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Updated: June 5, 2025
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.
He spends his labor 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 wholesome thing to depend upon main strength and reality, and to earn one's bread with the bare and brawny arm of a blacksmith.
And now Grandfather perceived that little Alice had fallen fast asleep, with her head upon his footstool. Indeed, as Clara observed, she had been sleeping from the time of Sir Hovenden Walker’s expedition against Quebec, until the death of Governor Burnet—a period of about eighteen years. And yet, after so long a nap, sweet little Alice was a golden-haired child, of scarcely five years old.
From one of these fits of torpor 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.
"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.
Annie drew her father onward without giving him time for reply. But we must return to Owen Warland's shop, and spend more meditation 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.
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.
In the chronicle of Richard Hovenden it is stated that Monasterium in Eboraca Civitate Succensum est nono Kalendas Maii Feria prima that is to say, that a church was burnt down in the city of York on Sunday the 23rd of April 741 A.D. It has been contended that the word monasterium need not of necessity mean the minster, that the word civitas may perhaps mean the diocese, the ecclesiastical state, and not the city of York, and that, therefore, the church mentioned may be not the minster, but some other large church in the city or diocese of York.
But week after week passed away, and the fleet, having got to Boston, seemed unable to get away from it. No doubt Hovenden, Hill and the rest of the rabble were enjoying themselves in the Puritan capital.
One evening, when the artist had returned from a customary ramble 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 embodied in its mechanism, he was surprised by the entrance of old Peter Hovenden. Owen never met this man without a shrinking of the heart.
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