"Well, Owen," said he, I am glad to hear such good accounts ofyou from all quarters; and especially from the town-clock yonder,which speaks in your commendation every hour of the twenty-four.
Only get rid altogether of your nonsensical trash about the Beautiful-which I, nor nobody else, nor yourself to boot, could ever understand-only free yourself of that, and your success in life is as sure asdaylight. Why, if you go on in this way, I should even venture tolet you doctor this precious old watch of mine; though, except mydaughter Annie, I have nothing else so valuable in the world.""I should hardly dare touch it, sir," replied Owen in a depressedtone; for he was weighed down by his old master's presence.
"In time, said the latter, "in time, you will be capable of it."The old watchmaker, with the freedom naturally consequent on hisformer authority, went on inspecting the work which Owen had in handat the moment, together with other matters that were in progress.
The artist, meanwhile, could scarcely lift his head. There was nothingso antipodal to his nature as this man's cold, unimaginative sagacity,by contact with which everything was converted into a dream, exceptthe densest matter of the physical world. Owen groaned in spirit,and prayed fervently to be delivered from him.
"But what is this?" cried Peter Hovenden abruptly, taking up adusty bell-glass, beneath which appeared a mechanical something, asdelicate and minute as the system of a butterfly's anatomy. "What havewe here! Owen, Owen! there is witchcraft in these little chains, andwheels, and paddles! See! with one pinch of my finger and thumb, Iam going to deliver you from all future peril.""For Heaven's sake," screamed Owen Warland, springing up withwonderful energy, "as you would not drive me mad- do not touch it! Theslightest pressure of your finger would ruin me for ever.
"Aha, young man! And is it so?" said the old watchmaker, looking athim with just enough of penetration to torture Owen's soul with thebitterness of worldly criticism. "Well; take your own course. But Iwarn you again, that in this small piece of mechanism lives yourevil spirit. Shall I exorcise him?""You are my Evil Spirit," answered Owen, much excited- "you, andthe hard, coarse world! The leaden thoughts and the despondency thatyou fling upon me are my clogs. Else, I should long ago haveachieved the task that I was created for."Peter Hovenden shook his head, with the mixture of contempt andindignation which mankind, of whom he was partly a representative,deem themselves entitled to feel towards all simpletons who seek otherprizes than the dusty one along the highway. He then took his leavewith an uplifted finger, and a sneer upon his face, that haunted theartist's dreams for many a night afterwards. At the time of his oldmaster's visit, Owen was probably on the point of taking up therelinquished task; but, by this sinister event, he was thrown backinto the state whence he had been slowly emerging.
But the innate tendency of his soul had only been accumulatingfresh vigor, during its apparent sluggishness. As the summer advanced,he almost totally relinquished his business, and permitted FatherTime, so far as the old gentleman was represented by the clocks andwatches under his control, to stray at random through human life,making infinite confusion among the train of bewildered hours. Hewasted the sunshine, as people said, in wandering through the woodsand fields, and along the banks of streams. There, like a child, hefound amusement in chasing butterflies, or watching the motions ofwater-insects. There was something truly mysterious in theintentness with which he contemplated these living playthings, as theysported on the breeze; or examined the structure of an imperial insectwhom he had imprisoned. The chase of butterflies was an apt emblemof the ideal pursuit in which he had spent so many golden hours.
But, would the Beautiful Idea ever be yielded to his hand, like thebutterfly that symbolized it? Sweet, doubtless, were these days, andcongenial to the artist's soul. They were full of brightconceptions, which gleamed through his intellectual world, as thebutterflies gleamed through the outward atmosphere, and were real tohim for the instant, without the toil and perplexity, and manydisappointments, of attempting to make them visible to the sensualeye. Alas, that the artist, whether in poetry or whatever othermaterial, may not content himself with the inward enjoyment of theBeautiful, but must chase the flitting mystery beyond the verge of hisethereal domain, and crush its frail being in seizing it with amaterial grasp! Owen Warland felt the impulse to give external realityto his ideas, as irresistibly as any of the poets or painters, whohave arrayed the world in a dimmer and fainter beauty, imperfectlycopied from the richness of their visions.
The night was now his time for the slow progress of recreatingthe one Idea, to which all his intellectual activity referreditself. Always at the approach of dusk, he stole into the town, lockedhimself within his shop, and wrought with patient delicacy of touch,for many hours. Sometimes he was startled by the rap of thewatchman, who, when all the world should be asleep, had caught thegleam of lamplight through the crevices of Owen Warland's shutters.
Daylight, to the morbid sensibility of his mind, seemed to have anintrusiveness that interfered with his pursuits. On cloudy andinclement days, therefore, he sat with his head upon his hands,muffling, as it were, his sensitive brain in a mist of indefinitemusings; for it was a relief to escape from the sharp distinctnesswith which he was compelled to shape out his thoughts, during hisnightly toil.
