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my perception。 I have made the very strokethe fatal
strokethat I have dreaded from the first。 It is all overthe
toil of months； the object of my life。 I am ruined！〃
And there he sat； in strange despair； until his lamp flickered in
the socket and left the Artist of the Beautiful in darkness。
Thus it is that ideas； which grow up within the imagination and
appear so lovely to it and of a value beyond whatever men call
valuable； are exposed to be shattered and annihilated by contact
with the practical。 It is requisite for the ideal artist to
possess a force of character that seems hardly compatible with
its delicacy； he must keep his faith in himself while the
incredulous world assails him with its utter disbelief； he must
stand up against mankind and be his own sole disciple； both as
respects his genius and the objects to which it is directed。
For a time Owen Warland succumbed to this severe but inevitable
test。 He spent a few sluggish weeks with his head so continually
resting in his hands that the towns…people had scarcely an
opportunity to see his countenance。 When at last it was again
uplifted to the light of day； a cold； dull； nameless change was
perceptible upon it。 In the opinion of Peter Hovenden； however；
and that order of sagacious understandings who think that life
should be regulated； like clockwork； with leaden weights； the
alteration was entirely for the better。 Owen now； indeed； applied
himself to business with dogged industry。 It was marvellous to
witness the obtuse gravity with which he would inspect the wheels
of a great old silver watch thereby delighting the owner； in
whose fob it had been worn till he deemed it a portion of his own
life； and was accordingly jealous of its treatment。 In
consequence of the good report thus acquired； Owen Warland was
invited by the proper authorities to regulate the clock in the
church steeple。 He succeeded so admirably in this matter of
public interest that the merchants gruffly acknowledged his
merits on 'Change； the nurse whispered his praises as she gave
the potion in the sick…chamber； the lover blessed him at the hour
of appointed interview； and the town in general thanked Owen for
the punctuality of dinner time。 In a word； the heavy weight upon
his spirits kept everything in order； not merely within his own
system； but wheresoever the iron accents of the church clock were
audible。 It was a circumstance； though minute； yet characteristic
of his present state； that； when employed to engrave names or
initials on silver spoons； he now wrote the requisite letters in
the plainest possible style； omitting a variety of fanciful
flourishes that had heretofore distinguished his work in this
kind。
One day； during the era of this happy transformation； old Peter
Hovenden came to visit his former apprentice。
〃Well； Owen；〃 said he； 〃I am glad to hear such good accounts of
you 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 as daylight。 Why； if you go on in this way； I
should even venture to let you doctor this precious old watch of
mine； though； except my daughter Annie； I have nothing else so
valuable in the world。〃
〃I should hardly dare touch it； sir；〃 replied Owen； in a
depressed tone； 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 his
former authority； went on inspecting the work which Owen had in
hand at the moment； together with other matters that were in
progress。 The artist； meanwhile； could scarcely lift his head。
There was nothing so antipodal to his nature as this man's cold；
unimaginative sagacity； by contact with which everything was
converted into a dream except the 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 a
dusty bell glass； beneath which appeared a mechanical something；
as delicate and minute as the system of a butterfly's anatomy。
〃What have we here？ Owen！ Owen！ there is witchcraft in these
little chains； and wheels； and paddles。 See！ with one pinch of my
finger and thumb I am going to deliver you from all future
peril。〃
〃For Heaven's sake；〃 screamed Owen Warland； springing up with
wonderful energy； 〃as you would not drive me mad； do not touch
it！ The slightest pressure of your finger would ruin me forever。〃
〃Aha； young man！ And is it so？〃 said the old watchmaker； looking
at him with just enough penetration to torture Owen's soul with
the bitterness of worldly criticism。 〃Well； take your own course；
but I warn you again that in this small piece of mechanism lives
your evil spirit。 Shall I exorcise him？〃
〃You are my evil spirit；〃 answered Owen； much excited；〃you and
the hard； coarse world！ The leaden thoughts and the despondency
that you fling upon me are my clogs； else I should long ago have
achieved the task that I was created for。〃
Peter Hovenden shook his head； with the mixture of contempt and
indignation which mankind； of whom he was partly a
representative； deem themselves entitled to feel towards all
simpletons who seek other prizes than the dusty one along the
highway。 He then took his leave； with an uplifted finger and a
sneer upon his face that haunted the artist's dreams for many a
night afterwards。 At the time of his old master's visit； Owen was
probably on the point of taking up the relinquished task； but； by
this sinister event； he was thrown back into the state whence he
had been slowly emerging。
But the innate tendency of his soul had only been accumulating
fresh vigor during its apparent sluggishness。 As the summer
advanced he almost totally relinquished his business； and
permitted Father Time； so far as the old gentleman was
represented by the clocks and watches under his control； to stray
at random through human life； making infinite confusion among the
train of bewildered hours。 He wasted the sunshine； as people
said； in wandering through the woods and fields and along the
banks of streams。 There； like a child； he found amusement in
chasing butterflies or watching the motions of water insects。
There was something truly mysterious in the intentness with which
he contemplated these living playthings as they sported on the
breeze or examined the structure of an imperial insect whom he
had imprisoned。 The chase of butterflies was an apt emblem of the
ideal pursuit in which he had spent so many golden hours； but
would the beautiful idea ever be yielded to his hand like the
butterfly that symbolized it？ Sweet； doubtless； were these d