Anniehadbutgiventheslightestpossibletouch，withthepointof
aneedle，tothesameminuteportionofcomplicatedmachinerywhich
hasbeenmorethanoncementioned，whentheartistseizedherbythe
wristwithaforcethatmadeherscreamaloud。Shewasaffrightedat
theconvulsionofintenserageandanguishthatwrithedacrosshis
features。Thenextinstanthelethisheadsinkuponhishands。
“Go，Annie。”murmuredhe，“Ihavedeceivedmyself，andmust
sufferforit。Iyearnedforsympathy-andthought-andfancied-and
dreamed-thatyoumightgiveitme。Butyoulackthetalisman，
Annie，thatshouldadmityouintomysecrets。Thattouchhasundone
thetoilofmonths，andthethoughtofalifetime！Itwasnotyour
fault，Annie-butyouhaveruinedme！”
PoorOwenWarland！Hehadindeederred，yetpardonably；forif
anyhumanspiritcouldhavesufficientlyreverencedtheprocessesso
sacredinhiseyes，itmusthavebeenawoman’s。EvenAnnie
Hovenden，possibly，mightnothavedisappointedhim，hadshebeen
enlightenedbythedeepintelligenceoflove。
Theartistspenttheensuingwinterinawaythatsatisfiedany
persons，whohadhithertoretainedahopefulopinionofhim，thathe
was，intruth，irrevocablydoomedtoinutilityasregardedthe
world，andtoanevildestinyonhisownpart。Thedeceaseofa
relativehadputhiminpossessionofasmallinheritance。Thus
freedfromthenecessityoftoil，andhavinglostthesteadfast
influenceofagreatpurpose-great，atleast，tohim-heabandoned
himselftohabitsfromwhich，itmighthavebeensupposed，themere
delicacyofhisorganizationwouldhaveavailedtosecurehim。But
whentheetherealportionofamanofgeniusisobscured，the
earthlypartassumesaninfluencethemoreuncontrollable，becausethe
characterisnowthrownoffthebalancetowhichProvidencehadso
nicelyadjustedit，andwhich，incoarsernatures，isadjustedbysome
othermethod。OwenWarlandmadeproofofwhatevershowofblissmaybe
foundinriot。Helookedattheworldthroughthegoldenmediumof
wine，andcontemplatedthevisionsthatbubbleupsogailyaround
thebrimoftheglass，andthatpeopletheairwithshapesofpleasant
madness，whichsosoongrowghostlyandforlorn。Evenwhenthisdismal
andinevitablechangehadtakenplace，theyoungmanmightstill
havecontinuedtoquaffthecupofenchantments，thoughitsvapor
didbutshroudlifeingloom，andfillthegloomwithspectresthat
mockedathim。Therewasacertainirksomenessofspirit，which，being
real，andthedeepestsensationofwhichtheartistwasnowconscious，
wasmoreintolerablethananyfantasticmiseriesandhorrorsthat
theabuseofwinecouldsummonup。Inthelattercase，hecould
remember，evenoutofthemidstofhistrouble，thatallwasbuta
delusion；intheformer，theheavyanguishwashisactuallife。
Fromthisperilousstate，hewasredeemedbyanincidentwhichmore
thanonepersonwitnessed，butofwhichtheshrewdestcouldnot
explainnorconjecturetheoperationonOwenWarland’smind。Itwas
verysimple。OnawarmafternoonofSpring，astheartistsatamong
hisriotouscompanions，withaglassofwinebeforehim，asplendid
butterflyflewinattheopenwindow，andflutteredabouthishead。
“Ah！”exclaimedOwen，whohaddrunkfreely，“areyoualiveagain，
childofthesun，andplaymateofthesummerbreeze，afteryourdismal
winter’snap！Thenitistimeformetobeatwork！”
Andleavinghisunemptiedglassuponthetable，hedeparted，and
wasneverknowntosipanotherdropofwine。
Andnow，again，heresumedhiswanderingsinthewoodsand
fields。Itmightbefanciedthatthebrightbutterfly，whichhad
comesospiritlikeintothewindow，asOwensatwiththerude
revellers，wasindeedaspirit，commissionedtorecallhimtothe
pure，ideallifethathadsoetherealisedhimamongmen。Itmightbe
fancied，thathewentforthtoseekthisspirit，initssunny
haunts；forstill，asinthesummer-timegoneby，hewasseentosteal
gentlyup，whereverabutterflyhadalighted，andlosehimselfin
contemplationofit。Whenittookflight，hiseyesfollowedthewinged
vision，asifitsairytrackwouldshowthepathtoheaven。Butwhat
couldbethepurposeoftheunseasonabletoil，whichwasagain
resumed，asthewatchmanknewbythelinesoflamp-lightthroughthe
crevicesofOwenWarland’sshutters？Thetownspeoplehadone
comprehensiveexplanationofallthesesingularities。OwenWarlandhad
gonemad！Howuniversallyefficacious-howsatisfactory，too，and
soothingtotheinjuredsensibilityofnarrownessanddullness-is
thiseasymethodofaccountingforwhateverliesbeyondtheworld’s
mostordinaryscope！FromSaintPaul’sdays，downtoourpoorlittle
ArtistoftheBeautiful，thesametalismanhadbeenappliedtothe
elucidationofallmysteriesinthewordsordeedsofmen，whospoke
oractedtoowiselyortoowell。InOwenWarland’scase，the
judgmentofhistownspeoplemayhavebeencorrect。Perhapshewasmad。
Thelackofsympathy-thatcontrastbetweenhimselfandhisneighbors，
whichtookawaytherestraintofexample-wasenoughtomakehimso。
Or，possibly，hehadcaughtjustsomuchofetherealradianceas
servedtobewilderhim，inanearthlysense，byitsintermixture
withthecommondaylight。
Oneevening，whentheartisthadreturnedfromacustomary
ramble，andhadjustthrownthelustreofhislamponthedelicate
pieceofwork，soofteninterrupted，butstilltakenupagain，asif
hisfatewereembodiedinitsmechanism，hewassurprisedbythe
entranceofoldPeterHovenden。Owennevermetthismanwithouta
shrinkingoftheheart。Ofalltheworld，hewasmostterrible，by
reasonofakeenunderstanding，whichsawsodistinctlywhatitdid
see，anddisbelievedsouncompromisinglyinwhatitcouldnotsee。
Onthisoccasion，theoldwatchmakerhadmerelyagraciouswordortwo
tosay。
“Owen，mylad。”saidhe，“wemustseeyouatmyhousetomorrow
night。”
Theartistbegantomuttersomeexcuse。
“Oh，butitmustbeso。”quothPeterHovenden，“forthesakeofthe
dayswhenyouwereoneofthehousehold。What，myboy，don’tyou
knowthatmydaughterAnnieisengagedtoRobertDanforth？Weare
makinganentertainment，inourhumbleway，tocelebratetheevent。”
“Ah！”saidOwen。
Thatlittlemonosyllablewasallheuttered；itstoneseemedcold
andunconcerned，toanearlikePeterHovenden’s；andyettherewasin
itthestifledoutcryofthepoorartist’sheart，whichhe
compressedwithinhimlikeamanholdingdownanevilspirit。One
slightout-break，however，imperceptibletotheoldwatchmaker，he
allowedhimself。Raisingtheinstrumentwithwhichhewasaboutto
beginhiswork，heletitfalluponthelittlesystemofmachinery
thathad，anew，costhimmonthsofthoughtandtoil。Itwas
shatteredbythestroke！
OwenWarland’sstorywouldhavebeennotolerablerepresentationof
thetroubledlifeofthosewhostrivetocreatetheBeautiful，if，
amidallotherthwartinginfluences，lovehadnotinterposedto
stealthecunningfromhishand。Outwardlyhehadbeennoardentor
enterprisinglover；thecareerofhispassionhadconfineditstumults
andvicissitudessoentirelywithintheartist’simagination，that
Annieherselfhadscarcelymorethanawoman’sintuitiveperceptionof
it。But，inOwen’sview，itcoveredthewholefieldofhislife。
Forgetfulofthetimewhenshehadshownherselfincapableofanydeep
response，hehadpersistedinconnectingallhisdreamsof
artisticalsuccesswithAnnie’simage；shewasthevisibleshapein
whichthespiritualpowerthatheworshipped，andonwhosealtarhe
hopedtolayanotunworthyoffering，wasmademanifesttohim。Of
coursehehaddeceivedhimself；therewerenosuchattributesinAnnie
Hovendenashisimaginationhadendowedherwith。She，intheaspect
whichsheworetohisinwardvision，wasasmuchacreationofhis
own，asthemysteriouspieceofmechanismwouldbewereitever
realized。Hadhebecomeconvincedofhismistakethroughthemediumof
successfullove；hadhewonAnnietohisbosom，andtherebeheldher
fadefromangelintoordinarywoman，thedisappointmentmighthave
drivenhimback，withconcentratedenergy，uponhissoleremaining
object。Ontheotherhand，hadhefoundAnniewhathefancied，hislot
wouldhavebeensorichinbeauty，thatoutofitsmereredundancy
hemighthavewroughttheBeautifulintomanyaworthiertypethan
hehadtoiledfor。Buttheguiseinwhichhissorrowcametohim，
thesensethattheangelofhislifehadbeensnatchedawayand
giventoarudemanofearthandiron，whocouldneitherneednor
appreciateherministrations；thiswastheveryperversityoffate，
thatmakeshumanexistenceappeartooabsurdandcontradictorytobe
thesceneofoneotherhopeoroneotherfear。Therewasnothing
leftforOwenWarlandbuttositdownlikeamanthathadbeen
stunned。
Hewentthroughafitofillness。Afterhisrecovery，hissmalland
slenderframeassumedanobtusergarnitureoffleshthanithadever
beforeworn。Histhincheeksbecameround；hisdelicatelittlehand，
sospirituallyfashionedtoachievefairytask-work，grewplumperthan
thehandofathrivinginfant。Hisaspecthadachildishness，such
asmighthaveinducedastrangertopathimonthehead-pausing，
however，intheact，towonderwhatmannerofchildwashere。Itwas
asifthespirithadgoneoutofhim，leavingthebodytoflourish
inasortofvegetableexistence。NotthatOwenWarlandwasidiotic。
Hecouldtalk，andnotirrationally。Somewhatofababbler，indeed，
didpeoplebegintothinkhim；forhewasapttodiscourseat
wearisomelength，ofmarvelsofmechanismthathehadreadaboutin
books，butwhichhehadlearnedtoconsiderasabsolutelyfabulous。
AmongthemheenumeratedtheManofBrass，constructedbyAlbertus
Magnus，andtheBrazenHeadofFriarBacon；and，comingdownto
latertimes，theautomataofalittlecoachandhorses，which，it
waspretended，hadbeenmanufacturedfortheDauphinofFrance；
togetherwithaninsectthatbuzzedabouttheearlikealivingfly，
andyetwasbutacontrivanceofminutesteelsprings。Therewasa
story，too，ofaduckthatwaddled，andquacked，andate；though，
hadanyhonestcitizenpurchaseditfordinner，hewouldhavefound
himselfcheatedwiththemeremechanicalapparitionofaduck。
“Butalltheseaccounts。”saidOwenWarland，“Iamnowsatisfied，
aremereimpositions。”
Then，inamysteriousway，hewouldconfessthatheoncethought
differently。Inhisidleanddreamydayshehadconsideredit
possible，inacertainsense，tospiritualizemachinery；andto
combinewiththenewspeciesoflifeandmotion，thusproduced，a
beautythatshouldattaintotheideal，whichNaturehasproposedto
herself，inallhercreatures，buthasnevertakenpainstorealize。
Heseemed，however，toretainnoverydistinctperceptioneitherof
theprocessofachievingthisobject，orofthedesignitself。
“Ihavethrownitallasidenow。”hewouldsay。“Itwasadream，
suchasyoungmenarealwaysmystifyingthemselveswith。NowthatI
haveacquiredalittlecommonsense，itmakesmelaughtothinkofit。
Poor，poor，andfallenOwenWarland！Thesewerethesymptomsthat
hehadceasedtobeaninhabitantofthebetterspherethatlies
unseenaroundus。Hehadlosthisfaithintheinvisible，andnow
pridedhimself，assuchunfortunatesinvariablydo，inthewisdom
whichrejectedmuchthatevenhiseyecouldsee，andtrusted
confidentlyinnothingbutwhathishandcouldtouch。Thisisthe
calamityofmenwhosespiritualpartdiesoutofthem，andleaves
thegrosserunderstandingtoassimilatethemmoreandmoretothe
thingsofwhichaloneitcantakecognizance。But，inOwenWarland，
thespiritwasnotdead，norpastaway；itonlyslept。
Howitawokeagain，isnotrecorded。Perhaps，thetorpidslumber
wasbrokenbyaconvulsivepain。Perhaps，asinaformerinstance，the
butterflycameandhoveredabouthishead，andreinspiredhim-as，
indeed，thiscreatureofthesunshinehadalwaysamysterious
missionfortheartist-reinspiredhimwiththeformerpurposeof
hislife。Whetheritwerepainorhappinessthatthrilledthrough
hisveins，hisfirstimpulsewastothankHeavenforrenderinghim
againthebeingofthought，imagination，andkeenestsensibility，that
hehadlongceasedtobe。
“Nowformytask。”saidhe。“NeverdidIfeelsuchstrengthfor
itasnow。”
Yet，strongashefelthimself，hewasincitedtotoilthemore
diligently，byananxietylestdeathshouldsurprisehiminthe
midstofhislabors。Thisanxiety，perhaps，iscommontoallmenwho
settheirheartsuponanythingsohigh，intheirownviewofit，
thatlifebecomesofimportanceonlyasconditionaltoits
accomplishment。Solongaswelovelifeforitself，weseldomdread
thelosingit。Whenwedesirelifefortheattainmentofanobject，we
recognizethefrailtyofitstexture。But，sidebysidewiththis
senseofinsecurity，thereisavitalfaithinourinvulnerability
totheshaftofdeath，whileengagedinanytaskthatseemsassigned
byProvidenceasourproperthingtodo，andwhichtheworldwould
havecausetomournfor，shouldweleaveitunaccomplished。Canthe
philosopher，bigwiththeinspirationofanideathatistoreform
mankind，believethatheistobebeckonedfromthissensible
existence，attheveryinstantwhenheismusteringhisbreathto
speakthewordoflight？Shouldheperishso，thewearyagesmay
