latin dunce -- (makes him sympathetic already, doesn't it?). Exhibiting an inclination to mechanical interests, his father apprenticed him to a clock maker and as a teenager Simon Willard constructed a clock with his own hands judged to be far superior to that of his master.
The first public record we possess details Simon Willard's responding to the alarm in Lexington, the entry reading "(Simon) Willard marched April l9,1775, discharged April 24, 1775, service 1 week, reported returned home." Back in Grafton, Willard continued his craft until the late 1770s, moving to Roxbury where he set up shop and, among other responsibilities, took charge of the clocks at Harvard for the next 50 years. The college cited him with profuse thanks when he retired at age 76 in 1829. He built and peddled his clocks up and down the Eastern seaboard until he finally retired from all his work in 1839 at the age of 86. He died in 1847 at 94.
As an indication of Willard's early work, you will find in your bulletin inserts pictures of one of Willard's early patented inventions, the "clock jack," a mechanism suspended by a chain from the mantle of a fireplace, with meat hanging at the bottom, the jack serving as a timer as it rotated the meat in front of the fire. You will see on those pages a letter from Willard to Paul Revere -- Revere providing Willard the raw materials for the manufacture of the jack. Additional letters to Revere indicate that Willard bought the materials he needed from Revere on credit: his selling of the jacks enabling him to repay Revere, and that as time went on, the demand for jacks diminished, Willard's credit collapsed, and their jack collaboration ceased.
But what intrigues me most about Simon Willard's clocks lies in where they have been and what they have overseen. For almost two hundred years you find Willard clocks telling time in the most fascinating places, and while ticking away, their faces immobile yet most expressive, peering down, surveying decisive, explosive, momentous, consequential events.
Take that picture on the first page of your insert, for instance. That clock rests over the north doorway of Statuary Hall in the Capitol Building in Washington D.C. Statuary Hall? How come? Well, the U.S. House of Representatives met there from 1807 to 1857. And who sits atop that clock in that old U.S. House of Representatives? Why it's Clio, the muse of history, riding the car of history, as we call it, recording events in her notebook. The sculptor, Carlo Franzoni, hoped the legislators in that chamber might take inspiration from her. (And after this week, Oh, how they need her in the new House chamber!) But here, in the old chamber, as Simon Willard's Clock ticked the hours away and its face benignly looked on, John Quincy Adams fights the heinous "gag rule," designed to muzzle all debate about slavery. Here, under Simon Willard's clock, Abraham Lincoln debuts on the national scene with prosecutorial assaults on President Polk's Mexican War. Here Congress passes the ominous Kansas-Nebraska Act, allowing slavery in the territories, the incendiary trigger for the Civil War. Here the U.S. Naval Academy wins approval. Here Arkansas, Michigan, Wisconsin and California gain statehood. Here John Quincy Adams dies, and in adjacent rooms, Henry Clay weeps while holding his hand; Congressman Lincoln assists with the funeral arrangements; Senator Daniel Webster of Massachusetts writes the inscription for the casket -- Clio and Simon Willard's Clock silently observing the tumult and the shouting.
And not far away, in the same capitol building, the original Senate Chamber from 1800 to 1808, then the U.S. Supreme Court Chamber from 1810 to 1860 and now refurbished, there hangs another of Simon Willard's Clocks. And what those passing hours beheld! In May, 1844, Samuel F. B. Morse tests his telegraph for the first time over long distance, asking a party in Baltimore, "What hath God wrought?" and receiving the reply, "What is the news from Washington?" As Simon Willard's clock notes the hours, Chief Justice Roger Tany in 1857 declares Dred Scott, regardless of his residency in a free state, yet a bondsman, pouring inflammatory fuel on the combustible materials stoked for civil war. In this room, John Quincy Adams, "Old Man Eloquent," argues the Amistad Case in 1841, charging the Van Buren Administration with "taking the side of injustice," receives Justice Story's compliment for an argument extraordinary "for its power and its bitter sarcasm" and exclaims to his corps of New England abolitionists, "The captives are free."
And yes, as the hours pass on Simon Willard's clock, Daniel Webster in the bedrock case affirming the sanctity of contracts, remarks of his alma mater, Dartmouth College, in words still bringing tears to the eyes of its loyal alumni, "It is, sir, a small college, but there are those who love it."
And on your insert? A design by Thomas Jefferson for the Rotunda at The University of Virginia, and an excerpt from a letter by Jefferson's Massachusetts son-in-law, Joseph Coolidge, regarding a bell and clock for that rotunda. Coolidge negotiated with Willard in behalf of Jefferson for the finishing touches on that Rotunda, Willard reporting that Jefferson's plans represented the most accurate he received over the course of his career from any outside architect.
You will note Coolidge writes his letter in February, 1826, six months before Jefferson dies, even then determined to be terminally ill. We find Jeffersonian correspondence about this Rotunda clock as late as June 4, 1826, a month before Jefferson dies. As a sidelight, as we review the remeniscences of Jefferson's children by his slave mistress, Sally Hemings, indicated by recent DNA findings to be the mother of at least one of Jefferson's sons, probably more, we learn from one of them, Madison Hemings, that it was "his mother's duty, all of her life which I can remember up to our father's death (Jefferson's death) to take care of his chamber and wardrobe . . ." and thus, Sally Hemings perhaps finds herself privy to this correspondence between Thomas Jefferson, Joseph Coolidge and Simon Willard. . . and maybe, but not probably, after Jefferson's daughter frees her in 1828, Sally Hemings may well, on some occasion, walk beneath Simon Willard's Rotunda Clock, its face absorbing, as Jefferson's biographer, Fawn Brodie puts it "the psycho-social dilemma of our whole nation," and as another Jefferson biographer, Joseph Ellis, writes in U.S. News and World Report just two weeks ago, guiding us "into a fresh round of more candid conversations about the way we truly were and are one people."
But enough about Washington and Charlottesville. How about Boston? How about the Old South Church and the glorious gallery clock of Simon Willard? What happened during the hours it measured in this building? What, events did the inexorable turning of its hands mark in our Boylston Street building?
Well, we have just been through the calling, the ordination and installation of Lael Murphy, to the joy and enthusiasm of our congregation and the promise of a warm partnership in ministry by the two of us. And the hands of Simon Willard clock in Mary Norton Hall will measure the moments of what portends, I believe, a fruitful partnership. But let me tell you of another not so sanguine partnership running its course in this meeting house as Willard's clock hung from that balcony brooding over our congregation.
In January, 1857, this congregation invited Jacob Manning to serve as Associate Pastor. We are wary of religion and politics, but let me say the people of this congregation were neck deep in church politics. Jacob Manning, upon his arrival, received two letters in mid-January, 1857. One of them, signed by Deacon Charles Stoddard, informed Manning of an enthusiastic call to serve this church. But that is only the half of it. Manning also received a letter, cool, calm , deliberate beginning like this:
"Reverend and dear sir: We feel it to be our somewhat unpleasant duty to give you what we deem to be a fair and correct statement of the feeling in the Old South Church in regard to your Call . . ."
Can you see it coming? This epistle bombs Manning with bad news. It tells him the search committee deceitfully packed the meeting, the vote reflected acrimony and a bitterly split congregation. The letter asserts most votes in Manning's favor demonstrated cowardice by those who caved in to the sorry judgment of the majority; it insists the decision steamrolled to a vote without due process; that intimidation reigned amid the debate. In truth, a majority of the congregation, says the letter,
openly and expressly opposed the call, others were dissatisfied but afraid of the committee.
This nefarious little missile concludes:
Please excuse our interference with this matter, an interference solely promoted by a desire to save both yourself and the Society from unpleasant consequences which might arise from any mistake at this time. Very respectfully yours, etc. . . BLANK.
Ah, Jacob, be grateful you lived before E-Mail! But Manning faces more than that poisonous welcome. Over time, his detractors either fall away or change their minds. So, enter George Washington Blagden: Yale, 1823; Andover Seminary, 1826; Senior Minister of Old South Church, 1836 to 1872. George Blagden had served as pastor of this church for 21 years when Jacob Manning came in 1857. As Manning arrives, Blagden reflects awareness of his seniority, but even more so, as a native of Washington D.C., he exudes sympathy with the Confederate cause in the Civil War, one known in these climes as a "Copperhead." Blagden's sympathies in these matters still puzzle us, because he married the elder sister of that most fiery of abolitionists, Wendell Phillips, and found himself, at his own desire, yoked, as time went on, with one of Boston's most abolitionist pastors, Jacob Manning. Nonetheless, some years later, as eulogists reflecting on their joint ministry dared say, Manning and Blagden "walked together in simplicity and Godly sincerity, labored side by side with mutual helpfulness as few colleagues through such trying and exciting times have ever done."
Sounds great, doesn't it? Don't you believe it. In May of 1861, not long after the fall of Fort Sumter, in the presence of a large assemblage, a flag raising occurs right here at the church. George Blagden proclaims the flag an emblem of God's might and prevailing truth, the symbol of a "free government from which men cannot secede without rebellion." Jacob Manning calls the flag "a symbol of justice and loyalty to human rights." The very next week, Manning observes in his journal: "(I) hear Blagden gave a lecture in which he tried to qualify or take back the strong northern sentiments uttered by him at the flag-raising last Wednesday. The outrages in the South seem not to have cured him entirely of his pro-slavery inclinations."
One year later, on the very day he preaches to the departing Massachusetts regiment on what he calls "The Soldier of Freedom", himself preparing to go as a chaplain to the front, Jacob Manning informs us in his journal that some people think he should consult Blagden about his decision. "This I have refused to do," he writes, "as (Blagden) has previously treated me with rudeness when I have gone to him for counsel, and I cannot expose myself to such treatment. I do not think Christ requires it of me. 'Cast not your pearls (before swine, et. etc.)'" In March, 1864, he informs us in his journal of the Deacons' being, "much troubled and excited over the non-intercourse of the two pastors." Later he refers to Blagden as a scolding pastor and then perhaps stepping over the line, labels Blagden "a semi-traitor." Manning castigates his colleague for disloyalty; he commands the congregation scorn the "flattery of traitors;" he heaps blistering incredulity on Blagden's vote against Lincoln; he comments acerbically on Blagden's refusal to read Lincoln's Thanksgiving proclamations. When the Confederacy surrenders in April, 1865, Manning tells us, as ebullient and joyous congregations gather in this room, George Blagden's sour sentiments "nearly drove people out of the house." This tension between the two explodes at Lincoln's death. Writing in his journal two days after the assassination, having preached on the grievous tragedy that very morning, Manning describes the nation as inconsolable and weeping, and then in fury he writes, "Not finding our church draped in black, as it should have been, I ordered the sexton to throw my 'Copperhead' Associate's gown over the reading desk, and I put the Bible on that. So the President's funeral sermon was preached lying on (Blagden's gown) though he himself feels little sorrow at our woeful loss."
Oh, great gallery clock of Simon Willard, before two ministers in this church walk together again in such "simplicity and Godly sincerity," -- I hope your hands fall off.
And then again, finally, in our facility at Copley Square, Simon Willard's great gallery clock in Mary Norton Hall, showing the time between 11:00 and 12: 00 A.M. on May 10, 1970, my predecessor Frederick Meek steps into the pulpit of our third meeting house to preach a sermon entitled, "To seek a Reconciliation." As the War in Viet Nam continues to intensify, as tiny glimpses of peace dwindle out, as college campuses erupt, Dr. Meek, stirred by violence in the war and violence in our streets, begins his sermon with a quote from a colleague, "If you get where you're going, where will you be?"
In the course of his sermon he describes two recent pictures in the newspaper. As he says, "One was the picture of a youngster, with blood flowing from his head on a college campus in Ohio, and a girl kneeling nearby in open-mouthed shock." He continues, "I make no brief for the rock-throwing and the violence preceding the shooting on that occasion, but I certainly protest the use of live ammunition against our own children." The second picture, he says, "was of . . . a young GI in Cambodia, described as a 'youth reduced to tears by exhaustion, fear, frustration, as he lies prostrate, pinned down by a sniper on an Asian battlefield to which neither he nor his fellow soldiers ever should have been sent.' (so commented a Boston newspaper.)"
Dr. Meek repudiates the invective launched by political leaders and anti-war protesters. Remember? "Pigs?" Effete snobs?" "Embittered oldsters." He sees a bleak future if we cannot speak with one another without dehumanizing ad hominem cheap shots. He expresses sorrow over the recent enlargement of the war and the division among the generations. "In our attitude toward the war, and toward this escalation," he writes, "we can get hung up on the deceptive illusions of 'national pride', on concepts of, 'We cannot allow ourselves to be humiliated,' on concepts of what it really means to be 'a first rate power.'"
Fred Meek proceeds to catalog the dead, to count the billions of dollars spent, to visualize the futility of it all and then asks again, "If you get where you're going, where will you be?" And he concludes, amid the blood and rage of it all abroad and at home, that without some wisdom and courage and risks for peace and the ditching of self deception from the best and the brightest, we will be lost. Time to seek reconciliation, he insists.
I am told listeners to that sermon, members of this church, got up and walked out. I am told members of this congregation excoriated Frederick Meek for blending religion and politics.
Well, Right on! Fred Meek. You continued a tradition that we of the Old South can only call a "Civic Faith" -- that what begins in 1669, passes through the American Revolution, the social betterment societies and abolition movements of the 19th century, the settlement and urban ministry efforts of the twentieth century, taking the world, its economic and political alignments, its structures for the search for justice, the pursuit of tolerance, the protections for freedom as a mandate of the Gospel; you stood in the radiant tradition of the Old South and sustained a legacy to be cherished by later generations of Old South members and ministers. As the hands on Simon Willard's gallery clock rotated in silent and steady fashion, you rose to the hour and made a claim for peace in the name of the kingdom where violence has no place, makes no claim, in the name of the domain of the sovereign rule of Jesus Christ.
And so in closing we ask, "What time is it?" Simon Willard's clock will tell you. And just as that clock has recorded the time of our life to this date, so under it, we of the Old South Church in Boston, and generations to come, will pray and sing, live and work, resting on the promise ensconced in the puddingstone of our Boylston Street portico, "The God who brought us thus far, will in hours, years, decades, centuries hence continue to sustain us."
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