With these
thoughts in my mind, I began to ascend, almost unconsciously, the
flight of steps leading to the several wonders of the building, and
found myself before a barrier where another money-taker sat, who
demanded which among them I would choose to see. There were the
stone gallery, he said, and the whispering gallery, the geometrical
staircase, the room of models, the clock - the clock being quite in
my way, I stopped him there, and chose that sight from all the
rest.
I groped my way into the Turret which it occupies, and saw before
me, in a kind of loft, what seemed to be a great, old oaken press
with folding doors. These being thrown back by the attendant (who
was sleeping when I came upon him, and looked a drowsy fellow, as
though his close companionship with Time had made him quite
indifferent to it), disclosed a complicated crowd of wheels and
chains in iron and brass, - great, sturdy, rattling engines, -
suggestive of breaking a finger put in here or there, and grinding
the bone to powder, - and these were the Clock! Its very pulse, if
I may use the word, was like no other clock. It did not mark the
flight of every moment with a gentle second stroke, as though it
would check old Time, and have him stay his pace in pity, but
measured it with one sledge-hammer beat, as if its business were to
crush the seconds as they came trooping on, and remorselessly to
clear a path before the Day of Judgment.
I sat down opposite to it, and hearing its regular and never-
changing voice, that one deep constant note, uppermost amongst all
the noise and clatter in the streets below, - marking that, let
that tumult rise or fall, go on or stop, - let it be night or noon,
to-morrow or to-day, this year or next, - it still performed its
functions with the same dull constancy, and regulated the progress
of the life around, the fancy came upon me that this was London's
Heart, - and that when it should cease to beat, the City would be
no more.
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