But we must return to Owen Warland's shop, and spend moremeditation upon his history and character than either PeterHovenden, or probably his daughter Annie, or Owen's old school-fellow,Robert Danforth, would have thought due to so slight a subject. Fromthe time that his little fingers could grasp a pen-knife, Owen hadbeen remarkable for a delicate ingenuity, which sometimes producedpretty shapes in wood, principally figures of flowers and birds, andsometimes seemed to aim at the hidden mysteries of mechanism. But itwas always for purposes of grace, and never with any mockery of theuseful. He did not, like the crowd of school-boy artizans, constructlittle windmills on the angle of a barn, or watermills across theneighboring brook. Those who discovered such peculiarity in the boy,as to think it worth their while to observe him closely, sometimes sawreason to suppose that he was attempting to imitate the beautifulmovements of nature, as exemplified in the flight of birds or theactivity of little animals. It seemed, in fact, a new development ofthe love of the Beautiful, such as might have made him a poet, apainter, or a sculptor, and which was as completely refined from allutilitarian coarseness, as it could have been in either of the finearts. He looked with singular distaste at the stiff and regularprocesses of ordinary machinery. Being once carried to see asteam-engine, in the expectation that his intuitive comprehension ofmechanical principle would be gratified, he turned pale, and grewsick, as if something monstrous and unnatural had been presented tohim. This horror was partly owing to the size and terrible energy ofthe Iron Laborer; for the character of Owen's mind was microscopic,and tended naturally to the minute, in accordance with hisdiminutive frame, and the marvellous smallness and delicate power ofhis fingers. Not that his sense of beauty was thereby diminishedinto a sense of prettiness. The beautiful Idea has no relation tosize, and may be as perfectly developed in a space too minute forany but microscopic investigation, as within the ample verge that ismeasured by the arc of the rainbow. But, at all events, thischaracteristic minuteness in his objects and accomplishments madethe world even more incapable than it might otherwise have been, ofappreciating Owen Warland's genius. The boy's relatives saw nothingbetter to be done- as perhaps there was not- than to bind himapprentice to a watchmaker, hoping that his strange ingenuity mightthus be regulated, and put to utili-tarian purposes.
Peter Hovenden's opinion of his apprentice has already beenexpressed. He could make nothing of the lad. Owen's apprehension ofthe professional mysteries, it is true, was inconceivably quick. Buthe altogether forgot or despised the grand object of a watchmaker'sbusiness, and cared no more for the measurement of time than if it hadbeen merged into eternity. So long, however, as he remained underhis old master's care, Owen's lack of sturdiness made it possible,by strict injunctions and sharp oversight, to restrain his creativeeccentricity within bounds. But when his apprenticeship was servedout, and he had taken the little shop which Peter Hovenden's failingeyesight compelled him to relinquish, then did people recognize howunfit a person was Owen Warland to lead old blind Father Time alonghis daily course. One of his most rational projects was, to connecta musical operation with the machinery of his watches, so that all theharsh dissonances of life might be rendered tuneful, and each flittingmoment fall into the abyss of the Past in golden drops of harmony.
If a family-clock was entrusted to him for repair- one of thosetall, ancient clocks that have grown nearly allied to human nature, bymeasuring out the lifetime of many generations- he would take uponhimself to arrange a dance or funeral procession of figures across itsvenerable face, representing twelve mirthful or melancholy hours.
Several freaks of this kind quite destroyed the young watchmaker'scredit with that steady and matter-of-fact class of people, who holdthe opinion that time is not to be trifled with, whether considered asthe medium of advancement and prosperity in this world, or preparationfor the next. His custom rapidly diminished- a misfortune, however,that was probably reckoned among his better accidents by Owen Warland,who was becoming more and more absorbed in a secret occupation,which drew all his science and manual dexterity into itself, andlikewise gave full employment to the characteristic tendencies ofhis genius. This pursuit had already consumed many months.
After the old watchmaker and his pretty daughter had gazed athim, out of the obscurity of the street, Owen Warland was seizedwith a fluttering of the nerves, which made his hand tremble tooviolently to proceed with such delicate labor as he was now engagedupon.
"It was Annie herself!" murmured he. "I should have known by thisthrobbing of my heart, before I heard her father's voice. Ah, how itthrobs! I shall scarcely be able to work again on this exquisitemechanism tonight. Annie- dearest Annie- thou shouldst give firmnessto my heart and hand, and not shake them thus; for if I strive toput the very spirit of Beauty into form, and give it motion, it is forthy sake alone. Oh, throbbing heart, be quiet! If my labor be thusthwarted, there will come vague and unsatisfied dreams, which willleave me spiritless tomorrow."As he was endeavoring to settle himself again to his task, theshop-door opened, and gave admittance to no other than the stalwartfigure which Peter Hovenden had paused to admire, as seen amid thelight and shadow of the blacksmith's shop. Robert Danforth had broughta little anvil of his own manufacture, and peculiarly constructed,which the young artist had recently bespoken. Owen examined thearticle, and pronounced it fashioned according to his wish.
