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.
It is night. Calm and unmoved amidst the scenes that darkness
favours, the great heart of London throbs in its Giant breast.
Wealth and beggary, vice and virtue, guilt and innocence, repletion
and the direst hunger, all treading on each other and crowding
together, are gathered round it.
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