The Artist of the Beautiful

One day, during the era of this happy transformation,
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 depressed 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 densest matter of the physical
world. Owen groaned in spirit and prayed fervently
to be delivered from him.
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