第6章

HetrustedthatitwasHeaven"sintenttoaffordhimanopportunityofexpiatinghissin；hehopedthathemightfindthebonessolongunburied；andthat，havinglaidtheearthoverthem，peacewouldthrowitssunlightintothesepulchreofhisheart。Fromthesethoughtshewasarousedbyarustlingintheforestatsomedistancefromthespottowhichhehadwandered。

Perceivingthemotionofsomeobjectbehindathickveilofundergrowth，hefired，withtheinstinctofahunterandtheaimofapractisedmarksman。Alowmoan，whichtoldhissuccess，andbywhichevenanimalscarsexpresstheirdyingagony，wasunheededbyReubenBourne。Whatweretherecollectionsnowbreakinguponhim？

ThethicketintowhichReubenhadfiredwasnearthesummitofaswellofland，andwasclusteredaroundthebaseofarock，which，intheshapeandsmoothnessofoneofitssurfaces，wasnotunlikeagiganticgravestone。Asifreflectedinamirror，itslikenesswasinReuben"smemory。Heevenrecognizedtheveinswhichseemedtoformaninscriptioninforgottencharacters:

everythingremainedthesame，exceptthatathickcovertofbushesshroudedthelowerpartoftherock，andwouldhavehiddenRogerMalvinhadhestillbeensittingthere。YetinthenextmomentReuben"seyewascaughtbyanotherchangethattimehadeffectedsincehelaststoodwherehewasnowstandingagainbehindtheearthyrootsoftheuptorntree。Thesaplingtowhichhehadboundthebloodstainedsymbolofhisvowhadincreasedandstrengthenedintoanoak，farindeedfromitsmaturity，butwithnomeanspreadofshadowybranches。TherewasonesingularityobservableinthistreewhichmadeReubentremble。Themiddleandlowerbrancheswereinluxuriantlife，andanexcessofvegetationhadfringedthetrunkalmosttotheground；butablighthadapparentlystrickentheupperpartoftheoak，andtheverytopmostboughwaswithered，sapless，andutterlydead。

Reubenrememberedhowthelittlebannerhadflutteredonthattopmostbough，whenitwasgreenandlovely，eighteenyearsbefore。Whoseguilthadblastedit？……

Dorcas，afterthedepartureofthetwohunters，continuedherpreparationsfortheireveningrepast。Hersylvantablewasthemoss-coveredtrunkofalargefallentree，onthebroadestpartofwhichshehadspreadasnow-whiteclothandarrangedwhatwereleftofthebrightpewtervesselsthathadbeenherprideinthesettlements。IthadastrangeaspectthatonelittlespotofhomelycomfortinthedesolateheartofNature。Thesunshineyetlingereduponthehigherbranchesofthetreesthatgrewonrisingground；buttheshadowsofeveninghaddeepenedintothehollowwheretheencampmentwasmade，andthefirelightbegantoreddenasitgleamedupthetalltrunksofthepinesorhoveredonthedenseandobscuremassoffoliagethatcircledroundthespot。TheheartofDorcaswasnotsad；forshefeltthatitwasbettertojourneyinthewildernesswithtwowhomshelovedthantobealonelywomaninacrowdthatcarednotforher。Asshebusiedherselfinarrangingseatsofmoulderingwood，coveredwithleaves，forReubenandherson，hervoicedancedthroughthegloomyforestinthemeasureofasongthatshehadlearnedinyouth。Therudemelody，theproductionofabardwhowonnoname，wasdescriptiveofawintereveninginafrontiercottage，when，securedfromsavageinroadbythehigh-piledsnow-drifts，thefamilyrejoicedbytheirownfireside。Thewholesongpossessedthenamelesscharmpeculiartounborrowedthought，butfourcontinually-recurringlinesshoneoutfromtherestliketheblazeofthehearthwhosejoystheycelebrated。Intothem，workingmagicwithafewsimplewords，thepoethadinstilledtheveryessenceofdomesticloveandhouseholdhappiness，andtheywerepoetryandpicturejoinedinone。AsDorcassang，thewallsofherforsakenhomeseemedtoencircleher；shenolongersawthegloomypines，norheardthewindwhichstill，asshebeganeachverse，sentaheavybreaththroughthebranches，anddiedawayinahollowmoanfromtheburdenofthesong。Shewasarousedbythereportofaguninthevicinityoftheencampment；

andeitherthesuddensound，orherlonelinessbytheglowingfire，causedhertotrembleviolently。Thenextmomentshelaughedintheprideofamother"sheart。

“Mybeautifulyounghunter！Myboyhasslainadeer！“sheexclaimed，recollectingthatinthedirectionwhencetheshotproceededCyrushadgonetothechase。

Shewaitedareasonabletimetohearherson"slightstepboundingovertherustlingleavestotellofhissuccess。Buthedidnotimmediatelyappear；andshesenthercheerfulvoiceamongthetreesinsearchofhim。

“Cyrus！Cyrus！“

Hiscomingwasstilldelayed；andshedetermined，asthereporthadapparentlybeenverynear，toseekforhiminperson。Herassistance，also，mightbenecessaryinbringinghomethevenisonwhichsheflatteredherselfhehadobtained。Shethereforesetforward，directingherstepsbythelong-pastsound，andsingingasshewent，inorderthattheboymightbeawareofherapproachandruntomeether。Frombehindthetrunkofeverytree，andfromeveryhiding-placeinthethickfoliageoftheundergrowth，shehopedtodiscoverthecountenanceofherson，laughingwiththesportivemischiefthatisbornofaffection。Thesunwasnowbeneaththehorizon，andthelightthatcamedownamongtheleaveswassufficientlydimtocreatemanyillusionsinherexpectingfancy。Severaltimessheseemedindistinctlytoseehisfacegazingoutfromamongtheleaves；andoncesheimaginedthathestoodbeckoningtoheratthebaseofacraggyrock。Keepinghereyesonthisobject，however，itprovedtobenomorethanthetrunkofanoakfringedtotheverygroundwithlittlebranches，oneofwhich，thrustoutfartherthantherest，wasshakenbythebreeze。Makingherwayroundthefootoftherock，shesuddenlyfoundherselfclosetoherhusband，whohadapproachedinanotherdirection。Leaninguponthebuttofhisgun，themuzzleofwhichresteduponthewitheredleaves，hewasapparentlyabsorbedinthecontemplationofsomeobjectathisfeet。

“Howisthis，Reuben？Haveyouslainthedeerandfallenasleepoverhim？“exclaimedDorcas，laughingcheerfully，onherfirstslightobservationofhispostureandappearance。

Hestirrednot，neitherdidheturnhiseyestowardsher；andacold，shudderingfear，indefiniteinitssourceandobject，begantocreepintoherblood。Shenowperceivedthatherhusband"sfacewasghastlypale，andhisfeatureswererigid，asifincapableofassuminganyotherexpressionthanthestrongdespairwhichhadhardeneduponthem。Hegavenottheslightestevidencethathewasawareofherapproach。

“FortheloveofHeaven，Reuben，speaktome！“criedDorcas；andthestrangesoundofherownvoiceaffrightedherevenmorethanthedeadsilence。

Herhusbandstarted，staredintoherface，drewhertothefrontoftherock，andpointedwithhisfinger。

Oh，therelaytheboy，asleep，butdreamless，uponthefallenforestleaves！Hischeekresteduponhisarm——hiscurledlockswerethrownbackfromhisbrow——hislimbswereslightlyrelaxed。

Hadasuddenwearinessovercometheyouthfulhunter？Wouldhismother"svoicearousehim？Sheknewthatitwasdeath。

“Thisbroadrockisthegravestoneofyournearkindred，Dorcas，“

saidherhusband。“Yourtearswillfallatonceoveryourfatherandyourson。“

Sheheardhimnot。Withonewildshriek，thatseemedtoforceitswayfromthesufferer"sinmostsoul，shesankinsensiblebythesideofherdeadboy。Atthatmomentthewitheredtopmostboughoftheoaklooseneditselfinthestillyair，andfellinsoft，lightfragmentsupontherock，upontheleaves，uponReuben，uponhiswifeandchild，anduponRogerMalvin"sbones。ThenReuben"sheartwasstricken，andthetearsgushedoutlikewaterfromarock。Thevowthatthewoundedyouthhadmadetheblightedmanhadcometoredeem。Hissinwasexpiated，——thecursewasgonefromhim；andinthehourwhenhehadshedblooddearertohimthanhisown，aprayer，thefirstforyears，wentuptoHeavenfromthelipsofReubenBourne。

THEARTISTOFTHEBEAUTIFUL

Anelderlyman，withhisprettydaughteronhisarm，waspassingalongthestreet，andemergedfromthegloomofthecloudyeveningintothelightthatfellacrossthepavementfromthewindowofasmallshop。Itwasaprojectingwindow；andontheinsideweresuspendedavarietyofwatches，pinchbeck，silver，andoneortwoofgold，allwiththeirfacesturnedfromthestreets，asifchurlishlydisinclinedtoinformthewayfarerswhato"clockitwas。Seatedwithintheshop，sidelongtothewindowwithhispalefacebentearnestlyoversomedelicatepieceofmechanismonwhichwasthrowntheconcentratedlustreofashadelamp，appearedayoungman。

“WhatcanOwenWarlandbeabout？“mutteredoldPeterHovenden，himselfaretiredwatchmaker，andtheformermasterofthissameyoungmanwhoseoccupationhewasnowwonderingat。“Whatcanthefellowbeabout？ThesesixmonthspastIhavenevercomebyhisshopwithoutseeinghimjustassteadilyatworkasnow。Itwouldbeaflightbeyondhisusualfoolerytoseekfortheperpetualmotion；andyetIknowenoughofmyoldbusinesstobecertainthatwhatheisnowsobusywithisnopartofthemachineryofawatch。“

“Perhaps，father，“saidAnnie，withoutshowingmuchinterestinthequestion，“Owenisinventinganewkindoftimekeeper。Iamsurehehasingenuityenough。“

“Poh，child！HehasnotthesortofingenuitytoinventanythingbetterthanaDutchtoy，“answeredherfather，whohadformerlybeenputtomuchvexationbyOwenWarland"sirregulargenius。“A

plagueonsuchingenuity！AlltheeffectthateverIknewofitwastospoiltheaccuracyofsomeofthebestwatchesinmyshop。

Hewouldturnthesunoutofitsorbitandderangethewholecourseoftime，if，asIsaidbefore，hisingenuitycouldgraspanythingbiggerthanachild"stoy！“

“Hush，father！Hehearsyou！“whisperedAnnie，pressingtheoldman"sarm。“Hisearsareasdelicateashisfeelings；andyouknowhoweasilydisturbedtheyare。Doletusmoveon。“

SoPeterHovendenandhisdaughterAnnieploddedonwithoutfurtherconversation，untilinaby-streetofthetowntheyfoundthemselvespassingtheopendoorofablacksmith"sshop。Withinwasseentheforge，nowblazingupandilluminatingthehighandduskyroof，andnowconfiningitslustretoanarrowprecinctofthecoal-strewnfloor，accordingasthebreathofthebellowswaspuffedforthoragaininhaledintoitsvastleathernlungs。Intheintervalsofbrightnessitwaseasytodistinguishobjectsinremotecornersoftheshopandthehorseshoesthathunguponthewall；inthemomentarygloomthefireseemedtobeglimmeringamidstthevaguenessofunenclosedspace。Movingaboutinthisredglareandalternateduskwasthefigureoftheblacksmith，wellworthytobeviewedinsopicturesqueanaspectoflightandshade，wherethebrightblazestruggledwiththeblacknight，asifeachwouldhavesnatchedhiscomelystrengthfromtheother。

Anonhedrewawhite-hotbarofironfromthecoals，laiditontheanvil，upliftedhisarmofmight，andwassoonenvelopedinthemyriadsofsparkswhichthestrokesofhishammerscatteredintothesurroundinggloom。

“Now，thatisapleasantsight，“saidtheoldwatchmaker。“Iknowwhatitistoworkingold；butgivemetheworkerinironafterallissaidanddone。Hespendshislaboruponareality。Whatsayyou，daughterAnnie？“

“Praydon"tspeaksoloud，father，“whisperedAnnie，“RobertDanforthwillhearyou。“

“Andwhatifheshouldhearme？“saidPeterHovenden。“Isayagain，itisagoodandawholesomethingtodependuponmainstrengthandreality，andtoearnone"sbreadwiththebareandbrawnyarmofablacksmith。Awatchmakergetshisbrainpuzzledbyhiswheelswithinawheel，orloseshishealthorthenicetyofhiseyesight，aswasmycase，andfindshimselfatmiddleage，oralittleafter，pastlaborathisowntradeandfitfornothingelse，yettoopoortoliveathisease。SoIsayonceagain，givememainstrengthformymoney。Andthen，howittakesthenonsenseoutofaman！DidyoueverhearofablacksmithbeingsuchafoolasOwenWarlandyonder？“

“Wellsaid，uncleHovenden！“shoutedRobertDanforthfromtheforge，inafull，deep，merryvoice，thatmadetheroofre-echo。

“AndwhatsaysMissAnnietothatdoctrine？She，Isuppose，willthinkitagenteelerbusinesstotinkerupalady"swatchthantoforgeahorseshoeormakeagridiron。“

Anniedrewherfatheronwardwithoutgivinghimtimeforreply。

ButwemustreturntoOwenWarland"sshop，andspendmoremeditationuponhishistoryandcharacterthaneitherPeterHovenden，orprobablyhisdaughterAnnie，orOwen"soldschool-fellow，RobertDanforth，wouldhavethoughtduetososlightasubject。Fromthetimethathislittlefingerscouldgraspapenknife，Owenhadbeenremarkableforadelicateingenuity，whichsometimesproducedprettyshapesinwood，principallyfiguresofflowersandbirds，andsometimesseemedtoaimatthehiddenmysteriesofmechanism。Butitwasalwaysforpurposesofgrace，andneverwithanymockeryoftheuseful。Hedidnot，likethecrowdofschool-boyartisans，constructlittlewindmillsontheangleofabarnorwatermillsacrosstheneighboringbrook。Thosewhodiscoveredsuchpeculiarityintheboyastothinkitworththeirwhiletoobservehimclosely，sometimessawreasontosupposethathewasattemptingtoimitatethebeautifulmovementsofNatureasexemplifiedintheflightofbirdsortheactivityoflittleanimals。Itseemed，infact，anewdevelopmentoftheloveofthebeautiful，suchasmighthavemadehimapoet，apainter，orasculptor，andwhichwasascompletelyrefinedfromallutilitariancoarsenessasitcouldhavebeenineitherofthefinearts。Helookedwithsingulardistasteatthestiffandregularprocessesofordinarymachinery。Beingoncecarriedtoseeasteam-engine，intheexpectationthathisintuitivecomprehensionofmechanicalprincipleswouldbegratified，heturnedpaleandgrewsick，asifsomethingmonstrousandunnaturalhadbeenpresentedtohim。

Thishorrorwaspartlyowingtothesizeandterribleenergyoftheironlaborer；forthecharacterofOwen"smindwasmicroscopic，andtendednaturallytotheminute，inaccordancewithhisdiminutiveframeandthemarvelloussmallnessanddelicatepowerofhisfingers。Notthathissenseofbeautywastherebydiminishedintoasenseofprettiness。Thebeautifulideahasnorelationtosize，andmaybeasperfectlydevelopedinaspacetoominuteforanybutmicroscopicinvestigationaswithintheamplevergethatismeasuredbythearcoftherainbow。But，atallevents，thischaracteristicminutenessinhisobjectsandaccomplishmentsmadetheworldevenmoreincapablethanitmightotherwisehavebeenofappreciatingOwenWarland"sgenius。Theboy"srelativessawnothingbettertobedone——asperhapstherewasnot——thantobindhimapprenticetoawatchmaker，hopingthathisstrangeingenuitymightthusberegulatedandputtoutilitarianpurposes。

PeterHovenden"sopinionofhisapprenticehasalreadybeenexpressed。Hecouldmakenothingofthelad。Owen"sapprehensionoftheprofessionalmysteries，itistrue，wasinconceivablyquick；buthealtogetherforgotordespisedthegrandobjectofawatchmaker"sbusiness，andcarednomoreforthemeasurementoftimethanifithadbeenmergedintoeternity。Solong，however，asheremainedunderhisoldmaster"scare，Owen"slackofsturdinessmadeitpossible，bystrictinjunctionsandsharpoversight，torestrainhiscreativeeccentricitywithinbounds；

butwhenhisapprenticeshipwasservedout，andhehadtakenthelittleshopwhichPeterHovenden"sfailingeyesightcompelledhimtorelinquish，thendidpeoplerecognizehowunfitapersonwasOwenWarlandtoleadoldblindFatherTimealonghisdailycourse。Oneofhismostrationalprojectswastoconnectamusicaloperationwiththemachineryofhiswatches，sothatalltheharshdissonancesoflifemightberenderedtuneful，andeachflittingmomentfallintotheabyssofthepastingoldendropsofharmony。Ifafamilyclockwasintrustedtohimforrepair，——oneofthosetall，ancientclocksthathavegrownnearlyalliedtohumannaturebymeasuringoutthelifetimeofmanygenerations，——hewouldtakeuponhimselftoarrangeadanceorfuneralprocessionoffiguresacrossitsvenerableface，representingtwelvemirthfulormelancholyhours。Severalfreaksofthiskindquitedestroyedtheyoungwatchmaker"screditwiththatsteadyandmatter-of-factclassofpeoplewhoholdtheopinionthattimeisnottobetrifledwith，whetherconsideredasthemediumofadvancementandprosperityinthisworldorpreparationforthenext。Hiscustomrapidlydiminished——amisfortune，however，thatwasprobablyreckonedamonghisbetteraccidentsbyOwenWarland，whowasbecomingmoreandmoreabsorbedinasecretoccupationwhichdrewallhisscienceandmanualdexterityintoitself，andlikewisegavefullemploymenttothecharacteristictendenciesofhisgenius。Thispursuithadalreadyconsumedmanymonths。

Aftertheoldwatchmakerandhisprettydaughterhadgazedathimoutoftheobscurityofthestreet，OwenWarlandwasseizedwithaflutteringofthenerves，whichmadehishandtrembletooviolentlytoproceedwithsuchdelicatelaborashewasnowengagedupon。

“ItwasAnnieherself！“murmuredhe。“Ishouldhaveknownit，bythisthrobbingofmyheart，beforeIheardherfather"svoice。

Ah，howitthrobs！Ishallscarcelybeabletoworkagainonthisexquisitemechanismto-night。Annie！dearestAnnie！thoushouldstgivefirmnesstomyheartandhand，andnotshakethemthus；forifIstrivetoputtheveryspiritofbeautyintoformandgiveitmotion，itisforthysakealone。Othrobbingheart，bequiet！

Ifmylaborbethusthwarted，therewillcomevagueandunsatisfieddreamswhichwillleavemespiritlessto-morrow。“

Ashewasendeavoringtosettlehimselfagaintohistask，theshopdooropenedandgaveadmittancetonootherthanthestalwartfigurewhichPeterHovendenhadpausedtoadmire，asseenamidthelightandshadowoftheblacksmith"sshop。RobertDanforthhadbroughtalittleanvilofhisownmanufacture，andpeculiarlyconstructed，whichtheyoungartisthadrecentlybespoken。Owenexaminedthearticleandpronounceditfashionedaccordingtohiswish。

“Why，yes，“saidRobertDanforth，hisstrongvoicefillingtheshopaswiththesoundofabassviol，“Iconsidermyselfequaltoanythinginthewayofmyowntrade；thoughIshouldhavemadebutapoorfigureatyourswithsuchafistasthis，“addedhe，laughing，ashelaidhisvasthandbesidethedelicateoneofOwen。“Butwhatthen？Iputmoremainstrengthintooneblowofmysledgehammerthanallthatyouhaveexpendedsinceyouwerea"prentice。Isnotthatthetruth？“

“Veryprobably，“answeredthelowandslendervoiceofOwen。

“Strengthisanearthlymonster。Imakenopretensionstoit。Myforce，whatevertheremaybeofit，isaltogetherspiritual。“

“Well，but，Owen，whatareyouabout？“askedhisoldschool-fellow，stillinsuchaheartyvolumeoftonethatitmadetheartistshrink，especiallyasthequestionrelatedtoasubjectsosacredastheabsorbingdreamofhisimagination。

“Folksdosaythatyouaretryingtodiscovertheperpetualmotion。“

“Theperpetualmotion？Nonsense！“repliedOwenWarland，withamovementofdisgust；forhewasfulloflittlepetulances。“Itcanneverbediscovered。Itisadreamthatmaydeludemenwhosebrainsaremystifiedwithmatter，butnotme。Besides，ifsuchadiscoverywerepossible，itwouldnotbeworthmywhiletomakeitonlytohavethesecretturnedtosuchpurposesasarenoweffectedbysteamandwaterpower。Iamnotambitioustobehonoredwiththepaternityofanewkindofcottonmachine。“

“Thatwouldbedrollenough！“criedtheblacksmith，breakingoutintosuchanuproaroflaughterthatOwenhimselfandthebellglassesonhiswork-boardquiveredinunison。“No，no，Owen！Nochildofyourswillhaveironjointsandsinews。Well，Iwon"thinderyouanymore。Goodnight，Owen，andsuccess，andifyouneedanyassistance，sofarasadownrightblowofhammeruponanvilwillanswerthepurpose，I"myourman。“

Andwithanotherlaughthemanofmainstrengthlefttheshop。

“Howstrangeitis，“whisperedOwenWarlandtohimself，leaninghisheaduponhishand，“thatallmymusings，mypurposes，mypassionforthebeautiful，myconsciousnessofpowertocreateit，——afiner，moreetherealpower，ofwhichthisearthlygiantcanhavenoconception，——all，all，looksovainandidlewhenevermypathiscrossedbyRobertDanforth！HewoulddrivememadwereItomeethimoften。Hishard，bruteforcedarkensandconfusesthespiritualelementwithinme；butI，too，willbestronginmyownway。Iwillnotyieldtohim。“

Hetookfrombeneathaglassapieceofminutemachinery，whichhesetinthecondensedlightofhislamp，and，lookingintentlyatitthroughamagnifyingglass，proceededtooperatewithadelicateinstrumentofsteel。Inaninstant，however，hefellbackinhischairandclaspedhishands，withalookofhorroronhisfacethatmadeitssmallfeaturesasimpressiveasthoseofagiantwouldhavebeen。

“Heaven！WhathaveIdone？“exclaimedhe。“Thevapor，theinfluenceofthatbruteforce，——ithasbewilderedmeandobscuredmyperception。Ihavemadetheverystroke——thefatalstroke——thatIhavedreadedfromthefirst。Itisallover——thetoilofmonths，theobjectofmylife。Iamruined！“

Andtherehesat，instrangedespair，untilhislampflickeredinthesocketandlefttheArtistoftheBeautifulindarkness。

Thusitisthatideas，whichgrowupwithintheimaginationandappearsolovelytoitandofavaluebeyondwhatevermencallvaluable，areexposedtobeshatteredandannihilatedbycontactwiththepractical。Itisrequisitefortheidealartisttopossessaforceofcharacterthatseemshardlycompatiblewithitsdelicacy；hemustkeephisfaithinhimselfwhiletheincredulousworldassailshimwithitsutterdisbelief；hemuststandupagainstmankindandbehisownsoledisciple，bothasrespectshisgeniusandtheobjectstowhichitisdirected。

ForatimeOwenWarlandsuccumbedtothisseverebutinevitabletest。Hespentafewsluggishweekswithhisheadsocontinuallyrestinginhishandsthatthetowns-peoplehadscarcelyanopportunitytoseehiscountenance。Whenatlastitwasagainupliftedtothelightofday，acold，dull，namelesschangewasperceptibleuponit。IntheopinionofPeterHovenden，however，andthatorderofsagaciousunderstandingswhothinkthatlifeshouldberegulated，likeclockwork，withleadenweights，thealterationwasentirelyforthebetter。Owennow，indeed，appliedhimselftobusinesswithdoggedindustry。Itwasmarvelloustowitnesstheobtusegravitywithwhichhewouldinspectthewheelsofagreatoldsilverwatchtherebydelightingtheowner，inwhosefobithadbeenworntillhedeemeditaportionofhisownlife，andwasaccordinglyjealousofitstreatment。Inconsequenceofthegoodreportthusacquired，OwenWarlandwasinvitedbytheproperauthoritiestoregulatetheclockinthechurchsteeple。Hesucceededsoadmirablyinthismatterofpublicinterestthatthemerchantsgrufflyacknowledgedhismeritson"Change；thenursewhisperedhispraisesasshegavethepotioninthesick-chamber；theloverblessedhimatthehourofappointedinterview；andthetowningeneralthankedOwenforthepunctualityofdinnertime。Inaword，theheavyweightuponhisspiritskepteverythinginorder，notmerelywithinhisownsystem，butwheresoevertheironaccentsofthechurchclockwereaudible。Itwasacircumstance，thoughminute，yetcharacteristicofhispresentstate，that，whenemployedtoengravenamesorinitialsonsilverspoons，henowwrotetherequisitelettersintheplainestpossiblestyle，omittingavarietyoffancifulflourishesthathadheretoforedistinguishedhisworkinthiskind。

Oneday，duringtheeraofthishappytransformation，oldPeterHovendencametovisithisformerapprentice。

“Well，Owen，“saidhe，“Iamgladtohearsuchgoodaccountsofyoufromallquarters，andespeciallyfromthetownclockyonder，whichspeaksinyourcommendationeveryhourofthetwenty-four。

Onlygetridaltogetherofyournonsensicaltrashaboutthebeautiful，whichInornobodyelse，noryourselftoboot，couldeverunderstand，——onlyfreeyourselfofthat，andyoursuccessinlifeisassureasdaylight。Why，ifyougooninthisway，I

shouldevenventuretoletyoudoctorthispreciousoldwatchofmine；though，exceptmydaughterAnnie，Ihavenothingelsesovaluableintheworld。“

“Ishouldhardlydaretouchit，sir，“repliedOwen，inadepressedtone；forhewasweigheddownbyhisoldmaster"spresence。

“Intime，“saidthelatter，——“Intime，youwillbecapableofit。“

Theoldwatchmaker，withthefreedomnaturallyconsequentonhisformerauthority，wentoninspectingtheworkwhichOwenhadinhandatthemoment，togetherwithothermattersthatwereinprogress。Theartist，meanwhile，couldscarcelylifthishead。

Therewasnothingsoantipodaltohisnatureasthisman"scold，unimaginativesagacity，bycontactwithwhicheverythingwasconvertedintoadreamexceptthedensestmatterofthephysicalworld。Owengroanedinspiritandprayedferventlytobedeliveredfromhim。

“Butwhatisthis？“criedPeterHovendenabruptly，takingupadustybellglass，beneathwhichappearedamechanicalsomething，asdelicateandminuteasthesystemofabutterfly"sanatomy。

“Whathavewehere？Owen！Owen！thereiswitchcraftintheselittlechains，andwheels，andpaddles。See！withonepinchofmyfingerandthumbIamgoingtodeliveryoufromallfutureperil。“

“ForHeaven"ssake，“screamedOwenWarland，springingupwithwonderfulenergy，“asyouwouldnotdrivememad，donottouchit！Theslightestpressureofyourfingerwouldruinmeforever。“

“Aha，youngman！Andisitso？“saidtheoldwatchmaker，lookingathimwithjustenoughpenetrationtotortureOwen"ssoulwiththebitternessofworldlycriticism。“Well，takeyourowncourse；

butIwarnyouagainthatinthissmallpieceofmechanismlivesyourevilspirit。ShallIexorcisehim？“

“Youaremyevilspirit，“answeredOwen，muchexcited，——“youandthehard，coarseworld！Theleadenthoughtsandthedespondencythatyouflinguponmearemyclogs，elseIshouldlongagohaveachievedthetaskthatIwascreatedfor。“

PeterHovendenshookhishead，withthemixtureofcontemptandindignationwhichmankind，ofwhomhewaspartlyarepresentative，deemthemselvesentitledtofeeltowardsallsimpletonswhoseekotherprizesthanthedustyonealongthehighway。Hethentookhisleave，withanupliftedfingerandasneeruponhisfacethathauntedtheartist"sdreamsformanyanightafterwards。Atthetimeofhisoldmaster"svisit，Owenwasprobablyonthepointoftakinguptherelinquishedtask；but，bythissinisterevent，hewasthrownbackintothestatewhencehehadbeenslowlyemerging。

Buttheinnatetendencyofhissoulhadonlybeenaccumulatingfreshvigorduringitsapparentsluggishness。Asthesummeradvancedhealmosttotallyrelinquishedhisbusiness，andpermittedFatherTime，sofarastheoldgentlemanwasrepresentedbytheclocksandwatchesunderhiscontrol，tostrayatrandomthroughhumanlife，makinginfiniteconfusionamongthetrainofbewilderedhours。Hewastedthesunshine，aspeoplesaid，inwanderingthroughthewoodsandfieldsandalongthebanksofstreams。There，likeachild，hefoundamusementinchasingbutterfliesorwatchingthemotionsofwaterinsects。

Therewassomethingtrulymysteriousintheintentnesswithwhichhecontemplatedtheselivingplaythingsastheysportedonthebreezeorexaminedthestructureofanimperialinsectwhomhehadimprisoned。Thechaseofbutterflieswasanaptemblemoftheidealpursuitinwhichhehadspentsomanygoldenhours；butwouldthebeautifulideaeverbeyieldedtohishandlikethebutterflythatsymbolizedit？Sweet，doubtless，werethesedays，andcongenialtotheartist"ssoul。Theywerefullofbrightconceptions，whichgleamedthroughhisintellectualworldasthebutterfliesgleamedthroughtheoutwardatmosphere，andwererealtohim，fortheinstant，withoutthetoil，andperplexity，andmanydisappointmentsofattemptingtomakethemvisibletothesensualeye。Alasthattheartist，whetherinpoetry，orwhateverothermaterial，maynotcontenthimselfwiththeinwardenjoymentofthebeautiful，butmustchasetheflittingmysterybeyondthevergeofhisetherealdomain，andcrushitsfrailbeinginseizingitwithamaterialgrasp。OwenWarlandfelttheimpulsetogiveexternalrealitytohisideasasirresistiblyasanyofthepoetsorpainterswhohavearrayedtheworldinadimmerandfainterbeauty，imperfectlycopiedfromtherichnessoftheirvisions。

Thenightwasnowhistimefortheslowprogressofre-creatingtheoneideatowhichallhisintellectualactivityreferreditself。Alwaysattheapproachofduskhestoleintothetown，lockedhimselfwithinhisshop，andwroughtwithpatientdelicacyoftouchformanyhours。Sometimeshewasstartledbytherapofthewatchman，who，whenalltheworldshouldbeasleep，hadcaughtthegleamoflamplightthroughthecrevicesofOwenWarland"sshutters。Daylight，tothemorbidsensibilityofhismind，seemedtohaveanintrusivenessthatinterferedwithhispursuits。Oncloudyandinclementdays，therefore，hesatwithhisheaduponhishands，muffling，asitwere，hissensitivebraininamistofindefinitemusings，foritwasarelieftoescapefromthesharpdistinctnesswithwhichhewascompelledtoshapeouthisthoughtsduringhisnightlytoil。

FromoneofthesefitsoftorporhewasarousedbytheentranceofAnnieHovenden，whocameintotheshopwiththefreedomofacustomer，andalsowithsomethingofthefamiliarityofachildishfriend。Shehadwornaholethroughhersilverthimble，andwantedOwentorepairit。

“ButIdon"tknowwhetheryouwillcondescendtosuchatask，“

saidshe，laughing，“nowthatyouaresotakenupwiththenotionofputtingspiritintomachinery。“

“Wheredidyougetthatidea，Annie？“saidOwen，startinginsurprise。

“Oh，outofmyownhead，“answeredshe，“andfromsomethingthatIheardyousay，longago，whenyouwerebutaboyandIalittlechild。Butcome，willyoumendthispoorthimbleofmine？“

“Anythingforyoursake，Annie，“saidOwenWarland，——“anything，evenwereittoworkatRobertDanforth"sforge。“

“Andthatwouldbeaprettysight！“retortedAnnie，glancingwithimperceptibleslightnessattheartist"ssmallandslenderframe。

“Well；hereisthethimble。“

“Butthatisastrangeideaofyours，“saidOwen，“aboutthespiritualizationofmatter。“

Andthenthethoughtstoleintohismindthatthisyounggirlpossessedthegifttocomprehendhimbetterthanalltheworldbesides。Andwhatahelpandstrengthwoulditbetohiminhislonelytoilifhecouldgainthesympathyoftheonlybeingwhomheloved！Topersonswhosepursuitsareinsulatedfromthecommonbusinessoflife——whoareeitherinadvanceofmankindorapartfromit——thereoftencomesasensationofmoralcoldthatmakesthespiritshiverasifithadreachedthefrozensolitudesaroundthepole。Whattheprophet，thepoet，thereformer，thecriminal，oranyothermanwithhumanyearnings，butseparatedfromthemultitudebyapeculiarlot，mightfeel，poorOwenfelt。

“Annie，“criedhe，growingpaleasdeathatthethought，“howgladlywouldItellyouthesecretofmypursuit！You，methinks，wouldestimateitrightly。You，Iknow，wouldhearitwithareverencethatImustnotexpectfromtheharsh，materialworld。“

“WouldInot？tobesureIwould！“repliedAnnieHovenden，lightlylaughing。“Come；explaintomequicklywhatisthemeaningofthislittlewhirligig，sodelicatelywroughtthatitmightbeaplaythingforQueenMab。See！Iwillputitinmotion。“

“Hold！“exclaimedOwen，“hold！“

Anniehadbutgiventheslightestpossibletouch，withthepointofaneedle，tothesameminuteportionofcomplicatedmachinerywhichhasbeenmorethanoncementioned，whentheartistseizedherbythewristwithaforcethatmadeherscreamaloud。Shewasaffrightedattheconvulsionofintenserageandanguishthatwrithedacrosshisfeatures。Thenextinstanthelethisheadsinkuponhishands。

“Go，Annie，“murmuredhe；“Ihavedeceivedmyself，andmustsufferforit。Iyearnedforsympathy，andthought，andfancied，anddreamedthatyoumightgiveitme；butyoulackthetalisman，Annie，thatshouldadmityouintomysecrets。Thattouchhasundonethetoilofmonthsandthethoughtofalifetime！Itwasnotyourfault，Annie；butyouhaveruinedme！“

PoorOwenWarland！Hehadindeederred，yetpardonably；forifanyhumanspiritcouldhavesufficientlyreverencedtheprocessessosacredinhiseyes，itmusthavebeenawoman"s。EvenAnnieHovenden，possiblymightnothavedisappointedhimhadshebeenenlightenedbythedeepintelligenceoflove。

Theartistspenttheensuingwinterinawaythatsatisfiedanypersonswhohadhithertoretainedahopefulopinionofhimthathewas，intruth，irrevocablydoomedtounutilityasregardedtheworld，andtoanevildestinyonhisownpart。Thedeceaseofarelativehadputhiminpossessionofasmallinheritance。Thusfreedfromthenecessityoftoil，andhavinglostthesteadfastinfluenceofagreatpurpose，——great，atleast，tohim，——heabandonedhimselftohabitsfromwhichitmighthavebeensupposedthemeredelicacyofhisorganizationwouldhaveavailedtosecurehim。Butwhentheetherealportionofamanofgeniusisobscuredtheearthlypartassumesaninfluencethemoreuncontrollable，becausethecharacterisnowthrownoffthebalancetowhichProvidencehadsonicelyadjustedit，andwhich，incoarsernatures，isadjustedbysomeothermethod。OwenWarlandmadeproofofwhatevershowofblissmaybefoundinriot。Helookedattheworldthroughthegoldenmediumofwine，andcontemplatedthevisionsthatbubbleupsogaylyaroundthebrimoftheglass，andthatpeopletheairwithshapesofpleasantmadness，whichsosoongrowghostlyandforlorn。Evenwhenthisdismalandinevitablechangehadtakenplace，theyoungmanmightstillhavecontinuedtoquaffthecupofenchantments，thoughitsvapordidbutshroudlifeingloomandfillthegloomwithspectresthatmockedathim。Therewasacertainirksomenessofspirit，which，beingreal，andthedeepestsensationofwhichtheartistwasnowconscious，wasmoreintolerablethananyfantasticmiseriesandhorrorsthattheabuseofwinecouldsummonup。Inthelattercasehecouldremember，evenoutofthemidstofhistrouble，thatallwasbutadelusion；intheformer，theheavyanguishwashisactuallife。

Fromthisperilousstatehewasredeemedbyanincidentwhichmorethanonepersonwitnessed，butofwhichtheshrewdestcouldnotexplainorconjecturetheoperationonOwenWarland"smind。

Itwasverysimple。Onawarmafternoonofspring，astheartistsatamonghisriotouscompanionswithaglassofwinebeforehim，asplendidbutterflyflewinattheopenwindowandflutteredabouthishead。

“Ah，“exclaimedOwen，whohaddrankfreely，“areyoualiveagain，childofthesunandplaymateofthesummerbreeze，afteryourdismalwinter"snap？Thenitistimeformetobeatwork！“

And，leavinghisunemptiedglassuponthetable，hedepartedandwasneverknowntosipanotherdropofwine。

Andnow，again，heresumedhiswanderingsinthewoodsandfields。Itmightbefanciedthatthebrightbutterfly，whichhadcomesospirit-likeintothewindowasOwensatwiththeruderevellers，wasindeedaspiritcommissionedtorecallhimtothepure，ideallifethathadsoetheralizedhimamongmen。Itmightbefanciedthathewentforthtoseekthisspiritinitssunnyhaunts；forstill，asinthesummertimegoneby，hewasseentostealgentlyupwhereverabutterflyhadalighted，andlosehimselfincontemplationofit。Whenittookflighthiseyesfollowedthewingedvision，asifitsairytrackwouldshowthepathtoheaven。Butwhatcouldbethepurposeoftheunseasonabletoil，whichwasagainresumed，asthewatchmanknewbythelinesoflamplightthroughthecrevicesofOwenWarland"sshutters？Thetowns-peoplehadonecomprehensiveexplanationofallthesesingularities。OwenWarlandhadgonemad！Howuniversallyefficacious——howsatisfactory，too，andsoothingtotheinjuredsensibilityofnarrownessanddulness——isthiseasymethodofaccountingforwhateverliesbeyondtheworld"smostordinaryscope！FromSt。Paul"sdaysdowntoourpoorlittleArtistoftheBeautiful，thesametalismanhadbeenappliedtotheelucidationofallmysteriesinthewordsordeedsofmenwhospokeoractedtoowiselyortoowell。InOwenWarland"scasethejudgmentofhistowns-peoplemayhavebeencorrect。Perhapshewasmad。Thelackofsympathy——thatcontrastbetweenhimselfandhisneighborswhichtookawaytherestraintofexample——wasenoughtomakehimso。Orpossiblyhehadcaughtjustsomuchofetherealradianceasservedtobewilderhim，inanearthlysense，byitsintermixturewiththecommondaylight。

Oneevening，whentheartisthadreturnedfromacustomaryrambleandhadjustthrownthelustreofhislamponthedelicatepieceofworksoofteninterrupted，butstilltakenupagain，asifhisfatewereembodiedinitsmechanism，hewassurprisedbytheentranceofoldPeterHovenden。Owennevermetthismanwithoutashrinkingoftheheart。Ofalltheworldhewasmostterrible，byreasonofakeenunderstandingwhichsawsodistinctlywhatitdidsee，anddisbelievedsouncompromisinglyinwhatitcouldnotsee。Onthisoccasiontheoldwatchmakerhadmerelyagraciouswordortwotosay。

“Owen，mylad，“saidhe，“wemustseeyouatmyhouseto-morrownight。“

Theartistbegantomuttersomeexcuse。

“Oh，butitmustbeso，“quothPeterHovenden，“forthesakeofthedayswhenyouwereoneofthehousehold。What，myboy！don"tyouknowthatmydaughterAnnieisengagedtoRobertDanforth？

Wearemakinganentertainment，inourhumbleway，tocelebratetheevent。“

Thatlittlemonosyllablewasallheuttered；itstoneseemedcoldandunconcernedtoanearlikePeterHovenden"s；andyettherewasinitthestifledoutcryofthepoorartist"sheart，whichhecompressedwithinhimlikeamanholdingdownanevilspirit。Oneslightoutbreak。however，imperceptibletotheoldwatchmaker，heallowedhimself。Raisingtheinstrumentwithwhichhewasabouttobeginhiswork，heletitfalluponthelittlesystemofmachinerythathad，anew，costhimmonthsofthoughtandtoil。Itwasshatteredbythestroke！

OwenWarland"sstorywouldhavebeennotolerablerepresentationofthetroubledlifeofthosewhostrivetocreatethebeautiful，if，amidallotherthwartinginfluences，lovehadnotinterposedtostealthecunningfromhishand。Outwardlyhehadbeennoardentorenterprisinglover；thecareerofhispassionhadconfineditstumultsandvicissitudessoentirelywithintheartist"simaginationthatAnnieherselfhadscarcelymorethanawoman"sintuitiveperceptionofit；but，inOwen"sview，itcoveredthewholefieldofhislife。Forgetfulofthetimewhenshehadshownherselfincapableofanydeepresponse，hehadpersistedinconnectingallhisdreamsofartisticalsuccesswithAnnie"simage；shewasthevisibleshapeinwhichthespiritualpowerthatheworshipped，andonwhosealtarhehopedtolayanotunworthyoffering，wasmademanifesttohim。Ofcoursehehaddeceivedhimself；therewerenosuchattributesinAnnieHovendenashisimaginationhadendowedherwith。She，intheaspectwhichsheworetohisinwardvision，wasasmuchacreatureofhisownasthemysteriouspieceofmechanismwouldbewereiteverrealized。Hadhebecomeconvincedofhismistakethroughthemediumofsuccessfullove，——hadhewonAnnietohisbosom，andtherebeheldherfadefromangelintoordinarywoman，——thedisappointmentmighthavedrivenhimback，withconcentratedenergy，uponhissoleremainingobject。Ontheotherhand，hadhefoundAnniewhathefancied，hislotwouldhavebeensorichinbeautythatoutofitsmereredundancyhemighthavewroughtthebeautifulintomanyaworthiertypethanhehadtoiledfor；buttheguiseinwhichhissorrowcametohim，thesensethattheangelofhislifehadbeensnatchedawayandgiventoarudemanofearthandiron，whocouldneitherneednorappreciateherministrations，——thiswastheveryperversityoffatethatmakeshumanexistenceappeartooabsurdandcontradictorytobethesceneofoneotherhopeoroneotherfear。TherewasnothingleftforOwenWarlandbuttositdownlikeamanthathadbeenstunned。

Hewentthroughafitofillness。Afterhisrecoveryhissmallandslenderframeassumedanobtusergarnitureoffleshthanithadeverbeforeworn。Histhincheeksbecameround；hisdelicatelittlehand，sospirituallyfashionedtoachievefairytask-work，grewplumperthanthehandofathrivinginfant。Hisaspecthadachildishnesssuchasmighthaveinducedastrangertopathimonthehead——pausing，however，intheact，towonderwhatmannerofchildwashere。Itwasasifthespirithadgoneoutofhim，leavingthebodytoflourishinasortofvegetableexistence。

NotthatOwenWarlandwasidiotic。Hecouldtalk，andnotirrationally。Somewhatofababbler，indeed，didpeoplebegintothinkhim；forhewasapttodiscourseatwearisomelengthofmarvelsofmechanismthathehadreadaboutinbooks，butwhichhehadlearnedtoconsiderasabsolutelyfabulous。AmongthemheenumeratedtheManofBrass，constructedbyAlbertusMagnus，andtheBrazenHeadofFriarBacon；and，comingdowntolatertimes，theautomataofalittlecoachandhorses，whichitwaspretendedhadbeenmanufacturedfortheDauphinofFrance；togetherwithaninsectthatbuzzedabouttheearlikealivingfly，andyetwasbutacontrivanceofminutesteelsprings。Therewasastory，too，ofaduckthatwaddled，andquacked，andate；though，hadanyhonestcitizenpurchaseditfordinner，hewouldhavefoundhimselfcheatedwiththemeremechanicalapparitionofaduck。

“Butalltheseaccounts，“saidOwenWarland，“Iamnowsatisfiedaremereimpositions。“

Then，inamysteriousway，hewouldconfessthatheoncethoughtdifferently。Inhisidleanddreamydayshehadconsidereditpossible，inacertainsense，tospiritualizemachinery，andtocombinewiththenewspeciesoflifeandmotionthusproducedabeautythatshouldattaintotheidealwhichNaturehasproposedtoherselfinallhercreatures，buthasnevertakenpainstorealize。Heseemed，however，toretainnoverydistinctperceptioneitheroftheprocessofachievingthisobjectorofthedesignitself。

“Ihavethrownitallasidenow，“hewouldsay。“Itwasadreamsuchasyoungmenarealwaysmystifyingthemselveswith。NowthatIhaveacquiredalittlecommonsense，itmakesmelaughtothinkofit。“

Poor，poorandfallenOwenWarland！Thesewerethesymptomsthathehadceasedtobeaninhabitantofthebetterspherethatliesunseenaroundus。Hehadlosthisfaithintheinvisible，andnowpridedhimself，assuchunfortunatesinvariablydo，inthewisdomwhichrejectedmuchthatevenhiseyecouldsee，andtrustedconfidentlyinnothingbutwhathishandcouldtouch。Thisisthecalamityofmenwhosespiritualpartdiesoutofthemandleavesthegrosserunderstandingtoassimilatethemmoreandmoretothethingsofwhichaloneitcantakecognizance；butinOwenWarlandthespiritwasnotdeadnorpassedaway；itonlyslept。

Howitawokeagainisnotrecorded。Perhapsthetorpidslumberwasbrokenbyaconvulsivepain。Perhaps，asinaformerinstance，thebutterflycameandhoveredabouthisheadandreinspiredhim，——asindeedthiscreatureofthesunshinehadalwaysamysteriousmissionfortheartist，——reinspiredhimwiththeformerpurposeofhislife。Whetheritwerepainorhappinessthatthrilledthroughhisveins，hisfirstimpulsewastothankHeavenforrenderinghimagainthebeingofthought，imagination，andkeenestsensibilitythathehadlongceasedtobe。

“Nowformytask，“saidhe。“NeverdidIfeelsuchstrengthforitasnow。“

Yet，strongashefelthimself，hewasincitedtotoilthemorediligentlybyananxietylestdeathshouldsurprisehiminthemidstofhislabors。Thisanxiety，perhaps，iscommontoallmenwhosettheirheartsuponanythingsohigh，intheirownviewofit，thatlifebecomesofimportanceonlyasconditionaltoitsaccomplishment。Solongaswelovelifeforitself，weseldomdreadthelosingit。Whenwedesirelifefortheattainmentofanobject，werecognizethefrailtyofitstexture。But，sidebysidewiththissenseofinsecurity，thereisavitalfaithinourinvulnerabilitytotheshaftofdeathwhileengagedinanytaskthatseemsassignedbyProvidenceasourproperthingtodo，andwhichtheworldwouldhavecausetomournforshouldweleaveitunaccomplished。Canthephilosopher，bigwiththeinspirationofanideathatistoreformmankind，believethatheistobebeckonedfromthissensibleexistenceattheveryinstantwhenheismusteringhisbreathtospeakthewordoflight？Shouldheperishso，thewearyagesmaypassaway——theworld"s，whoselifesandmayfall，dropbydrop——beforeanotherintellectispreparedtodevelopthetruththatmighthavebeenutteredthen。Buthistoryaffordsmanyanexamplewherethemostpreciousspirit，atanyparticularepochmanifestedinhumanshape，hasgonehenceuntimely，withoutspaceallowedhim，sofarasmortaljudgmentcoulddiscern，toperformhismissionontheearth。Theprophetdies，andthemanoftorpidheartandsluggishbrainliveson。

Thepoetleaveshissonghalfsung，orfinishesit，beyondthescopeofmortalears，inacelestialchoir。Thepainter——asAllstondid——leaveshalfhisconceptiononthecanvastosaddenuswithitsimperfectbeauty，andgoestopictureforththewhole，ifitbenoirreverencetosayso，inthehuesofheaven。

Butrathersuchincompletedesignsofthislifewillbeperfectednowhere。Thissofrequentabortionofman"sdearestprojectsmustbetakenasaproofthatthedeedsofearth，howeveretherealizedbypietyorgenius，arewithoutvalue，exceptasexercisesandmanifestationsofthespirit。Inheaven，allordinarythoughtishigherandmoremelodiousthanMilton"ssong。Then，wouldheaddanotherversetoanystrainthathehadleftunfinishedhere？

ButtoreturntoOwenWarland。Itwashisfortune，goodorill，toachievethepurposeofhislife。Passweoveralongspaceofintensethought，yearningeffort，minutetoil，andwastinganxiety，succeededbyaninstantofsolitarytriumph:letallthisbeimagined；andthenbeholdtheartist，onawinterevening，seekingadmittancetoRobertDanforth"sfiresidecircle。

Therehefoundthemanofiron，withhismassivesubstancethoroughlywarmedandattemperedbydomesticinfluences。AndtherewasAnnie，too，nowtransformedintoamatron，withmuchofherhusband"splainandsturdynature，butimbued，asOwenWarlandstillbelieved，withafinergrace，thatmightenablehertobetheinterpreterbetweenstrengthandbeauty。Ithappened，likewise，thatoldPeterHovendenwasaguestthiseveningathisdaughter"sfireside，anditwashiswell-rememberedexpressionofkeen，coldcriticismthatfirstencounteredtheartist"sglance。

“MyoldfriendOwen！“criedRobertDanforth，startingup，andcompressingtheartist"sdelicatefingerswithinahandthatwasaccustomedtogripebarsofiron。“Thisiskindandneighborlytocometousatlast。Iwasafraidyourperpetualmotionhadbewitchedyououtoftheremembranceofoldtimes。“

“Wearegladtoseeyou，“saidAnnie，whileablushreddenedhermatronlycheek。“Itwasnotlikeafriendtostayfromussolong。“

“Well，Owen，“inquiredtheoldwatchmaker，ashisfirstgreeting，“howcomesonthebeautiful？Haveyoucreateditatlast？“

Theartistdidnotimmediatelyreply，beingstartledbytheapparitionofayoungchildofstrengththatwastumblingaboutonthecarpet，——alittlepersonagewhohadcomemysteriouslyoutoftheinfinite，butwithsomethingsosturdyandrealinhiscompositionthatheseemedmouldedoutofthedensestsubstancewhichearthcouldsupply。Thishopefulinfantcrawledtowardsthenew-comer，andsettinghimselfonend，asRobertDanforthexpressedtheposture，staredatOwenwithalookofsuchsagaciousobservationthatthemothercouldnothelpexchangingaproudglancewithherhusband。Buttheartistwasdisturbedbythechild"slook，asimaginingaresemblancebetweenitandPeterHovenden"shabitualexpression。Hecouldhavefanciedthattheoldwatchmakerwascompressedintothisbabyshape，andlookingoutofthosebabyeyes，andrepeating，ashenowdid，themaliciousquestion:“Thebeautiful，Owen！Howcomesonthebeautiful？Haveyousucceededincreatingthebeautiful？“

“Ihavesucceeded，“repliedtheartist，withamomentarylightoftriumphinhiseyesandasmileofsunshine，yetsteepedinsuchdepthofthoughtthatitwasalmostsadness。“Yes，myfriends，itisthetruth。Ihavesucceeded。“

“Indeed！“criedAnnie，alookofmaidenmirthfulnesspeepingoutofherfaceagain。“Andisitlawful，now，toinquirewhatthesecretis？“

“Surely；itistodiscloseitthatIhavecome，“answeredOwenWarland。“Youshallknow，andsee，andtouch，andpossessthesecret！For，Annie，——ifbythatnameImaystilladdressthefriendofmyboyishyears，——Annie，itisforyourbridalgiftthatIhavewroughtthisspiritualizedmechanism，thisharmonyofmotion，thismysteryofbeauty。Itcomeslate，indeed；butitisaswegoonwardinlife，whenobjectsbegintolosetheirfreshnessofhueandoursoulstheirdelicacyofperception，thatthespiritofbeautyismostneeded。If，——forgiveme，Annie，——ifyouknowhow——tovaluethisgift，itcannevercometoolate。“

Heproduced，ashespoke，whatseemedajewelbox。Itwascarvedrichlyoutofebonybyhisownhand，andinlaidwithafancifultraceryofpearl，representingaboyinpursuitofabutterfly，which，elsewhere，hadbecomeawingedspirit，andwasflyingheavenward；whiletheboy，oryouth，hadfoundsuchefficacyinhisstrongdesirethatheascendedfromearthtocloud，andfromcloudtocelestialatmosphere，towinthebeautiful。Thiscaseofebonytheartistopened，andbadeAnnieplaceherfingersonitsedge。Shedidso，butalmostscreamedasabutterflyflutteredforth，and，alightingonherfinger"stip，satwavingtheamplemagnificenceofitspurpleandgold-speckledwings，asifinpreludetoaflight。Itisimpossibletoexpressbywordstheglory，thesplendor，thedelicategorgeousnesswhichweresoftenedintothebeautyofthisobject。Nature"sidealbutterflywashererealizedinallitsperfection；notinthepatternofsuchfadedinsectsasflitamongearthlyflowers，butofthosewhichhoveracrossthemeadsofparadiseforchild-angelsandthespiritsofdepartedinfantstodisportthemselveswith。Therichdownwasvisibleuponitswings；thelustreofitseyesseemedinstinctwithspirit。Thefirelightglimmeredaroundthiswonder——thecandlesgleameduponit；butitglistenedapparentlybyitsownradiance，andilluminatedthefingerandoutstretchedhandonwhichitrestedwithawhitegleamlikethatofpreciousstones。Initsperfectbeauty，theconsiderationofsizewasentirelylost。Haditswingsoverreachedthefirmament，themindcouldnothavebeenmorefilledorsatisfied。

“Beautiful！beautiful！“exclaimedAnnie。“Isitalive？Isitalive？“

“Alive？Tobesureitis，“answeredherhusband。“Doyousupposeanymortalhasskillenoughtomakeabutterfly，orwouldputhimselftothetroubleofmakingone，whenanychildmaycatchascoreoftheminasummer"safternoon？Alive？Certainly！ButthisprettyboxisundoubtedlyofourfriendOwen"smanufacture；andreallyitdoeshimcredit。“

Atthismomentthebutterflywaveditswingsanew，withamotionsoabsolutelylifelikethatAnniewasstartled，andevenawestricken；for，inspiteofherhusband"sopinion，shecouldnotsatisfyherselfwhetheritwasindeedalivingcreatureorapieceofwondrousmechanism。

“Isitalive？“sherepeated，moreearnestlythanbefore。

“Judgeforyourself，“saidOwenWarland，whostoodgazinginherfacewithfixedattention。

Thebutterflynowflungitselfupontheair，flutteredroundAnnie"shead，andsoaredintoadistantregionoftheparlor，stillmakingitselfperceptibletosightbythestarrygleaminwhichthemotionofitswingsenvelopedit。Theinfantonthefloorfolloweditscoursewithhissagaciouslittleeyes。Afterflyingabouttheroom，itreturnedinaspiralcurveandsettledagainonAnnie"sfinger。

“Butisitalive？“exclaimedsheagain；andthefingeronwhichthegorgeousmysteryhadalightedwassotremulousthatthebutterflywasforcedtobalancehimselfwithhiswings。“Tellmeifitbealive，orwhetheryoucreatedit。“

“Whereforeaskwhocreatedit，soitbebeautiful？“repliedOwenWarland。“Alive？Yes，Annie；itmaywellbesaidtopossesslife，forithasabsorbedmyownbeingintoitself；andinthesecretofthatbutterfly，andinitsbeauty，——whichisnotmerelyoutward，butdeepasitswholesystem，——isrepresentedtheintellect，theimagination，thesensibility，thesoulofanArtistoftheBeautiful！Yes；Icreatedit。But“——andherehiscountenancesomewhatchanged——“thisbutterflyisnotnowtomewhatitwaswhenIbehelditafaroffinthedaydreamsofmyyouth。“

“Beitwhatitmay，itisaprettyplaything，“saidtheblacksmith，grinningwithchildlikedelight。“Iwonderwhetheritwouldcondescendtoalightonsuchagreatclumsyfingerasmine？

Holdithither，Annie。“

Bytheartist"sdirection，Annietouchedherfinger"stiptothatofherhusband；and，afteramomentarydelay，thebutterflyflutteredfromonetotheother。Itpreludedasecondflightbyasimilar，yetnotpreciselythesame，wavingofwingsasinthefirstexperiment；then，ascendingfromtheblacksmith"sstalwartfinger，itroseinagraduallyenlargingcurvetotheceiling，madeonewidesweeparoundtheroom，andreturnedwithanundulatingmovementtothepointwhenceithadstarted。

“Well，thatdoesbeatallnature！“criedRobertDanforth，bestowingtheheartiestpraisethathecouldfindexpressionfor；

and，indeed，hadhepausedthere，amanoffinerwordsandnicerperceptioncouldnoteasilyhavesaidmore。“Thatgoesbeyondme，Iconfess。Butwhatthen？Thereismorerealuseinonedownrightblowofmysledgehammerthaninthewholefiveyears"laborthatourfriendOwenhaswastedonthisbutterfly。“

Herethechildclappedhishandsandmadeagreatbabbleofindistinctutterance，apparentlydemandingthatthebutterflyshouldbegivenhimforaplaything。

OwenWarland，meanwhile，glancedsidelongatAnnie，todiscoverwhethershesympathizedinherhusband"sestimateofthecomparativevalueofthebeautifulandthepractical。Therewas，amidallherkindnesstowardshimself，amidallthewonderandadmirationwithwhichshecontemplatedthemarvellousworkofhishandsandincarnationofhisidea，asecretscorn——toosecret，perhaps，forherownconsciousness，andperceptibleonlytosuchintuitivediscernmentasthatoftheartist。ButOwen，inthelatterstagesofhispursuit，hadrisenoutoftheregioninwhichsuchadiscoverymighthavebeentorture。Heknewthattheworld，andAnnieastherepresentativeoftheworld，whateverpraisemightbebestowed，couldneversaythefittingwordnorfeelthefittingsentimentwhichshouldbetheperfectrecompenseofanartistwho，symbolizingaloftymoralbyamaterialtrifle，——convertingwhatwasearthlytospiritualgold，——hadwonthebeautifulintohishandiwork。Notatthislatestmomentwashetolearnthattherewardofallhighperformancemustbesoughtwithinitself，orsoughtinvain。Therewas，however，aviewofthematterwhichAnnieandherhusband，andevenPeterHovenden，mightfullyhaveunderstood，andwhichwouldhavesatisfiedthemthatthetoilofyearshadherebeenworthilybestowed。OwenWarlandmighthavetoldthemthatthisbutterfly，thisplaything，thisbridalgiftofapoorwatchmakertoablacksmith"swife，was，intruth，agemofartthatamonarchwouldhavepurchasedwithhonorsandabundantwealth，andhavetreasureditamongthejewelsofhiskingdomasthemostuniqueandwondrousofthemall。Buttheartistsmiledandkeptthesecrettohimself。

“Father，“saidAnnie，thinkingthatawordofpraisefromtheoldwatchmakermightgratifyhisformerapprentice，“docomeandadmirethisprettybutterfly。“

“Letussee，“saidPeterHovenden，risingfromhischair，withasneeruponhisfacethatalwaysmadepeopledoubt，ashehimselfdid，ineverythingbutamaterialexistence。“Hereismyfingerforittoalightupon。IshallunderstanditbetterwhenonceI

havetouchedit。“

But，totheincreasedastonishmentofAnnie，whenthetipofherfather"sfingerwaspressedagainstthatofherhusband，onwhichthebutterflystillrested，theinsectdroopeditswingsandseemedonthepointoffallingtothefloor。Eventhebrightspotsofgolduponitswingsandbody，unlesshereyesdeceivedher，grewdim，andtheglowingpurpletookaduskyhue，andthestarrylustrethatgleamedaroundtheblacksmith"shandbecamefaintandvanished。

“Itisdying！itisdying！“criedAnnie，inalarm。

“Ithasbeendelicatelywrought，“saidtheartist，calmly。“AsI

toldyou，ithasimbibedaspiritualessence——callitmagnetism，orwhatyouwill。Inanatmosphereofdoubtandmockeryitsexquisitesusceptibilitysufferstorture，asdoesthesoulofhimwhoinstilledhisownlifeintoit。Ithasalreadylostitsbeauty；inafewmomentsmoreitsmechanismwouldbeirreparablyinjured。“

“Takeawayyourhand，father！“entreatedAnnie，turningpale。

“Hereismychild；letitrestonhisinnocenthand。There，perhaps，itslifewillreviveanditscolorsgrowbrighterthanever。“

Herfather，withanacridsmile，withdrewhisfinger。Thebutterflythenappearedtorecoverthepowerofvoluntarymotion，whileitshuesassumedmuchoftheiroriginallustre，andthegleamofstarlight，whichwasitsmostetherealattribute，againformedahaloroundaboutit。Atfirst，whentransferredfromRobertDanforth"shandtothesmallfingerofthechild，thisradiancegrewsopowerfulthatitpositivelythrewthelittlefellow"sshadowbackagainstthewall。He，meanwhile，extendedhisplumphandashehadseenhisfatherandmotherdo，andwatchedthewavingoftheinsect"swingswithinfantinedelight。

Nevertheless，therewasacertainoddexpressionofsagacitythatmadeOwenWarlandfeelasifherewereoldPeteHovenden，partially，andbutpartially，redeemedfromhishardscepticismintochildishfaith。

“Howwisethelittlemonkeylooks！“whisperedRobertDanforthtohiswife。

“Ineversawsuchalookonachild"sface，“answeredAnnie，admiringherowninfant，andwithgoodreason，farmorethantheartisticbutterfly。“Thedarlingknowsmoreofthemysterythanwedo。“

Asifthebutterfly，liketheartist，wereconsciousofsomethingnotentirelycongenialinthechild"snature，italternatelysparkledandgrewdim。Atlengthitarosefromthesmallhandoftheinfantwithanairymotionthatseemedtobearitupwardwithoutaneffort，asiftheetherealinstinctswithwhichitsmaster"sspirithadendoweditimpelledthisfairvisioninvoluntarilytoahighersphere。Hadtherebeennoobstruction，itmighthavesoaredintotheskyandgrownimmortal。Butitslustregleamedupontheceiling；theexquisitetextureofitswingsbrushedagainstthatearthlymedium；andasparkleortwo，asofstardust，floateddownwardandlayglimmeringonthecarpet。Thenthebutterflycameflutteringdown，and，insteadofreturningtotheinfant，wasapparentlyattractedtowardstheartist"shand。

“Notso！notso！“murmuredOwenWarland，asifhishandiworkcouldhaveunderstoodhim。“Thouhasgoneforthoutofthymaster"sheart。Thereisnoreturnforthee。“

Withawaveringmovement，andemittingatremulousradiance，thebutterflystruggled，asitwere，towardstheinfant，andwasabouttoalightuponhisfinger；butwhileitstillhoveredintheair，thelittlechildofstrength，withhisgrandsire"ssharpandshrewdexpressioninhisface，madeasnatchatthemarvellousinsectandcompresseditinhishand。Anniescreamed。

OldPeterHovendenburstintoacoldandscornfullaugh。Theblacksmith，bymainforce，unclosedtheinfant"shand，andfoundwithinthepalmasmallheapofglitteringfragments，whencethemysteryofbeautyhadfledforever。AndasforOwenWarland，helookedplacidlyatwhatseemedtheruinofhislife"slabor，andwhichwasyetnoruin。Hehadcaughtafarotherbutterflythanthis。Whentheartistrosehighenoughtoachievethebeautiful，thesymbolbywhichhemadeitperceptibletomortalsensesbecameoflittlevalueinhiseyeswhilehisspiritpossesseditselfintheenjoymentofthereality。

End