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