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The Artist of the Beautiful
Onlygetridaltogetherofyournonsensicaltrashaboutthebeautiful,whichInornobodyelse,noryourselftoboot,couldeverunderstand,—onlyfreeyourselfofthat,andyoursuccessinlifeisassureasdaylight.Why,ifyougooninthisway,Ishouldevenventuretoletyoudoctorthispreciousoldwatchofmine;though,exceptmydaughterAnnie,Ihavenothingelsesovaluableintheworld."
"Ishouldhardlydaretouchit,sir,"repliedOwen,inadepressedtone;forhewasweigheddownbyhisoldmaster’spresence.
"Intime,"saidthelatter,—"Intime,youwillbecapableofit."
Theoldwatchmaker,withthefreedomnaturallyconsequentonhisformerauthority,wentoninspectingtheworkwhichOwenhadinhandatthemoment,togetherwithothermattersthatwereinprogress.Theartist,meanwhile,couldscarcelylifthishead.Therewasnothingsoantipodaltohisnatureasthisman’scold,unimaginativesagacity,bycontactwithwhicheverythingwasconvertedintoadreamexceptthedensestmatterofthephysicalworld.Owengroanedinspiritandprayedferventlytobedeliveredfromhim.
"Butwhatisthis?"criedPeterHovendenabruptly,takingupadustybellglass,beneathwhichappearedamechanicalsomething,asdelicateandminuteasthesystemofabutterfly’sanatomy."Whathavewehere?Owen!Owen!thereiswitchcraftintheselittlechains,andwheels,andpaddles.See!withonepinchofmyfingerandthumbIamgoingtodeliveryoufromallfutureperil.
