The image， or the apparition， whichever it might be， stillescorted by the bold captain， proceeded from Hanoverstreet through some of the cross-lanes that make thisportion of the town so intricate， to Ann street， thence intoDock-square， and so downward to Drowne’s shop， whichstood just on the water’s edge. The crowd still followed，gathering volume as it rolled along. Never had a modernmiracle occurred in such broad daylight， nor in thepresence of such a multitude of witnesses. The airy image，as if conscious that she was the object of the murmursand disturbance that swelled behind her， appeared slightlyvexed and flustered， yet still in a manner consistent withthe light vivacity and sportive mischief that were writtenin her countenance. She was observed to flutter her fanwith such vehement rapidity， that the elaborate delicacy ofits workmanship gave way， and it remained broken in herhand.
Arriving at Drowne’s door， while the captain threw itopen， the marvellous apparition paused an instant onthe threshold， assuming the very attitude of the image，and casting over the crowd that glance of sunny coquetrywhich all remembered on the face of the oaken lady. Sheand her cavalier then disappeared.
“Ah！” murmured the crowd， drawing a deep breath， aswith one vast pair of lungs.
“The world looks darker， now that she has vanished，”
said some of the young men.
But the aged， whose recollections dated as far backas witchtimes， shook their heads， and hinted that ourforefathers would have thought it a pious deed to burn thedaughter of the oak with fire.
“If she be other than a bubble of the elements，” exclaimedCopley， “I must look upon her face again！”
He accordingly entered the shop； and there， in herusual corner， stood the image， gazing at him， as it mightseem， with the very same expression of mirthful mischiefthat had been the farewell look of the apparition when，but a moment before， she turned her face towards thecrowd. The carver stood beside his creation， mendingthe beautiful fan， which by some accident was brokenin her hand. But there was no longer any motion in thelife-like image， nor any real woman in the workshop， noreven the witchcraft of a sunny shadow， that might havedeluded people’s eyes as it flitted along the street. CaptainHunnewell， too， had vanished. His hoarse， sea-breezytones， however， were audible on the other side of a doorthat opened upon the water.
“Sit down in the stern sheets， my lady，” said the gallantcaptain. “Come， bear a hand， you lubbers， and set us onboard in the turning of a minute-glass.”
And then was heard the stroke of oars.
“Drowne，” said Copley， with a smile of intelligence， “youhave been a truly fortunate man. What painter or statuaryever had such a subject！ No wonder that she inspired agenius into you， and first created the artist who afterwardscreated her image.”
Drowne looked at him with a visage that bore the tracesof tears， but from which the light of imagination andsensibility， so recently illuminating it， had departed. Hewas again the mechanical carver that he had been knownto be all his lifetime.
“I hardly understand what you mean， Mr. Copley，” saidhe， putting his hand to his brow. “This image！ Can ithave been my work？ Well—I have wrought it in a kind ofdream； and now that I am broad awake， I must set aboutfinishing yonder figure of Admiral Vernon.”
And forthwith he employed himself on the stolidcountenance of one of his wooden progeny， and completedit in his own mechanical style， from which he was neverknown afterwards to deviate. He followed his businessindustriously for many years， acquired a competence， and，in the latter part of his life， attained to a dignified stationin the church， being remembered in records and traditionsas Deacon Drowne， the carver. One of his productions，an Indian chief， gilded all over， stood during the betterpart of a century on the cupola of the Province House，bedazzling the eyes of those who looked upward， likean angel of the sun. Another work of the good deacon’shand—a reduced likeness of his friend Captain Hunnewell，holding a telescope and quadrant—may be seen， to thisday， at the corner of Broad and State streets， serving in theuseful capacity of sign to the shop of a nautical instrumentmaker. We know not how to account for the inferiorityof this quaint old figure， as compared with the recordedexcellence 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 amask of dulness until another state of being. To our friendDrowne， there came a brief season of excitement， kindledby love. It rendered him a genius for that one occasion，but， quenched in disappointment， left him again themechanical carver in wood， without the power even ofappreciating the work that his own hands had wrought.
Yet who can doubt， that the very highest state to whicha human spirit can attain， in its loftiest aspirations， is itstruest and most natural state， and that Drowne was moreconsistent with himself when he wrought the admirablefigure of the mysterious lady， than when he perpetrated awhole progeny of blockheads？
There was a rumor in Boston， about this period， thata young Portuguese lady of rank， on some occasion ofpolitical or domestic disquietude， had fled from her homein Fayal， and put herself under the protection of CaptainHunnewell， on board of whose vessel， and at whoseresidence， she was sheltered until a change of affairs. Thisfair stranger must have been the original of Drowne’sWooden Image.
