1. I do not know how many years ago, but sadly many, came among the morning letters to Denmark Hill, one containing a richly-wrought dark woodcut,—of—I could not make out exactly what,—and don't remember now what it turned out to be,—but it was by a fine workman's attentive mind and hand, that much was certain; and with it was a little note, to this effect, in words, if not these following, at least as modest and simple: “I can cut wood like this, and am overworked, and cannot make my living,—can you help me?—Arthur Burgess.”

I answered by return post, asking him to come and see me.

The grave face, honest but reserved, distressed but unconquerable, vivid yet hopeless, with the high, full, forward, but strainedly narrow forehead, impressed me as much as a face ever did, but extremely embarrassed me, inexplicable as the woodcut; but certainly full of good in its vague way. After some talk, I found that though he had original faculty, it had no special direction, nor any yet well struck root; he had been variously bound, embittered, and wounded in the ugly prison-house of London labour—done with all the strength of nerve in him, and with no help from his own heart or any one else's. I saw the first things he needed were rest, and a little sympathy and field for his manual skill.