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"What's all this tomfoolery, Wigglesworth?" demanded Captain Jack, striding in among them. "Who the devil are you, may I ask?" said Maitland in a rage. Wigglesworth. "Mister Simmons, Mr. Maitland Mr. "Well, what do you want of me?" demanded Maitland. "Don't you know I am tied up this afternoon?" "With the match, confound you." "Oh, the match! And w'at match may that be?
Michael Wigglesworth, in 1691, wooed the Widow Avery in a written discourse, which I have seen in manuscript, arranged under twelve different heads, one of which treats of the prospect of his valuable life being preserved longer by her care.
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.
"Ye're airly on yere way tae the Kirk." "Yes that is yes," replied Mr. "'Business, did ye say, Mr. Wigglesworth?" Mrs. McNish stood facing him at the door. "Business! On the Lord's Day?" Mr. Wigglesworth gaped at her, hat in hand. "Well, Mrs. McNish." Mr. Wigglesworth's head went over to one side as if in contemplation of a new and striking idea.
Neither he nor his father ever expressed a sentiment in harmony with those uttered by Hale, Higginson, or Wigglesworth on the contrary, Cotton Mather, writing a year after the Salem Tragedy, almost chuckles over it: "In the whole the Devil got just nothing but God got praises.
Wigglesworth, perplexed and displeased at sentiments which controverted all his notions and feelings and implied the utter waste, and worse, of his whole life's labor. "Would you forget your dead friends the moment they are under the sod?" "They are not under the sod," I rejoined; "then why should I mark the spot where there is no treasure hidden? Forget them?
June 1. Mr. Michael Wigglesworth, the Malden minister, at uncle's house last night. Mr. Wigglesworth told aunt that he had preached a sermon against the wearing of long hair and other like vanities, which he hoped, with God's blessing, might do good. It was from Isaiah iii. 16, and so on to the end of the chapter.
The motion was carried by a majority of one, Brothers Wigglesworth, McNish and Maitland voting in the affirmative. "Traitors!" shrieked Brother Simmons. "Capitalistic traitors!" "Hoot mon! Ye're no in Hyde Park. Save yere breath for yere porritch the morn " said McNish, relaxing into a grim smile as he left the rooms. "We'll get 'im," said Simmons to his ally and friend.
I'm a poor workin' man, but I've got my rights, an' if there's a justice in this Gawd forsaken country I'll 'ave protection for my family." And Mr. Wigglesworth, working up a fury, backed off down the lane. "Don't fear, Wigglesworth, you'll get all the justice you want. Perhaps Sam will tell us Hello! Where is Sam?" But Sam had vanished.
Sometimes the New England minister, like worthy Mr. Ward of Stratford-on-Avon, in old England, joined the practice of medicine to the offices of his holy profession. Michael Wigglesworth, the poet of "The Day of Doom," and Charles Chauncy, the second president of Harvard College, were instances of this twofold service.
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