From that morning， the men of taste about Long Wharfand the Town Dock， who were wont to show their lovefor the arts by frequent visits to Drowne’s workshop， andadmiration of his wooden images， began to be sensible ofa mystery in the carver’s conduct. Often he was absent inthe daytime. Sometimes， as might be judged by gleams oflight from the shop windows， he was at work until a latehour of the evening； although neither knock nor voice， onsuch occasions， could gain admittance for a visitor， or elicitany word of response. Nothing remarkable， however， wasobserved in the shop at those hours when it was thrownopen. A fine piece of timber， indeed， which Drownewas known to have reserved for some work of especialdignity， was seen to be gradually assuming shape. Whatshape it was destined ultimately to take， was a problemto his friends， and a point on which the carver preserveda rigid silence. But day after day， though Drowne wasseldom noticed in the act of working upon it， this rudeform began to be developed， until it became evident toall observers， that a female figure was growing into mimiclife. At each new visit they beheld a larger pile of woodenchips， and a nearer approximation to something beautiful.
It seemed as if the hamadryad of the oak had shelteredherself from the unimaginative world within the heart ofher native tree， and that it was only necessary to removethe strange shapelessness that had incrusted her， andreveal the grace and loveliness of a divinity. Imperfectas the design， the attitude， the costume， and especiallythe face of the image， still remained， there was alreadyan effect that drew the eye from the wooden clevernessof Drowne’s earlier productions， and fixed it upon thetantalizing mystery of this new project.
Copley， the celebrated painter， then a young man， anda resident of Boston， came one day to visit Drowne； forhe had recognized so much of moderate ability in thecarver， as to induce him， in the dearth of any professionalsympathy， to cultivate his acquaintance. On entering theshop， the artist glanced at the inflexible images of king，commander， dame， and allegory， that stood around； on thebest of which might have been bestowed the questionablepraise， that it looked as if a living man had here beenchanged to wood， and that not only the physical， butthe intellectual and spiritual part， partook of the stolidtransformation. But in not a single instance did it seemas if the wood vvere imbibing the ethereal essence ofhumanity. What a wide distinction is here， and howfar would the slightest portion of the latter merit haveoutvalued the utmost degree of the former！
“My friend Drowne，” said Copley， smiling to himself，but alluding to the mechanical and wooden clevernessthat so invariably distinguished the images， “you are reallya remarkable person！ I have seldom met with a man， inyour line of business， that could do so much； for oneother touch might make this figure of General Wolfe， forinstance， a breathing and intelligent human creature.”
“You would have me think that you are praising mehighly， Mr. Copley，” answered Drowne， turning his backupon Wolfe’s image in apparent disgust. “But there hascome a light into my mind. I know， what you know as well，that the one touch， which you speak of as deficient， is theonly one that would be truly valuable， and that， withoutit， these works of mine are no better than worthlessabortions. There is the same difference between themand the works of an inspired artist， as between a sign postdaub and one of your best pictures.”
“This is strange！” cried Copley， looking him in the face，which now， as the painter fancied， had a singular depth ofintelligence， though， hitherto， it had not given him greatlythe advantage over his own family of wooden images.
“What has come over you？ How is it that， possessing theidea which you have now uttered， you should produce onlysuch works as these？”
The carver smiled， but made no reply. Copley turnedagain to the images， conceiving that the sense of deficiencywhich Drowne had just expressed， and which is so rare ina merely mechanical character， must surely imply a genius，the tokens of which had heretofore been overlooked. Butno； there was not a trace of it. He was about to withdraw，when his eyes chanced to fall upon a half-developed figurewhich lay in a corner of the workshop， surrounded byscattered chips of oak. It arrested him at once.
“What is here？ Who has done this？” he broke out，after contemplating it in speechless astonishment for aninstant. “Here is the divine， the life-giving touch！ Whatinspired hand is beckoning this wood to arise and live？
Whose work is this？”
“No man’s work，” replied Drowne. “The figure lieswithin that block of oak， and it is my business to find it.”
“Drowne，” said the true artist， grasping the carverfervently by the hand， “you are a man of genius！”
As Copley departed， happening to glance backwardfrom the threshold， he beheld Drowne bending over thehalf created shape， and stretching forth his arms as if hewould have embraced and drawn it to his heart； while， hadsuch a miracle been possible， his countenance expressedpassion enough to communicate warmth and sensibility tothe lifeless oak.
“Strange enough！” said the artist to himself. “Who wouldhave looked for a modern Pygmalion in the person of aYankee mechanic！”
