"Why, yes," said Robert Danforth, his strong voice filling the shopas with the sound of a bass-viol, "I consider myself equal to anythingin the way of my own trade; though I should have made but a poorfigure at yours, with such a fist as this"- added he, laughing, ashe laid his vast hand beside the delicate one of Owen. "But what then?
I put more main strength into one blow of my sledge-hammer, than allthat you have expended since you were a 'prentice. Is not that thetruth?""Very probably," answered the low and slender voice of Owen.
"Strength is an earthly monster. I make no pretensions to it. Myforce, whatever there may be of it, is altogether spiritual.""Well, but, Owen, what are you about?" asked his old school-fellow,still in such a hearty volume of tone that it made the artistshrink; especially as the question related to a subject so sacred asthe absorbing dream of his imagination. "Folks do say, that you aretrying to discover the Perpetual Motion.""The Perpetual Motion? nonsense!" replied Owen Warland, with amovement of disgust; for he was full of little petulances. "It nevercan be discovered! It is a dream that may delude men whose brainsare mystified with matter, but not me. Besides, if such a discoverywere possible, it would not be worth my while to make it, only to havethe secret turned to such purposes as are now effected by steam andwater-power. I am not ambitious to be honored with the paternity ofa new kind of cotton-machine.""That would be droll enough!" cried the blacksmith, breaking outinto such an uproar of laughter, that Owen himself, and thebell-glasses on his work-board, quivered in unison. "No, no, Owen!
No child of yours will have iron joints and sinews. Well, I won'thinder you any more. Good night, Owen, and success; and if you needany assistance, so far as a downright blow of hammer upon anvil willanswer the purpose, I'm your man!"And with another laugh, the man of main strength left the shop.
"How strange it is," whispered Owen Warland to himself, leaning hishead upon his hand, "that all my musings, my purposes, my passionfor the Beautiful, my consciousness of power to create it- a finer,more ethereal power, of which this earthly giant can have noconception- all, all, look so vain and idle, whenever my path iscrossed by Robert Danforth! He would drive me mad, were I to meethim often. His hard, brute force darkens and confuses the spiritualelement within me. But I, too, will be strong in my own way. I willnot yield to him!"He took from beneath a glass, a piece of minute machinery, which heset in the condensed light of his lamp, and, looking intently at itthrough a magnifying glass, proceeded to operate with a delicateinstrument of steel. In an instant, however, he fell back in hischair, and clasped his hands, with a look of horror on his face,that made its small features as impressive as those of a giant wouldhave been.
"Heaven! What have I done!" exclaimed he. "The vapor! the influenceof that brute force! it has bewildered me, and obscured my perception.
I have made the very stroke- the fatal stroke- that I have dreadedfrom the first! It is all over- the toil of months- the object of mylife! I am ruined!"And there he sat, in strange despair, until his lamp flickered inthe socket, and left the Artist of the Beautiful in darkness.
Thus it is, that ideas which grow up within the imagination, andappear so lovely to it, and of a value beyond whatever men callvaluable, are exposed to be shattered and annihilated by contactwith the Practical. It is requisite for the ideal artist to possessa force of character that seems hardly compatible with its delicacy;he must keep his faith in himself, while the incredulous world assailshim with its utter disbelief; he must stand up against mankind andbe his own sole disciple, both as respects his genius, and the objectsto which it is directed.
For a time, Owen Warland succumbed to this severe, but inevitabletest. He spent a few sluggish weeks, with his head so continuallyresting in his hands, that the townspeople had scarcely an opportunityto see his countenance. When, at last, it was again uplifted to thelight of day, a cold, dull, nameless change was perceptible upon it.
In the opinion of Peter Hovenden, however, and that order of sagaciousunderstandings who think that life should be regulated, likeclock-work, with leaden weights, the alteration was entirely for thebetter. Owen now, indeed, applied himself to business with doggedindustry. It was marvellous to witness the obtuse gravity with whichhe would inspect the wheels of a great, old silver watch; therebydelighting the owner, in whose fob it had been worn till he deemedit a portion of his own life, and was accordingly jealous of itstreatment. In consequence of the good report thus acquired, OwenWarland was invited by the proper authorities to regulate the clock inthe church-steeple. He succeeded so admirably in this matter of publicinterest, that the merchants gruffly acknowledged his merits on'Change; the nurse whispered his praises, as she gave the potion inthe sick-chamber; the lover blessed him at the hour of appointedinterview; and the town in general thanked Owen for the punctuality ofdinner-time. In a word, the heavy weight upon his spirits kepteverything in order, not merely within his own system, but wheresoeverthe iron accents of the church-clock were audible. It was acircumstance, though minute, yet characteristic of his presentstate, that, when employed to engrave names or initials on silverspoons, he now wrote the requisite letters in the plainest possiblestyle; omitting a variety of fanciful flourishes, that hadheretofore distinguished his work in this kind.
One day, during the era of this happy transformation, old PeterHovenden came to visit his former apprentice.
