Hetookfrombeneathaglass，apieceofminutemachinery，whichhe
setinthecondensedlightofhislamp，and，lookingintentlyatit
throughamagnifyingglass，proceededtooperatewithadelicate
instrumentofsteel。Inaninstant，however，hefellbackinhis
chair，andclaspedhishands，withalookofhorroronhisface，
thatmadeitssmallfeaturesasimpressiveasthoseofagiantwould
havebeen。
“Heaven！WhathaveIdone！”exclaimedhe。“Thevapor！theinfluence
ofthatbruteforce！ithasbewilderedme，andobscuredmyperception。
Ihavemadetheverystroke-thefatalstroke-thatIhavedreaded
fromthefirst！Itisallover-thetoilofmonths-theobjectofmy
life！Iamruined！”
Andtherehesat，instrangedespair，untilhislampflickeredin
thesocket，andlefttheArtistoftheBeautifulindarkness。
Thusitis，thatideaswhichgrowupwithintheimagination，and
appearsolovelytoit，andofavaluebeyondwhatevermencall
valuable，areexposedtobeshatteredandannihilatedbycontact
withthePractical。Itisrequisitefortheidealartisttopossess
aforceofcharacterthatseemshardlycompatiblewithitsdelicacy；
hemustkeephisfaithinhimself，whiletheincredulousworldassails
himwithitsutterdisbelief；hemuststandupagainstmankindand
behisownsoledisciple，bothasrespectshisgenius，andtheobjects
towhichitisdirected。
Foratime，OwenWarlandsuccumbedtothissevere，butinevitable
test。Hespentafewsluggishweeks，withhisheadsocontinually
restinginhishands，thatthetownspeoplehadscarcelyanopportunity
toseehiscountenance。When，atlast，itwasagainupliftedtothe
lightofday，acold，dull，namelesschangewasperceptibleuponit。
IntheopinionofPeterHovenden，however，andthatorderofsagacious
understandingswhothinkthatlifeshouldberegulated，like
clock-work，withleadenweights，thealterationwasentirelyforthe
better。Owennow，indeed，appliedhimselftobusinesswithdogged
industry。Itwasmarvelloustowitnesstheobtusegravitywithwhich
hewouldinspectthewheelsofagreat，oldsilverwatch；thereby
delightingtheowner，inwhosefobithadbeenworntillhedeemed
itaportionofhisownlife，andwasaccordinglyjealousofits
treatment。Inconsequenceofthegoodreportthusacquired，Owen
Warlandwasinvitedbytheproperauthoritiestoregulatetheclockin
thechurch-steeple。Hesucceededsoadmirablyinthismatterofpublic
interest，thatthemerchantsgrufflyacknowledgedhismeritson
’Change；thenursewhisperedhispraises，asshegavethepotionin
thesick-chamber；theloverblessedhimatthehourofappointed
interview；andthetowningeneralthankedOwenforthepunctualityof
dinner-time。Inaword，theheavyweightuponhisspiritskept
everythinginorder，notmerelywithinhisownsystem，butwheresoever
theironaccentsofthechurch-clockwereaudible。Itwasa
circumstance，thoughminute，yetcharacteristicofhispresent
state，that，whenemployedtoengravenamesorinitialsonsilver
spoons，henowwrotetherequisitelettersintheplainestpossible
style；omittingavarietyoffancifulflourishes，thathad
heretoforedistinguishedhisworkinthiskind。
Oneday，duringtheeraofthishappytransformation，oldPeter
Hovendencametovisithisformerapprentice。
“Well，Owen。”saidhe，Iamgladtohearsuchgoodaccountsof
youfromallquarters；andespeciallyfromthetown-clockyonder，
whichspeaksinyourcommendationeveryhourofthetwenty-four。
OnlygetridaltogetherofyournonsensicaltrashabouttheBeautiful-
whichI，nornobodyelse，noryourselftoboot，couldeverunderstand-
onlyfreeyourselfofthat，andyoursuccessinlifeisassureas
daylight。Why，ifyougooninthisway，Ishouldevenventureto
letyoudoctorthispreciousoldwatchofmine；though，exceptmy
daughterAnnie，Ihavenothingelsesovaluableintheworld。”
“Ishouldhardlydaretouchit，sir。”repliedOweninadepressed
tone；forhewasweigheddownbyhisoldmaster’spresence。
“Intime，saidthelatter，“intime，youwillbecapableofit。”
Theoldwatchmaker，withthefreedomnaturallyconsequentonhis
formerauthority，wentoninspectingtheworkwhichOwenhadinhand
atthemoment，togetherwithothermattersthatwereinprogress。
Theartist，meanwhile，couldscarcelylifthishead。Therewasnothing
soantipodaltohisnatureasthisman’scold，unimaginativesagacity，
bycontactwithwhicheverythingwasconvertedintoadream，except
thedensestmatterofthephysicalworld。Owengroanedinspirit，
andprayedferventlytobedeliveredfromhim。
“Butwhatisthis？”criedPeterHovendenabruptly，takingupa
dustybell-glass，beneathwhichappearedamechanicalsomething，as
delicateandminuteasthesystemofabutterfly’sanatomy。“Whathave
wehere！Owen，Owen！thereiswitchcraftintheselittlechains，and
wheels，andpaddles！See！withonepinchofmyfingerandthumb，I
amgoingtodeliveryoufromallfutureperil。”
“ForHeaven’ssake。”screamedOwenWarland，springingupwith
wonderfulenergy，“asyouwouldnotdrivememad-donottouchit！The
slightestpressureofyourfingerwouldruinmeforever。
“Aha，youngman！Andisitso？”saidtheoldwatchmaker，lookingat
himwithjustenoughofpenetrationtotortureOwen’ssoulwiththe
bitternessofworldlycriticism。“Well；takeyourowncourse。ButI
warnyouagain，thatinthissmallpieceofmechanismlivesyour
evilspirit。ShallIexorcisehim？”
“YouaremyEvilSpirit。”answeredOwen，muchexcited-“you，and
thehard，coarseworld！Theleadenthoughtsandthedespondencythat
youflinguponmearemyclogs。Else，Ishouldlongagohave
achievedthetaskthatIwascreatedfor。”
PeterHovendenshookhishead，withthemixtureofcontemptand
indignationwhichmankind，ofwhomhewaspartlyarepresentative，
deemthemselvesentitledtofeeltowardsallsimpletonswhoseekother
prizesthanthedustyonealongthehighway。Hethentookhisleave
withanupliftedfinger，andasneeruponhisface，thathauntedthe
artist’sdreamsformanyanightafterwards。Atthetimeofhisold
master’svisit，Owenwasprobablyonthepointoftakingupthe
relinquishedtask；but，bythissinisterevent，hewasthrownback
intothestatewhencehehadbeenslowlyemerging。
Buttheinnatetendencyofhissoulhadonlybeenaccumulating
freshvigor，duringitsapparentsluggishness。Asthesummeradvanced，
healmosttotallyrelinquishedhisbusiness，andpermittedFather
Time，sofarastheoldgentlemanwasrepresentedbytheclocksand
watchesunderhiscontrol，tostrayatrandomthroughhumanlife，
makinginfiniteconfusionamongthetrainofbewilderedhours。He
wastedthesunshine，aspeoplesaid，inwanderingthroughthewoods
andfields，andalongthebanksofstreams。There，likeachild，he
foundamusementinchasingbutterflies，orwatchingthemotionsof
water-insects。Therewassomethingtrulymysteriousinthe
intentnesswithwhichhecontemplatedtheselivingplaythings，asthey
sportedonthebreeze；orexaminedthestructureofanimperialinsect
whomhehadimprisoned。Thechaseofbutterflieswasanaptemblem
oftheidealpursuitinwhichhehadspentsomanygoldenhours。
But，wouldtheBeautifulIdeaeverbeyieldedtohishand，likethe
butterflythatsymbolizedit？Sweet，doubtless，werethesedays，and
congenialtotheartist’ssoul。Theywerefullofbright
conceptions，whichgleamedthroughhisintellectualworld，asthe
butterfliesgleamedthroughtheoutwardatmosphere，andwererealto
himfortheinstant，withoutthetoilandperplexity，andmany
disappointments，ofattemptingtomakethemvisibletothesensual
eye。Alas，thattheartist，whetherinpoetryorwhateverother
material，maynotcontenthimselfwiththeinwardenjoymentofthe
Beautiful，butmustchasetheflittingmysterybeyondthevergeofhis
etherealdomain，andcrushitsfrailbeinginseizingitwitha
materialgrasp！OwenWarlandfelttheimpulsetogiveexternalreality
tohisideas，asirresistiblyasanyofthepoetsorpainters，who
havearrayedtheworldinadimmerandfainterbeauty，imperfectly
copiedfromtherichnessoftheirvisions。
Thenightwasnowhistimefortheslowprogressofrecreating
theoneIdea，towhichallhisintellectualactivityreferred
itself。Alwaysattheapproachofdusk，hestoleintothetown，locked
himselfwithinhisshop，andwroughtwithpatientdelicacyoftouch，
formanyhours。Sometimeshewasstartledbytherapofthe
watchman，who，whenalltheworldshouldbeasleep，hadcaughtthe
gleamoflamplightthroughthecrevicesofOwenWarland’sshutters。
Daylight，tothemorbidsensibilityofhismind，seemedtohavean
intrusivenessthatinterferedwithhispursuits。Oncloudyand
inclementdays，therefore，hesatwithhisheaduponhishands，
muffling，asitwere，hissensitivebraininamistofindefinite
musings；foritwasarelieftoescapefromthesharpdistinctness
withwhichhewascompelledtoshapeouthisthoughts，duringhis
nightlytoil。
Fromoneofthesefitsoftorpor，hewasarousedbytheentranceof
AnnieHovenden，whocameintotheshopwiththefreedomofacustomer，
andalsowithsomethingofthefamiliarityofachildishfriend。She
hadwornaholethroughhersilverthimble，andwantedOwento
repairit。
“ButIdon’tknowwhetheryouwillcondescendtosuchatask。”said
she，laughing，“nowthatyouaresotakenupwiththenotionof
puttingspiritintomachinery。”
“Wheredidyougetthatidea，Annie？”saidOwen，startingin
surprise。
“Oh，outofmyownhead。”answeredshe，“andfromsomethingthat
Iheardyousay，longago，whenyouwerebutaboy，andIalittle
child。But，come！willyoumendthispoorthimbleofmine？”
“Anythingforyoursake，Annie。”saidOwenWarland-“anything！even
wereittoworkatRobertDanforth’sforge。”
“Andthatwouldbeaprettysight！”retortedAnnie，glancingwith
imperceptibleslightnessattheartist’ssmallandslenderframe。
“Well；hereisthethimble。”
“Butthatisastrangeideaofyours。”saidOwen，“aboutthe
spiritualizationofmatter！”
Andthenthethoughtstoleintohismind，thatthisyounggirl
possessedthegifttocomprehendhim，betterthanalltheworld
beside。Andwhatahelpandstrengthwoulditbetohim，inhislonely
toil，ifhecouldgainthesympathyoftheonlybeingwhomheloved！
Topersonswhosepursuitsareinsulatedfromthecommonbusinessof
life-whoareeitherinadvanceofmankind，orapartfromit-there
oftencomesasensationofmoralcold，thatmakesthespiritshiver，
asifithadreachedthefrozensolitudesaroundthepole。Whatthe
prophet，thepoet，thereformer，thecriminal，oranyotherman，
withhumanyearnings，butseparatedfromthemultitudebyapeculiar
lot，mightfeel，poorOwenWarlandfelt。
“Annie。”criedhe，growingpaleasdeathatthethought，“how
gladlywouldItellyouthesecretofmypursuit！You，methinks，would
estimateitrightly。You，Iknow，wouldhearitwithareverence
thatImustnotexpectfromtheharsh，materialworld。”
“WouldInot！tobesureIwould！”repliedAnnieHovenden，
lightlylaughing。“Come；explaintomequicklywhatisthemeaning
ofthislittlewhirligig，sodelicatelywroughtthatitmightbea
playthingforQueenMab。See；Iwillputitinmotion。”
“Hold。”exclaimedOwen，hold！”