passaway-theworld’swholelife-sandmayfall，dropbydrop-before
anotherintellectispreparedtodevelopethetruththatmighthave
beenutteredthen。Buthistoryaffordsmanyanexample，wherethemost
preciousspirit，atanyparticularepochmanifestedinhumanshape，
hasgonehenceuntimely，withoutspaceallowedhim，sofarasmortal
judgmentcoulddiscern，toperformhismissionontheearth。The
prophetdies；andthemanoftorpidheartandsluggishbrainliveson。
Thepoetleaveshissonghalfsung，orfinishesit，beyondthescope
ofmortalears，inacelestialchoir。Thepainter-asAllstondid-
leaveshalfhisconceptiononthecanvas，tosaddenuswithits
imperfectbeauty，andgoestopictureforththewhole，ifitbeno
irreverencetosayso，inthehuesofHeaven。But，rather，such
incompletedesignsofthislifewillbeperfectednowhere。Thisso
frequentabortionofman’sdearestprojectsmustbetakenasa
proof，thatthedeedsofearth，howeveretherealizedbypietyor
genius，arewithoutvalue，exceptasexercisesandmanifestationsof
thespirit。InHeaven，allordinarythoughtishigherandmore
melodiousthanMilton’ssong。Then，wouldheaddanotherverseto
anystrainthathehadleftunfinishedhere？
ButtoreturntoOwenWarland。Itwashisfortune，goodorill，
toachievethepurposeofhislife。Passweoveralongspaceof
intensethought，yearningeffort，minutetoil，andwastinganxiety，
succeededbyaninstantofsolitarytriumph；letallthisbeimagined；
andthenbeholdtheartist，onawinterevening，seekingadmittanceto
RobertDanforth’sfiresidecircle。TherehefoundtheManofIron，
withhismassivesubstance，thoroughlywarmedandattemperedby
domesticinfluences。AndtherewasAnnie，too，nowtransformedinto
amatron，withmuchofherhusband’splainandsturdynature，but
imbued，asOwenWarlandstillbelieved，withafinergrace，thatmight
enablehertobetheinterpreterbetweenStrengthandBeauty。It
happened，likewise，thatoldPeterHovendenwasaguest，thisevening，
athisdaughter’sfireside；anditwashiswell-remembered
expressionofkeen，coldcriticism，thatfirstencounteredthe
artist’sglance。
“MyoldfriendOwen！”criedRobertDanforth，startingup，and
compressingtheartist’sdelicatefingerswithinahandthatwas
accustomedtogripebarsofiron。“Thisiskindandneighborly，to
cometousatlast！IwasafraidyourPerpetualMotionhadbewitched
yououtoftheremembranceofoldtimes。”
“Wearegladtoseeyou！”saidAnnie，whileablushreddenedher
matronlycheek。“Itwasnotlikeafriendtostayfromussolong。”
“Well，Owen。”inquiredtheoldwatchmaker，ashisfirstgreeting，
“howcomesontheBeautiful？Haveyoucreateditatlast？”
Theartistdidnotimmediatelyreply，beingstartledbythe
apparitionofayoungchildofstrength，thatwastumblingabouton
thecarpet；alittlepersonagewhohadcomemysteriouslyoutofthe
infinite，butwithsomethingsosturdyandrealinhiscomposition
thatheseemedmouldedoutofthedensestsubstancewhichearth
couldsupply。Thishopefulinfantcrawledtowardsthenewcomer，and
settinghimselfonend-asRobertDanforthexpressedtheposture-
staredatOwenwithalookofsuchsagaciousobservation，thatthe
mothercouldnothelpexchangingaproudglancewithherhusband。
Buttheartistwasdisturbedbythechild’slook，asimagininga
resemblancebetweenitandPeterHovenden’shabitualexpression。He
couldhavefanciedthattheoldwatchmakerwascompressedintothis
baby-shape，andlookingoutofthosebaby-eyes，andrepeating-ashe
nowdid-themaliciousquestion：“TheBeautiful，Owen！Howcomeson
theBeautiful？HaveyousucceededincreatingtheBeautiful？”
“Ihavesucceeded。”repliedtheartist，withamomentarylightof
triumphinhiseyes，andasmileofsunshine，yetsteepedinsuch
depthofthought，thatitwasalmostsadness。“Yes，myfriends，it
isthetruth。Ihavesucceeded！”
“Indeed！”criedAnnie，alookofmaidenmirthfulnesspeepingoutof
herfaceagain。“Andisitlawful，now，toinquirewhatthesecret
is？”
“Surely；itistodiscloseit，thatIhavecome。”answeredOwen
Warland。“Youshallknow，andsee，andtouch，andpossessthe
secret！For，Annie-ifbythatnameImaystilladdressthefriend
ofmyboyishyears-Annie，itisforyourbridalgiftthatIhave
wroughtthisspiritualizedmechanism，thisharmonyofmotion，this
MysteryofBeauty！Itcomeslate，indeed；butitisaswegoonwardin
life，whenobjectsbegintolosetheirfreshnessofhue，andoursouls
theirdelicacyofperception，thatthespiritofBeautyismost
needed。If-forgiveme，Annie-ifyouknowhowtovaluethisgift，
itcannevercometoolate！”
Heproduced，ashespoke，whatseemedajewel-box。Itwascarved
richlyoutofebonybyhisownhand，andinlaidwithafanciful
traceryofpearl，representingaboyinpursuitofabutterfly，which，
elsewhere，hadbecomeawingedspirit，andwasflyingheavenward；
whiletheboy，oryouth，hadfoundsuchefficacyinhisstrongdesire，
thatheascendedfromearthtocloud，andfromcloudtocelestial
atmosphere，towintheBeautiful。Thiscaseofebonytheartist
opened，andbadeAnnieplaceherfingeronitsedge。Shedidso，but
almostscreamed，asabutterflyflutteredforth，and，alightingonher
finger’stip，satwavingtheamplemagnificenceofitspurpleand
gold-speckledwings，asifinpreludetoaflight。Itisimpossibleto
expressbywordstheglory，thesplendor，thedelicategorgeousness，
whichweresoftenedintothebeautyofthisobject。Nature’sideal
butterflywashererealizedinallitsperfection；notinthe
patternofsuchfadedinsectsasflitamongearthlyflowers，butof
thosewhichhoveracrossthemeadsofParadise，forchild-angelsand
thespiritsofdepartedinfantstodisportthemselveswith。Therich
downwasvisibleuponitswings；thelustreofitseyesseemed
instinctwithspirit。Thefirelightglimmeredaroundthiswonder-
thecandlesgleameduponit-butitglistenedapparentlybyitsown
radiance，andilluminatedthefingerandoutstretchedhandonwhichit
rested，withawhitegleamlikethatofpreciousstones。Inits
perfectbeauty，theconsiderationofsizewasentirelylost。Hadits
wingsoverreachedthefirmament，themindcouldnothavebeenmore
filledorsatisfied。
“Beautiful！Beautiful！”exclaimedAnnie。“Isitalive？Isit
alive？”
“Alive？Tobesureitis。”answeredherhusband。“Doyousuppose
anymortalhasskillenoughtomakeabutterfly-orwouldput
himselftothetroubleofmakingone，whenanychildmaycatchascore
oftheminasummer’safternoon？Alive？certainly！Butthisprettybox
isundoubtedlyofourfriendOwen’smanufacture；andreallyitdoes
himcredit。”
Atthismoment，thebutterflywaveditswingsanew，withamotion
soabsolutelylifelikethatAnniewasstartled，andevenawe-stricken；
for，inspiteofherhusband’sopinion，shecouldnotsatisfy
herselfwhetheritwasindeedalivingcreature，orapieceof
wondrousmechanism。
“Isitalive？”sherepeated，moreearnestlythanbefore。
“Judgeforyourself。”saidOwenWarland，whostoodgazinginher
facewithfixedattention。
Thebutterflynowflungitselfupontheair，flutteredround
Annie’shead，andsoaredintoadistantregionoftheparlor，still
makingitselfperceptibletosightbythestarrygleaminwhichthe
motionofitswingsenvelopedit。Theinfant，onthefloor，followed
itscoursewithhissagaciouslittleeyes。Afterflyingaboutthe
room，itreturned，inaspiralcurve，andsettledagainonAnnie’s
finger。
“Butisitalive？”exclaimedsheagain；andthefinger，onwhich
thegorgeousmysteryhadalighted，wassotremulousthatthebutterfly
wasforcedtobalancehimselfwithhiswings。“Tellmeifitbealive，
orwhetheryoucreatedit？”
“Whereforeaskwhocreatedit，soitbebeautiful？”repliedOwen
Warland。“Alive？Yes，Annie；itmaywellbesaidtopossesslife，
forithasabsorbedmyownbeingintoitself；andinthesecretof
thatbutterfly，andinitsbeauty-whichisnotmerelyoutward，but
deepasitswholesystem-isrepresentedtheintellect，the
imagination，thesensibility，thesoul，ofanArtistoftheBeautiful！
Yes，Icreatedit。But“-andherehiscountenancesomewhatchanged-
“thisbutterflyisnotnowtomewhatitwaswhenIbehelditafar
off，intheday-dreamsofmyyouth。”
“Beitwhatitmay，itisaprettyplaything。”saidtheblacksmith，
grinningwithchildlikedelight。“Iwonderwhetheritwouldcondescend
toalightonsuchagreatclumsyfingerasmine？Holdithither，
Annie！”
Bytheartist’sdirection，Annietouchedherfinger’stiptothat
ofherhusband；and，afteramomentarydelay，thebutterfly
flutteredfromonetotheother。Itpreludedasecondflightbya
similar，yetnotpreciselythesamewavingofwings，asinthefirst
experiment。Thenascendingfromtheblacksmith’sstalwartfinger，it
roseinagraduallyenlargingcurvetotheceiling，madeonewide
sweeparoundtheroom，andreturnedwithanundulatingmovementtothe
pointwhenceithadstarted。
“Well，thatdoesbeatallnature！”criedRobertDanforth，bestowing
theheartiestpraisethathecouldfindexpressionfor；and，indeed，
hadhepausedthere，amanoffinerwordsandnicerperceptioncould
noteasilyhavesaidmore。“Thatgoesbeyondme，Iconfess！Butwhat
then？Thereismorerealuseinonedownrightblowofmy
sledge-hammer，thaninthewholefiveyears’laborthatourfriend
Owenhaswastedonthisbutterfly！”
Herethechildclappedhishands，andmadeagreatbabbleof
indistinctutterance，apparentlydemandingthatthebutterflyshould
begivenhimforaplaything。
OwenWarland，meanwhile，glancedsidelongatAnnie，todiscover
whethershesympathizedinherhusband’sestimateofthecomparative
valueoftheBeautifulandthePractical。Therewas，amidallher
kindnesstowardshimself，amidallthewonderandadmirationwith
whichshecontemplatedthemarvellousworkofhishands，and
incarnationofhisidealasecretscorn；toosecret，perhaps，for
herownconsciousness，andperceptibleonlytosuchintuitive
discernmentasthatoftheartist。ButOwen，inthelatterstagesof
hispursuit，hadrisenoutoftheregioninwhichsuchadiscovery
mighthavebeentorture。Heknewthattheworld，andAnnieasthe
representativeoftheworld，whateverpraisemightbebestowed，
couldneversaythefittingword，norfeelthefittingsentimentwhich
shouldbetheperfectrecompenseofanartistwho，symbolizingalofty
moralbyamaterialtrifle-convertingwhatwasearthlytospiritual
gold-hadwontheBeautifulintohishandiwork。Notatthislatest
momentwashetolearnthattherewardofallhighperformancemustbe
soughtwithinitself，orsoughtinvain。Therewas，however，aviewof
thematter，whichAnnie，andherhusband，andevenPeterHovenden，
mightfullyhaveunderstood，andwhichwouldhavesatisfiedthem
thatthetoilofyearshadherebeenworthilybestowed。OwenWarland
mighthavetoldthem，thatthisbutterfly，thisplaything，this
bridal-giftofapoorwatchmakertoablacksmith’swife，was，in
truth，agemofartthatamonarchwouldhavepurchasedwithhonors
andabundantwealth，andhavetreasureditamongthejewelsofhis
kingdom，asthemostuniqueandwondrousofthemall！Buttheartist
smiledandkeptthesecrettohimself。
“Father。”saidAnnie，thinkingthatawordofpraisefromtheold
watchmakermightgratifyhisformerapprentice，“docomeandadmire
thisprettybutterfly！”
“Letussee。”saidPeterHovenden，risingfromhischair，witha
sneeruponhisfacethatalwaysmadepeopledoubt，ashehimself
did，ineverythingbutamaterialexistence。“Hereismyfingerforit
toalightupon。IshallunderstanditbetterwhenonceIhave