A STRIKING ADVENTURE.

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.

How I came to find myself, at midnight and in the dark, stretched on a sofa in a strange house, is of no consequence to my story; yet for the prevention of all uncharitable surmises it may be as well to mention, that the young friend whom I had deemed it prudent to see safe home from Greenwich to Lewisham, had participated more freely than I had in the revelries that sometimes succeed to whitebait; and that, tired and sleepy, I had not irrationally preferred the scanty accommodation of a sofa, proffered by the old servant, the family being in bed, to a return to town on a wet and dreary night.

"This will do very well," I said, drowsily glancing at the length of a sofa in a large room on the ground-floor; and released from my boots only, I declined the offer of bed-clothes, and declared that I should sleep without rocking. "No, no, pray don't leave the light," cried I, as the venerable domestic set down in the fire-place a huge old-fashioned candle-shade, through the numerous round holes of which a rushlight gloomily flickered.—"I hate that abominable invention; it's the only thing that could keep me awake for two minutes. That'll do—shut the door—good night."

"Got away sober after all!" I whispered approvingly to myself when thus left alone. "And what's better, I've got this wild, racketty young scapegrace safe home too;—early moreover, though he thinks it's so late;—I should never have dragged him away if I hadn't vowed by the beard of old Time that the church-clock had struck twelve three hours ago—but it's hardly twelve yet, I think—pledged my honour it was past two! Ah, well! Yaw-au!—ah!" And here my thoughts were silently settling upon another subject, previously to the last seal of sleep being fixed upon my lids, when my drowsy senses were disturbed by a dull, dead sound in the air—at no great distance from the house—it was the church-clock striking twelve. I counted the strokes. Midnight sure enough! And somehow at that moment it occurred to my mind that I had taken Time's name in vain rather too roundly, and had vowed by his sacred beard rather irreverently to say the least, when I protested three times over, that no soul living would hear the clock strike twelve again that night!

No matter—it was a fib told to serve a good purpose—a little bit of evil done quite innocently—the end sanctifies the means! And in the space of three seconds I was again more than half asleep, when another clock struck—another, nearer and clearer than the last. It was a large full-toned house-clock, fixed probably on the staircase or the hall, though I had not observed it on entering. Its sounds were prolonged and solemn. Again I counted the strokes—twelve; which I had no sooner done, than a third clock struck—nearer to me still, for it was evidently in the room, at the further end; and so sharp and quick in succession were the strokes, that to count them would have been difficult, even had I been less startled by them than I was.

What a very curious clock! thought I; and during the second that was occupied by its striking, I raised my head and looked in the direction of the sound; the apartment might be miles or feet long, for aught that I could see. The curtains and shutters were closed—no scrap of the window was to be seen—no glimpse even of the dull damp night without was to be had. All was Darkness——

But not Silence; for before I could again shut my eyes, a clock began to strike, slowly, softly, in tones "most musical, most melancholy," right over my head, as though it were fixed to the wall only a few feet above me. Every sound was like the moan of a dying bird. I counted them—twelve as before. Yes, it was a clock that struck; it must be a clock; and it was right almost to a minute, by the church. What was there wonderful in that? Nothing—only—

Hark! the chimes too at midnight! On a table almost within my reach, some merry Sprite seemed, to the ear of my imagination, performing a serenade to the lingering hour of Twelve. He struck up the chimes with such a lively grace, and echoed them with such a ringing laugh, that the twelve sounds which announced the hour when he ceased, lost all the usual monotony of tone, and said, not merely in melody, but almost as distinctly as words could have said it, "Twelve o'clock"—four times over. I jumped up—and sat for an instant, my drowsiness all gone and my eyes unusually wide open, looking into the darkness around me. I knew that there was a table close by, but neither table nor clock was visible in that utter gloom; not a trace of any form or figure could my straining sight discover.

To grope my way six feet forward, and feel upon the surface of the table whether, among the ornaments which there, as in other parts of the room, I had carelessly noted when first shown in, a clock was to be numbered, seemed easy enough; but scarcely had I stretched out, in fear and gentleness, one trembling hand upon that venturous errand, when I dropped back again upon the sofa, startled half out of my wits by the sudden striking of two more clocks, two at once—one loud, one low—apparently at opposite sides of the room; and before they had finished twelve strokes each, another, as though from a station in the centre of the chimney-piece, struck up "Meet me by moonlight," in notes the sweetest and silveriest imaginable, and the dozen strokes that followed were like the long plaintive tones of an Eolian harp. Before they were quite over, a peal of tiny bells began tinkling. Fairies tripping with bells at their feet could hardly have made lighter or quicker music. I began to think that a troop of that fabulous fraternity were actually in the apartment—that a host of little elves were capering about, not only with bells to their feet, but clocks to their stockings!

"Can these be clocks?" I asked myself! "Whatever the others may be, this surely is no clock!"—But the unpleasant suspicion had no sooner crossed my brain, than the bell-ringing ceased, and one, two, three—yes, twelve fine-toned strokes of a clock were distinctly audible. "It is a clock," I whispered—but this conviction scarcely lessened the mystery, which, though amusing, was ill-timed. I would have preferred any glimmer of a rushlight to darkness, and sleep to any musical entertainment. The wish had hardly time to form itself before another clock struck close by me, and between every stroke of the twelve came a sort of chirrup, which at a more suitable hour I should have thought the prettiest note in the world, but which was now considerably more provoking than agreeable. I looked, but still saw nothing. I put my hand out and felt about—it touched something smooth—glass, evidently glass—and the fear of doing damage would have been sufficient to deter me from prosecuting my researches in that direction, even if my attention had not been at that instant summoned away, by a sudden volley of sounds that made my very heart leap, and transfixed me to the couch breathless with wonder and alarm.

This was the simultaneous striking of at least half-a-dozen more clocks in various parts of the room. Some might be large, and some tiny enough, some open and some inclosed in cases; for the tones were manifold, and of different degrees of strength; but no two clocks—if clocks they were, which I doubted, were constructed on the same principle, for each seemed to strike upon a plan of its own—and yet all went on striking together as though doomsday had arrived, and each was afraid of being behind time, and too late to proclaim the fact!

One of these, a very slow coach, kept striking long after the others had ceased; and before this had finished, off went a clock in the corner that was furthest from me, sending such a short sharp, rapid sound into the apartment, that I strained my eyes yet a little wider than ever, half in expectation of being able to see it. On it went striking—"six"—"nine, ten"—"twelve, thirteen!" What! "nineteen, twenty!" There was no mistake in the reckoning—"twenty-four!" What, twice twelve! Yes, three times and four times twelve! Still it went on striking;—strike, strike, strike! How I wished, in that darkness, that it would strike a light!

Still the same sound; one monotonous metallic twang reverberating through the room, and repeating itself as though it were impossible to have too much of a good thing. That clock seemed to be set going for ever—to be wound up for eternity instead of time. It appeared to be labouring under the idea that doomsday had indeed arrived—that it was no longer necessary to note and number the hours accurately—that the family of the Clocks were free—that the old laws which governed them were abolished—and that every member of the body was at liberty to strike as long as it liked, and have a jolly lark in its own way!

Strike, strike—still it persevered in its monotony, till, just as I had made up my mind that it would never stop, it stopped at about a hundred and forty-four, having struck the hour twelve times over. But two or three more competitors, whether from the walls of the room, from the chimney-piece, or the tables, had set out practising with wonderful versatility before the lengthened performance just alluded to had quite concluded; nor was it until nearly half-an-hour had elapsed since the church clock, the leader of the strike, had struck twelve—the hour which I had declared by the beard of old Father Time to be passed and gone—that an interval of silence occurred, and peace again prevailed through the intense darkness of the apartment.

Yet, can I call it peace? It was only peace comparatively; for my ear now sensitively awake to catch even the faintest whisper of a sound, and all my senses nervously alive in expectation of another convulsion amongst the clock-work, I became conscious of noises going on around me, to which, on first lying down, free from suspicion of the near neighbourhood of mystery, my ear was utterly insensible. I detected the presence of a vast multitude of small sounds distributed through the room, and repeating themselves regularly with singular distinctness as I listened. My pulse beat quicker, my eyes rolled anxiously and then closed; but those minute noises, clear and regular, went on in endless repetition, neither faster nor slower. Were they indeed the tickings of a hundred clocks—the fine low inward breathings of Time's children!

The speculation, little favourable to sleep, was suddenly cut short by another crash of sound, breaking in upon the repose; it was half-past twelve, and of the scores of clocks that had announced the midnight hour, one half now announced the march of thirty minutes more—some by a simple ding-dong, some by a single loud tick, others by chimes, and one or two by a popular air, or a sort of jug-jug like a nightingale. Again I started up and listened—again I essayed to grope my way about the room, to find out by the test of touch, whether the place was indeed filled with time-pieces and chronometers, Dutch repeaters and eight-day clocks. But so completely had the noises bewildered me, that I knew not which way to turn, and had I dared to wander, at the hazard of overturning some fancy table or curious cabinet, I should never have found my way back to my couch again. Down upon it, therefore, I once more threw myself, and conscious still of the multitudinous tickings that seemed to people the apartment with sprites, not a span long, dancing in fetters, invoked kind nature's restorer, balmy sleep, and at length, nearly exhausted, dropped into a doze.

This was but short-lived; for my ears remained apprehensively opened, although my eyes were sealed, and the pealing sound of the church-clock striking one awoke me again to a disagreeable anticipation of another general strike. Once more I sought to penetrate with anxious gaze the profound darkness before me. "Was it all a delusion?" I exclaimed. "Have I been dreaming? Is the room actually filled with clocks, or am I the victim of enchantment?" The answer came from the outside of the room—from the huge family dispenser of useful knowledge—the clock on the staircase, whose lengthened uhr-r-r-r-rh, preparatory to the stroke of one, was a warning worthy of the sonorous announcement. I felt it strike upon my heart—it convinced me that I had not dreamt—it foretold all—and I knew that the Spirits of the Clock would immediately be at work again. And to work they went fast enough—chimes and chirrups, merry-bells and moanings of birds—sometimes the cuckoo's note, sometimes the owl's hoot—the trickling of water-drops imitated now, and now the rattling of silver fetters—here a scrap of a melody, and there a shrill whistling cry;—all followed, in a tone thin or full, loud or weak, according to the construction of the unseen instrument—by the single stroke, proclaiming the hour of one!

I sank back, with my eyes close shut, and my hands covering up my ears. What a long night had I passed in a single hour!—how many hours were yet to be counted before light, piercing the gloom, would reveal the mystery of the clocks, and point the way to deliverance—that is, to the door. At last there was quiet again, the tickings only excepted, which continued low and regular as before. Sleep crept over me, interrupted only by the chimes, and other musical intimations at the quarters and the half-hour. And then came two o'clock, awaking me once more to a conviction that the hundred clocks—if clocks—were wound up for the night; or that the spirits who were playing off their pranks—possibly in revenge for my "innocent imposition" touching the flight of Time, and my irreverence towards the beard of that antiquarian—were resolved to show me no mercy.

Off they went, clock after clock—silver, copper, and brass all spoke out, separately and in concert—wheels within wheels went round, chain after chain performed its appointed functions—hammers smote, and bells rang—and then, at last, fidgetted out of my senses, and "fooled to the top of my bent," sleep as before came to my aid; broken at intervals; and at intervals bringing visions of Time chained to the wall, and unable to stir a foot—of Time flying along upon a railroad fifty miles an hour, leaving Happiness behind mounted on a tortoise—of Time's forelock, by which I would have fondly taken him, coming off in my hand because he wore a wig—of Time shaving off his reverend beard, and starting away at the beginning of a new year, a gay, smart, glowing juvenile!

? I found out in the morning that my young friend's father was that oddest of oddities, a collector of clocks—that he had a passion for them, seeking out a choice clock as a connoisseur seeks out a choice picture—that he was continually multiplying his superfluities—that he boasted clocks of every form and principle, down to the latest inventions—clocks that played the genteelest of tunes, and clocks that struck the hour a dozen times over as many different ways—and that there were eighty-five, more or less calculated to strike, in the apartment wherein I had—slept; in the Clockery!