Historical fiction, American; New England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
My acquaintance the sculptor—he may share that title with Greenough,
since the dauber of signs is a painter as well as Raphael—had found a
ready market for all his blank slabs of marble and full occupation in
lettering and ornamenting them. He was an elderly man, a descendant of
the old Puritan family of Wigglesworth, with a certain simplicity and
singleness both of heart and mind which, methinks, is more rarely found
among us Yankees than in any other community of people. In spite of his
gray head and wrinkled brow, he was quite like a child in all matters
save what had some reference to his own business; he seemed, unless my
fancy misled me, to view mankind in no other relation than as people in
want of tombstones, and his literary attainments evidently comprehended
very little either of prose or poetry which had not at one time or
other been inscribed on slate or marble. His sole task and office among
the immortal pilgrims of the tomb—the duty for which Providence had
sent the old man into the world, as it were with a chisel in his
hand—was to label the dead bodies, lest their names should be forgotten
at the resurrection. Yet he had not failed, within a narrow scope, to
gather a few sprigs of earthly, and more than earthly, wisdom—the
harvest of many a grave. And, lugubrious as his calling might appear,
he was as cheerful an old soul as health and integrity and lack of care
could make him, and used to set to work upon one sorrowful inscription
or another with that sort of spirit which impels a man to sing at his
labor. On the whole, I found Mr. Wigglesworth an entertaining, and
often instructive, if not an interesting, character; and, partly for
the charm of his society, and still more because his work has an
invariable attraction for “man that is born of woman,” I was accustomed
to spend some hours a day at his workshop. The quaintness of his
remarks and their not infrequent truth—a truth condensed and pointed by
the limited sphere of his view—gave a raciness to his talk which mere
worldliness and general cultivation would at once have destroyed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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