Anniehadbutgiventheslightestpossibletouch，withthepointof
　　aneedle，tothesameminuteportionofcomplicatedmachinerywhich
　　hasbeenmorethanoncementioned，whentheartistseizedherbythe
　　wristwithaforcethatmadeherscreamaloud。Shewasaffrightedat
　　theconvulsionofintenserageandanguishthatwrithedacrosshis
　　features。Thenextinstanthelethisheadsinkuponhishands。
　　“Go，Annie。”murmuredhe，“Ihavedeceivedmyself，andmust
　　sufferforit。Iyearnedforsympathy-andthought-andfancied-and
　　dreamed-thatyoumightgiveitme。Butyoulackthetalisman，
　　Annie，thatshouldadmityouintomysecrets。Thattouchhasundone
　　thetoilofmonths，andthethoughtofalifetime！Itwasnotyour
　　fault，Annie-butyouhaveruinedme！”
　　PoorOwenWarland！Hehadindeederred，yetpardonably；forif
　　anyhumanspiritcouldhavesufficientlyreverencedtheprocessesso
　　sacredinhiseyes，itmusthavebeenawoman’s。EvenAnnie
　　Hovenden，possibly，mightnothavedisappointedhim，hadshebeen
　　enlightenedbythedeepintelligenceoflove。
　　Theartistspenttheensuingwinterinawaythatsatisfiedany
　　persons，whohadhithertoretainedahopefulopinionofhim，thathe
　　was，intruth，irrevocablydoomedtoinutilityasregardedthe
　　world，andtoanevildestinyonhisownpart。Thedeceaseofa
　　relativehadputhiminpossessionofasmallinheritance。Thus
　　freedfromthenecessityoftoil，andhavinglostthesteadfast
　　influenceofagreatpurpose-great，atleast，tohim-heabandoned
　　himselftohabitsfromwhich，itmighthavebeensupposed，themere
　　delicacyofhisorganizationwouldhaveavailedtosecurehim。But
　　whentheetherealportionofamanofgeniusisobscured，the
　　earthlypartassumesaninfluencethemoreuncontrollable，becausethe
　　characterisnowthrownoffthebalancetowhichProvidencehadso
　　nicelyadjustedit，andwhich，incoarsernatures，isadjustedbysome
　　othermethod。OwenWarlandmadeproofofwhatevershowofblissmaybe
　　foundinriot。Helookedattheworldthroughthegoldenmediumof
　　wine，andcontemplatedthevisionsthatbubbleupsogailyaround
　　thebrimoftheglass，andthatpeopletheairwithshapesofpleasant
　　madness，whichsosoongrowghostlyandforlorn。Evenwhenthisdismal
　　andinevitablechangehadtakenplace，theyoungmanmightstill
　　havecontinuedtoquaffthecupofenchantments，thoughitsvapor
　　didbutshroudlifeingloom，andfillthegloomwithspectresthat
　　mockedathim。Therewasacertainirksomenessofspirit，which，being
　　real，andthedeepestsensationofwhichtheartistwasnowconscious，
　　wasmoreintolerablethananyfantasticmiseriesandhorrorsthat
　　theabuseofwinecouldsummonup。Inthelattercase，hecould
　　remember，evenoutofthemidstofhistrouble，thatallwasbuta
　　delusion；intheformer，theheavyanguishwashisactuallife。
　　Fromthisperilousstate，hewasredeemedbyanincidentwhichmore
　　thanonepersonwitnessed，butofwhichtheshrewdestcouldnot
　　explainnorconjecturetheoperationonOwenWarland’smind。Itwas
　　verysimple。OnawarmafternoonofSpring，astheartistsatamong
　　hisriotouscompanions，withaglassofwinebeforehim，asplendid
　　butterflyflewinattheopenwindow，andflutteredabouthishead。
　　“Ah！”exclaimedOwen，whohaddrunkfreely，“areyoualiveagain，
　　childofthesun，andplaymateofthesummerbreeze，afteryourdismal
　　winter’snap！Thenitistimeformetobeatwork！”
　　Andleavinghisunemptiedglassuponthetable，hedeparted，and
　　wasneverknowntosipanotherdropofwine。
　　Andnow，again，heresumedhiswanderingsinthewoodsand
　　fields。Itmightbefanciedthatthebrightbutterfly，whichhad
　　comesospiritlikeintothewindow，asOwensatwiththerude
　　revellers，wasindeedaspirit，commissionedtorecallhimtothe
　　pure，ideallifethathadsoetherealisedhimamongmen。Itmightbe
　　fancied，thathewentforthtoseekthisspirit，initssunny
　　haunts；forstill，asinthesummer-timegoneby，hewasseentosteal
　　gentlyup，whereverabutterflyhadalighted，andlosehimselfin
　　contemplationofit。Whenittookflight，hiseyesfollowedthewinged
　　vision，asifitsairytrackwouldshowthepathtoheaven。Butwhat
　　couldbethepurposeoftheunseasonabletoil，whichwasagain
　　resumed，asthewatchmanknewbythelinesoflamp-lightthroughthe
　　crevicesofOwenWarland’sshutters？Thetownspeoplehadone
　　comprehensiveexplanationofallthesesingularities。OwenWarlandhad
　　gonemad！Howuniversallyefficacious-howsatisfactory，too，and
　　soothingtotheinjuredsensibilityofnarrownessanddullness-is
　　thiseasymethodofaccountingforwhateverliesbeyondtheworld’s
　　mostordinaryscope！FromSaintPaul’sdays，downtoourpoorlittle
　　ArtistoftheBeautiful，thesametalismanhadbeenappliedtothe
　　elucidationofallmysteriesinthewordsordeedsofmen，whospoke
　　oractedtoowiselyortoowell。InOwenWarland’scase，the
　　judgmentofhistownspeoplemayhavebeencorrect。Perhapshewasmad。
　　Thelackofsympathy-thatcontrastbetweenhimselfandhisneighbors，
　　whichtookawaytherestraintofexample-wasenoughtomakehimso。
　　Or，possibly，hehadcaughtjustsomuchofetherealradianceas
　　servedtobewilderhim，inanearthlysense，byitsintermixture
　　withthecommondaylight。
　　Oneevening，whentheartisthadreturnedfromacustomary
　　ramble，andhadjustthrownthelustreofhislamponthedelicate
　　pieceofwork，soofteninterrupted，butstilltakenupagain，asif
　　hisfatewereembodiedinitsmechanism，hewassurprisedbythe
　　entranceofoldPeterHovenden。Owennevermetthismanwithouta
　　shrinkingoftheheart。Ofalltheworld，hewasmostterrible，by
　　reasonofakeenunderstanding，whichsawsodistinctlywhatitdid
　　see，anddisbelievedsouncompromisinglyinwhatitcouldnotsee。
　　Onthisoccasion，theoldwatchmakerhadmerelyagraciouswordortwo
　　tosay。
　　“Owen，mylad。”saidhe，“wemustseeyouatmyhousetomorrow
　　night。”
　　Theartistbegantomuttersomeexcuse。
　　“Oh，butitmustbeso。”quothPeterHovenden，“forthesakeofthe
　　dayswhenyouwereoneofthehousehold。What，myboy，don’tyou
　　knowthatmydaughterAnnieisengagedtoRobertDanforth？Weare
　　makinganentertainment，inourhumbleway，tocelebratetheevent。”
　　“Ah！”saidOwen。
　　Thatlittlemonosyllablewasallheuttered；itstoneseemedcold
　　andunconcerned，toanearlikePeterHovenden’s；andyettherewasin
　　itthestifledoutcryofthepoorartist’sheart，whichhe
　　compressedwithinhimlikeamanholdingdownanevilspirit。One
　　slightout-break，however，imperceptibletotheoldwatchmaker，he
　　allowedhimself。Raisingtheinstrumentwithwhichhewasaboutto
　　beginhiswork，heletitfalluponthelittlesystemofmachinery
　　thathad，anew，costhimmonthsofthoughtandtoil。Itwas
　　shatteredbythestroke！
　　OwenWarland’sstorywouldhavebeennotolerablerepresentationof
　　thetroubledlifeofthosewhostrivetocreatetheBeautiful，if，
　　amidallotherthwartinginfluences，lovehadnotinterposedto
　　stealthecunningfromhishand。Outwardlyhehadbeennoardentor
　　enterprisinglover；thecareerofhispassionhadconfineditstumults
　　andvicissitudessoentirelywithintheartist’simagination，that
　　Annieherselfhadscarcelymorethanawoman’sintuitiveperceptionof
　　it。But，inOwen’sview，itcoveredthewholefieldofhislife。
　　Forgetfulofthetimewhenshehadshownherselfincapableofanydeep
　　response，hehadpersistedinconnectingallhisdreamsof
　　artisticalsuccesswithAnnie’simage；shewasthevisibleshapein
　　whichthespiritualpowerthatheworshipped，andonwhosealtarhe
　　hopedtolayanotunworthyoffering，wasmademanifesttohim。Of
　　coursehehaddeceivedhimself；therewerenosuchattributesinAnnie
　　Hovendenashisimaginationhadendowedherwith。She，intheaspect
　　whichsheworetohisinwardvision，wasasmuchacreationofhis
　　own，asthemysteriouspieceofmechanismwouldbewereitever
　　realized。Hadhebecomeconvincedofhismistakethroughthemediumof
　　successfullove；hadhewonAnnietohisbosom，andtherebeheldher
　　fadefromangelintoordinarywoman，thedisappointmentmighthave
　　drivenhimback，withconcentratedenergy，uponhissoleremaining
　　object。Ontheotherhand，hadhefoundAnniewhathefancied，hislot
　　wouldhavebeensorichinbeauty，thatoutofitsmereredundancy
　　hemighthavewroughttheBeautifulintomanyaworthiertypethan
　　hehadtoiledfor。Buttheguiseinwhichhissorrowcametohim，
　　thesensethattheangelofhislifehadbeensnatchedawayand
　　giventoarudemanofearthandiron，whocouldneitherneednor
　　appreciateherministrations；thiswastheveryperversityoffate，
　　thatmakeshumanexistenceappeartooabsurdandcontradictorytobe
　　thesceneofoneotherhopeoroneotherfear。Therewasnothing
　　leftforOwenWarlandbuttositdownlikeamanthathadbeen
　　stunned。
　　Hewentthroughafitofillness。Afterhisrecovery，hissmalland
　　slenderframeassumedanobtusergarnitureoffleshthanithadever
　　beforeworn。Histhincheeksbecameround；hisdelicatelittlehand，
　　sospirituallyfashionedtoachievefairytask-work，grewplumperthan
　　thehandofathrivinginfant。Hisaspecthadachildishness，such
　　asmighthaveinducedastrangertopathimonthehead-pausing，
　　however，intheact，towonderwhatmannerofchildwashere。Itwas
　　asifthespirithadgoneoutofhim，leavingthebodytoflourish
　　inasortofvegetableexistence。NotthatOwenWarlandwasidiotic。
　　Hecouldtalk，andnotirrationally。Somewhatofababbler，indeed，
　　didpeoplebegintothinkhim；forhewasapttodiscourseat
　　wearisomelength，ofmarvelsofmechanismthathehadreadaboutin
　　books，butwhichhehadlearnedtoconsiderasabsolutelyfabulous。
　　AmongthemheenumeratedtheManofBrass，constructedbyAlbertus
　　Magnus，andtheBrazenHeadofFriarBacon；and，comingdownto
　　latertimes，theautomataofalittlecoachandhorses，which，it
　　waspretended，hadbeenmanufacturedfortheDauphinofFrance；
　　togetherwithaninsectthatbuzzedabouttheearlikealivingfly，
　　andyetwasbutacontrivanceofminutesteelsprings。Therewasa
　　story，too，ofaduckthatwaddled，andquacked，andate；though，
　　hadanyhonestcitizenpurchaseditfordinner，hewouldhavefound
　　himselfcheatedwiththemeremechanicalapparitionofaduck。
　　“Butalltheseaccounts。”saidOwenWarland，“Iamnowsatisfied，
　　aremereimpositions。”
　　Then，inamysteriousway，hewouldconfessthatheoncethought
　　differently。Inhisidleanddreamydayshehadconsideredit
　　possible，inacertainsense，tospiritualizemachinery；andto
　　combinewiththenewspeciesoflifeandmotion，thusproduced，a
　　beautythatshouldattaintotheideal，whichNaturehasproposedto
　　herself，inallhercreatures，buthasnevertakenpainstorealize。
　　Heseemed，however，toretainnoverydistinctperceptioneitherof
　　theprocessofachievingthisobject，orofthedesignitself。
　　“Ihavethrownitallasidenow。”hewouldsay。“Itwasadream，
　　suchasyoungmenarealwaysmystifyingthemselveswith。NowthatI
　　haveacquiredalittlecommonsense，itmakesmelaughtothinkofit。
　　Poor，poor，andfallenOwenWarland！Thesewerethesymptomsthat
　　hehadceasedtobeaninhabitantofthebetterspherethatlies
　　unseenaroundus。Hehadlosthisfaithintheinvisible，andnow
　　pridedhimself，assuchunfortunatesinvariablydo，inthewisdom
　　whichrejectedmuchthatevenhiseyecouldsee，andtrusted
　　confidentlyinnothingbutwhathishandcouldtouch。Thisisthe
　　calamityofmenwhosespiritualpartdiesoutofthem，andleaves
　　thegrosserunderstandingtoassimilatethemmoreandmoretothe
　　thingsofwhichaloneitcantakecognizance。But，inOwenWarland，
　　thespiritwasnotdead，norpastaway；itonlyslept。
　　Howitawokeagain，isnotrecorded。Perhaps，thetorpidslumber
　　wasbrokenbyaconvulsivepain。Perhaps，asinaformerinstance，the
　　butterflycameandhoveredabouthishead，andreinspiredhim-as，
　　indeed，thiscreatureofthesunshinehadalwaysamysterious
　　missionfortheartist-reinspiredhimwiththeformerpurposeof
　　hislife。Whetheritwerepainorhappinessthatthrilledthrough
　　hisveins，hisfirstimpulsewastothankHeavenforrenderinghim
　　againthebeingofthought，imagination，andkeenestsensibility，that
　　hehadlongceasedtobe。
　　“Nowformytask。”saidhe。“NeverdidIfeelsuchstrengthfor
　　itasnow。”
　　Yet，strongashefelthimself，hewasincitedtotoilthemore
　　diligently，byananxietylestdeathshouldsurprisehiminthe
　　midstofhislabors。Thisanxiety，perhaps，iscommontoallmenwho
　　settheirheartsuponanythingsohigh，intheirownviewofit，
　　thatlifebecomesofimportanceonlyasconditionaltoits
　　accomplishment。Solongaswelovelifeforitself，weseldomdread
　　thelosingit。Whenwedesirelifefortheattainmentofanobject，we
　　recognizethefrailtyofitstexture。But，sidebysidewiththis
　　senseofinsecurity，thereisavitalfaithinourinvulnerability
　　totheshaftofdeath，whileengagedinanytaskthatseemsassigned
　　byProvidenceasourproperthingtodo，andwhichtheworldwould
　　havecausetomournfor，shouldweleaveitunaccomplished。Canthe
　　philosopher，bigwiththeinspirationofanideathatistoreform
　　mankind，believethatheistobebeckonedfromthissensible
　　existence，attheveryinstantwhenheismusteringhisbreathto
　　speakthewordoflight？Shouldheperishso，thewearyagesmay