An Englishman by birth, he brought to this country, besides a clear head and skilful hands, a love for the roast-beef and ale of Old England, a warm heart, and a jovial temper, the latter somewhat obscured by the characteristic fogs of gruffness and blunt speech, without which no Briton would be content to leave his native land. He was a large, handsome man of fifty, with light, curly hair, surrounding a polished pate, in whose centre flourished a single tuft of hair; blue eyes, and a long, flowing beard.
His establishment was divided into two sections—his own office at the head of the stairs, and his work-room, from which he was only separated by a partition, and which he could overlook, through the door, from his seat.
The office contained a handsome book-case, a desk, and his own work-table, where he did the finest work. Its walls were adorned with fine pictures and specimens of his work. Over the desk was displayed, on brackets, a polished champion cricket bat, ornamented with a silver plate, on which glistened his name and the match in which it was won. On his table were the usual implements of his craft—a small stand with a padded leather cushion, a frame in which was fitted an eye-glass, a fine assortment of “gravers,” and blocks of wood in various stages of completion.
The work-room contained three tables, at which were seated three young men, with their eyes screwed down to eye-glasses, diligently pecking at drawings on wooden blocks. These young men, “woodpeckers” by trade, were Woodferns by name, being sons of the proprietor, and, like their father, all good fellows and skilful workmen. This room was plainly furnished with three tables and a transfer press, and above them a long shelf, on which were ranged a row of glass globes, filled with water, used to concentrate the light in night work.
Mr. Woodfern sat at his table, busily at work putting the finishing touches to a block, when unattended and unannounced, Miss Becky Sleeper marched into his presence.
Mr. Woodfern lifted his eye from the glass, and politely turned in his chair, with a nod to the visitor. The young Woodferns unscrewed their eyes from the wooden sockets in which they were imbedded, and very impolitely stared at the intruder.
“Good morning, sir,” said Becky, in her sweetest tones. “Will you be kind enough to look at these drawings?”
Mr. Woodfern scowled. He had been pestered by an army of aspiring draughtsmen, of both sexes; and the London fog was on him. He answered shortly,—
“No, I don’t want any drawings. Good morning,” turned in his chair and applied his eye to its artificial socket.