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Not that Owen Warland was idiotic。 He could talk； and not
irrationally。 Somewhat of a babbler； indeed； did people begin to
think him； for he was apt to discourse at wearisome length of
marvels of mechanism that he had read about in books； but which
he had learned to consider as absolutely fabulous。 Among them he
enumerated the Man of Brass； constructed by Albertus Magnus； and
the Brazen Head of Friar Bacon； and； coming down to later times；
the automata of a little coach and horses； which it was pretended
had been manufactured for the Dauphin of France； together with an
insect that buzzed about the ear like a living fly； and yet was
but a contrivance of minute steel springs。 There was a story；
too； of a duck that waddled； and quacked； and ate； though； had
any honest citizen purchased it for dinner； he would have found
himself cheated with the mere mechanical apparition of a duck。
〃But all these accounts；〃 said Owen Warland； 〃I am now satisfied
are mere impositions。〃
Then； in a mysterious way； he would confess that he once thought
differently。 In his idle and dreamy days he had considered it
possible； in a certain sense； to spiritualize machinery； and to
combine with the new species of life and motion thus produced a
beauty that should attain to the ideal which Nature has proposed
to herself in all her creatures； but has never taken pains to
realize。 He seemed； however； to retain no very distinct
perception either of the process of achieving this object or of
the design itself。
〃I have thrown it all aside now；〃 he would say。 〃It was a dream
such as young men are always mystifying themselves with。 Now that
I have acquired a little common sense； it makes me laugh to think
of it。〃
Poor； poor and fallen Owen Warland！ These were the symptoms that
he had ceased to be an inhabitant of the better sphere that lies
unseen around us。 He had lost his faith in the invisible； and now
prided himself； as such unfortunates invariably do； in the wisdom
which rejected much that even his eye could see； and trusted
confidently in nothing but what his hand could touch。 This is the
calamity of men whose spiritual part dies out of them and leaves
the grosser understanding to assimilate them more and more to the
things of which alone it can take cognizance； but in Owen Warland
the spirit was not dead nor passed away； it only slept。
How it awoke again is not recorded。 Perhaps the torpid slumber
was broken by a convulsive pain。 Perhaps； as in a former
instance； the butterfly came and hovered about his head and
reinspired him；as indeed this creature of the sunshine had
always a mysterious mission for the artist；reinspired him with
the former purpose of his life。 Whether it were pain or happiness
that thrilled through his veins； his first impulse was to thank
Heaven for rendering him again the being of thought； imagination；
and keenest sensibility that he had long ceased to be。
〃Now for my task；〃 said he。 〃Never did I feel such strength for
it as now。〃
Yet； strong as he felt himself； he was incited to toil the more
diligently by an anxiety lest death should surprise him in the
midst of his labors。 This anxiety； perhaps； is common to all men
who set their hearts upon anything so high； in their own view of
it； that life becomes of importance only as conditional to its
accomplishment。 So long as we love life for itself； we seldom
dread the losing it。 When we desire life for the attainment of an
object； we recognize the frailty of its texture。 But； side by
side with this sense of insecurity； there is a vital faith in our
invulnerability to the shaft of death while engaged in any task
that seems assigned by Providence as our proper thing to do； and
which the world would have cause to mourn for should we leave it
unaccomplished。 Can the philosopher； big with the inspiration of
an idea that is to reform mankind； believe that he is to be
beckoned from this sensible existence at the very instant when he
is mustering his breath to speak the word of light？ Should he
perish so； the weary ages may pass awaythe world's； whose life
sand may fall； drop by dropbefore another intellect is prepared
to develop the truth that might have been uttered then。 But
history affords many an example where the most precious spirit；
at any particular epoch manifested in human shape； has gone hence
untimely； without space allowed him； so far as mortal judgment
could discern； to perform his mission on the earth。 The prophet
dies； and the man of torpid heart and sluggish brain lives on。
The poet leaves his song half sung； or finishes it； beyond the
scope of mortal ears； in a celestial choir。 The painteras
Allston didleaves half his conception on the canvas to sadden
us with its imperfect beauty； and goes to picture forth the
whole； if it be no irreverence to say so； in the hues of heaven。
But rather such incomplete designs of this life will be perfected
nowhere。 This so frequent abortion of man's dearest projects must
be taken as a proof that the deeds of earth； however etherealized
by piety or genius； are without value； except as exercises and
manifestations of the spirit。 In heaven； all ordinary thought is
higher and more melodious than Milton's song。 Then； would he add
another verse to any strain that he had left unfinished here？
But to return to Owen Warland。 It was his fortune； good or ill；
to achieve the purpose of his life。 Pass we over a long space of
intense thought； yearning effort； minute toil； and wasting
anxiety； succeeded by an instant of solitary triumph： let all
this be imagined； and then behold the artist； on a winter
evening； seeking admittance to Robert Danforth's fireside circle。
There he found the man of iron； with his massive substance
thoroughly warmed and attempered by domestic influences。 And
there was Annie； too； now transformed into a matron； with much of
her husband's plain and sturdy nature； but imbued； as Owen
Warland still believed； with a finer grace； that might enable her
to be the interpreter between strength and beauty。 It happened；
likewise； that old Peter Hovenden was a guest this evening at his
daughter's fireside； and it was his well…remembered expression of
keen； cold criticism that first encountered the artist's glance。
〃My old friend Owen！〃 cried Robert Danforth； starting up； and
compressing the artist's delicate fingers within a hand that was
accustomed to gripe bars of iron。 〃This is kind and neighborly to
come to us at last。 I was afraid your perpetual motion had
bewitched you out of the remembrance of old times。〃
〃We are glad to see you；〃 said Annie； while a blush reddened her
matronly cheek。 〃It was not like a friend to stay from us so
long。〃
〃Well； Owen；〃 inquired the old watchmaker； as his first greeting；
〃how comes on the beautiful？ Have you created it at last？〃
The artist did not immediately reply； being startled by the
apparition of a young child of strength that wa