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THE ARTIST OF THE BEAUTIFUL
An elderly man； with his pretty daughter on his arm； was passing
along the street； and emerged from the gloom of the cloudy
evening into the light that fell across the pavement from the
window of a small shop。 It was a projecting window； and on the
inside were suspended a variety of watches； pinchbeck； silver；
and one or two of gold； all with their faces turned from the
streets； as if churlishly disinclined to inform the wayfarers
what o'clock it was。 Seated within the shop； sidelong to the
window with his pale face bent earnestly over some delicate piece
of mechanism on which was thrown the concentrated lustre of a
shade lamp； appeared a young man。
〃What can Owen Warland be about？〃 muttered old Peter Hovenden；
himself a retired watchmaker； and the former master of this same
young man whose occupation he was now wondering at。 〃What can the
fellow be about？ These six months past I have never come by his
shop without seeing him just as steadily at work as now。 It would
be a flight beyond his usual foolery to seek for the perpetual
motion； and yet I know enough of my old business to be certain
that what he is now so busy with is no part of the machinery of a
watch。〃
〃Perhaps； father；〃 said Annie； without showing much interest in
the question； 〃Owen is inventing a new kind of timekeeper。 I am
sure he has ingenuity enough。〃
〃Poh； child！ He has not the sort of ingenuity to invent anything
better than a Dutch toy；〃 answered her father； who had formerly
been put to much vexation by Owen Warland's irregular genius。 〃A
plague on such ingenuity！ All the effect that ever I knew of it
was to spoil the accuracy of some of the best watches in my shop。
He would turn the sun out of its orbit and derange the whole
course of time； if； as I said before； his ingenuity could grasp
anything bigger than a child's toy！〃
〃Hush； father！ He hears you！〃 whispered Annie； pressing the old
man's arm。 〃His ears are as delicate as his feelings； and you
know how easily disturbed they are。 Do let us move on。〃
So Peter Hovenden and his daughter Annie plodded on without
further conversation； until in a by…street of the town they found
themselves passing the open door of a blacksmith's shop。 Within
was seen the forge； now blazing up and illuminating the high and
dusky roof； and now confining its lustre to a narrow precinct of
the coal…strewn floor； according as the breath of the bellows was
puffed forth or again inhaled into its vast leathern lungs。 In
the intervals of brightness it was easy to distinguish objects in
remote corners of the shop and the horseshoes that hung upon the
wall； in the momentary gloom the fire seemed to be glimmering
amidst the vagueness of unenclosed space。 Moving about in this
red glare and alternate dusk was the figure of the blacksmith；
well worthy to be viewed in so picturesque an aspect of light and
shade； where the bright blaze struggled with the black night； as
if each would have snatched his comely strength from the other。
Anon he drew a white…hot bar of iron from the coals； laid it on
the anvil； uplifted his arm of might； and was soon enveloped in
the myriads of sparks which the strokes of his hammer scattered
into the surrounding gloom。
〃Now； that is a pleasant sight；〃 said the old watchmaker。 〃I know
what it is to work in gold； but give me the worker in iron after
all is said and done。 He spends his labor upon a reality。 What
say you； daughter Annie？〃
〃Pray don't speak so loud； father；〃 whispered Annie； 〃Robert
Danforth will hear you。〃
〃And what if he should hear me？〃 said Peter Hovenden。 〃I say
again； it is a good and a wholesome thing to depend upon main
strength and reality； and to earn one's bread with the bare and
brawny arm of a blacksmith。 A watchmaker gets his brain puzzled
by his wheels within a wheel； or loses his health or the nicety
of his eyesight； as was my case； and finds himself at middle age；
or a little after； past labor at his own trade and fit for
nothing else； yet too poor to live at his ease。 So I say once
again； give me main strength for my money。 And then； how it takes
the nonsense out of a man！ Did you ever hear of a blacksmith
being such a fool as Owen Warland yonder？〃
〃Well said； uncle Hovenden！〃 shouted Robert Danforth from the
forge； in a full； deep； merry voice； that made the roof re…echo。
〃And what says Miss Annie to that doctrine？ She； I suppose； will
think it a genteeler business to tinker up a lady's watch than to
forge a horseshoe or make a gridiron。〃
Annie drew her father onward without giving him time for reply。
But we must return to Owen Warland's shop； and spend more
meditation upon his history and character than either Peter
Hovenden； or probably his daughter Annie； or Owen's old
school…fellow； Robert Danforth； would have thought due to so
slight a subject。 From the time that his little fingers could
grasp a penknife； Owen had been remarkable for a delicate
ingenuity； which sometimes produced pretty shapes in wood；
principally figures of flowers and birds； and sometimes seemed to
aim at the hidden mysteries of mechanism。 But it was always for
purposes of grace； and never with any mockery of the useful。 He
did not； like the crowd of school…boy artisans； construct little
windmills on the angle of a barn or watermills across the
neighboring brook。 Those who discovered such peculiarity in the
boy as to think it worth their while to observe him closely；
sometimes saw reason to suppose that he was attempting to imitate
the beautiful movements of Nature as exemplified in the flight of
birds or the activity of little animals。 It seemed； in fact； a
new development of the love of the beautiful； such as might have
made him a poet； a painter； or a sculptor； and which was as
completely refined from all utilitarian coarseness as it could
have been in either of the fine arts。 He looked with singular
distaste at the stiff and regular processes of ordinary
machinery。 Being once carried to see a steam…engine； in the
expectation that his intuitive comprehension of mechanical
principles would be gratified； he turned pale and grew sick； as
if something monstrous and unnatural had been presented to him。
This horror was partly owing to the size and terrible energy of
the iron laborer； for the character of Owen's mind was
microscopic； and tended naturally to the minute； in accordance
with his diminutive frame and the marvellous smallness and
delicate power of his fingers。 Not that his sense of beauty was
thereby diminished into a sense of prettiness。 The beautiful idea
has no relation to size； and may be as perfectly developed in a
space too minute for any but microscopic investigation as within
the ample verge that is measured by the arc of the rainbow。 But；
at all events； this characteristic minuteness in his objects and
accomplishments made the world even more incapable than it might
otherwise ha