Then would she mark out the grave the scent of whichwould be perceptible on the pillow of the second bridal？
No， but rather level its green mound with the surroundingearth， as if， when she dug up again her buried heart， thespot had ceased to be a grave.
Yet， in spite of these sentimentalities， I was prodigiouslyamused by an incident of which I had not the goodfortuneto be a witness， but which Mr. Wigglesworth
related with considerable humor. A gentlewoman of thetown， receiving news of her husband’s loss at sea， hadbespoken a handsome slab of marble， and came daily towatch the progress of my friend’s chisel. One afternoon，when the good lady and the sculptor were in the verymidst of the epitaph—which the departed spirit mighthave been greatly comforted to read—who should walkinto the workshop but the deceased himself， in substanceas well as spirit！ He had been picked up at sea， and stoodin no present need of tombstone or epitaph.
“And how，” inquired I， “did his wife bear the shock ofjoyful surprise？”
“Why，” said the old man， deepening the grin of a death’sheadon which his chisel was just then employed， “I reallyfelt for the poor woman； it was one of my best pieces ofmarble—and to be thrown away on a living man！”
A comely woman with a pretty rosebud of a daughtercame to select a gravestone for a twin-daughter， who haddied a month before. I was impressed with the differentnature of their feelings for the dead. The mother wascalm and woefully resigned， fully conscious of her loss，as of a treasure which she had not always possessed， andtherefore had been aware that it might be taken fromher； but the daughter evidently had no real knowledge ofwhat Death’s doings were. Her thoughts knew， but nother heart. It seemed to me that by the print and pressurewhich the dead sister had left upon the survivor’s spirither feelings were almost the same as if she still stood sideby side and arm in arm with the departed， looking at theslabs of marble， and once or twice she glanced aroundwith a sunny smile， which， as its sister-smile had faded forever， soon grew confusedly overshadowed. Perchance herconsciousness was truer than her reflection； perchance herdead sister was a closer companion than in life.
The mother and daughter talked a long while with Mr.
Wigglesworth about a suitable epitaph， and finally chosean ordinary verse of ill-matched rhymes which had alreadybeen inscribed upon innumerable tombstones. But whenwe ridicule the triteness of monumental verses， we forgetthat Sorrow reads far deeper in them than we can， andfinds a profound and individual purport in what seemsso vague and inexpressive unless interpreted by her. Shemakes the epitaph anew， though the selfsame words mayhave served for a thousand graves.
“And yet，” said I afterward to Mr. Wigglesworth， “theymight have made a better choice than this. While youwere discussing the subject I was struck by at least adozen simple and natural expressions from the lips of bothmother and daughter. One of these would have formed aninscription equally original and appropriate.”
“No， no！” replied the sculptor， shaking his head； “thereis a good deal of comfort to be gathered from these littleold scraps of poetry， and so I always recommend them inpreference to any new-fangled ones. And somehow theyseem to stretch to suit a great grief and shrink to fit asmall one.”
It was not seldom that ludicrous images were excitedby what took place between Mr. Wigglesworth and hiscustomers. A shrewd gentlewoman who kept a tavern inthe town was anxious to obtain two or three gravestonesfor the deceased members of her family， and to pay forthese solemn commodities by taking the sculptor toboard. Hereupon a fantasy arose in my mind of goodMr. Wigglesworth sitting down to dinner at a broad， flattombstone carving one of his own plump little marblecherubs， gnawing a pair of crossbones and drinking outof a hollow death’s-head or perhaps a lachrymatory vaseor sepulchral urn， while his hostess’s dead children waitedon him at the ghastly banquet. On communicating thisnonsensical picture to the old man he laughed heartily andpronounced my humor to be of the right sort.
“I have lived at such a table all my days，” said he， “andeaten no small quantity of slate and marble.”
“Hard fare，” rejoined I， smiling， “but you seemed to havefound it excellent of digestion， too.”
A man of fifty or thereabouts with a harsh， unpleasantcountenance ordered a stone for the grave of his bitterenemy， with whom he had waged warfare half a lifetime，to their mutual misery and ruin. The secret of thisphenomenon was that hatred had become the sustenanceand enjoyment of the poor wretch’s soul； it had suppliedthe place of all kindly affections； it had been really a bondof sympathy between himself and the man who sharedthe passion； and when its object died， the unappeasablefoe was the only mourner for the dead. He expressed apurpose of being buried side by side with his enemy.
“I doubt whether their dust will mingle，” remarked theold sculptor to me； for often there was an earthliness inhis conceptions.
“Oh yes，” replied I， who had mused long upon theincident； “and when they rise again， these bitter foes mayfind themselves dear friends. Methinks what they mistookfor hatred was but love under a mask.”
A gentleman of antiquarian propensities provided amemorial for an Indian of Chabbiquidick—one of thefew of untainted blood remaining in that region， and saidto be a hereditary chieftain descended from the sachemwho welcomed Governor Mayhew to the Vineyard. Mr.
