"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!