Though only a mason, strictly speaking,
he was not above handling a brick, if bricks were the order of the
day; or a slate or tile, if a roof had to be covered before the
wet weather set in, and nobody was near who could do it better.
Indeed, on one or two occasions in the depth of winter, when frost
peremptorily forbids all use of the trowel, making foundations to
settle, stones to fly, and mortar to crumble, he had taken to
felling and sawing trees. Moreover, he had practised gardening in
his own plot for so many years that, on an emergency, he might
have made a living by that calling.
Probably our countryman was not such an accomplished artificer in
a particular direction as his town brethren in the trades. But he
was, in truth, like that clumsy pin-maker who made the whole pin,
and who was despised by Adam Smith on that account and respected
by Macaulay, much more the artist nevertheless.
Appearing now, indoors, by the light of the candle, his stalwart
healthiness was a sight to see. His beard was close and knotted
as that of a chiselled Hercules; his shirt sleeves were partly
rolled up, his waistcoat unbuttoned; the difference in hue between
the snowy linen and the ruddy arms and face contrasting like the
white of an egg and its yolk. Mrs. Smith, on hearing them enter,
advanced from the pantry.
Mrs. Smith was a matron whose countenance addressed itself to the
mind rather than to the eye, though not exclusively.
Pages:
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129