"Drowne," said Copley, with a smile of intelligence, "you have been a truly fortunate man. What painter or statuary ever had such a subject! No wonder that she inspired a genius into you, and first created the artist who afterwards created her image."
Drowne looked at him with a visage that bore the traces of tears, but from which the light of imagination and sensibility, so recently illuminating it, had departed. He was again the mechanical carver that he had been known to be all his lifetime.
"I hardly understand what you mean, Mr. Copley," said he, putting his hand to his brow. "This image! Can it have been my work? WellI have wrought it in a kind of dream; and now that I am broad awake, I must set about finishing yonder figure of Admiral Vernon."
We know not how to account for the inferiority of this quaint old figure,
as compared with the recorded excellence of the Oaken Lady, unless on the
supposition, that in every human spirit there is imagination, sensibility,
creative power, genius, which, according to circumstances, may either be developed
in this world, or shrouded in a mask of dulness until another state of being.
To our friend Drowne, there came a brief season of excitement, kindled
by love. It rendered him a genius for that one occasion, but, quenched in
disappointment, left him again the mechanical carver in wood, without the
power even of appreciating the work that his own hands had wrought. Yet
who can doubt, that the very highest state to which a human spirit can attain,
in its loftiest aspirations, is its truest and most natural state, and that
Drowne was more consistent with himself when he wrought the admirable figure
of the mysterious lady, than when he perpetrated a whole progeny of blockheads?