As yet， the image was but vague in its outward presentment；so that， as in the cloud-shapes around the western sun， theobserver rather felt， or was led to imagine， than really sawwhat was intended by it. Day by day， however， the workassumed greater precision， and settled its irregular andmisty outline into distincter grace and beauty. The generaldesign was now obvious to the common eye. It was afemale figure， in what appeared to be a foreign dress；the gown being laced over the bosom， and opening infront， so as to disclose a skirt or petticoat， the folds andinequalities of which were admirably represented in theoaken substance. She wore a hat of singular gracefulness，and abundantly laden with flowers， such as never grew inthe rude soil of New England， but which， with all theirfanciful luxuriance， had a natural truth that it seemedimpossible for the most fertile imagination to haveattained without copying from real prototypes. Therewere several little appendages to this dress， such as a fan，a pair of ear-rings， a chain about the neck a watch in thebosom， and a ring upon the finger， all of which would havebeen deemed beneath the dignity of sculpture. They wereput on， however， with as much taste as a lovely womanmight have shown in her attire， and could therefore haveshocked none but a judgment spoiled by artistic rules.
The face was still imperfect； but， gradually， by a magictouch， intelligence and sensibility brightened throughthe features， with all the effect of light gleaming forthfrom within the solid oak. The face became alive. It wasa beautiful， though not precisely regular， and somewhathaughty aspect， but with a certain piquancy about the eyesand mouth which， of all expressions， would have seemedthe most impossible to throw over a wooden countenance.
And now， so far as carving went， this wonderful productionwas complete.
“Drowne，” said Copley， who had hardly missed a singleday in his visits to the carver’s workshop， “if this workwere in marble， it would make you famous at once； nay， Iwould almost affirm that it would make an era in the art. Itis as ideal as an antique statue， and yet as real as any lovelywoman whom one meets at a fireside or in the street.
But I trust you do not mean to desecrate this exquisitecreature with paint， like those staring kings and admiralsyonder？”
“Not paint her？” exclaimed Captain Hunnewell， whostood by； “not paint the figure-head of the Cynosure！
And what sort of a figure should I cut in a foreign port，with such an unpainted oaken stick as this over my prow？
She must， and she shall， be painted to the life， from thetopmost flower in her hat down to the silver spangles onher slippers.”
“Mr. Copley，” said Drowne， quietly， “I know nothing ofmarble statuary， and nothing of a sculptor’s rules of art.
But of this wooden image—this work of my hands—thiscreature of my heart—” and here his voice faltered andchoked， in a very singular manner— “of this—of her—Imay say that I know something. A well-spring of inwardwisdom gushed within me， as I wrought upon the oak withmy whole strength， and soul， and faith！ Let others do whatthey may with marble， and adopt what rules they choose.
If I can produce my desired effect by painted wood， thoserules are not for me， and I have a right to disregard them.”
“The very spirit of genius！” muttered Copley to himself.
“How otherwise should this carver feel himself entitledto transcend all rules， and make me ashamed of quotingthem.”
He looked earnestly at Drowne， and again saw thatexpression of human love which， in a spiritual sense， as theartist could not help imagining， was the secret of the lifethat had been breathed into this block of wood.
The carver， still in the same secrecy that marked allhis operations upon this mysterious image， proceededto paint the habiliments in their proper colours， and thecountenance with nature’s red and white. When all wasfinished， he threw open his workshop， and admitted thetownspeople to behold what he had done. Most persons，at their first entrance， felt impelled to remove theirhats， and pay such reverence as was due to the richlydressed and beautiful young lady， who seemed to standin a corner of the room， with oaken chips and shavingsscattered at her feet. Then came a sensation of fear； asif， not being actually human， yet so like humanity， shemust therefore be something preternatural. There was，in truth， an indefinable air and expression that mightreasonably induce the query—who and from whatsphere this daughter of the oak should be. The strangerich flowers of Eden on her head； the complexion， somuch deeper and more brilliant than those of our nativebeauties； the foreign， as it seemed， and fantastic garb，yet not too fantastic to be worn decorously in the street；the delicately wrought embroidery of the skirt； the broadgold chain about her neck； the curious ring upon herfinger； the fan， so exquisitely sculptured in open work，and painted to resemble pearl and ebony； —where couldDrowne， in his sober walk of life， have beheld the visionhere so matchlessly embodied！ And then her face！ Inthe dark eyes， and around the voluptuous mouth， thereplayed a look made up of pride， coquetry， and a gleam ofmirthfulness， which impressed Copley with the idea thatthe image was secretly enjoying the perplexed admirationof himself and all other beholders.
“And will you，” said he to the carver， “permit thismasterpiece to become the figure-head of a vessel？ Givethe honest captain yonder figure of Britannia—it willanswer his purpose far better， —and send this fairy queento England， where， for aught I know， it may bring you athousand pounds.”
“I have not wrought it for money，” said Drowne.
“What sort of a fellow is this！” thought Copley. “AYankee， and throw away the chance of making his fortune！
He has gone mad； and thence has come this gleam ofgenius.”
