Wiggles-worth exerted his best skill to carve a broken bowand scattered sheaf of arrows in memory of the huntersand warriors whose race was ended here， but he likewisesculptured a cherub， to denote that the poor Indian hadshared the Christian’s hope of immortality.
“Why，” observed I， taking a perverse view of the wingedboy and the bow and arrows， “it looks more like Cupid’stomb than an Indian chief’s.”
“You talk nonsense，” said the sculptor， with the offendedpride of art. He then added with his usual good-nature，“How can Cupid die when there are such pretty maidensin the Vineyard？”
“Very true，” answered I； and for the rest of the day Ithought of other matters than tombstones.
At our next meeting I found him chiselling an openbook upon a marble headstone， and concluded that itwas meant to express the erudition of some black-letterclergyman of the Cotton Mather school. It turned out，however， to be emblematical of the scriptural knowledgeof an old woman who had never read anything but herBible， and the monument was a tribute to her piety andgood works from the orthodox church of which she hadbeen a member. In strange contrast with this Christianwoman’s memorial was that of an infidel whose gravestone，by his own direction， bore an avowal of his belief that thespirit within him would be extinguished like a flame， andthat the nothingness whence he sprang would receive himagain.
Mr. Wigglesworth consulted me as to the propriety ofenabling a dead man’s dust to utter this dreadful creed.
“If I thought，” said he， “that a single mortal would readthe inscription without a shudder， my chisel should nevercut a letter of it. But when the grave speaks such falsehoods，the soul of man will know the truth by its own horror.”
“So it will，” said I， struck by the idea. “The poor infidelmay strive to preach blasphemies from his grave， but itwill be only another method of impressing the soul with aconsciousness of immortality.”
There was an old man by the name of Norton， notedthroughout the island for his great wealth， which he hadaccumulated by the exercise of strong and shrewd facultiescombined with a most penurious disposition. Thiswretched miser， conscious that he had not a friend to bemindful of him in his grave， had himself taken the needfulprecautions for posthumous remembrance by bespeakingan immense slab of white marble with a long epitaphin raised letters， the whole to be as magnificent as Mr.
Wigglesworth’s skill could make it. There was somethingvery characteristic in this contrivance to have his money’sworth even from his own tombstone， which， indeed，afforded him more enjoyment in the few months that helived thereafter than it probably will in a whole century，now that it is laid over his bones.
This incident reminds me of a young girl—a pale，slender， feeble creature most unlike the other rosy andhealthful damsels of the Vineyard， amid whose brightnessshe was fading away. Day after day did the poor maidencome to the sculptor’s shop and pass from one piece ofmarble to another， till at last she pencilled her name upona slender slab which， I think， was of a more spotless whitethan all the rest. I saw her no more， but soon afterwardfound Mr. Wigglesworth cutting her virgin-name into thestone which she had chosen.
“She is dead， poor girl！” said he， interrupting the tunewhich he was whistling， “and she chose a good piece ofstuff for her headstone. Now， which of these slabs wouldyou like best to see your own name upon？”
“Why， to tell you the truth， my good Mr. Wigglesworth，”
replied I， after a moment’s pause， for the abruptness of thequestion had somewhat startled me— “to be quite sincerewith you， I care little or nothing about a stone for myown grave， and am somewhat inclined to scepticism as tothe propriety of erecting monuments at all over the dustthat once was human. The weight of these heavy marbles，though unfelt by the dead corpse or the enfranchised soul，presses drearily upon the spirit of the survivor and causeshim to connect the idea of death with the dungeon-likeimprisonment of the tomb， instead of with the freedomof the skies. Every gravestone that you ever made is thevisible symbol of a mistaken system. Our thoughts shouldsoar upward with the butterfly， not linger with the exuvi.
that confined him. In truth and reason， neither thosewhom we call the living， and still less the departed， haveanything to do with the grave.”
“I never heard anything so heathenish，” said Mr.
Wigglesworth， perplexed and displeased at sentimentswhich controverted all his notions and feelings andimplied the utter waste， and worse， of his whole life’slabor. “Would you forget your dead friends the momentthey are under the sod？”
“They are not under the sod，” I rejoined； “then whyshould I mark the spot where there is no treasure hidden？
Forget them？ No； but， to remember them aright， I wouldforget what they have cast off. And to gain the truerconception of death I would forget the grave.”
But still the good old sculptor murmured， and stumbled，as it were， over the gravestones amid which he had walkedthrough life. Whether he were right or wrong， I hadgrown the wiser from our companionship and from myobservations of nature and character as displayed by thosewho came， with their old griefs or their new ones， to getthem recorded upon his slabs of marble. And yet withmy gain of wisdom I had likewise gained perplexity； forthere was a strange doubt in my mind whether the darkshadowing of this life， the sorrows and regrets， have not asmuch real comfort in them—leaving religious influencesout of the question—as what we term life’s joys.
