It is a complex and costly piece of mechanism.  The escapement is in front, so that every tooth is seen as it frees itself.  It shows the phases of the moon, the month of the year, the day of the month, and the day of the week, as well as the hour and minute of the day.

I had not owned it a week before I began to perceive the same kind of fascination as that which its former owner had experienced.  This gradually grew upon me, and presently led to trains of thought which became at first unwelcome, then worrying, and at last unendurable.  I began by taking offence at the moon.  I did not like to see that “something large and smooth and round,” so like the skull which little Peterkin picked up on the field of Blenheim.  “How many times,” I kept saying to myself, “is that wicked old moon coming up to stare at me?” I could not stand it.  I stopped a part of the machinery, and the moon went into permanent eclipse.  By and by the sounds of the infernal machine began to trouble and pursue me.  They talked to me; more and more their language became that of articulately speaking men.  They twitted me with the rapid flight of time.  They hurried me, as if I had not a moment to lose.  Quick!  Quick!  Quick! as each tooth released itself from the escapement.  And as I looked and listened there could not be any mistake about it.  I heard Quick!  Quick!  Quick! as plainly, at least, as I ever heard a word from the phonograph.  I stood watching the dial one day,—­it was near one o’clock,—­and a strange attraction held me fastened to the spot.  Presently something appeared to trip or stumble inside of the infernal mechanism.  I waited for the sound I knew was to follow.  How nervous I got!  It seemed to me that it would never strike.  At last the minute-hand reached the highest point of the dial.  Then there was a little stir among the works, as there is in a congregation as it rises to receive the benediction.  It was no form of blessing which rung out those deep, almost sepulchral tones.  But the word they uttered could not be mistaken.  I can hear its prolonged, solemn vibrations as if I were standing before the clock at this moment.

Gone!  Yes, I said to myself, gone,—­its record made up to be opened in eternity.

I stood still, staring vaguely at the dial as in a trance.  And as the next hour creeps stealthily up, it starts all at once, and cries aloud, Gone!—­Gone!  The sun sinks lower, the hour-hand creeps downward with it, until I hear the thrice-repeated monosyllable, Gone!—­Gone!—­Gone!  Soon through the darkening hours, until at the dead of night the long roll is called, and with the last Gone! the latest of the long procession that filled the day follows its ghostly companions into the stillness and darkness of the past.

I silenced the striking part of the works.  Still, the escapement kept repeating, Quick!  Quick!  Quick!  Still the long minute-hand, like the dart in the grasp of Death, as we see it in Roubiliac’s monument to Mrs. Nightingale, among the tombs of Westminster Abbey, stretched itself out, ready to transfix each hour as it passed, and make it my last.  I sat by the clock to watch the leap from one day of the week to the next.  Then would come, in natural order, the long stride from one month to the following one.