His clothes were of corduroy, not very grimy, because
of the huge apron of thick leather he wore at his work, but they
looked none the better that he had topped them with his tall
Sunday hat. His complexion was a mixture of brown and browner;
his black eyebrows hung far over the blackest of eyes, the
brightest flashing of which was never seen, because all the time
he played he kept them closed tight. His face wore its natural
clothing--a mustache thick and well-shaped, and a beard not too
large, of a color that looked like black burned brown. His hair
was black and curled all over his head. His whole appearance was
that of a workman; a careless glance could never have suspected
him a poet-musician; as little could even such a glance have
failed to see in him an honest man. He was powerfully built, over
the middle height, but not tall. He spoke very fair old-fashioned
English, with the Yorkshire tone and turn. His walk was rather
plodding, and his movements slow and stiff; but in communion with
his violin they were free enough, and the more delicate for the
strength that was in them; at the anvil they were as supple as
powerful. On his face dwelt an expression that was not to be read
by the indifferent--a waiting in the midst of work, as of a man
to whom the sense of the temporary was always present, but
present with the constant reminder that, just therefore, work
must be as good as work can be that things may last their due
time.
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