第38章

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