“What can Owen Warland be about?” muttered old Peter Hovenden, himself a retired6 watchmaker, and the former master of this same young man whose occupation he was now wondering at. “What can the fellow be about? These six months past I have never come by his shop without seeing him just as steadily7 at work as now. It would be a flight beyond his usual foolery to seek for the perpetual motion; and yet I know enough of my old business to be certain that what he is now so busy with is no part of the machinery8 of a watch.”
“Perhaps, father,” said Annie, without showing much interest in the question, “Owen is inventing a new kind of timekeeper. I am sure he has ingenuity9 enough.”
“Poh, child! He has not the sort of ingenuity to invent anything better than a Dutch toy,” answered her father, who had formerly10 been put to much vexation by Owen Warland’s irregular genius. “A plague on such ingenuity! All the effect that ever I knew of it was to spoil the accuracy of some of the best watches in my shop. He would turn the sun out of its orbit and derange11 the whole course of time, if, as I said before, his ingenuity could grasp anything bigger than a child’s toy!”
“Hush, father! He hears you!” whispered Annie, pressing the old man’s arm. “His ears are as delicate as his feelings; and you know how easily disturbed they are. Do let us move on.”
So Peter Hovenden and his daughter Annie plodded12 on without further conversation, until in a by-street of the town they found themselves passing the open door of a blacksmith’s shop. Within was seen the forge, now blazing up and illuminating13 the high and dusky roof, and now confining its lustre to a narrow precinct of the coal-strewn floor, according as the breath of the bellows14 was puffed15 forth16 or again inhaled17 into its vast leathern lungs. In the intervals18 of brightness it was easy to distinguish objects in remote corners of the shop and the horseshoes that hung upon the wall; in the momentary19 gloom the fire seemed to be glimmering20 amidst the vagueness of unenclosed space. Moving about in this red glare and alternate dusk was the figure of the blacksmith, well worthy21 to be viewed in so picturesque22 an aspect of light and shade, where the bright blaze struggled with the black night, as if each would have snatched his comely23 strength from the other. Anon he drew a white-hot bar of iron from the coals, laid it on the anvil24, uplifted his arm of might, and was soon enveloped25 in the myriads26 of sparks which the strokes of his hammer scattered27 into the surrounding gloom.
“Now, that is a pleasant sight,” said the old watchmaker. “I know what it is to work in gold; but give me the worker in iron after all is said and done. He spends his labor28 upon a reality. What say you, daughter Annie?”
“Pray don’t speak so loud, father,” whispered Annie, “Robert Danforth will hear you.”
“And what if he should hear me?” said Peter Hovenden. “I say again, it is a good and a wholesome29 thing to depend upon main strength and reality, and to earn one’s bread with the bare and brawny30 arm of a blacksmith. A watchmaker gets his brain puzzled by his wheels within a wheel, or loses his health or the nicety of his eyesight, as was my case, and finds himself at middle age, or a little after, past labor at his own trade and fit for nothing else, yet too poor to live at his ease. So I say once again, give me main strength for my money. And then, how it takes the nonsense out of a man! Did you ever hear of a blacksmith being such a fool as Owen Warland yonder?”
“Well said, uncle Hovenden!” shouted Robert Danforth from the forge, in a full, deep, merry voice, that made the roof re-echo. “And what says Miss Annie to that doctrine31? She, I suppose, will think it a genteeler business to tinker up a lady’s watch than to forge a horseshoe or make a gridiron.”
Annie drew her father onward32 without giving him time for reply.
But we must return to Owen Warland’s shop, and spend more meditation33 upon his history and character than either Peter Hovenden, or probably his daughter Annie, or Owen’s old school-fellow, Robert Danforth, would have thought due to so slight a subject. From the time that his little fingers could grasp a penknife, Owen had been remarkable34 for a delicate ingenuity, which sometimes produced pretty shapes in wood, principally figures of flowers and birds, and sometimes seemed to aim at the hidden mysteries of mechanism. But it was always for purposes of grace, and never with any mockery of the useful. He did not, like the crowd of school-boy artisans, construct little windmills on the angle of a barn or watermills across the neighboring brook35. Those who discovered such peculiarity36 in the boy as to think it worth their while to observe him closely, sometimes saw reason to suppose that he was attempting to imitate the beautiful movements of Nature as exemplified in the flight of birds or the activity of little animals. It seemed, in fact, a new development of the love of the beautiful, such as might have made him a poet, a painter, or a sculptor38, and which was as completely refined from all utilitarian39 coarseness as it could have been in either of the fine arts. He looked with singular distaste at the stiff and regular processes of ordinary machinery. Being once carried to see a steam-engine, in the expectation that his intuitive comprehension of mechanical principles would be gratified, he turned pale and grew sick, as if something monstrous40 and unnatural41 had been presented to him. This horror was partly owing to the size and terrible energy of the iron laborer42; for the character of Owen’s mind was microscopic43, and tended naturally to the minute, in accordance with his diminutive44 frame and the marvellous smallness and delicate power of his fingers. Not that his sense of beauty was thereby45 diminished into a sense of prettiness. The beautiful idea has no relation to size, and may be as perfectly46 developed in a space too minute for any but microscopic investigation47 as within the ample verge48 that is measured by the arc of the rainbow. But, at all events, this characteristic minuteness in his objects and accomplishments50 made the world even more incapable51 than it might otherwise have been of appreciating Owen Warland’s genius. The boy’s relatives saw nothing better to be done — as perhaps there was not — than to bind52 him apprentice53 to a watchmaker, hoping that his strange ingenuity might thus be regulated and put to utilitarian purposes.
Peter Hovenden’s opinion of his apprentice has already been expressed. He could make nothing of the lad. Owen’s apprehension54 of the professional mysteries, it is true, was inconceivably quick; but he altogether forgot or despised the grand object of a watchmaker’s business, and cared no more for the measurement of time than if it had been merged1 into eternity55. So long, however, as he remained under his old master’s care, Owen’s lack of sturdiness made it possible, by strict injunctions and sharp oversight56, to restrain his creative eccentricity57 within bounds; but when his apprenticeship58 was served out, and he had taken the little shop which Peter Hovenden’s failing eyesight compelled him to relinquish59, then did people recognize how unfit a person was Owen Warland to lead old blind Father Time along his daily course. One of his most rational projects was to connect a musical operation with the machinery of his watches, so that all the harsh dissonances of life might be rendered tuneful, and each flitting moment fall into the abyss of the past in golden drops of harmony. If a family clock was intrusted to him for repair, — one of those tall, ancient clocks that have grown nearly allied60 to human nature by measuring out the lifetime of many generations, — he would take upon himself to arrange a dance or funeral procession of figures across its venerable face, representing twelve mirthful or melancholy61 hours. Several freaks of this kind quite destroyed the young watchmaker’s credit with that steady and matter-of-fact class of people who hold the opinion that time is not to be trifled with, whether considered as the medium of advancement62 and prosperity in this world or preparation for the next. His custom rapidly diminished — a misfortune, however, that was probably reckoned among his better accidents by Owen Warland, who was becoming more and more absorbed in a secret occupation which drew all his science and manual dexterity63 into itself, and likewise gave full employment to the characteristic tendencies of his genius. This pursuit had already consumed many months.
After the old watchmaker and his pretty daughter had gazed at him out of the obscurity of the street, Owen Warland was seized with a fluttering of the nerves, which made his hand tremble too violently to proceed with such delicate labor as he was now engaged upon.
“It was Annie herself!” murmured he. “I should have known it, by this throbbing64 of my heart, before I heard her father’s voice. Ah, how it throbs65! I shall scarcely be able to work again on this exquisite66 mechanism to-night. Annie! dearest Annie! thou shouldst give firmness to my heart and hand, and not shake them thus; for if I strive to put the very spirit of beauty into form and give it motion, it is for thy sake alone. O throbbing heart, be quiet! If my labor be thus thwarted67, there will come vague and unsatisfied dreams which will leave me spiritless tomorrow.”
As he was endeavoring to settle himself again to his task, the shop door opened and gave admittance to no other than the stalwart figure which Peter Hovenden had paused to admire, as seen amid the light and shadow of the blacksmith’s shop. Robert Danforth had brought a little anvil of his own manufacture, and peculiarly constructed, which the young artist had recently bespoken68. Owen examined the article and pronounced it fashioned according to his wish.
“Why, yes,” said Robert Danforth, his strong voice filling the shop as with the sound of a bass70 viol, “I consider myself equal to anything in the way of my own trade; though I should have made but a poor figure at yours with such a fist as this,” added he, laughing, as he laid his vast hand beside the delicate one of Owen. “But what then? I put more main strength into one blow of my sledge71 hammer than all that you have expended72 since you were a ‘prentice. Is not that the truth?”
“Very probably,” answered the low and slender voice of Owen. “Strength is an earthly monster. I make no pretensions73 to it. My force, whatever there may be of it, is altogether spiritual.”
“Well, but, Owen, what are you about?” asked his old school-fellow, still in such a hearty74 volume of tone that it made the artist shrink, especially as the question related to a subject so sacred as the absorbing dream of his imagination. “Folks do say that you are trying to discover the perpetual motion.”
“The perpetual motion? Nonsense!” replied Owen Warland, with a movement of disgust; for he was full of little petulances. “It can never be discovered. It is a dream that may delude75 men whose brains are mystified with matter, but not me. Besides, if such a discovery were possible, it would not be worth my while to make it only to have the secret turned to such purposes as are now effected by steam and water power. I am not ambitious to be honored with the paternity of a new kind of cotton machine.”
“That would be droll76 enough!” cried the blacksmith, breaking out into such an uproar77 of laughter that Owen himself and the bell glasses on his work-board quivered in unison78. “No, no, Owen! No child of yours will have iron joints79 and sinews. Well, I won’t hinder you any more. Good night, Owen, and success, and if you need any assistance, so far as a downright blow of hammer upon anvil will answer the purpose, I’m your man.”
And with another laugh the man of main strength left the shop.
“How strange it is,” whispered Owen Warland to himself, leaning his head upon his hand, “that all my musings, my purposes, my passion for the beautiful, my consciousness of power to create it, — a finer, more ethereal power, of which this earthly giant can have no conception, — all, all, look so vain and idle whenever my path is crossed by Robert Danforth! He would drive me mad were I to meet him often. His hard, brute80 force darkens and confuses the spiritual element within me; but I, too, will be strong in my own way. I will not yield to him.”
He took from beneath a glass a piece of minute machinery, which he set in the condensed light of his lamp, and, looking intently at it through a magnifying glass, proceeded to operate with a delicate instrument of steel. In an instant, however, he fell back in his chair and clasped his hands, with a look of horror on his face that made its small features as impressive as those of a giant would have been.
“Heaven! What have I done?” exclaimed he. “The vapor81, the influence of that brute force, — it has bewildered me and obscured my perception. I have made the very stroke — the fatal stroke — that I have dreaded82 from the first. It is all over — the toil84 of months, the object of my life. I am ruined!”
And there he sat, in strange despair, until his lamp flickered85 in the socket86 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 annihilated87 by contact with the practical. It is requisite88 for the ideal artist to possess a force of character that seems hardly compatible with its delicacy89; he must keep his faith in himself while the incredulous world assails90 him with its utter disbelief; he must stand up against mankind and be his own sole disciple91, both as respects his genius and the objects to which it is directed.
For a time Owen Warland succumbed92 to this severe but inevitable93 test. He spent a few sluggish94 weeks with his head so continually resting in his hands that the towns-people had scarcely an opportunity to see his countenance95. 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 alteration96 was entirely97 for the better. Owen now, indeed, applied98 himself to business with dogged industry. It was marvellous to witness the obtuse99 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 engrave101 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 distinguished102 his work in this kind.
One day, during the era of this happy transformation103, 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 depressed104 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 densest105 matter of the physical world. Owen groaned106 in spirit and prayed fervently107 to be delivered from him.
“But what is this?” cried Peter Hovenden abruptly108, taking up a dusty bell glass, beneath which appeared a mechanical something, as delicate and minute as the system of a butterfly’s anatomy109. “What have we here? Owen! Owen! there is witchcraft110 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 peril111.”
“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 penetration112 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 clogs113, 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 sneer114 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 relinquished115 task; but, by this sinister116 event, he was thrown back into the state whence he had been slowly emerging.
But the innate117 tendency of his soul had only been accumulating fresh vigor118 during its apparent sluggishness119. 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 random120 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 contemplated121 these living playthings as they sported on the breeze or examined the structure of an imperial insect whom he had imprisoned122. The chase of butterflies was an apt emblem123 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 symbolized124 it? Sweet, doubtless, were these days, and congenial to the artist’s soul. They were full of bright conceptions, which gleamed through his intellectual world as the butterflies gleamed through the outward atmosphere, and were real to him, for the instant, without the toil, and perplexity, and many disappointments of attempting to make them visible to the sensual eye. Alas125 that the artist, whether in poetry, or whatever other material, may not content himself with the inward enjoyment126 of the beautiful, but must chase the flitting mystery beyond the verge of his ethereal domain127, and crush its frail128 being in seizing it with a material grasp. Owen Warland felt the impulse to give external reality to his ideas as irresistibly129 as any of the poets or painters who have arrayed the world in a dimmer and fainter beauty, imperfectly copied from the richness of their visions.
The night was now his time for the slow progress of re-creating the one idea to which all his intellectual activity referred itself. Always at the approach of dusk he stole into the town, locked himself within his shop, and wrought131 with patient delicacy of touch for many hours. Sometimes he was startled by the rap of the watchman, who, when all the world should be asleep, had caught the gleam of lamplight through the crevices132 of Owen Warland’s shutters133. Daylight, to the morbid134 sensibility of his mind, seemed to have an intrusiveness135 that interfered136 with his pursuits. On cloudy and inclement137 days, therefore, he sat with his head upon his hands, muffling138, as it were, his sensitive brain in a mist of indefinite musings, for it was a relief to escape from the sharp distinctness with which he was compelled to shape out his thoughts during his nightly toil.
From one of these fits of torpor139 he was aroused by the entrance of Annie Hovenden, who came into the shop with the freedom of a customer, and also with something of the familiarity of a childish friend. She had worn a hole through her silver thimble, and wanted Owen to repair it.
“But I don’t know whether you will condescend140 to such a task,” said she, laughing, “now that you are so taken up with the notion of putting spirit into machinery.”
“Where did you get that idea, Annie?” said Owen, starting in surprise.
“Oh, out of my own head,” answered she, “and from something that I heard you say, long ago, when you were but a boy and I a little child. But come, will you mend this poor thimble of mine?”
“Anything for your sake, Annie,” said Owen Warland, — “anything, even were it to work at Robert Danforth’s forge.”
“And that would be a pretty sight!” retorted Annie, glancing with imperceptible slightness at the artist’s small and slender frame. “Well; here is the thimble.”
“But that is a strange idea of yours,” said Owen, “about the spiritualization of matter.”
And then the thought stole into his mind that this young girl possessed141 the gift to comprehend him better than all the world besides. And what a help and strength would it be to him in his lonely toil if he could gain the sympathy of the only being whom he loved! To persons whose pursuits are insulated from the common business of life — who are either in advance of mankind or apart from it — there often comes a sensation of moral cold that makes the spirit shiver as if it had reached the frozen solitudes142 around the pole. What the prophet, the poet, the reformer, the criminal, or any other man with human yearnings, but separated from the multitude by a peculiar37 lot, might feel, poor Owen felt.
“Annie,” cried he, growing pale as death at the thought, “how gladly would I tell you the secret of my pursuit! You, methinks, would estimate it rightly. You, I know, would hear it with a reverence144 that I must not expect from the harsh, material world.”
“Would I not? to be sure I would!” replied Annie Hovenden, lightly laughing. “Come; explain to me quickly what is the meaning of this little whirligig, so delicately wrought that it might be a plaything for Queen Mab. See! I will put it in motion.”
“Hold!” exclaimed Owen, “hold!”
Annie had but given the slightest possible touch, with the point of a needle, to the same minute portion of complicated machinery which has been more than once mentioned, when the artist seized her by the wrist with a force that made her scream aloud. She was affrighted at the convulsion of intense rage and anguish145 that writhed146 across his features. The next instant he let his head sink upon his hands.
“Go, Annie,” murmured he; “I have deceived myself, and must suffer for it. I yearned147 for sympathy, and thought, and fancied, and dreamed that you might give it me; but you lack the talisman148, Annie, that should admit you into my secrets. That touch has undone149 the toil of months and the thought of a lifetime! It was not your fault, Annie; but you have ruined me!”
Poor Owen Warland! He had indeed erred130, yet pardonably; for if any human spirit could have sufficiently150 reverenced151 the processes so sacred in his eyes, it must have been a woman’s. Even Annie Hovenden, possibly might not have disappointed him had she been enlightened by the deep intelligence of love.
The artist spent the ensuing winter in a way that satisfied any persons who had hitherto retained a hopeful opinion of him that he was, in truth, irrevocably doomed152 to unutility as regarded the world, and to an evil destiny on his own part. The decease of a relative had put him in possession of a small inheritance. Thus freed from the necessity of toil, and having lost the steadfast153 influence of a great purpose, — great, at least, to him, — he abandoned himself to habits from which it might have been supposed the mere100 delicacy of his organization would have availed to secure him. But when the ethereal portion of a man of genius is obscured the earthly part assumes an influence the more uncontrollable, because the character is now thrown off the balance to which Providence154 had so nicely adjusted it, and which, in coarser natures, is adjusted by some other method. Owen Warland made proof of whatever show of bliss155 may be found in riot. He looked at the world through the golden medium of wine, and contemplated the visions that bubble up so gayly around the brim of the glass, and that people the air with shapes of pleasant madness, which so soon grow ghostly and forlorn. Even when this dismal156 and inevitable change had taken place, the young man might still have continued to quaff157 the cup of enchantments158, though its vapor did but shroud159 life in gloom and fill the gloom with spectres that mocked at him. There was a certain irksomeness of spirit, which, being real, and the deepest sensation of which the artist was now conscious, was more intolerable than any fantastic miseries160 and horrors that the abuse of wine could summon up. In the latter case he could remember, even out of the midst of his trouble, that all was but a delusion161; in the former, the heavy anguish was his actual life.
From this perilous162 state he was redeemed163 by an incident which more than one person witnessed, but of which the shrewdest could not explain or conjecture164 the operation on Owen Warland’s mind. It was very simple. On a warm afternoon of spring, as the artist sat among his riotous165 companions with a glass of wine before him, a splendid butterfly flew in at the open window and fluttered about his head.
“Ah,” exclaimed Owen, who had drank freely, “are you alive again, child of the sun and playmate of the summer breeze, after your dismal winter’s nap? Then it is time for me to be at work!”
And, leaving his unemptied glass upon the table, he departed and was never known to sip166 another drop of wine.
And now, again, he resumed his wanderings in the woods and fields. It might be fancied that the bright butterfly, which had come so spirit-like into the window as Owen sat with the rude revellers, was indeed a spirit commissioned to recall him to the pure, ideal life that had so etheralized him among men. It might be fancied that he went forth to seek this spirit in its sunny haunts; for still, as in the summer time gone by, he was seen to steal gently up wherever a butterfly had alighted, and lose himself in contemplation of it. When it took flight his eyes followed the winged vision, as if its airy track would show the path to heaven. But what could be the purpose of the unseasonable toil, which was again resumed, as the watchman knew by the lines of lamplight through the crevices of Owen Warland’s shutters? The towns-people had one comprehensive explanation of all these singularities. Owen Warland had gone mad! How universally efficacious — how satisfactory, too, and soothing167 to the injured sensibility of narrowness and dulness — is this easy method of accounting168 for whatever lies beyond the world’s most ordinary scope! From St. Paul’s days down to our poor little Artist of the Beautiful, the same talisman had been applied to the elucidation169 of all mysteries in the words or deeds of men who spoke69 or acted too wisely or too well. In Owen Warland’s case the judgment170 of his towns-people may have been correct. Perhaps he was mad. The lack of sympathy — that contrast between himself and his neighbors which took away the restraint of example — was enough to make him so. Or possibly he had caught just so much of ethereal radiance as served to bewilder him, in an earthly sense, by its intermixture with the common daylight.
One evening, when the artist had returned from a customary ramble171 and had just thrown the lustre of his lamp on the delicate piece of work so often interrupted, but still taken up again, as if his fate were embodied172 in its mechanism, he was surprised by the entrance of old Peter Hovenden. Owen never met this man without a shrinking of the heart. Of all the world he was most terrible, by reason of a keen understanding which saw so distinctly what it did see, and disbelieved so uncompromisingly in what it could not see. On this occasion the old watchmaker had merely a gracious word or two to say.
“Owen, my lad,” said he, “we must see you at my house tomorrow night.”
The artist began to mutter some excuse.
“Oh, but it must be so,” quoth Peter Hovenden, “for the sake of the days when you were one of the household. What, my boy! don’t you know that my daughter Annie is engaged to Robert Danforth? We are making an entertainment, in our humble173 way, to celebrate the event.”
That little monosyllable was all he uttered; its tone seemed cold and unconcerned to an ear like Peter Hovenden’s; and yet there was in it the stifled174 outcry of the poor artist’s heart, which he compressed within him like a man holding down an evil spirit. One slight outbreak, however, imperceptible to the old watchmaker, he allowed himself. Raising the instrument with which he was about to begin his work, he let it fall upon the little system of machinery that had, anew, cost him months of thought and toil. It was shattered by the stroke!
Owen Warland’s story would have been no tolerable representation of the troubled life of those who strive to create the beautiful, if, amid all other thwarting175 influences, love had not interposed to steal the cunning from his hand. Outwardly he had been no ardent176 or enterprising lover; the career of his passion had confined its tumults177 and vicissitudes178 so entirely within the artist’s imagination that Annie herself had scarcely more than a woman’s intuitive perception of it; but, in Owen’s view, it covered the whole field of his life. Forgetful of the time when she had shown herself incapable of any deep response, he had persisted in connecting all his dreams of artistical success with Annie’s image; she was the visible shape in which the spiritual power that he worshipped, and on whose altar he hoped to lay a not unworthy offering, was made manifest to him. Of course he had deceived himself; there were no such attributes in Annie Hovenden as his imagination had endowed her with. She, in the aspect which she wore to his inward vision, was as much a creature of his own as the mysterious piece of mechanism would be were it ever realized. Had he become convinced of his mistake through the medium of successful love, — had he won Annie to his bosom180, and there beheld181 her fade from angel into ordinary woman, — the disappointment might have driven him back, with concentrated energy, upon his sole remaining object. On the other hand, had he found Annie what he fancied, his lot would have been so rich in beauty that out of its mere redundancy he might have wrought the beautiful into many a worthier182 type than he had toiled183 for; but the guise184 in which his sorrow came to him, the sense that the angel of his life had been snatched away and given to a rude man of earth and iron, who could neither need nor appreciate her ministrations, — this was the very perversity185 of fate that makes human existence appear too absurd and contradictory186 to be the scene of one other hope or one other fear. There was nothing left for Owen Warland but to sit down like a man that had been stunned187.
He went through a fit of illness. After his recovery his small and slender frame assumed an obtuser garniture of flesh than it had ever before worn. His thin cheeks became round; his delicate little hand, so spiritually fashioned to achieve fairy task-work, grew plumper than the hand of a thriving infant. His aspect had a childishness such as might have induced a stranger to pat him on the head — pausing, however, in the act, to wonder what manner of child was here. It was as if the spirit had gone out of him, leaving the body to flourish in a sort of vegetable existence. Not that Owen Warland was idiotic188. He could talk, and not irrationally189. Somewhat of a babbler, indeed, did people begin to think him; for he was apt to discourse191 at wearisome length of marvels192 of mechanism that he had read about in books, but which he had learned to consider as absolutely fabulous193. Among them he enumerated194 the Man of Brass195, constructed by Albertus Magnus, and the Brazen196 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 waddled197, and quacked198, and ate; though, had any honest citizen purchased it for dinner, he would have found himself cheated with the mere mechanical apparition199 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 attain200 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 calamity201 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 torpid202 slumber203 was broken by a convulsive pain. Perhaps, as in a former instance, the butterfly came and hovered205 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 veins206, his first impulse was to thank Heaven for rendering207 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 incited208 to toil the more diligently209 by an anxiety lest death should surprise him in the midst of his labors210. 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 conditional211 to its accomplishment49. So long as we love life for itself, we seldom dread83 the losing it. When we desire life for the attainment212 of an object, we recognize the frailty213 of its texture214. But, side by side with this sense of insecurity, there is a vital faith in our invulnerability to the shaft215 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 beckoned216 from this sensible existence at the very instant when he is mustering217 his breath to speak the word of light? Should he perish so, the weary ages may pass away — the world’s, whose life sand may fall, drop by drop — before 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 epoch218 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 celestial219 choir220. The painter — as Allston did — leaves half his conception on the canvas to sadden us with its imperfect beauty, and goes to picture forth the whole, if it be no irreverence221 to say so, in the hues223 of heaven. But rather such incomplete designs of this life will be perfected nowhere. This so frequent abortion224 of man’s dearest projects must be taken as a proof that the deeds of earth, however etherealized by piety225 or genius, are without value, except as exercises and manifestations226 of the spirit. In heaven, all ordinary thought is higher and more melodious227 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, yearning143 effort, minute toil, and wasting anxiety, succeeded by an instant of solitary228 triumph: let all this be imagined; and then behold229 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 thoroughly230 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 imbued231, 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 was tumbling about on the carpet, — a little personage who had come mysteriously out of the infinite, but with something so sturdy and real in his composition that he seemed moulded out of the densest substance which earth could supply. This hopeful infant crawled towards the new-comer, and setting himself on end, as Robert Danforth expressed the posture232, stared at Owen with a look of such sagacious observation that the mother could not help exchanging a proud glance with her husband. But the artist was disturbed by the child’s look, as imagining a resemblance between it and Peter Hovenden’s habitual233 expression. He could have fancied that the old watchmaker was compressed into this baby shape, and looking out of those baby eyes, and repeating, as he now did, the malicious234 question: “The beautiful, Owen! How comes on the beautiful? Have you succeeded in creating the beautiful?”
“I have succeeded,” replied the artist, with a momentary light of triumph in his eyes and a smile of sunshine, yet steeped in such depth of thought that it was almost sadness. “Yes, my friends, it is the truth. I have succeeded.”
“Indeed!” cried Annie, a look of maiden235 mirthfulness peeping out of her face again. “And is it lawful236, now, to inquire what the secret is?”
“Surely; it is to disclose it that I have come,” answered Owen Warland. “You shall know, and see, and touch, and possess the secret! For, Annie, — if by that name I may still address the friend of my boyish years, — Annie, it is for your bridal gift that I have wrought this spiritualized mechanism, this harmony of motion, this mystery of beauty. It comes late, indeed; but it is as we go onward in life, when objects begin to lose their freshness of hue222 and our souls their delicacy of perception, that the spirit of beauty is most needed. If, — forgive me, Annie, — if you know how — to value this gift, it can never come too late.”
He produced, as he spoke, what seemed a jewel box. It was carved richly out of ebony by his own hand, and inlaid with a fanciful tracery of pearl, representing a boy in pursuit of a butterfly, which, elsewhere, had become a winged spirit, and was flying heavenward; while the boy, or youth, had found such efficacy in his strong desire that he ascended237 from earth to cloud, and from cloud to celestial atmosphere, to win the beautiful. This case of ebony the artist opened, and bade Annie place her fingers on its edge. She did so, but almost screamed as a butterfly fluttered forth, and, alighting on her finger’s tip, sat waving the ample magnificence of its purple and gold-speckled wings, as if in prelude238 to a flight. It is impossible to express by words the glory, the splendor239, the delicate gorgeousness which were softened240 into the beauty of this object. Nature’s ideal butterfly was here realized in all its perfection; not in the pattern of such faded insects as flit among earthly flowers, but of those which hover204 across the meads of paradise for child-angels and the spirits of departed infants to disport241 themselves with. The rich down was visible upon its wings; the lustre of its eyes seemed instinct with spirit. The firelight glimmered242 around this wonder — the candles gleamed upon it; but it glistened243 apparently244 by its own radiance, and illuminated245 the finger and outstretched hand on which it rested with a white gleam like that of precious stones. In its perfect beauty, the consideration of size was entirely lost. Had its wings overreached the firmament246, the mind could not have been more filled or satisfied.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” exclaimed Annie. “Is it alive? Is it alive?”
“Alive? To be sure it is,” answered her husband. “Do you suppose any mortal has skill enough to make a butterfly, or would put himself to the trouble of making one, when any child may catch a score of them in a summer’s afternoon? Alive? Certainly! But this pretty box is undoubtedly247 of our friend Owen’s manufacture; and really it does him credit.”
At this moment the butterfly waved its wings anew, with a motion so absolutely lifelike that Annie was startled, and even awestricken; for, in spite of her husband’s opinion, she could not satisfy herself whether it was indeed a living creature or a piece of wondrous248 mechanism.
“Is it alive?” she repeated, more earnestly than before.
“Judge for yourself,” said Owen Warland, who stood gazing in her face with fixed249 attention.
The butterfly now flung itself upon the air, fluttered round Annie’s head, and soared into a distant region of the parlor250, still making itself perceptible to sight by the starry251 gleam in which the motion of its wings enveloped it. The infant on the floor followed its course with his sagacious little eyes. After flying about the room, it returned in a spiral curve and settled again on Annie’s finger.
“But is it alive?” exclaimed she again; and the finger on which the gorgeous mystery had alighted was so tremulous that the butterfly was forced to balance himself with his wings. “Tell me if it be alive, or whether you created it.”
“Wherefore ask who created it, so it be beautiful?” replied Owen Warland. “Alive? Yes, Annie; it may well be said to possess life, for it has absorbed my own being into itself; and in the secret of that butterfly, and in its beauty, — which is not merely outward, but deep as its whole system, — is represented the intellect, the imagination, the sensibility, the soul of an Artist of the Beautiful! Yes; I created it. But” — and here his countenance somewhat changed — “this butterfly is not now to me what it was when I beheld it afar off in the daydreams252 of my youth.”
“Be it what it may, it is a pretty plaything,” said the blacksmith, grinning with childlike delight. “I wonder whether it would condescend to alight on such a great clumsy finger as mine? Hold it hither, Annie.”
By the artist’s direction, Annie touched her finger’s tip to that of her husband; and, after a momentary delay, the butterfly fluttered from one to the other. It preluded253 a second flight by a similar, yet not precisely254 the same, waving of wings as in the first experiment; then, ascending255 from the blacksmith’s stalwart finger, it rose in a gradually enlarging curve to the ceiling, made one wide sweep around the room, and returned with an undulating movement to the point whence it had started.
“Well, that does beat all nature!” cried Robert Danforth, bestowing256 the heartiest257 praise that he could find expression for; and, indeed, had he paused there, a man of finer words and nicer perception could not easily have said more. “That goes beyond me, I confess. But what then? There is more real use in one downright blow of my sledge hammer than in the whole five years’ labor that our friend Owen has wasted on this butterfly.”
Here the child clapped his hands and made a great babble190 of indistinct utterance258, apparently demanding that the butterfly should be given him for a plaything.
Owen Warland, meanwhile, glanced sidelong at Annie, to discover whether she sympathized in her husband’s estimate of the comparative value of the beautiful and the practical. There was, amid all her kindness towards himself, amid all the wonder and admiration259 with which she contemplated the marvellous work of his hands and incarnation of his idea, a secret scorn — too secret, perhaps, for her own consciousness, and perceptible only to such intuitive discernment as that of the artist. But Owen, in the latter stages of his pursuit, had risen out of the region in which such a discovery might have been torture. He knew that the world, and Annie as the representative of the world, whatever praise might be bestowed260, could never say the fitting word nor feel the fitting sentiment which should be the perfect recompense of an artist who, symbolizing261 a lofty moral by a material trifle, — converting what was earthly to spiritual gold, — had won the beautiful into his handiwork. Not at this latest moment was he to learn that the reward of all high performance must be sought within itself, or sought in vain. There was, however, a view of the matter which Annie and her husband, and even Peter Hovenden, might fully262 have understood, and which would have satisfied them that the toil of years had here been worthily263 bestowed. Owen Warland might have told them that this butterfly, this plaything, this bridal gift of a poor watchmaker to a blacksmith’s wife, was, in truth, a gem264 of art that a monarch265 would have purchased with honors and abundant wealth, and have treasured it among the jewels of his kingdom as the most unique and wondrous of them all. But the artist smiled and kept the secret to himself.
“Father,” said Annie, thinking that a word of praise from the old watchmaker might gratify his former apprentice, “do come and admire this pretty butterfly.”
“Let us see,” said Peter Hovenden, rising from his chair, with a sneer upon his face that always made people doubt, as he himself did, in everything but a material existence. “Here is my finger for it to alight upon. I shall understand it better when once I have touched it.”
But, to the increased astonishment266 of Annie, when the tip of her father’s finger was pressed against that of her husband, on which the butterfly still rested, the insect drooped267 its wings and seemed on the point of falling to the floor. Even the bright spots of gold upon its wings and body, unless her eyes deceived her, grew dim, and the glowing purple took a dusky hue, and the starry lustre that gleamed around the blacksmith’s hand became faint and vanished.
“It is dying! it is dying!” cried Annie, in alarm.
“It has been delicately wrought,” said the artist, calmly. “As I told you, it has imbibed268 a spiritual essence — call it magnetism269, or what you will. In an atmosphere of doubt and mockery its exquisite susceptibility suffers torture, as does the soul of him who instilled270 his own life into it. It has already lost its beauty; in a few moments more its mechanism would be irreparably injured.”
“Take away your hand, father!” entreated271 Annie, turning pale. “Here is my child; let it rest on his innocent hand. There, perhaps, its life will revive and its colors grow brighter than ever.”
Her father, with an acrid272 smile, withdrew his finger. The butterfly then appeared to recover the power of voluntary motion, while its hues assumed much of their original lustre, and the gleam of starlight, which was its most ethereal attribute, again formed a halo round about it. At first, when transferred from Robert Danforth’s hand to the small finger of the child, this radiance grew so powerful that it positively273 threw the little fellow’s shadow back against the wall. He, meanwhile, extended his plump hand as he had seen his father and mother do, and watched the waving of the insect’s wings with infantine delight. Nevertheless, there was a certain odd expression of sagacity that made Owen Warland feel as if here were old Pete Hovenden, partially274, and but partially, redeemed from his hard scepticism into childish faith.
“How wise the little monkey looks!” whispered Robert Danforth to his wife.
“I never saw such a look on a child’s face,” answered Annie, admiring her own infant, and with good reason, far more than the artistic179 butterfly. “The darling knows more of the mystery than we do.”
As if the butterfly, like the artist, were conscious of something not entirely congenial in the child’s nature, it alternately sparkled and grew dim. At length it arose from the small hand of the infant with an airy motion that seemed to bear it upward without an effort, as if the ethereal instincts with which its master’s spirit had endowed it impelled275 this fair vision involuntarily to a higher sphere. Had there been no obstruction276, it might have soared into the sky and grown immortal277. But its lustre gleamed upon the ceiling; the exquisite texture of its wings brushed against that earthly medium; and a sparkle or two, as of stardust, floated downward and lay glimmering on the carpet. Then the butterfly came fluttering down, and, instead of returning to the infant, was apparently attracted towards the artist’s hand.
“Not so! not so!” murmured Owen Warland, as if his handiwork could have understood him. “Thou has gone forth out of thy master’s heart. There is no return for thee.”
With a wavering movement, and emitting a tremulous radiance, the butterfly struggled, as it were, towards the infant, and was about to alight upon his finger; but while it still hovered in the air, the little child of strength, with his grandsire’s sharp and shrewd expression in his face, made a snatch at the marvellous insect and compressed it in his hand. Annie screamed. Old Peter Hovenden burst into a cold and scornful laugh. The blacksmith, by main force, unclosed the infant’s hand, and found within the palm a small heap of glittering fragments, whence the mystery of beauty had fled forever. And as for Owen Warland, he looked placidly278 at what seemed the ruin of his life’s labor, and which was yet no ruin. He had caught a far other butterfly than this. When the artist rose high enough to achieve the beautiful, the symbol by which he made it perceptible to mortal senses became of little value in his eyes while his spirit possessed itself in the enjoyment of the reality.
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1
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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derange
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| v.使精神错乱 | |
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plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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14
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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15
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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19
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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21
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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41
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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43
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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45
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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46
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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47
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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48
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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49
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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50
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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51
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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52
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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53
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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54
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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55
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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56
oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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59
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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60
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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61
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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62
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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63
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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64
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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65
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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66
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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67
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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68
bespoken
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| v.预定( bespeak的过去分词 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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69
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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70
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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71
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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72
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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73
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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74
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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75
delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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76
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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77
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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78
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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79
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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80
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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81
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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82
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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83
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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84
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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85
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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87
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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88
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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89
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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90
assails
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| v.攻击( assail的第三人称单数 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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91
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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92
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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93
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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94
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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95
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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96
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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97
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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98
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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99
obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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100
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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101
engrave
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| vt.（在...上）雕刻，使铭记，使牢记 | |
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102
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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103
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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104
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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105
densest
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| 密集的( dense的最高级 )； 密度大的； 愚笨的； （信息量大得）难理解的 | |
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106
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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107
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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108
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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109
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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110
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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111
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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112
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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113
clogs
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| 木屐； 木底鞋，木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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114
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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115
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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116
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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117
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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118
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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119
sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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120
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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121
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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122
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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124
symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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126
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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127
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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128
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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129
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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130
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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132
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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133
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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134
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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135
intrusiveness
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136
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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137
inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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138
muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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139
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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140
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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141
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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142
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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143
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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144
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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145
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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146
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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149
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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150
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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151
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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152
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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153
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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154
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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155
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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156
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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157
quaff
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| v.一饮而尽；痛饮 | |
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158
enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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159
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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160
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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161
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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162
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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163
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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164
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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165
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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166
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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167
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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168
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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169
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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170
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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171
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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172
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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173
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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174
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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175
thwarting
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| 阻挠( thwart的现在分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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176
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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177
tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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178
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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179
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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180
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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181
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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182
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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183
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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184
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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185
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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186
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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187
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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188
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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189
irrationally
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| ad.不理性地 | |
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190
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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191
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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192
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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193
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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194
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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196
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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197
waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
quacked
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| v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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200
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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201
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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202
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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203
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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204
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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205
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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206
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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207
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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208
incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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210
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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211
conditional
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| adj.条件的，带有条件的 | |
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212
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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213
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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214
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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215
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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216
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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217
mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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218
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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219
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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220
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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221
irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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222
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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223
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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224
abortion
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| n.流产，堕胎 | |
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225
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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226
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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227
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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228
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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229
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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230
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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231
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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232
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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233
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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234
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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235
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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236
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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237
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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238
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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239
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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240
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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241
disport
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| v.嬉戏，玩 | |
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242
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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243
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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244
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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245
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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246
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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247
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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248
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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249
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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250
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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251
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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252
daydreams
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| n.白日梦( daydream的名词复数 )v.想入非非，空想( daydream的第三人称单数 ) | |
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253
preluded
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| v.为…作序，开头（prelude的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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254
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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255
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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256
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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257
heartiest
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| 亲切的( hearty的最高级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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258
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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259
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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260
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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261
symbolizing
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的现在分词 ) | |
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262
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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263
worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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264
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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265
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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266
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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267
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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268
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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269
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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270
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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271
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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272
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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273
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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274
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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275
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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276
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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277
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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278
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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